Slut & Sensitivity (That Idiot Heart)

The first time I masturbated, it was a revelation.

I don’t remember how old I was or how I knew to do it, but it happened in the middle of the night. Between the delicious folds of blanket and darkness, I learned that a body could make itself feel good. A body could experience relief.

Growing up, I was never told that it was okay for me to be me. I was spoken at but never with. And although I was deaf, it seemed like I was making more of an effort to listen in than those much vaunted hearers around me. They required zero hearing devices in order to hear, but they also gave zero fucks about what anybody else was saying, least of all me.

That was how I learned to save my breath. If none could be bothered to listen, then it was pointless to speak. So I became proficient in the art of passive observation, dwelling deferentially at the fringes of social interaction. I’d close my mouth and lean in, vainly trying to discern individual voices within the cacophony, and reading body language for further clues as to what was being said. I learned to react to mannerisms, facial cues and perceived emotional states with little more than inference and favour currying nods. But really, I had no part to play in any of it. I might as well have been a no-show, for I was invisible.

And so it was that I became the unseen fluffer at the gloryhole of egos. I made myself utterly compliant, inoffensive—bland even. However, being so attentive and doggedly amenable meant that I was only hurting myself in the end. I was enabling others to self-medicate and preen at my expense. I ‘gave good head’, but I was also complicit in losing track of who I was and could have become. Still, none of this prevented me from feeling inside. And I would continue to feel everything.

I felt so much that I learned to hide it out of shame. I hid my face which is horribly asymmetric—that’s why I grew my hair long. I also learned to hide my deformed hands—that’s what pockets are for. Then I learned to hide my voice in silence. And if I absolutely had to speak, I made sure to drape that in shame too. On no account was I ever to feel good about me. And nothing was about me unless others deigned it so. If I wasn’t outright ignored, I was bullied, pitied or used, and tossed aside.

This made me a prime candidate for religious conversion, I think. When I was willingly recruited into the christian subculture, I thought I’d finally found my tribe. I hadn’t, after all, found it anywhere else, not even within the relative normalcy of my own family. I’d made myself complaisant in the extreme for anyone who’d stop and take notice, but this hardly mattered when all was said and done, and it hardly improved my lot. I still simply could not manage to fit in—not anywhere—to find a meaningful foothold within the swell of humanity to which I was desperate to belong. No wonder I was drawn to christianity’s promises of unconditional love and acceptance!

But even in church I’d not belong, for the qualities that supposedly made me special soon became sin that had to be rooted out. It was classic bait and switch. Reel me in with what I’d hoped was real only to find that I was inhabiting the worst place possible for dignity to thrive. I wasn’t to have long hair. Black clothes were an issue, as was my taste in heavy metal music. Oh, and no more wallowing in depression for I had nothing to be legitimately sad about. Salvation was mine, so what exactly was the problem?

I became painfully aware that my innermost thoughts and feelings were nothing more than a nest of demons to my better brethren. And my desires? They were a definitive no-no. I was allowed to be everybody else’s fluffer, but no masturbation for me. I could literally gag for christ’s coming but I wasn’t permitted to seek relief at my own hands. Feel good and burn in hell, or be in emotional agony and somehow ascend to heaven. The choice was mine.

So, like the dutiful fluffer I was, I knowingly participated in this dehumanising game of being shammed and shamed. I dropped to my knees and gave them my all. It was more than mere lip service. It was the full performance. I even spoke in tongues for them. I swallowed absolutely everything—not a dribble or drop was lost—but when it became clear that I wasn’t working out, the true believers zipped themselves up and ditched me on the side of a road less travelled.

It feels like I’ve been hungry since the dawn of time, gobbling to be seen, wanted, explored. But none can keep up with this voracious appetite for connection. It isn’t possible. For as long as I can remember, I’ve necessarily been made an option at best, a non entity at worst, but usually something to be avoided somewhere between. It’s had to be this way. People simply don’t last long in my presence. How could they?

I recall a childhood friend telling me one time—outside the main school gate—just where on his impossibly long list of buddies I fell. Towards the end as it happened. That wasn’t good enough for me, and so we never spoke again after that, opting instead to occupy different parts of the playground at recess. Everyone leaves. Or I leave first so I won’t be the one who gets hurt. But this never works. I’m always getting myself hurt, and I’m always hurting others. I don’t mean to.

I desperately wanted to date, but never did. I didn’t have the balls. I wasn’t a real man; my face was all wrong, and I had nothing else with which to impress the girls. Youth and possibility were flowering everywhere I looked, damn them, and I was a withered old bud before my time. I was going nowhere fast. So, I learned to stand still and be alone, and loneliness would become the theme that underpinned my life. I was never an introvert by choice. Genetics and circumstance forced me into that mould. It’s one that I’ve tried—unsuccessfully—to break out of since.

This is why I’ve had to discover pleasure on my own. I never did quite understand what it was I was feeling. No one guided me through this. I only knew that it felt good, that it made me feel human, and that I shouldn’t be doing it. For reasons that no one ever adequately explained, masturbation was branded a highly transgressive act, and yet… I couldn’t stop. Not even when my mother caught me in bed making love to my pillow. She never could look at me the same after that, and we sure as hell never talked about it. I wish we had. I might have found some answers. Some guidance perhaps. And I possibly wouldn’t be so fucked up now.

So, I grew up, a burning hot hormonal mess that wanted to fuck every girl in every room. But suicidal ideation, unrequited horniness and acne would be my only bedfellows. I never got used to girls, and I became the teen that time forgot. It was left to me to make myself feel good, to do more of the thing that only I could do on my own, to self-medicate. The world outside would make me feel truly utterly awful, and when I finally couldn’t take any more, I’d retreat to my room and masturbate. And then the shame. And then the crying. Where did I learn that seeking relief was so bad? Why was it such a crime? Why did I always have to feel like shit? Why was that the law?

The number of women I’ve been with can be counted on the hand with no thumb, with fingers to spare. I know well enough to be grateful to them. They were loving, sensitive, and they took great care with me. I, unfortunately, was crap and needy. I just wanted to feel good, and I wanted them to feel good so that I wouldn’t feel like I was just taking. I hope they felt good. I’m not adept at feeling pleasure—sexual or otherwise—in the company of others, so it can be extremely confronting when I see others sharing pleasure so freely.

The sad truth is, I fail at lovemaking. There is no getting around that. One of the most intimate connections I could ever share in life quickly becomes an onerous task that I simply cannot deal with. When the women I worship most willingly open themselves to me, I can scarcely believe it. My mind simply will not accept that this good thing is happening. I cannot possibly deserve this, so I choke up, I go numb, and my dick goes down. And they’re left genuinely wondering if the fault lies with them. (Is this why I prefer foreplay?)

Neediness is the engine that drives me. I’m empty on my own. I need other egos around me, spilling themselves over me, filling me up like I’m a one dollar whore. Hell, they can degrade me if it means I’ll have their attention for a while. (Can you see how fucked up I am?) Show me a little kindness and I’m tempted to fall in love with you, for mine is not a monogamous heart. Nope, my heart is a glutton and an idiot. It’s a total starving slut. And I will be your slut… if you let me.

I still masturbate, though this no longer enchants as it once did. The shininess has rubbed off, one could say, and relief has left the room. I’m not permitted to be a burden on others, but I am required to be the graveyard for all that imbues me, for I am a dead end. That is my function. Naturally, my idiot heart doesn’t comprehend this—or desperately doesn’t want to—and so it continues to inhabit the fringes, waiting, hoping, hungry for a tidbit of connection.

I’m ashamed of my emotions. I’m ashamed of the things they make me want to do just to connect. I’m ashamed of being a fluffer and a slut. A sexless masturbator. An echo of a dream. Am I just a thing pretending to be human?

Idiot heart, your narrative needs to change.

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2019

GUEST POST // This Way to the End (A Review of Mario Savioni’s New Book by Marta Pombo Sallés)

Our Dear Readers, today’s Guest Post is an unusual one. Instead of our typical literary frippery we shall present to you a review by Marta Pombo Sallés of Mario Savioni’s new book ‘This Way To The End’.

As we all know, writing is hard work. Anyone who has tried to write a poem or essay (or even just a shopping list) can attest to this fact. You put your soul into your writings. You literally pour yourself out onto the page. That’s why we’re often a bit sceptical towards so-called literary critics and their sometimes rather dismissive reviews. In other words, breaking is not making, and criticising is not creating.

But we hope you’ll believe us when we say that writing good, professional literary criticism is an art, and that critiquing a poem sometimes takes no less effort than to write the poem itself. A really good review makes you empathise, makes you feel and think, and most importantly it makes you want to read the thing that it’s critiquing. In fact, Marta’s reviews are in a class of their own. It’s clear that she immerses herself in a book before she offers her thoughts. It’s a considered approach that we wish more reviewers would take.

But that’s enough of us for now. We should make way for Marta and Mario. Bring it on, guys!

Tati & Tony

 

 

I loved reading this book. I just find it fascinating, feel wrapped up in it, think, feel and taste every poem and short story which I see as being mainly about the individual’s eternal search for truth and beauty. I think this would be the central topic of the book as we start to read each and every poem and short story. We see how this search is very difficult in a world full of greed, wars and where love relationships do not last. As readers we are made aware that this happens because such relationships are usually based on the needs our capitalist system has created as opposed to animals’ nature, for instance, the way a family of chirping birds acts, the bird mother protecting the little birds and doing this simply out of sacrifice. The images of the chirping birds appear on several occasions as an ideal to attain which seems not to be possible in human life. That is not how love relationships work nor how an elderly mother ends her last living days, nor how one gender abuses the other, nor how a few very rich people rule the world and allow the rest to suffer from poverty and modern enslavement in a dehumanized society where Alfa people, such as Aldous Huxley showed in his novel Brave New World, are the only rulers. Truth and beauty are seen in poetry and in art like paintings. Many poems are beautifully written as the reader feels like being in front of the painting itself, everything makes us aware of the real truth of a dehumanized society in decline. I think the author wants us readers to react in front of that. He wants us all to be truth and beauty seekers. This is a powerful message of hope as expressed here:

“We have dreams,
Like a painting,
We are majestic,
Always unique, if careful”

This is the link to the book if you want to buy it, and this is Mario Savioni’s blog.

 

by MARTA POMBO SALLÉS
© All rights reserved 2018

A Three-Pointer

Do you know how to tell a good poem from a bad one? It’s easy. I can teach you.

Just crumple up a sheet of paper and throw it into the bin in the far corner. The bad poem never reaches it. It will always drop somewhere halfway, rebounding off the rim then rolling beneath your sofa. Argh! And there you go, swearing, to pick it up and toss it in from a little closer.

But the good poem always makes it. Hell… now you’re groaning and you have to go over to the bin to retrieve it. But, did you know… you can choose to forget it instead. Just leave it in the bin. Don’t worry. The really good poem will never leave your head. I should know. I’ve checked.

 

by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2016

Why I Don’t Call Myself a Feminist

This essay was recently recorded for a podcast that I host at Crumble Cult. If you want to hear the audio, you can access it here, here or here. You can even have a listen while reading the comic strip I initially based it on. Whatever you decide, I hope you enjoy reading the original text. Words on a page can sometimes resonate more than simple audio. We’re all about options here at Unbolt Me!

 

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I sometimes wonder if Eve was a feminist. Yes, that Eve. The one from the Garden of Eden. That same Eve who helped herself to forbidden fruit and used the devil as her skipping rope. Yeah, she really stuck it to god because that’s just what you do when someone’s being an authoritarian prick. God, the first patriarch versus Eve, the first underdog. It didn’t go too well for her in the end but at least she stood her ground. You’ve got to admire someone for doing that.

So, Eve, I salute you… but I still won’t call myself a feminist.

So, what is feminism exactly? Well, I don’t know if I’m the best person to be talking about this. All I do know is that it’s been much maligned and misunderstood since its inception. Throughout the ages, male and female alike have been quick to vilify and tear down any woman who dares to challenge society’s blinkered take on gender roles.

Still, does anybody even know what the word ‘feminist’ means any more? There’s a snifter of an ideal at play there—my nostril hairs divine that much at least. Any scholarly text will tell you that feminism was traditionally about advocating political change so that women had equal rights with men. Oh, and no more body shaming or rape. Or beatings. Or acid. Or genital mutilation. These and other means of punishing women for… well, being women.

So, the struggle was real, and it still is. That’s a fact. Parity of the sexes has still not happened. And there’s no good reason—nor has there ever been—for why women should still be treated as second class citizens. Globally, society really needs to do better.

Now, this is not to say that I believe all women are naturally kinder or more compassionate or generous or nurturing, and that they can do no wrong. For example, I don’t think a matriarchy would work any better than the patriarchy has. People are people and will still screw things up no matter what gender they identify as. Egos, incompetence and ill intent exist on all sides of the fence.

I think it’s fair to say that we’ve all been raised to believe certain lies about our so-called gender roles. If men are really predisposed to being thuggish, emotionally stunted, money-making, bash machines then it must hold that women are simply fuckable, child-bearing, disposable, self-denying machines, yeah? And that’s the natural way of things, right? No, it isn’t, and frankly everyone suffers when those so-called ideals are the ones that continually get pushed out there. And if you think they’re not, just glance at your nearest TV.

Of course, biologically speaking, there are differences between men and women. Most men can lift really big things. Most women can’t. Women get to have lovely, squidgy chest bits. Men get to have rather dubious, dangly, nether bits. Sure, men can aim their piss as a result, and women have to jockey into position, but is that really an advantage? Women can lactate after all, whereas men’s nipples are a joke. Of course, no one wants to see a breast-feeding father. Baby will be coughing up hairballs for a month and probably will need therapy for life! Nevertheless, these differences are there, and for some reason we get scared all of a sudden. And we go on the attack. That’s a shame.

Variety is the spice of life. It would be boring if we were all the same. Women are cool. So are men. So are trans, genderless, bigender, trigender, pangender, genderqueer, Harry Potter, kitchen sink, and whatever the hell else you wanna chuck in there—it’s all good! And, yeah, I really mean that. It really is all good, so how about we stop being scared?

So, anyway, this still doesn’t address my earlier question which was: Why won’t I call myself a feminist?

Okay, so we live in a patriarchal society, yes? I don’t seriously think that can be argued against any more because… well, evidence. On the whole, women haven’t enjoyed the same rights and quality of life that men traditionally have throughout history. We men have had an unfair advantage in a lot of ways and, frankly, it’s one that’s been collectively exploited to the hilt. That’s why there still aren’t enough women in positions of influence such as business, politics, religion, etc. So, parity in these areas is important and definitely needs to be worked towards.

But here’s where I may get myself into a bit of trouble. This patriarchy I speak of defines itself through the acquisition of money and power—power mostly. And it achieves this end by stomping on the weak and helpless. It always has. And this power that people hunger for is, to me, just vile ruthlessness dressed up as healthy competition. Sadly, it’s human nature to lift ourselves up by pushing others down. I guess it’s your call as to whether or not you’re personally guilty of this every once in a while, but I know I’m sure as hell am. It’s my belief that we just cannot help ourselves.

See, it’s often the use of force—whether physical or verbal—that gets us what we want. So, if force works, why change this for a more inclusive, even handed result? And it’s this mantra that feminism seems to be marching under right now. It seems to have adopted the patriarchy’s value system of power at all costs, so much so that there are feminists out there destroying each other over who truly counts as one of them and who doesn’t—establishing a pecking order as it were. And there are even others tromping about the place trying to shame everyone else in the world into labeling themselves feminists too—as if a mere label makes all the difference.

I can’t help but wonder if feminism has become a kind of dogma. And if so, is that really progress? Is that what we actually need? More people grubbing for the lion’s share of an ever dwindling ideological carcass-pie? More money, higher degrees and greater political and corporate clout for women everywhere are fair enough things for us to strive toward, but to what end? If everyone’s out for number one—themselves—then I fail to see how this benefits women in society on an individual level. If, say, a single mother’s lot isn’t improved but there are more Gina Rineharts in the world, then how is that better?

The patriarchy has always misused power. Why should I believe that a matriarchy would be any different? People have been known to swing their dicks around no matter what they’re packing between their legs—men and women. The fact is, we need everyone, and we all need to be in it together. We all need to hold each other accountable. Woman, man, gay, straight, brown, yellow, blue collar, white collar, politician. Everyone. This Frankenstein monstrosity we call a society cannot even begin to work unless we try collectively to shape it into some kind of Adonis.

Make no mistake, I need feminism to be in this world. I need their voices to be in the mix in order to experience as many different viewpoints in life as I possibly can. I don’t know everything and I never will. I’m not always right—as much as I’d like to be. I’m not perfect. I will hold wrong attitudes about women, and say and do the wrong things sometimes. In short, I probably will be a bit of a dick to womankind at some point, and that’s why I need feminists. Someone has to get it through my thick skull whenever I get it wrong. I need to not listen to respond, but to listen to understand. And that’s why feminists need to be there, to use their voice. Hell no. Let’s make it all women. All women need to use their voice.

At the end of the day, you’re just a woman. Beauty isn’t the most remarkable thing about you. At the end of the day, I’m just a man. Having a dick doesn’t entitle me to anything. Respect is intrinsic. It doesn’t matter what gender we are. There should be no conditions attached to treating someone with dignity. No one should have to earn anyone’s compassion.

And why should I have to identify as anything in particular anyway? Can’t I just use my own name? Sure, it was given to me—I had no say about that—but I like it plenty enough, and my parents raised me in such a way that the mere thought of hurting others can fill me with shame. As it ought. I was taught to know better. Their love ever so gently holds me accountable. Isn’t that enough?

We need to stop viewing women as the weaker sex, the fairer sex, or the whatever sex. Women aren’t in need of rescuing or being won like a prize. Nor are they victims. The more we see them as victims, the more we’ll kick them while they’re down, and then they’ll never be anything other than victims. You don’t need to be a feminist to comprehend that. The women in our lives are worth so much more than a label.

And to you women out there, remember this: You are real. You are all woman. You are human. You are whomever you want to be. And nobody can take that away from you.

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017

Lose to Night

Sisu in the face of certain doom.

There’s no earthly reason why I should be feeling what I feel today. From when my head left its pillow my stomach kicked in. It’s a coil of snakes writhing and golloping me up inside. I can’t concentrate to work. I can’t let go and play. I can only churn times ten. I’m a tight knot waiting to unravel.

The years have seen many friends fall to this monstrosity at the middle of me. Emotionally, I’m just too high maintenance. I go out of my way to cover it up but at some point the façade crumbles. It always does. And then they see me for what I really am. And they get overwhelmed. And eventually they flee.

So now I lock myself away, waiting to unspool. Please, for the love of criminy, just let me unspool. I want to come unutterably and exhaustively undone. Can I rejoin society then? I’m scared of losing the two people I care most about in this world. I need to be safe. Or at least safe enough to handle.

It’s not about aggression. That isn’t why I sit in this room listening to my music. It’s about having something be louder than something else. I need to rumble the snakes out, to shake the bastards loose. To let heavy metal do its thing. Maybe it can save me from myself this time. No, seriously. As preposterous and overblown as that might sound—as metal might sound—just… just save me.

I hear the voices roaring from the speakers. I feel them thundering from beneath the earth, drowning out my insides. And even as I lay buried, my roiling innards will not be silenced. So I scream too, adding my voice to this cognitive and sonorous dissonance. It’s never been about aggression. It’s always been about survival. About letting people know I’m still buried down here. Sleep is so stupid and wasteful. I have to live. I want to live.

I see you, you things inside of me. God, you’re beautiful, but you’re sick. I know what you are. And I know you cannot have me. See? I’m lobbing a Molotov. I’m torching you, motherfuckers. I will not lose to night.

Yeah. Sisu. Sisu in the face of certain doom. That’s what I choose.

 

by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2017