What the fuck should I do with my life? (Part One)

27 years + 1 human gestational period plus a couple of days ago, I was born. An enormous baby. 10 pounds and a couple of ounces. They cut me out of my tiny mother's tiny tummy. My feet were pointed towards her vagina. It's not the normal way people are supposed to be born. For years, I was terrified of going upside down.

Now I call out to my mother during sex.

My mother seems to get tinier every time I see her. She is 5 ft 3 and seems half the size of me. I am consistently baffled that I ever made it out of her vagina. Then I remember that I didn’t make it out. She got cut open. I tower over her, and feel twice as wide as she is, despite everyone's assurance that I am not an enormous person. Has my mother always been so tiny? Is she shrinking?

The children I work with, they call out for their mothers when they're sad or when they're scared. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy. "I need Mommy," one of them says.

One day, a new child arrived. He called out for both of his parents at once. "Mommy-Daddy-Mommy-Daddy." It was all one word. All day, he called out one big long never-ending word." All the other kids started to call for both of their parents at a time too.

"Mommy-Daddy-Mommy-Daddy..."

During sex, I started saying it too.

"Mommy-Daddy-Mommy-Daddy."

Probably the Boatman is a saint.

The first time I mentioned my mother during sex, he was licking my vagina. Usually this feels very good. The Boatman adores licking pussy. He learned how from an early girlfriend who found out she was a lesbian. I think that learning from a lesbian is a good strategy. Also, the Boatman played the saxophone during middle school.
Anyways, he was down there, and it felt pretty good, but I could feel the tears coming. Tears happened all the time. This time was different though, because the tears came with an embarrassing thought.

I miss my Mom.

The Boatman says that during sex I can yell and scream and cry and say whatever I want.

Once I asked my mother if she'd ever had an orgasm. I shouldn't have asked her, but I was having trouble in that regard, and I was curious. Was it genetic? Had she experienced an Orgasm?

"Oh yah," she replied. "But it wasn't very good."

I think that's a really clear answer.

Every time I visit my mother, my sex life is destroyed for weeks afterwards.

Last spring I went to Ontario for five or six days. The Boatman and I loved and missed each other. All the stories in our heads made our love feel so beautiful and perfect. When the visit was over, the Boatman picked me up at the Halifax airport. He picked me up at the airport at 11 o’clock at night. We were back in the freshness and the air and the inspiration. Back in the love.

The first night we were too tired for sex. That was one of our excuses. The other excuse was that I could still feel my mother there with me. My tiny cut open mother.

On the next night, I had trouble concentrating. I couldn’t feel anything, as though my vagina was turned off, or dead. “Relax,” I said to myself. “Just relax. See what happens.”

The Boatman started fucking me a little harder. He was on top.

“Mommy, Mommy,” I called out a couple times. He kept fucking.

“She hates me,” I said suddenly. My words were loud and clear and decisive.

The Boatman stopped and looked at me. “You okay, babe?”

“Yes.” He kept going.

“I hate her,” I said a little later. 

The next day we fucked on the couch. Same thing with not being able to feel anything or concentrate. We tried a couple different positions. The Boatman came and afterwards I put my crotch on his thigh and humped him.

“She’s dead,” I said, a couple minutes into it. We both laughed. There was nothing left to worry about.

We kept fucking almost every day.  I started feeling my vagina again. It started to feel different. My whole vagina started changing, expanding. Then one evening, I was humping the Boatman's leg and Mommy came back.

“Mommy, Mommy, Mommy,” I called out. I paused and looked right at the Boatman who had his arms wrapped around me.

“She's orange,” I said.

The Boatman laughed.

I am lucky he likes to have sex with me even though I say weird things.

I say some things during sex, and some things during sleep.

A couple weeks ago, the Boatman lay next to me in bed. I had already been sleeping for over an hour. I rolled over, my eyes closed.

“Mommy-daddy-mommy-daddy,” I murmured. “It is hard for Mommy to be born. Very hard.”

The Boatman laughed and spooned me.

Now my mother and I are visiting again and nobody has had sex for a very long time.

It is too hard.

Very hard.

The End.

There was a picture of my tiny mother, and tiny sister, and me.

Nobody was orange, or dead. But I decided to take it out.

This post was inspired by/adapted from a section in Volume Two of The Little Savage and the Hermit. Volume One used to be online but then I took it down. The Hermit used to be alive, but now he's dead.

Pondicherry, January, 2016

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, self-help book by Erica J. Schmidt

What the fuck should I do with my life? Part Two
Not Separate From All That Is
Cardboard Box