pssbtch - Tumblr blog

[pssbtch]

Wrote this a few months ago, based on some characters that I need to revisit :')

(i have more about them i might post later)

Every day I stare at the bulletin board with his face smack-dab in the middle. The papers and red strings seem to blossom and explode out from that little mugshot, like the highway of veins tangling through a human body. My routine with this display goes as such: I stare in helpless dismay for about ten minutes, studying every connection I’ve made, before some new memory or factoid reaches me. I put down another sticky note, or piece of lined paper, and begin another line. Sometimes I build on a previous one. I get into the flow of my work, of connecting the little dots of thumbtacks, with the string acting as the trail I leave in my wake. I always feel dread rip through me as I have to forfeit the end of the string to his mugshot. I have multiple tacks circling it now, where all these connections keep leading, time and time again. After I reach him, I sometimes have the gall to tie the thread around another tack, but usually, I leave it to dangle against the board. Everything I can think of keeps coming back to him, but I can’t believe it. I just can’t stomach that idea, that potential reality.

The young face in the picture, with his dark, searching eyes and dazed expression, could not have done what the clues keep telling me he did. How could he have been both perpetrator and victim? It isn’t possible, it just isn’t possible. Not my Rory. Not my Rory Tyler.

[pssbtch]

[pssbtch]

David and Tom I & II.

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Microsoft Dogs (1995)

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if i see this gay ass youtube thumbnail one more fucking time

[pssbtch]

1 of 2

(a bit of writing from a few months ago, didn't know where else to put it. too formatted and picked through to just be a diary entry)

There’s only ever been two guys i’ve wanted to suck off. The first one was the one who made me realize that i could want that to begin with. The second, i’m not ready to unpack yet. The way i wanted him was more complicated. I didn’t just want to blow him, or touch him, or fuck him —- I wanted a lot more from him. A lot, lot more that i should’ve known i’d never get. Anyway, that other guy, the first guy - let’s call him Oz - woke something up inside my gut that i didn’t really know existed, and it was the perfect moment for that to happen.

It was the summer before freshman year of college, which as of writing this is almost a year ago. Pretty recent, but my emotional ebbs and flows feel like millennia because of my current age. Just go with it, okay? Anyway, by this point i had a firm little friend group and i had sort of cemented myself as a man to everybody that mattered in my hometown. I had just gotten out of a weird, uncomfortable, awkward little 5 month (felt like 6) relationship with another guy (a whole different can of worms), and i was ready to just enjoy myself and not worry about legitimate loving. he had been my first boyfriend, my first real relationship, and he was a fucking dick. i was keeping my expectations low, also knowing i’d be in the big city in just a few months. “playing around” and “hooking up” aren’t really my thing, but i was open to that for just this summer, despite knowing nothing sexual was probably going to happen to this nerdy tranny. spoiler alert, i was right and nothing sexy happened to me, but it was the best summer of my life because i had my friends and that was really all i needed. speeding down a highway with two crazy girls beats any sort of awkward sexual fumbling.

but still, there was this guy, Oz, who i only saw a few times, but who sort of transfixed me a little bit. there was something in the way he’d look at me. when i was saying something, anything, he offered up a face that said he was actually paying attention (crazy, right?). when i said dumb silly shit, he would laugh, genuinely. there was a life behind those two piercing little daggers for eyes that felt like he was trying to see me for how i really, really truly was. he was analyzing me, and he was seeing things he liked, and i could read it on his face.

god bless that sweet, boyish face.

perfect perfect perfect, a real burgeoning man thinly veiled under a sheepish teenager. just like me. even if i still had (have) a ways to go with my own burgeoning.

i am reading way too far into my interactions with this guy. trust me, i know all of this shit was just my perception. it’s what happens to me when i have a crush. i don’t know, i’m a writer, a poet, an artist (a faggot) - i have to concoct some stupid complicated word vomit with my feelings somehow. i always make them bigger than they really are, because that’s how they feel. i’m a sensitive freak and goddamnit, i can’t help it! fuck!

i don’t entirely know why he was the first guy i’ve ever wanted to give a blowjob to. the best i can get to is that he just seemed like the type of guy who deserved one. that might sound patronizing, like “oh wow, good job, buddy, you deserve a dick sucking!” but you don’t really get it; he was just THAT diabolically sweet and respectful. he was always the most reasonable one in the room, which felt odd when that was usually my role. he was never fucked up on anything, always just nice, and calm, and offering up his ear to anyone who wanted to yell. he clocked things about me that other people didn’t. it was weird, to feel looked at, when i spent so much time being the observant people watcher in the room. he was looking at me, now. we were looking at each other. that’s what it felt like. 

i got the feeling he wouldn’t try to choke me on his dick, either. he was too nice to pull some shit like that.

i could just imagine that sweet face looking down at me while i set his junk ablaze with my mouth. it was exhilirating to think about, getting this nice southern nerd all hot and bothered from my hands, my mouth, all my own doing (or undoing, i guess). imagining him shakily taking his glasses off, wiping sweat from his brow, laughing and smiling and grimacing from pleasure. jesus christ.

i would drive around town for hours, blasting that mariah carey song and screaming along, just thinking about him. i’ve said it before, but that song is just blowjob music to me. it’s funky and a bit funny cuz of that damn sample, but also so buttery sweet because of mariah’s vocals. you feel that summery, dreamy fuckin’ FANTASY feeling when you listen to it. and all i could see was Oz, smiling down at me so endearingly while i went to town on his bits.

that summer made me realize that i actually kinda was capable of desire, without any pretense or romance. i just needed a bit of sweetness to egg on a sexual throb at the base of my throat. Oz wasn’t the first guy to get me heated, but he was the first that i just felt a yearning for without any expectation of something deeper. it was a real teenagery feeling, and part of me being able to figure that out was the fact that i had my gender basically figured out. once i was able to nail the “man” part down, and i had a small lil community of people that respected me, i could fantasize more freely. i could have these sexual daydreams, and i could feasably place myself in them. i figured out what i liked, what i wanted.

what i wanted was to give Oz the blowjob of his dreams, the blowjob he deserved. too bad he was a straight boy. but that’s okay. if anything, it kept the fantasy as a fantasy, kept it at arm’s length. he couldn’t break my heart, because i had learned already to never expect anything from a fucking straighty. plus, i only saw him like 3 times. you can judge me for that, but what can i say? i think i was built to fixate, i think i was built to fantasize. ill always be dreamily looking at eyes that see right through me.

[pssbtch]

Somnocidal (from a zine i made)

When we are asleep, we are the closest we ever come to being dead without actually dying. To the outside world, we could have slipped right out of life and into nothingness, all while our minds are the most alive they will ever be. Dancing, enveloping, unraveling visions called dreams keep our consciousness cocooned away from the lucidity of waking life. Sleep is a chance to briefly escape the constant churning of the brain and step into a realm of defenselessness. My greatest, most intense fantasies have often been about having someone to fall asleep and wake up next to. I think that specific fixation comes from a longing to be allowed to be unguarded, defenseless, and intimate with someone else. At some points in my life, I thought I could have gotten close to and captured that feeling, but every time I’ve been proven wrong. I would like to not have to perform a version of myself for another person. I would like the choice to become purely my unguarded self with someone. It would feel so freeing to be able to let myself exist, raw and unedited. I want to have the level of mutual trust that Abe and Isaac can experience in my drawings.

Intimately touching another person feels like a Herculean exercise in trust and human connection. That response to physical, especially sexual, touch fills me with a lot of shame. I’m not proud of it, but I do sometimes feel isolated by conversations about hook-ups, getting off, and fucking around. I don’t want to try to connect with someone, and then look at them just to see sex and desire and a face that screams, “When will you give me what I want?” I know that I’ll never be able to please most of the people who would show me a face like that. I’m lacking a physicality and sexual freedom that I feel like I’m supposed to have. When the fuck is my sexual awakening supposed to happen, again?

It’s hard to describe how I feel, and it’s even harder to sit and watch the faces of people when I try to describe it. I see the one-word conclusions being written behind their eyes. Some of them even say it out loud: “So you’re [         ],” “Oh, you’re [         ],” “You’re just [ ].” I’m trying to convey this complex, knotted-up ball of yarn in my stomach that is my sexual freakout to them, and they think it can be easily unraveled with a single word, or label, or diagnosis. Is it easier to understand my complications when you can simplify them? When you can simplify me? I don’t want my feelings compressed, or cropped, or sanded down to make them easier to process. Please don’t take my paragraphs and make them into phrases.

One day, I won’t have to think about the ways that I become simplified by another person’s gaze. I will be complex, I will be a walking human hoarder’s room, and I will be allowed to just be. One day, I hope I can trust someone enough to experience an intimacy like the one I’m exploring in my art. I want to look into someone’s eyes and see me, myself, clearly reflected there, as I am. I hope to look back and reflect my partner’s visage in my gaze, giving them the experience of being seen as well. I want what I will try to give. If the feeling of love is like a dreamstate, one that ensnares and cocoons us in numbing, warm overstimulation, then I don’t know if I want to wake up the next time I fall asleep in that fantasy’s bed. I hope I can rest, fully, when I feel my eyes beginning to close.

[pssbtch]

hullo, i haven't used tumblr in literal years but i wanted to come back and use it again :)) gonna be posting a lot of personal writing that i cant usually share, and also just casually posting when i wanna