I was pulled into the hell of me to see the
Dick that hides inside.
It’s as thick and tall as a Greek column, the front and center of a
building constructed by strong men—beautiful, desirable, but so obstructing in
its view that all I see is a giant wall of a shadow, engulfed in flames, telling me
to Back Up Bitch. It keeps me stiff, it feeds the fury, it steels the stomach that
should be telling me “be sick of this already.”
The fire looks brighter than the light of the
sun and the moon and the stars combined, those that guide me and don’t
try to kill me. But the fire is just closer. It’s not bigger, it’s not better.
It’s a trapped projection of self-taught hate and an illusion of what I
thought was an actual need for my soul to function. I
chill it out with a cold hard stare. I stare
until my face stops heating up with lies.
Yes, I exist, despite this Dick. But I choke on
it. And I do not smile, because of it.
But when I do show my teeth, women tell me I
look like the Cheshire Cat, and so I show more
teeth. The Dick feels my anger, trembles inside
and gets harder, grows bigger, tries to fuck me
with more gusto. I’m paralyzed with the fear
that I will bite it off right now. Because,
don’t I need this Dick?
Wait, where are the testicles? And if I kick
them, will the Dick Inside Me shrink in pain?
Will it die?
Hold on, I must be the testicles…because the
testicles are mine. 50% of the essence of
life…they hang out on their twin horses,
waiting to have a reason to be, for they cannot
be without the instinct to send the princess
her knights in shining armor. Swim to me and
hope I’ll have an egg to crack. The Dick is
just the underworldly portal, the bridge for
heroes to find me—the woman that will make them
not only feel seen but morph them into
visibility, with the happily ever after that
fairy tales told us are real. Do I make the Dick cum,
so it depletes its desire to fuck me over? Do I
make it weak, to overcome it all?
Yeah.
The only way I can shrink this Dick is to
love love love love love every bit of myself.
Where is the peace of the testicles without the
Dick’s fire? Can Yin exist without Yang?
I gently touch the testicles, soft, sensitive,
needing just as much coaxing and stroking as the Dick, for the Dick
to cum. The testicles hide in the buttcrack of society, forcing me to hide who
I am, veiling what I have to offer, to heal and feed the human existence. Maybe I
should castrate them, but will that destroy the Dick? I can’t DESTROY myself, that’s madness.
So I keep massaging the testicles and remind them I am them and they are me. The life they push into
my Dick, that is MINE. The stubbornness, the excitement, the hope, passion, the control, the madness,
the winning, the orgasm, the dressed-up love, it’s all mine. I beg for it, I beg for the Dick to come inside
me. Everything it releases belongs to me. The Dick shrinks, and then it finally rests. I own the Dick.
I get to decide if I want the power the Dick can give me. I can hold the flaccid Dick, and I am still whole
and hard. The Dick needs me to even exist. I watch it shrink smaller and smaller with truth, until its microscopic
skin buries itself into the testicles, falls between them, back into the asscrack, where it belongs.
The flames, with nothing to worship, shrink to the dirt, and the darkness becomes so dark,
I forget that I can’t fly, and so I do.
I reach the top of my head and jump with ease out of my body. It’s dark outside, too, but the moon and
the stars peer down and show me a path through their eyes. I smile a real smile and start walking into
a new reality where I am not my body. I am water, I am light, I am music, I am life,
and the Dick can fuck itself.
I’m busy.