FULL-FRONTAL THREAD COUNT
For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face.
Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I
have been fully known. 1 Corinthians 13:12 ESV
All the words I’ve got unspecify. Misconstrue
& misconstruct. Okay, she fucked me
until unlanguage, until all sorts of things
sounded good, but to write it is another story:
you’ve already misunderstood. Well, what if I said
perversion, genuine goddamn thrill of twist,
standards bunched up in my fists like sheets.
Sundial sex: it’s all in the shadow. Earth-curl
& flattered flinch, unspectacled tableau,
return to dirt / depths / ambiguity. Re-
dim me. Know me in part — in thigh & tongue,
in ass & tit & lens — there’s just one act
on offer, her dream whatever. Stone hot
bitch mirror. I’ve never read a poem
that fucked like us (underwear on) (her balls
against my cunt) (in some phantom rhythm
spirit desperate pulse) (they used to call this
dyking) (I think some mornings, an echo lurch
that never quite grasps) so if I said I subsist
some nights off the dip of her hip like I could lap
water carefully from its curve, would it matter less
how many verbs I reject for our failure to convey
the grace & grossness with which she again
obscures me beyond any hope of disunion?
SEMIOLOGY: RESTLESSNESS
It’s probably a (sub)cultural trait, to be into people who’re hot for your nails. She calls the photo of me fully clothed and clawed a nude, and it’s like someone has spoken my name for the first time. My thoughts keep orbiting the interaction, less passive than predatorial, lithe and hungry in a way that’s at odds with the routine of my body.
Let’s not skirt around it: I am much more used to being hunted. I limp back from the appointment at which another doctor casts himself carnivore to my crying wolf and, when I have no howl left, turn instead to the bite of a new coffin on each finger, the first half of a ritual against dying.
The second, that there exists a body that will do as I ask. As much as I believe in and affirm meaningless sex, the truth is, it’s never not been important to me, and this is no different: the dagger of my nail against my clit and the way she begs for them both in her mouth, the sweat-sheened and trembling reminder of what it’s like to be listened to. My arm takes off on its own exorcism-resistant rhythm, embodied litany of I want, I want, I want—this meter that drew every eye in the waiting room, incessant no matter how my muscles ache, and one I no longer want to fight.
Call it dystonia or chorea or hysteria, call it cockblock, call it getting creative. Sex on my terms is so full of her stillness I forget to swallow, but not to breathe, and that’s the difference between this co-constructed power and that all too real one. I’ve got nothing but awe when she says she needs the imprint of my teeth in her throat—our mockery of nature, our mutual subversion of the cripple who simply takes what they are given. Give me a bear-trap body and a lover who knows exactly what they’re getting into. Give me a lover who longs to serve as a scratching post and a sound effect as I unsheath my index finger. Give me a couple hours and an internet connection and I’ll finally eat my fill.
Mac Wilder (ze/zem/zyrs or any pronouns) is a homebound high femme whose work explores queercrip sexuality, high-control Christianity, & their intersection. Zyr work is forthcoming in Sinister Wisdom, manywor(l)ds.place, and Corporeal. Zyr self-published chapbooks and zines can be found at justfor.fans/assonance.