Read our posts

Bookbed Blog

kinsey x

BY RACHEL

i am thirteen and i look at pornography and i think, is that it? is that the grand event, the grand design spoken of in furtive whispers and secret asides, as if it’s some majestic cathedral of sweat-slick intimacy with a choir of grunts and moans and slap-smacked limbs, every orgasm a hallelujah on high? it’s just sex. it’s not a horror film about to eat your face with loving careful bites.

but then i am nineteen and it’s like the whole world worships in this heaving church and i am a tourist, each tower and crypt wondrous to behold—but i’ll rather not join in, will rather stay at the well-worn steps and stare into the sky but i will not join in.

at sixteen, i am terrified that everyone else has joined in and i am put together wrong, i am missing something, i am broken in unrecognizable ways, i am like the pandas too lazy to fuck for their own survival, i am evolutionarily backwards and, with the conceit of teenager, i pronounce the whole world doomed to extinction.

i am twenty and i think, goddamn it, sex is so fascinating, like a rube goldberg machine of staggering complexity with a million different things that can go wrong at any moment, a misfire, a missed opportunity, the wrong thing at the wrong time, the right thing at the wrong time and the wrong thing at the right time and it’s mind-boggling how it drives people into the irrationality and seeming randomness of time-worn grooves of cultures and traditions and incandescent inventiveness and mechanical ingenuity.

i want to place sex under a microscope, endless clanging rounds inside the mri, bombard it with x-rays and watch the silhouettes form under the  film, let it race through a particle collider and smash it into fragments and examine each fragment to find out how it ticks and why, why, why—sex is so strange and lovely and i want people to treasure it and bask in it and to find their every moment of bliss in every smear of fluid and press of skin and weight of expectancy.

i am twenty and the sexual practices of all living things are amazing and sometimes i think, hey, maybe i should give this sex lark a go but—

(when i am ten, a book promises to tell me everything i need to know about sex and it is my favorite book in the world until i borrow a first-aid manual and suddenly all i want is the different ways to extract poison from wounds)

—then it’s so absurd, this contorted pleasure-seeking, an uncontrollable base reaction to base blood-pooling and neuron-sparking, that i smile and wish the sexuals to carry on, keep wild and carry on; i’ll be here for your kiss and your shoulder and the trembling moments of realization but your orgasm is on your own hand, in your own provocation; my itinerant hand stilling on your cheekbone, no more further south than the dampness of your exhaling curling breath. ☁

Author’s note: On the Kinsey scale of sexual history and behavior, “x” was used to identify the asexual and nonsexual.
Originally published on We Come of Age. Reposted with permission from the author.
Bedside Stories features original fiction from aspiring and published writers. Submit your story here.
No Comments

Post A Comment