UNBODY PART 3: (Un)kinking my libido because that cunt is a big, fat liar

Before the fantasy, there was the fear. Before the kink, there was the monster. Before I touched myself, I touched silence. Before I untangled my kinks, I had to name the monsters. Now, this isn’t about “knowing what I want.” It’s about sitting with the mess of it. The contradiction. The arousal that makes me ashamed, the shame that makes me aroused. So, I go in with Freud and come out with feral grief. I try to separate what I want from what I was programmed to want. My self-desires feel assaulted by their implications, insertions, and insinuations on this body that I carry. My want crawls out of me like a feral animal, dragging its placenta of shame behind. The weight of every gaze, every script, every inherited moan, every graze of touch lives here. My fantasies feel like archives of other people’s appetites planted like traps in the folds of my own want. And the wires don’t come apart. They peeled me open like overripe fruit and called it foreplay. My cunt remembers. Not names. Not faces. Just the weight, the trespass, the exit wound. Every orgasm I fake is a funeral for the ones I never owned. I arch not from pleasure but from reflex like a body flinching in a morgue drawer. Desire drips from me like pus from a healing wound: necessary, but never clean. He said ‘relax,’ and I became water: flooding, drowning, disappearing down the drain. There’s a graveyard between my thighs and every lover’s name is etched on the tombstones of my cervix. My libido limps. It limps like it’s been chased for years and never offered a drink of water. I didn’t come. I combusted. Like a chemical spill, like a fire they lit and blamed me for burning. I bled into their hands and they called it affection. I hemorrhaged and they said I was dramatic. This body is a reliquary of rot. Desire stinks in me like something holy left too long in the sun. My orgasm was an exorcism, and I didn’t even get to keep the demon. I have licked the fingers that hurt me, thinking maybe the salt was love. I don’t open. I rupture. And still they enter, like maggots looking for meat. I touch myself and it smells like rot under skin decaying and desperate for light. Even when I ache, I don’t reach for pleasure. I reach for proof I’m still punishable. I spread not like petals but like an autopsy: unzipped, pinned down, catalogued. They never touched my soul, but they left bite marks on my will to live. My thighs are crime scenes. The DNA still lingers in the sweat stains. My moans sound like prayers no god wants to answer. I’ve mistaken bruising for blooming so often, I now call violence foreplay. Desire has hands. They are not mine. They grip my throat from the inside, not choking (...?), just holding like a hand waiting for the right word, just hovering like a threat paused mid-sentence, just lingering like it’s waiting for me to consent, just watching like a hand sculpting silence. I knelt like a statue of a good girl martyr, but they came like a firing squad like I was a scapegoat. My cervix carries the muscle memory of the trespass, trembling, repetition, and rupture. I wasn’t aroused. I was performing survival, translating pain into porn, trying not to remember. I held my own ankles like a hinge begging not to snap, the pages of a manual written by them. There are moments I feel "empowered" and start building a cathedral out of cunt, contradiction, and carrion. But, each time I moaned, a little girl in me cried in a locked room. I was always wet not from desire, but from the leaking wound of needing to be wanted. My nipples stiffen like corpses going into rigor mortis. Still, they call it arousal. This body doesn’t open: it unravels. Spooling shame like silk from a slit throat. I came, yes. But it felt like being split by a scalpel dipped in honey: surgical, sweet, and cruel. There’s a scream tucked in the folds of my labia. I press, and it almost sings. Even my fantasies feel like trauma dressed in drag. Sexy like a noose in satin. I’ve learned to ride my pleasure like a wild dog: foaming, limping, but loyal. I ache like an infected socket where trust used to be. This isn’t a fantasy. This is memory wearing lingerie. My body mid-fantasy? It’s not glistening and parted like a magazine centerfold. It’s itchy. Leaky. I’m on the brink of climax but also wondering if my tampon string is visible. My mouth goes dry. My thighs rub raw. My stomach makes digestive sounds like it’s adding commentary. And somehow, I’m supposed to feel “in my body”? My body is everywhere. Too loud to be background. I open up my browser history like a crime scene. That story I reread ten times. That video with the dom voice that makes my breath hitch. I try to be clinical. Objective. But the fantasy won’t hold still. It bleeds into memory. The power play, the degradation, the faceless hands, the roughness… It rams into me: from clinical to confessional to carnal to corpse-cold: all at once like a nosedive, with no cohesion, a descent with no map, no mercy, no meaning. Just collapse. And suddenly I am not aroused, I  am remembering. And I whisper: “Wait. This isn’t mine. This was done to me.” But my body? It’s still responding. And now the shame is wearing lipstick. Sometimes I start fantasizing mid-cramp. Lower back spasms. A heating pad on, vibrator off. My pelvis throws a tantrum every time I try to feel good. There’s lint in my navel and a rogue chin hair I keep forgetting to pluck. I’m trying to get off while also wondering if I remembered to floss. “My thighs don’t glisten. They squeak when I sweat. There’s a patch behind my knee that smells like anxiety and unwashed denim. I think about my stretch marks and how they look like claw marks on bread dough. Sometimes I run my fingers over them mid-touch, like reading Braille for grief. My libido shows up in ugly places. Right after crying. Right before my period. When I haven’t shaved in weeks and my underwear looks like a crime scene. I’ve come with a cold. Sniffling, wheezing, praying the snot doesn’t drip onto anyone. I’ve orgasmed while congested: snot pooling, breathing ragged; felt both euphoric and mucus-filled. I’ve moaned with a sore throat. It came out like a dying frog. He thought it was sexy. I thought it was phlegm. I tasted mucus. My skin collects stories in patches: razor bumps, dry elbow maps, rogue chin hairs. There’s a patch behind my knee that smells like my ex’s laundry detergent and regret. I want to come, and all I feel is my belly folding over itself like a closing curtain. I’m not ashamed of it. But it refuses to perform. Sometimes my discharge smells like guilt. Sometimes I smell like old T-shirts and regret. Sometimes I just smell like skin, and that should be enough. My arousal has stretch marks and friction burns. Sometimes my vulva smells like vinegar and despair, and I still ache. He thought I was panting. I was trying not to drip. So, I start sorting: “This one’s fine.” “This one’s from trauma.” “This one’s just porn.” “This one’s mine... I think?” But it all collapses. Because every fantasy is both a choice and a scar. A kink and a ghost. A desire and a warning. I like this. But I also remember flinching. I fantasize about being taken. But what if that’s just how I survived being never asked? On all my fours exposing my libido like a fresh wound: a wanting that was never mine but performed anyway. I wanted to be dominated. Not destroyed. I liked the pain. But only when I controlled the script. (Or, maybe I just hated and was manipulating myself because I was helpless?) Not when it felt like being opened with an incendiary crowbar of their gruesome desires. I’ve begged in bed and hated myself for it. I came, gaping. Open from every orifice, every pore, every node, gushing out their filth to rejuvenate this injury of obedience. I came to the sound of violence. Then threw up. I still want it. And I hate that I do. Suddenly, nothing is safe. I can’t tell what’s hot and what’s harm. I am turned on and betrayed at the same time. I am fantasizing and crying at once. I am imagining someone choking me gently, slapping me lovingly and sobbing because you don’t know if it’s love or reenactment. I touch myself and flinch. I come, and then I cry. I think I want it rough... but I’ve never had it any other way. I try to finish the thought. The fantasy. The sentence. But my hands stop. My breath catches. My libido is laughing. That cunt is a liar. Afterwards, it’s quiet. Not romantic quiet. Not soft-lit, wet-sheet cinematic quiet. No. It’s hunger curdling in my bones quiet. The kind of quiet where your cunt still twitches but your chest feels hollowed out. Like you came and left your ribcage behind. There’s no healing here. Only the throb of unfinished business. The stench of sweat and self-doubt marinating in my sheets. I’m not glowing. I’m leaking. Salt, blood, mucus, regret: the holy quaternity of womanhood. My hand is still wet. Not with pleasure but with proof. My breath is a confession. My thighs are witnesses. I am the scene of the crime and the investigator trying not to flinch. What happens after the orgasm, when the script forgets its ending? When the hands dissolve, and I’m stuck with my own scent, my own questions, my own filth? No one talks about this aftermath. The part where your legs ache not from pleasure but from holding in ghosts. The part where your nipples stay hard but your spirit crumbles. I touch the stain on my bedsheet like it might spell something. It doesn’t. It just smells like old shame. Like something done to me, even if I did it myself. I stare at my fingers and wonder if they’re traitors. They knew where to go. Too well. Did they lead me to freedom, or back into the jail cell of memory? Integration is not healing. It’s gutting the fish and eating it raw anyway. It’s not peace. It’s pestilence made tender. It’s inviting the ghosts in, not to forgive them, but to watch me bleed and still stay standing. I try again.  A new fantasy. One where I’m asked. One where no one flinches. One where I don’t apologize for making a sound. It’s awkward. It stutters. It doesn’t fit right. But I keep going. Because I want to know what it feels like to touch myself without flinching, without fearing, without a man’s breath hanging in my ear from 2008. I want to want softly. Not because I’m delicate, but because I’m done with violence being the only language I know. I want a desire that doesn’t echo with footsteps behind me. I smell like anxiety and old laundry. I sound like grief with an orgasm. I am stretch-marked, snot-nosed, salt-crusted, chin-hair-grown. And yet: I smile. A feral, cracked, crooked smile. Like something wild that’s finally stopped playing dead. This isn’t healing. It’s a resurrection through rot. It’s a truce not with the world, but with the version of me that still begs for softness. Tomorrow, I might ache again. Might scroll through the same video. Might get turned on by something I swore I buried. But tonight, I masturbate like I’m reading scripture I wrote in blood. I come like a question mark. And cry like an answer. And tonight, I leave the light on. (Yes, I’m sleeping with the lights on.) Not because I’m afraid. Because I want to see everything even the parts that still twitch. Maybe I’ll never know what’s mine and what’s inherited. Maybe every orgasm is a reenactment and a rebellion. But I won’t lie about it anymore. This is not closure. This isn’t healing. This is a standoff. Me vs. every fuck I was programmed to crave. Me vs. the shame in lipstick. Me vs. my own tongue. My desire isn't dirty. It is haunted. It is bloody. It’s blood-wet, grief-slick, alive. So, I am letting the body speak in tongues, letting the cunt testify, letting the flesh curdle, letting the shame leak like milk blister pooling on the areola. Tomorrow I’ll still want. I’ll still ache. I might still touch myself and not know why. I’ll still wonder if the ache is mine. But tonight, the shame sleeps on the floor. At least now, I’ll be looking. And for once, it’s her who can’t look away. She does stare back. Not to forgive, but to remember. (Or, maybe to ruin everything softer that came after.)

- Oizys.
[Goddess on all her fours: gaping, growling, surviving. On her knees, in labor, bleeding through silk, scrubbing the temple floors of blood, bile, and bile-bathed scripts they once called seduction. She cleans with her own spit and grief, with ragged nails and ruined prayers, clotting her divinity. Not for absolution. Not for redemption. Just so no one slips again.]