I minored in sexuality in college. The minor was officially called Sexualities, Gender, Queer Studies, or SGQ if ya nasty. I took the general Gender and Sexualities course on our gym campus. It was a classroom four floors up, behind the locker rooms, gently smelling of Clorox wipes. We had a male and a female professor. On the first day they walked into the center of the room, twisted their feet front-facing, and calmly asked us to scream the word penis on go. After that we had to write a list of all the dirtiest words we could think of on the white board. It was our loosening period. Apparently it’s not easy to sit in a room with strangers and talk about sex.
I started this blog in 2008 but had been writing years before that due to the inscrutable desire to give myself arthritis. If I had to describe what I wanted from my readers, it would be that feeling everyone got when they shouted penis the second time.
The first shout was a warble. Are you going to shout? Should I shout too? How loud are we shouting, exactly? It was a nervous tick, a little laugh, the feeling of your skeleton being pulled aggressively from your skin. Nakedness.
The second shout was a roar. All the blood in your body heating up, rushing through your veins, and shooting out of your throat with a projectile “PENIS.”
Everyone looked around at each other with self-congratulatory smirk. But moments prior, they’d been kings. I don’t know what that feeling is. But if I had to sum it up in one word, it would be ownership. It can take quite a while, but sooner or later everyone realizes that their voice is theirs to use just the way they want to.
We are the amalgamation of everything around us but in this dubious mimicry we become unique.
A few weeks ago I decided a goal for 2017 would be to make it back on the top 100 sex bloggers list. These peers of mine write such wonderful things. They show up in my feed and they intimidate me. I’d forgotten I was one of them. Today I woke to find myself atop the list at spot #23 with no warning.
Today I am that feeling, the blood-rushing shout of PENIS in a room full of strangers.
I am a writer, I am a writer, I am a writer, I am a writer.
She jumps atop the table and shouts to absolutely no one. But it feels okay, anyways. Because she hears herself.