You squeeze your junk in a cuntlike shape so your partner goes down on it till you touch her “OK.” Just cuddle me. Let me lick you. I’m on Lexapro anyway, so. Here’s a secret: you never had sex before hormones and you’re bad at it now ‘cause spacing is all you can do and, well, at that point it’s jerking off that takes longer. Not exactly. Your lover feels like shit if you tell her, you guess. She says it’s no problem but you’d hoped you’d be present. You roll over. Assholes call you a fetishist. You’re a lousy one. Making someone else cum is fun but—can we not? Rub my shoulders. You’d love to get fucked but you’re stuck on not loving it. Defiantly into GirlCock. That lasted an afternoon and you have never outsmarted your body, not once. This is ultimate squareness, you guess. The Surgery. Remembering silent panic when you learned what they built you for. Narrative. The closer you get to your life with your jeans on, the sharper the contrast, the memory of a gargoyle boy and the body you had and the sex that you didn’t in your teens and your twenties. Ask me about it, it’s revolutionary and cool, a queer femme bruised up sucking and fucking, whatever.
freezing in the car that winter playing sonic youth sister sonic youth confusion is sex xiu xiu knife play xiu xiu a promise over and over blasting xiu xiu on grave shift putting bread in the oven going home loading porn projecting napping housemate pleads PLEASE do some dishes 1:15 AM nowhere on the east coast in my dead name’s hotel room jamie stewart singing fast car another george miles book a briefly adored murder victim hey that’s me i love you broken meltdown kid close to crying at parties declining to make out actually crying at parties not calling that boy, not calling that girl, the worst person on earth waiting to die. i’m here.
Sighs leans back thinks What The Fuck, Kat. I’m hovering in this place still waiting to see if can at least get my junk partially modded on the che$$$ap or what and there’s also the whole “literally don’t know where to go or what to do” thing. Shit’s getting better, I know, but every old trick I used to distract myself and endure has stopped working. Now my partner and I say “we’re out of here soon” and that’s the endcap to each week and then the next one begins. For real: this is about my junk at this point, like a cliche from a really shitty movie from the really shitty 70’s. This makes me feel kind of stupid. I want to drop everything and go anywhere doing don’t know what for rent but at least knowing queers and especially knowing trans women and ceasing this ridiculous act where I throw on a hoodie like a false mustache and still get read as trans anyway no matter what I’m doing anywhere ever and “boy mode” just means “can I help you ma[trails off, frowns.]” I don’t know how to find the line between necessary risk taking and being an irresponsible, malformed, permanent teenager knocking shit over and fucking things up. You learn that line through trial and error and I hid in cave trying very little forever so here I am, Kat the permanent teen fantasizing about metaphorical cliffs with no cliff jumping experience and lingering dread that this is just a manifestation of the same self-destructive shit from my past. My selfies are cute I think about Oak Land or Port Land or one of the other 6 Lands and I read Casey Plett’s story from the Topside anthology on a plane just now and I feel fucked up good night twitter.