explicit: how i feel about sex

by mickharris

now let’s really break it down because

i read a story by a friend that hit deep in my chest

because it felt exactly like what i feel


i sometimes wonder if i was abused, somewhere, sometime, because i panic when it comes to sex

i don’t want to have it because it’s painful, of course (and it is, i have what could be termed by a gyno as sex dysfunction, i could earn myself a set of graduated dildos and grit-teeth penetration sessions to “cure” it)

but i also don’t want to have it because i shut down

i always have.

when a boy tried to kiss me for the first time in high school, the backs of my legs felt like they were on fire

my tongue got thick

and i almost passed out on my porch

i don’t know if this was a translation of desire into a body that didn’t know it yet

or if it was the urge to run into the street

and melt into the bushes away from him


later, much later, i admitted that i like girls (too.  mostly.)

and the same thing happens

there’s still newness in this attraction, too, so it’s like being back on that stupid fucking porch


i don’t have sex often

nearly at all

because it hurts like a motherfucker

because money came between it and my body

because.  other things.

and i wonder


i remember a time when puberty hit and every man became a threat

sitting in the backseat of my opa’s jaguar smelling like cologne and mints

was something to cry about

and endure with clenched fists, ready for

for what?  something i don’t remember?

or something that just didn’t happen?


I remember when i used to spend the night at my uncle’s in the city after punk shows he’d take me to

both of us standing arms folded heads bobbing

me in imitation of him, the cool guy, the original fan

i’d sleep on his big rusty velour sofa with the blanket or my sleeping bag pulled up to my chin and my legs stretched, toes pointed, very straight



for what?


being intimate (god i hate that phrase) doesn’t trigger a floodgate of anything

just panic

and vague disgust, and an absence of feeling that i can’t seem to get back

and i wonder too if the money came between us, you and me, and we can’t figure this out

that we’re just pretending.  i worry.


i worry a lot, about all of this.

the only time i stopped panicking was when i was dancing

and being sexy was my job

but that’s a whole other slew of issues to go through, too.


i feel torn in too many pieces, three girls on top of one another

one in baggy raver pants and hair bomb-bunned on my head

one with wider hips and narrow cheekbones and a square jaw, relying on anger and funny jokes to keep from crying all the time about all that sex i’m just not having, just not trying to get better or feel good about any of it

and one smaller, in turtlenecks and leggings and headbands and careful braids down the center of her back

one who has whole swaths of memories that are gone

one who something could have happened to?


i can’t tell what’s scarier, if it did or if it didn’t.