Blood For Practice
"I Found my inner voice today! She's as annoying as I am!"
-Anonymous
The picture is of a woman kneeling on the floor of a dirty motel room. Not a bed; the floor. Nude, her legs spread, head bowed. Even in black and white, the amount of blood pouring out from between her spread legs is scary.
She's a symbol; representatives of the constant struggle that's taken place between a woman's libido and the rules of biology.
I keep a little copy of her picture in my pocket. It reminds me, always, that I'm right.
Virginity is the only safe form of birth control.
Call me behind the times; old-fashioned; emotionally retarded. I won't live me life with false bravado because it's the popular thing to do. But even I find my emotional attitude strange; I'm from a generation of women that are supposed to be more sexually adventurous. We write entire books about dispassionate orgies; we take pole-dancing classes at health clubs and pay good money to take our clothing off in public. It's not a HAPPY sense of sexual freedom; I look around me, at the women I know all too well, and everyone seems brittle and angry.
We're trying to beat the world back with our clits. It sounds silly, but it's true.
Sometimes, I wish I could go wild; sleep with whomever I want. Just go crazy, and never have to worry about my body. Be like 'everyone else'. But my conscious weighs me down.
Somehow, it's a held belief that I somehow hate men. Why, because I want to wear underwear that doesn't sever my femoral artery? Some small portion of the female world does love their thongs; the rest of us lie that we're just wearing them to reduce panty lines. In reality, we're suffering because, somehow, it makes us feel sexier.
I guess that's why everyone else looks relentlessly unhappy.
I'll never be able to let go unless I'm really sure it's safe. And, unless I'm in love, it's never going to be safe. I'm searching for trust; something that the best of relationships never seem to grasp. T'snot like I'm any great prize, but I have to live with myself every day. Something you really aren't ready to do for me.
And that's why I can't give in to you, Chris; why I can't just let your charms take me over. If only you were steady...if only I knew for sure that you love me. But you don't even know what love feels like, do you? I can't and don't; we're both too young.
Your love isn't chaste, it doesn't bear up under the weight of conflict. I can't afford to make a mistake with a body that, from the moment you touch me, and forever after, will not be my own. You're not dirty to me; just lecherous. Something about you wants to consume me whole. I am no bagel for your hungry mouth.
I have soft hands and an active imagination, and you clearly don't. I refuse to bleed myself to death-just for practice.