there is no such thing as a magic wand.

by dorarandom

sometimes i feel so lonely i am afraid i am going to die. (like right now.) silly dora. i mean, i talked to my BFF for about two hours on the phone last night, about nothing, about silly stuff, about my fretting over my low libido.*—(actually “fretting” is not the word. i’ve been excoriating myself about this lately. i feel like it is so low it is morally reprehensible; i should be arrested or branded so that no man makes the mistake of lying with me.) (yes and of course this is doing wonders for me; nothing gets the juices flowing like a good self-accusatory depression.) (it’s not really that bad. and i really know because i had to fill out a questionnaire about this, too. it’s low but it’s well within the bell-shaped curve. and my BFF, who somehow became incredibly wise at some point, gently reminded me that it is completely okay not to be randomly horny.)

it just seems like one of those things that will inevitably lead to rejection. i mean, LP definitely gave me a good going-over about [what he perceived as] my anhedonia, and though i really felt like it was none of his goddamn business, i suppressed that feeling and meekly answered his questions. considering it my duty as a freak. (a tip for the boys: an interrogation did not help me relax or become aroused.) i confessed, to my great shame, that i did not masturbate enough, ‘i mean, i’m sure not as much as is healthy.’ ‘so you believe it’s healthy?’ ‘well, They’re always saying it is, aren’t They?’

to my actual shame (obviously i was being facetious above) i confess that i recently bought a hitachi magic wand. i let my angst compel me. and i used it, too, for like two minutes. it was about as pleasureable as a job interview. because i was so stressed out about having a fucking orgasm it was fucking absurd. and straight mechanical arousal like that makes me feel so lonely i usually end up crying afterwards. which fact i had forgotten. (loneliness isn’t exactly the feeling. i guess it’s more like an alienating fear. it’s so stark and intense and unfamiliar, the dreaded scary sensation-world—i need to feel a warm body there with me—i need, you know, my Virgil.)

one thing at a time, dora! you’ve barely made peace with your vagina, now you’re off to conquer the clitoris! this is hubris!

yeah, i know. it’s because of my low self-esteem. which really is reprehensibly low—off the charts—so shut up and don’t get me started ruminating on that, please.

basically, what i’d like is a [tall!] man who i could cook hearty vegetarian soups for and who could show me how to drive. this is my big sick fantasy. also, he would not yell at me about being sensitive because he would think it was a nice thing. maybe he would feel lucky to have landed himself an old-school tender-hearted nice and gentle reprehensibly reactionary female type. (a genuine math hater and bad driver—so irrational she was about to write a dissertation about a multivalent logic—so absurdly empathetic she cannot read the news.)

(maybe he would feel lucky because he would, in fact, be lucky….)  (though that seems like a cheap glib way to end this.)


* a word almost as gross to me as ‘dilation.’