I am ovulating.
With every month, if I pay enough attention to the details, I am beginning more and more to understand, to visualize, to be able to fill in the blanks of my body’s calendar. Like points on some abstract graph, I plot the swell and dip in the curves of my emotions, and my sexuality.
When my sexual arousal appears to be peaking, the keening need to be filled with maleness so strong it is an ache in my gut, and I notice a fledgling spike in my emotional turmoil, my mind converts these signals into tangible information: two weeks before my period. Perhaps one and a half.
With each passing month, as I follow the unconscious urgings that come with the flow and ebb of hormones in my body, some mental database within my brain stores my observations like a timestamp.
When, for example, after masturbating for the fourth time in a day, I lie panting on my bed and suddenly, like fog parting, I realize it has been about a week and a half since my period.
I am ovulating.
Perusing Reddit a couple of days ago, I came across this stunning, unbelievably sad news report. It is the story of 13-year-old Megan Meier, who hanged herself after a series of increasingly degrading messages sent to her by an online “friend” from MySpace. The persona, Josh Evans, turned out to have been created by the mother of one of Megan’s peers. This mother made the fake identity in order to find out how Megan felt about her daughter, an ex-friend of Megan’s.
But as several more people found out and began contributing to the MySpace identity, “Josh Evans” changed drastically, turning on Megan and calling her a bitch and slut. But the message, according to the report, that drives Megan over the edge is one where “Josh” tells her the world would be better off without her.
I was absolutely shell-shocked to read about this, and then to hear that the adults involved in the online harassment of Megan are free of repercussions. Everything about this leaves a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach.
Despicable. Cruel. Outrageous.
I had a very unsettling dream yesterday night. I write this minutes after waking, hoping to catch the fast-dissipating images.
I am at my mother’s house. There is a whisper of a conversation over the phone. I am at one end, my best friend from home at the other. Things are said that, once I hang up, I realize sound like self-ultimatums; I tell her I can no longer take it-that I am through. I suddenly panic: what if she understands? What if she and her mother come to my house?
And as suddenly as the thought is realized, the scene snaps to my room. My bed is where it used to be when I was in kindergarten, everything placed to remind me of my childhood.
Except for the bottle of sleeping pills at the foot of the bed.
In my panic at being discovered still alive, I start swallowing fistfuls of pills. They are long, white, and chalky, so that they break in my mouth and I am chewing in the effort to make them go down more quickly.
Pills spill across the floor; but I’m climbing into bed, under the covers, more of the pills in my fist. I’m sobbing, imagining being found this way, a complete mess and choking down sleeping pills. Insane. But no sooner do those thoughts fade from my dream than I realize I do want to be found. That I am desperately in need of help, and that this is my only beacon with which to get it.
Somehow this thought calms me, so that I find my mouth suddenly clear of pills. I’ve swallowed them all, and am lying on my side, under the comforter. Just waiting, and drifting.
Then it suddenly dawns on me that my best friend could not possibly come; she’s hundreds of miles away at grad school.
I must be dreaming.
I want to be hurt.
The desire is so strong it threatens to take over, drowning me in imagery, making my nerves cry out, together, with longing at these ghosts of sensations.
I need it. Will you give it?
Bite me, hard. In the neck; my shoulder; my back. Leave a visible pattern of teethmarks on my skin, tender and dark where your teeth broke capillaries. Grip my arms as you fuck me, grip them like reins, hard, until I cry out in pain. Leave me with bruised reminders that I can feel days afterwards; I will touch them and instantly remember their cause.
I will smile at this, my secret, impermanent diary.
Run your hands roughly over my skin: your personal canvas. Will you pinch me with the pads of your fingers? Or with your nails, arched, curved into claws? Or both? Warming my nerves until they are tingling and sensitive, the better to feel your nails with.
Slap me. How red will my skin get without breaking? How long will it take those brightred handprints to fade from across my back and ass? Don’t you want to know? And will people notice me wincing when I sit, out in public? Do you like imagining what they are thinking?
It’s okay. I do too.
And, yes, I want you to fuck me. No, not gently, not “making love.” Fuck me as though you want to split me open. Fuck me raw, until we are both ragged and sore, until my arms and legs give out, until my throat and lips are cracked and dry from panting. Then take my ass, as if it will accept you willingly, as if I were not crying, struggling, trying to get away, clawing at you, at the sheets. Until you are fully inside and I am groaning from the fullness and crying at the pain. Fuck me like that, until you cannot hold back anymore, until you are hammering into me with the full force of your orgasm.
Don’t worry. I will love you all the more for it.
And when you have emptied yourself inside my aching, tormented ass, take my face with your hands, and kiss me. Take my mouth as if it belongs to you. As if it wants nothing more than to be sucked, bitten, and abused. It does. Leave my lips as bruised as the rest of my body.
Only then will I be complete.