Day 12- Dry Woman

Dry woman has come to call. She's old and brown from the sun and has strong sandpaper hands and long bony fingers. Her hair is long and tangled and her laugh sounds like a pencil scratching on crisp, sharply crumbled up paper. Her voice is rasped from the wind and the sand that is always everywhere she walks, it's in her overalls and faded once blue t-shirt and it's in the folds and lines of her skin. It's in her throat. When she swallows it's an act of will because there is not enough moisture in her to make spit.

She is not happy or sad. She is just bone tired and dry. Her bare feet crack and bleed and she leaves messy footprints wherever she goes. She is always moving, never still and walks in the day and in the night. Dry woman is strong but can't ever stop thinking about the water she rarely finds. She dreams of tall icy blue glasses that she would drink down one after another until she'd had enough and then she'd sip and sit for awhile and rest.

She dreams of showers with water that never runs out. Dreams of washing away these years of  sad gritty dirt deposits she has stored on her, around her, in her. Sand is tucked between her shoulder blades, in the socket of her joints, in the place where her arms and legs bend, it's packed between her legs like a war triage dressing stuffed in an open wound.

***

I'm used to an easy wet. I'm used to it coming up when I whistle or I see an image, have a thought or hear a certain whisper. Today there is no wet except in my tea cup. I am bone dry and tired. Being present with this masturbation practice and having the privacy to stretch out in it means that the secrets crawl out of their hidey holes. Means that I am unable to slip quick come fast in this moment because I don't have to. There is nobody here but me and me. There is no constraint on how much time I have. There is no need to rush.

All this spaciousness has me trapped with all my messy truths. I couldn't get wet today. It was dry, papery, buzzing to a ticker tape of old ugly silent movies racing in double time, showing in 3 D. The stuff I keep in the red trunk in the garage, underneath the rakes and gardening gloves. The stuff that is always sure to get me off.

 I came from a distance, sad because I've tasted other ways of coming, up close or actually inside my body, all the way. I want it to be like that now. I want to have figured out the puzzle and won the prize- won me back, my body back, my cunt back and I want to flush shame down the toilet. I want all of my orgasms to be in my own hands, my real hands that belong to me. I want to be able to shout about them joyfully, share them with you with a sense of abundance, not this place of deficit, of old dried up faded fortune cookie fortunes piled up on the floor. I want to bring good wet, drippy news of triumph. I want to be someone else today.