I am made from alabaster like, I am so white, pale, my eyes stick out, I could be ill but I am not. Brought up in the 90’s, I look like I could be 12 or 35. I am always quiet, at the clubs, at the bars, at the parties. I wear baggy clothes and hoodies and I am mysterious. I am sad about something but not that sad. I am kind of indifferent. I have some good friends that get me and so I don’t have to say much. I don’t say much. I am desired but I don’t desire. I am kind of made out of stone, I am tough, my toughness vibrates and that is why boys and girls want me. I get bored so damn easily. Deep down I am scared that others might get bored with me but I don’t touch that much. I walk in the night around looking tough and I get into some fights. When people touch me up I am not sure what’s happening I go to my friends to tell them about it. Something has been lost and till comes back I ll be a little sad, that is all, and not much more to be discussed about it. I am hesitant to tell you how desired I am. I am wanted. I am adored and bored of being adored. My body and my skin are mine, I touch it and have energy orgasms. I get off with music. I get off with images and ideas. The floor in my room is exactly like my skin, made of marble like but made by something else. Looking down I look up. I sit with my legs open my hands on my head I think about a song and how it suits me. I look at my long hair, semi long, wavy, I wonder if I have a cock, I look, I am still not sure. I am in between and I have no clue what to do with my genitals. I smoke a lot, all the time, I drink a lot but I am never out of control. I am just not that interested in sex. I think if I want someone I ll fuck them once just so I say I had them. I am the one who decides to stay or go. I ll decide to go. Later on I want others exactly like me. Made from alabaster, androgynous, genderless, with long hair or shaved heads, on matrices on the floor, will be great. I fuck them really drunk, I have no clue how it was like or their name. I want it again so I can remember it, I try to find them, I get drunk, I fuck someone else, I am not sober enough to figure out my genitals. I let the alabaster of my skin go, I trust our relationship enough that it will come back. I remember it one night facing a wall struggling to sleep. I tell myself: that is what I am made of. I ve grown into a woman with long hair and tight skirts and a pussy fucked. Hair have grown on my face and my chest. I ve found my clit and someone told me it is called a clit. I ve seen other clits and they are definitely clits. I wonder if my cunt lips are balls, if they are not if they can pass as such. I love fucking asses and lick them. I don’t go on my hands and knees except if I have to. I like to have to. My submissiveness I am told is good for me till is not anymore. I want a great knife in my pocket to threat bastards I am scared of. A gun and a hoody, to look straight in the eye walking down at 4am. I go anywhere I want anytime I want to. I don’t give a damn about animals or kids. My gaze captures and petrifies my opponents. I had no clue of those when younger. Fearless, I didn’t see the necessity of fighting, the world was a ball of happiness and creativity that could certainly contain my looks, my silence, my quiet yet seductive behaviors. I surprise the crowd when I dance. My silence saves me, cause all the juices are kept in me. When I dance I don’t give a shit about the world. I smile to my friend cause we are locked in our own surreal universe and our audience loves us although we could pooh with indifference all over our audience. Later on I am drunk trying to repeat my act, but so it happens I am in love and hurt and falling over. I am asked what is my name by lorry drivers and I tell them the name of woman from a film. They ve put on that song cause they know I dance it well though now I am failing. And it is a bit like they want me to entertain the lorry drivers and the bartender. I wear a long tight black skirt and I wonder if my cock shows. Will they be scared of my cock and not need me to entertain them no more? I meet many female bodied lovers who tell me over and over how much they d like to have a ‘real’ cock. I don’t get it as I feel my hand as a great penis that seems to be doing the job right. Strap ons don’t look that great on me, I transform into a big man. I was never meant to be a big man. I am a tall boy hidden in clothes, I was never meant to be naked. I think: take that bitch, take it deeper take it better you little slut you whore you slut of the whole godamn village, yeah cum bitch, cum fuckhole, cum on my cock, cum on my skin, I sweat, I want you, I love you so so so so much. I could fuck you for ever letting all else that I love go. Open your legs or even better I ll open them for you. I ll tear you apart, turn over, bend over, I just saw these moles on your skin these marks I ll kiss them after I finished fucking you. I wear doctor martens since I was a boy and I look at them on my reflection when I walk by shop windows. I listen to dub and my solders move about as I walk, coming to get you or better pass you by.
I look the butchest ever since I was 15 sitting on that lapdancing bar in Amsterdam surrounded by men that read me as queer in fact they think that my friend is my girlfriend cause now we both look boyish. Whatever, let their objectification go and try to be present in the lap dancing experience. I am not sure about the tit-slaps I am getting but I love her riding my cock. It is a sock but it is still hot and I can feel it growing as she teases me with her cunt. She is a good one, she whispers on my ear and kisses my cheek and makes me believe that she wants me. I worry about how much I ve aged and whether I ll ever be a young boy again, now that I have to face the world. I don’t touch her much cause I am a respectful young man. It will be part of the poetry that still gets me off so much and her long hair remind me of the guitarists I wanted to fuck and I wanted to be all at once and to make music with. I wonder what she enjoys and if she has kids and for how long she has been lapdancing. I think of my friend who is starting off her career as a sex worker. I wonder about me and my sex and my sexual life and art. Can my cock turning inwards come out through my ass? Can I fuck your backwards till your own ass bleeds and then we can make a picture out of that? Can I wear a mask? If I do enough therapy will the alabaster come out again? The lap dancer says ‘yoohoo!’ and insinuates that I should slap her bumcheeks but I am so not going to do that with all these other men watching. Another guy sticks his whole face in a dancer’s ass crack, she says, look at me, look at me, be more gentle. The words gentle and firm remind me of a guy lover I had. The same with the word sideways. First I was drunk and I was like why am I fucking someone with a dick, ok that is really boring, can we do something else, something more adventurous, he said what, like sideways? Autistically, I though, a-ha!, there is a whole new dimension to sideways. Sideways as an art methodology. But I didn’t know what to do and I wrote him a love letter about avocados and words and how I d die if he d leave me. I don’t like sucking cock, anyway, he was like touch my balls smoothly then firmer, firmer, f-i-r-m-e-r.