An old friend once described me as an erotic David Cronenberg. Having only seen the movie Dead Ringers at the time, I felt misunderstood. I also took pride in the comparison, but a pride that dissipated quickly since I knew it was imposter-accepted praise.
Flesh, and its covering, skin.
I have a skin fetish. Put a human in front of me, and I will scan their skin in an ocular investigation that breeds wonder, never disgust. Maybe it’s less than a fetish since arousal isn’t ever the end result. The downstairs neighbor of fetish I guess.
In a moment of devised procrastination, I laid on the bed wearing only cotton panties. Can “panties” be cotton? Or is cotton reserved for “underwear” alone? I love using the verb form of the word cotton. Who do you cotton to anyway?
Bent knees against a backdrop of windows and trees. Pull my right tit from my armpit, encouraging it to settle on my chest in a way it never did - even in my 20s. And there, like looking down the sight of a childhood BB gun, my nipple stood erect between my thighs. Upon witnessing this trick of perspective, I thought “What if body parts were switched, and my nipple became my dick?”
Why did I assign a male body part to my nipple? Especially when the phrase “and my nipple became my clit” was more accurate and just as lyrical?
What if body parts were switched, and my nipple became my clit?
The “Patriarchy” is the Jeopardy question to so many of Life’s answers posted on the Internet, but this is not the Patriarchy. Maybe it’s nothing beyond a penis fetish, or penis curiosity. Do men ever look at their nipples and think “what if my nipple was a clit?”
Body-part switches. Desperately wanting antlers. Wondering why most of society thinks the devolution of the tail was a boon and not a loss. This style of thinking is what got me labeled an erotic Cronenberg, yet. . .yet. . .there is a difference between theory (abstracted practice) and application (practice), even in imagination.
The actual clip and stitch of flesh, the ripply warped images of Centipede and Tusk (even if simply “expressed” through film).
Applied Theory.
Then there is the body art of my imagination. . . flesh and bone stay intact, just simply separated by the eye and then woven together with gold thread. All bits of the body soft and pillowy, warm and dewy.
Theory of Abstraction.
My eros is all theoretical. Born maybe of being raised Catholic. But beyond Stelarc’s forearm ear, the applied theory of body transfiguration freaks me out. I am, once again, the downstairs neighbor of Fetish & Cronenberg, rearranging my body only by sight.
I have been skipping around the house all day after reading your kind review of my newsletter! I feel so honored to actually have you as a reader.
I started to binge all your posts this morning, but then I decided to savor them little by little. Thank you again so much! 🦋
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