Wee Gee Quotes

What You Pray Toward “The orgasm has replaced the cross as the focus of longing and the image of fulfillment.” —Malcolm Muggeridge, 1966 I. Hubbie 1 used to get wholly pissed when I made myself come. I’m right here!, he’d sputter, blood popping to the surface of his fuzzed cheeks, goddamn it, I’m right here! By that time, I was in no mood to discuss the myriad merits of my pointer, or to jam the brakes on the express train slicing through my blood, It was easier to suffer the practiced professorial huff, the hissed invectives and the cold old shoulder, liver-dotted, quaking with rage. Shall we pause to bless professors and codgers and their bellowed, unquestioned ownership of things? I was sneaking time with my own body. I know I signed something over, but it wasn’t that. II. No matter how I angle this history, it’s weird, so let’s just say Bringing Up Baby was on the telly and suddenly my lips pressing against the couch cushions felt spectacular and I thought wow this is strange, what the hell, I’m 30 years old, am I dying down there is this the feel, does the cunt go to heaven first, ooh, snapped river, ooh shimmy I had never had it never knew, oh i clamored and lurched beneath my little succession of boys I cried writhed hissed, ooh wee, suffered their flat lapping and machine-gun diddling their insistent c’mon girl c’mon until I memorized the blueprint for drawing blood from their shoulders, until there was nothing left but the self-satisfied liquidy snore of he who has rocked she, he who has made she weep with script. But this, oh Cary, gee Katherine, hallelujah Baby, the fur do fly, all gush and kaboom on the wind. III. Don’t hate me because I am multiple, hurtling. As long as there is still skin on the pad of my finger, as long as I’m awake, as long as my (new) husband’s mouth holds out, I am the spinner, the unbridled, the bellowing freak. When I have emptied him, he leans back, coos, edges me along, keeps wondering count. He falls to his knees in front of it, marvels at my yelps and carousing spine, stares unflinching as I bleed spittle unto the pillows. He has married a witness. My body bucks, slave to its selfish engine, and love is the dim miracle of these little deaths, fracturing, speeding for the surface. IV. We know the record. As it taunts us, we have giggled, considered stopwatches, little laboratories. Somewhere beneath the suffering clean, swathed in eyes and silver, she came 134 times in one hour. I imagine wires holding her tight, her throat a rattling window. Searching scrubbed places for her name, I find only reams of numbers. I ask the quietest of them: V. Are we God?

Luister, liefling, ek hét jou lief, ek is bereid, méér, om altyd by jou te bly. Verstaan jy? Maar voordat jy só na my toe kan kom, is ek bang vir álle hoop, álle oorgawe gee aan moontlikhede … alewig moontlikhede … Ek wil nie “gedood word deur ’n droom”, om myself aan te haal nie. En dit sal vernietigend wees vir ons verhouding soos dit nou is. En daarom probeer ek, ten spyte van my eenheid en verbondenheid met jou, om dinge maar te aanvaar soos hulle is: goed, as ek nie by ander mans mag gaan lê nie – ek kan verstaan dat jy jaloers sal wees omdat jy my liefhet, maar Estelle is daarom ook tog iémand, én wat jy eenmaal liefgehad het, en by wie jy blý, en ek NEUL nie so nie!

Ons was ’n spul skytbang seunskinders wat oorlog-oorlog moes speel maar daai dag het ek geweet dit was nooit ’n speletjie nie en dit sal nooit ’n speletjie wees nie. Ek het die lig in daai ou se oë sien afgaan, ek kon nie anders nie, ek moes na sy oë kyk want alles onder sy nek was ’n bloedige gemors. Ek was negentien jaar oud. Hy het nie veel ouer gelyk nie. Eers toe hy dood is, sien ek die brief in sy hand. Hy wou nie ’n wapen uitpluk nie, hy wou vir my ’n brief gee. Vir wat de fok wou hy dit vir MY gee?