We're here one minute, the next one we're dead...

This little piece of work has been sitting around since August, mulling, stewing, lurking in the dark corners between the houses of Too Much Information and Full Disclosure.  For the love of Eve Ensler, Amanda Palmer, bell hooks, Anaìs Nin, and Virginia Woolf, however, I've come to the conclusion that these thoughts and ideas and things are not only considerably valid, but inherently human and sexual and not at all profane.  These glowing thoughts and ideas and things presumably come from a little glowing spot, somewhere in the region of the second chakra; it's a region that has lain dormant longer than I should have allowed, and I do believe it has been awakened.

Corpus Manifesto, 

With Love to Eve Ensler, Anaîs Nin, bell hooks, Amanda Palmer, and Virginia Woolf, 

as of 11.07.13

Please know this:

I will not shave my legs for you. Ever. If I feel like having smooth legs, I will make it so. I will apply a straight razor to my tender flesh—that which has suffered the open-sore wrath of antibiotic-resistant strain MRSA—and I will do so because I want to do so. My hair is my own and it will never be cut or styled or removed for you or your desires, unless I want it to be so. 

My underarms smell. A lot. I like my smell, but it is incredibly strong. Something like skunk mixed with grapefruit. I’ve had no complaints yet, but I don’t care. I wear deodorant when I want to, and sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Either way, it is my smell and it will be with me longer than you will. 

My vagina is torn and wet. I’ve given birth to large-headed humans that forced their way to their first breath of life with the determination of a bull in a ring of matadors.  They both tore me, pulling me apart, dragging pieces of me with them, leaving me in tatters.  This is also mine, and I do not for a moment regret those gorgeous wounds of life that twinge on a rough bike ride or during jackhammer intercourse.  It’s a wet, torn, wild place of enormous strength and heat, ever flooding because of desire or your laugh or your blue.green.grey.black.brown eyes. I’m lucky to have such a reservoir. You’re lucky if you get to swim in it.

I’ve been marked, forever, in my breasts, belly, hips and arms by the growing and shedding of layers of genetics; stretch marks crawl across me like a thousand Arabic squiggles, each one with a story to tell. I don’t try to hide them.

I love sex. A lot. I have the freedom to use my body for sex in as many ways as I desire, with a willing and giving partner. We will treat each other like equals, neither seeking to dominate or belittle the other, unless it is part of agreed play.

I am not your exotic muse, nor will I be the one you chose to “slum it with”.  I am not to be placed on a pedestal, to be used as you see fit when you see fit. If I want to be used, you will know it. In the words of Momus/Amanda Palmer (see video below): I may want you, and I may want you to want me, but I don’t need you. And I don’t need you to need me to need you.

Note: The Amanda Fucking Palmer video is a cover of the Momus song. You can choose which one you like; I like them both for different reasons.