It was in his trying to be masculine that he only achieved femininity. And I was attracted to these feminine traits, it’s not that this struggle made him less attractive to me, if anything I was predominantly seduced by the struggle. His femininity made him beautiful, otherwise he’d be a grotesque failure, caught in the cycle of try and fail with his goal of manhood. Being privilege to his weak moments made him attainable, whereas the father figure he was always trying to touch was the actual end goal of all his efforts
[The real life thing that happened was his father’s successful intervention with the boy when he’d confided in me his plans to kill himself. He craved death at his failure to achieve the utmost masculinity, it was pitiful]
seeing his father march in, reduce my “man” to tears, restoring himself as the omnipotent paterfamilias, rounding up his sick and diseased flock, chaperoning it dutifully back to the manger, to be cured and released. I’d always known he’d been trying to attain some strange, unreachable goal in his image, but I hadn’t had the dumb sense to realize that this worshipped idol was his own rejected creator.
“I don’t want your dad on the bed. I want your dad on the bar. Lights out, customers fucked off, just the dim lamps that hover, both in timbre and height, looming down on his wash blue tucked-shirt back, belt buckle glinting in the amber dust.
The galloping fossil fins of my hipbones ride the surf of your father’s gypsy brown flesh, his purple probe bobbing into me, fully aware of what he’s doing to me. Yes, the man that fathered you. Not whatever you are.
The dough of your gut rising from the yeast you pour into it day-in and day-out when the shakes take hold of your manual sentiments. YES, YOU’LL DRINK TO BE HAPPY WHILE I GIDDILY FUCK THE SECOND PERSON ON EARTH TO EVER LOOK INTO YOUR PALE ORBITS.
He’ll initiate it too. You think I find you so courageous and robust for asking if I didn’t want to hookup? “no strings attached,” as you said, then moments after feeling the bow in my lips with your own, matriculated into love and womanish woes. Me, thinking I’ll finally be fucked by a real man, but all you are is a plastic cast of daddy. You haven’t quite learned his strength and fortitude yet, so you pretend. Strutting about like a sorority girl, I think you must be a girl, pretending to be tough like the big boys, but you won’t grow into the silly putty sac between those ghastly thighs until at least a decade. So while you drink back the tears of knowing you’ll never really have me, I’ll patiently allow you father to spill his tardy offspring about my breasts and hips. A rival sibling of yours, lodging itself, isolated between the sediment of a dark wool sweater your old man ripped from my rib cage and some skin cells in my belly button, until I wash it out the next morning, my nakedness a sudden memory of how the original paterfamilias’ cock rammed into the pleasure place until my foot arches cramped – until my knees needed kinesthetic bursts to stretch – until my guts fluttered and twisted, he rammed me so well, and my greedy cunt will take over my fingers, still slick with soap and attend the ticklish wound the first man to be tyrant over you left in me.
Your sick limp flesh-pink jewels won’t fill his shoes for twenty years. What do you think of that? It makes me laugh for the slime that you are, adhering to my marble form with your alcohol sweats and your addiction. A real man could push through. Could do it without your tears and melodrama. As cool as you act and fool fresh strangers into thinking you are, how does it feel to know you won’t be honest until decades have passed? Your first and favorite example, your pops, hurt my belly with his swollen member, but your pathetic grief makes my belly hurt more. Spittle flies off my canines with the force of my cough spattering laughter. You disgusting drunk. Hold yourself together, man. Your beer gut creeps toward the floor. I’ll have a man that downs his whiskey (without your laughable coke mixers), pats his woman on the ass, then takes her out and fucks her. Gives it to her good against the pillar of a tree— you with your disgusting silk sheets, you glutton – in the bed of a truck. In the secretive night until the revealing dawn, makes her scream and cry and outshout the crowing cock. And you just croon in my ear, your nauseating endearments. For all the cheap tricks you hastily copied from your old man, you failed to learn that a woman doesn’t want to be called sweet or dearest, but to be called at 11:30 by a body hungry heathen who craves to conquer and reclaim his virgin shores. You try to throw me down, try to give me what the man whose DNA’s infected both of us gave me, but you didn’t observe close enough, the delicate vigor contained within his frostbitten knuckles and how the most ethereal sensation trickled out of his split-calloused digits.
If only your father had made a woman with your mother, instead of three faggot copies of himself, so he could understand how quickly women learn the score and how advanced we are. So I wouldn’t have to pretend to be nourished by your unoriginal remarks, so I wouldn’t have to feign docility while manning the ship of our relationship, so I wouldn’t need to tiptoe around your ego, for fear that your laughable Jenga tower may come tumbling down. Look, I was happy to fuck the mirage till it disappeared and made a lesbian of me, but now I’m starting to get bored. I fantasize of seducing your younger brother, because I know I already own him, as I own you. His doe eyes flutter even faster than yours and I’m amused how this enigmatic family has perched itself in my palm so easily and with so little protest. But God! If I have to fake a moan and half-heartedly claw at the bedsheets one more time, I may actually tear the follicles from their roots! Not after I know what I have to wait for. Not after I’ve seen him transform you into the sniveling child you always have been. I’ve demonstrated for you what a complete woman I am, and in return, you give me a knock-off man overflowing with narcissistic estrogen. No, I’m not calling you daddy to be kinky, Fool, it’s an honest request. Go back home and study how your father gives it to your mother and you’ll start to understand why she talks like she’s always in a dream, passed out with DMT rocking through her pineal gland. Wake me up when I can call you Daddy.”