Thursday, October 16, 2003

A Little Something for a Wet Thursday...



     


This is a poem by one of the best young Filipino writers I know, Lille. This one has been anthologized in Eros Pinoy (published by Anvil and edited by Virgilio Avialdo, Ben Cabrera and Alfred Yuson) and rendered in performance in the spoken word album Uniberso: New Poets Calling (published by NCCA and edited by Mayo Uno Martin):

Why I Won’t Have Sex With You



By Lilledeshan Bose



If you really want to know, it’s because my thighs are too big. They slump across the bed, too heavy to move apart, but slightly, at the knees. Waves of cellulite lolling across seas and seas of undesired flesh. Mapped out by white webs of stretch marks, this wide expanse spills out of your grip, easily. I doubt if you would want to graze your fingers across a bedimpled, blotchy crack. I have trouble lifting my legs up for the perfect position (around your neck, perhaps, or my left knee hugged to my chest) because of this unwieldy weight, and I am so afraid to disappoint you. How your sweat drips down your brow in this great effort to get me to take my pants off. I try to distract you by sitting up, but my stomach rolls forward too fast and loose, to my dismay. I lie back down thinking, sex belongs to skinny people: the stick figures with melon boobs I know you fantasize about. I try not to bite my lip as you go down on me: I fail to keep a moan that half-arcs across this dark and sad motel room. I feel too big for the bed, too ugly for these mirrors, unworthy of this pleasure that I feel. I want to envelope your body with mine, enclose your being, but I fear losing you. I am too thick and oily: what if you suffocate within my folded flesh?

This is an homage of sorts by another great writer-friend Dinah Rose Baseleres Ladia who SHOULD START GOING BACK TO HER WRITING ROOTS AND START PUBLISHING SOON (pant... pant... pant...), in response to a shit of a man who crossed her recently (so it seems, anyway; don't ask me for details):

Why I Won’t Have Sex With You



By Dinah Rose Baseleres Ladia



If you really want to know, it’s because my thighs aren’t too big. They are smooth and creamy against the sheets, so smooth you are driven to madness imagining your cum splattered on them. You have never run your fingers across such brown smoothness, have you? The perfect swell of hip narrowing down to that perfect stretch of leg. I imagine your hands lifting my legs up for the perfect position (around your neck, perhaps, or my left knee hugged to my chest) and bile rises up my throat. I am afraid the sight of you will disappoint me: how your sweat drips from your brow, your chest heaving on top of mine. I try to distract you by cocking a loaded gun before you can cock yours (tiny little thing, sorry), but you fail to grasp the subtlety of homicide, intoxicated as you are by the sight of my naked breasts. I lie back down thinking, “When is this fucker going to stop?” I bite back profanity when you utter words that sound sacrilegious coming from you. Tiny thing that I am, I feel too big for your bed that is devoid of love. You are unworthy of the pleasure you want to feel and thus will never thrust yourself deep into my dark wetness, never feel yourself enclosed in my being, because you are thick and oily with the immensity of your arrogance. I know to you a blowjob from me will equal me loving you. And forgive me, but that is why I won’t have sex with you.

Ahhh, beautiful, beautiful poetry both.



And whoever said this was a wet Thursday may not just be talking about the weather...
[0] This is Where You Bite the Sandwich

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