Freud, I think, was spot on in this one thing: in our ass sits our emotions.
A synecdoche is a part for a whole, and our heart has become the synecdoche for love and its loss. Our stomach, or testes if we’re men, which I am not, for courage and anxiety. Our feet for wanderlust and flight. Our shoulders for burden. We feel, somehow, these emotions in these somatic seats; when we lose that which we love our hearts literally and figuratively hurt.
But our ass, says Freud, is where we hold back. Our ass, after all, is one of the first things we learn to control. To learn to control is also to learn to lose; moreover, it is to learn a fear of loss beyond our control.
A person who is anal retentive, according to Freudian psychological models, is one who learns to control a bit too well, a bit too efficiently, a bit too anxiously.
I am not anal retentive, but I am anal. I have a deep and profound awe for my anus in general and the act of anal sex in particular, something that regular readers of my pretty dumb things know perhaps too well. I have awe for the act in part because the pleasure and the pain are so earthshatteringly resonant and in part because I find doing it leaves me vulnerable and emotional and open in ways I cannot even begin to articulate.
I have not been entirely honest with you. I have not been entirely open. I have not been entirely honest with myself, really, and that’s the thing that’s more important because I don’t know you, the swirling hordes of my readers. You are mostly numbers to me, and while I appreciate you and your little blips and dots and IP addresses and your comments, your comments especially, most of you I don’t know. And it is to myself I owe the honesty at the end of the day.
To myself and to those whom I love.
Last night I was opened. Last night I was fucked.
Last night I saw Donny. Again. The strobe light of our relationship continues flashing offONoffONoffONoffONoff in a stream so continuous that our movements have the herky-jerky stop-motion look of actually being illuminated, when that light is merely an optical illusion. We have, since I broke up with him after Fire Island, seen each other. We went to the Yankees games, Donny and I, and we had fun.
I took a picture there at Yankee stadium, and I’d share it with you, but then two anonymities would be broken, and mine is my own to give, but Donny’s is not. This picture of us at the game, the first one, has fucked me up. We look so happy, he and I. We look like a couple. We look in love and we look comfortable with each other. I look at it and it feels easy and right.
It’s not easy.
Suffice to say that it’s not easy.
Last night I saw Donny and we..what?..had sex/made love/buttfucked. We did and it was sublime. Amazing. Celestial and warm and like being wrapped from the inside out in multitudes of feathery wavelets until I screamed aloud and long with the sheer intense pleasure of it all.
And then I sobbed.
Freud, I began, said in our asses sit our emotions. Technically, no, he didn’t quite put it that way. Technically, yes, I am simplifying, transmogrifying, altering his views to suit my anal purpose, but you will grant me this liberty, will you not?
I was buttfucked and something unnamable broke in me and I sobbed. My body heaved and convulsed with the force of my crying. Long, silent breath-free interludes punctuated by the ragged force of sobbing. My sinuses jammed with snot. My face crinkled like the fists of a child.
I was blindsided, if one can be blindside not from the outside but from the in. My emotions smacked me up from my bowels. I had no idea that this was sitting inside of me, waiting, biding its time, gathering force, until, with the force of Donny’s cock, it was released.
And as I wept one coherent thought kept going through my head and it was this: I’m just a little girl.
I’m just a little girl, a voice kept repeating to me, I’m just a little girl and I can’t hold this all in anymore.
Sometimes everything just feels like a lot, you know?
Sometimes it just is.