Dear K (a rant/a porn/a letter to Kathy Acker)

PLEASE NOTE THIS BLOG POST CONTAINS LANGUAGE SOME READERS MAY FIND OFFENSIVE.

PLEASE USE YOUR DISCRETION.

 

can i call you mum? my mother. my demon. maybe dad.
i wanna call you sister and breaker, wanna call you heart body mind cunt
and i wanna call you liar i wanna call you brother. lie-sibling.
we’re sisters of the universe. of the apocalypse.

i wanna ask you why it is that i haven’t met you but you’re with me. and i wonder if it means anything to you that we’re the same, i wonder if you know.
maybe if you knew you’d find me annoying. or we’d lose count of the hours we’d spent chatting the night away over too much alcohol and cigarettes, incredibly self-aware of the conditional cliches of our subjectivity. or maybe you’d fuck me top me peg me hard like you did your assistants, or as my sex dreams tell me you did your assistants. or maybe this would remind you of your own obsessive crushes and art groupie impulses and how you’ve constantly overexposed intimate sexual details of your love and depression. maybe instead of this unreciprocated letter we could’ve had a still on-going email thread of personal erotic philosophical correspondence because actually I am also very into you. so fucking very delusionally into you. so much more into you than

and if we both knew and existed simultaneously in time and place fuck if you could see how our Ids (sorry for Freud) vibrate in the same frequency who would’ve cared about how very very your post-coital email chains read.

I fucking hate jealousy but how do I control these socialised traits when I can only hear you through words you left behind to other someone elses that weren’t me. If we’d all been alive in the same stretch of temporal context i think jealousy would’ve been the name of our intercontinental threesome, again in painful self-awareness of the geopolitics of our gangbang, our neo-colonial exchange of moist fluids that’d make this supremacist triplice even whiter.

oh my god i am so full of love for you.
oh Kathy Kat how i fucking dream about you.
I open the white door and walk in. I turn around and see you about six inches away from me. We kiss passionately. Tongues slither down throats. You push me we topple on the bed.
“Draw your curtains.”
I try to draw the curtains and fail.
I lie down next to you so our faces are only a few inches apart. We look at each other for a long time.
We reach out to each other and you move down on me.
We start doing the same things at the same time without thinking about it.
You kiss me in the lips and eyes. Your tongue sticks up my nostrils. Your hand reaches down, under my halter, and rubs my nipples.
“Do you ever come from this?” You ask.
“From what?”
“From having your titties played with?”
“Once I did.”
You bend your head, lift the halter, and place your mouth on the brown aureole. While you lick and suck this nipple, your hand rubs the other breast.
I’m so open I can’t believe it.
We take off our clothes. We’re glad to get our clothes off cause now we can touch each other all over. We lie on our sides so all of our front presses, and rub, and slip, shove against each other. We’re constantly kissing.
Your upper legs thrust down between my thighs so that you’re lying partially on top of me. I’m dying to fuck.
I’m in agony. I know this is going to be a good fuck. You rub your cock-head up and down my ass and the skin around my asshole. I know that you’re playing with me but I’m too hot to care.

I open my legs wider and thrust upward. The right part of my body rises higher than my left. You move slightly backwards so the back part of your cock rubs roughly against the skin at the back of my asshole. Then you move forward so you’re lying fully on top of me. I want to come so badly I’m thrusting and shoving and bouncing too much every which way.
We roll to our sides and my left leg bends so my knee is near your face. You’re using your hands to push me back and forth. I swing my left leg over your thigh so your cock presses against the back and left side of my asshole. We begin to fuck a little bit faster. I’m about to come.
You slip on top of me. You continue fucking at the same pace. I feel spasms run up and down your cock and at the same time I feel all my muscles relax, a force like a warm fire an exploding bomb and all the wants in the world, these three things together rise up my ass muscles and then slowly into my whole body. I shake and relax in your arms.
And although i never physically touched you i don’t think i’ll ever find a state of relaxation like the one i find in your skin. We should’ve stayed as, or should’ve been under, the same skin.

maybe you were meant to stay longer.
or maybe death is nothing but a state of transition.
maybe you’ve transitioned into me.

I was five when you died. I had just started primary school. I’d always been this really extroverted, fun, kinda clever, quick-wit type child. But when I went into primary school I couldn’t stand it. I’d literally shit myself every day by lunch time so that my parents had to come pick me up. All the other kids would make fun of me, I was the gay fat dumbo (in honour of my bigger than normal ears) with the shitty underpants. There was an oral fantasy fan-fiction going around school about how i’d fly away using my weirdly big ears as wings and everyone would have to hide under roofs like some sort of apocalypse because of the brown rain that’d drip from my wet scat-soaked briefs. Funnily enough I now think that’s a pretty cool thing I often dream about accomplishing. Call it reclaiming, empowerment or just a fairly dissident becoming.
I had only one ‘friend’, or someone who tolerated hanging out with me or vice-versa and because of that I wanted to stay home even more.
It was this boy Filipe, he was one of the popular kids, a total dickhead but the girls all liked him, in a Portuguese version of the American highschool dramas I’m still obsessed about. He would speak to me. Mostly I was there to make sure he wasn’t caught stealing, or bullying other kids, or making out with girls in hidden corners of the school.
I’d stay at the bottom of these stairs that led to an unused attic, or I’d sit in front of the closed door that’d lead to the photocopy room. He’d go in with them. I’d pretend to be paying attention to teachers coming but would just watch them kiss from below or from the keyhole.
He caught me once and called me a creep. And then another time he caught me looking at him shirtless in the locker room, called me a fag and punched me in the stomach so hard I still twenty years later can’t breathe. I remember going to bed that night. my stomach was sore, my eyes red and swollen from crying, my dick hard which it had been a couple times before but was still an unfamiliar sensation. so I just rubbed myself against the sheets. That was me starting to understand what wanking was.

After that, from one friend down to zero, I found books. And that’s when you died. Three months after I’d started school. When I wanked and found books.
it was you, wasn’t it?
You took over my body you gave me sex and you gave me books and you gave me art.
it was you, wasn’t it?
You’ve orchestrated the counter-political context in which you wanted my desire to awake.

I am nothing more than your pseudonym. A puppet.
Your hands your legs your limbs your tongue control my body. You open my sphincter and stick your tongue into me. I want to tell you you’re hurting me, but I don’t because I’m scared I’ll hurt your feelings and you’ll stop sucking me.
I try to relax to you and open myself up to you.
“If Kathy likes to suck, I don’t have to worry about making myself come as soon as possible. I must taste terrible because of the dysentery.”
I feel your tongue move up the the extra-sensitive spot where my prostate starts. Your tonguing hurts and makes me feel good. The hurt increases the pleasure. The hurt disappears.
I feel the beginning of the rising that always comes when I relax. I’m amazed that the rising’s beginning so fast. All of my asshole begins to tingle. The trick is your asshole membrane has to get more and more sensitive but not so fast that you tense up cause the more you relax the more you feel. You want to feel everything.
You touch my prostate with your tongue and my prostate swells. The tinging increases strength and speed. Then you blow on my asshole so I feel almost nothing. Instantaneously I want you to touch me even harder. By the time your tongue returns to my ass, my ass feels like a three inch long raw desirous nerve.
“Follow Kathy’s tongue, follow Kathy’s tongue. Don’t let the feeling carry you away. Don’t go too fast.”
The vibrations move around my spine like a snake. Are what you’re doing. As the vibrations run up and down, they grow fiercer and sharper so at the extreme there are these peaks of fire, tiny explosions everywhere, and nothing. My asshole is silent, ready, nothing. Your tongue is the explosions, the fires, the desire. The explosions the fires the desire come faster and harder they become simultaneous and infinite. Your tongue draws me out of myself, makes me quiver, and puts me back, slightly changed, into myself.
“Oh my god,” I say. I’m in love with you.
You rise up and stick your cock in me. As soon as you move back and forth about three times, I come. I spread my legs as wide as possible. I feel like I’m ready for anything. You continue moving your cock slowly back and forth in my asshole. My ass is sensitive to feel your cock. I can feel every inch of that cock it’s going into me. You pull out of me so that your cock-head is lying in my ass crack. You press and rub the upper ridge of your cock back and forth past the tight asshole. I can’t come again because your cock isn’t in me. I’m desperate. I begin to flex my perineum muscles. Soft. Tight. Around and around. Soft. Tight. You stick your cock back in me and begin to fuck me good and hard. I come again. I keep on tensing my cremaster muscles.
you’re moving inside my skin you’ve always been moving inside my skin and that makes me so happy.
you are the blood flow that rushes to my cock to give me an erection.
you are my hard cock.
maybe that’s what I, or we, are meant to be doing here.
feminizing our dick desire. or de-dickcizing people’s dildo cravings.
we are here to destroy the myth and the connection between dick and dildo, between dick and men.
my hard cock is a woman.
our dildos are non-binary technobiopolitical humanoids.
our existence shines in the edge between the artificial phallus and the biological dildos.
and you look at me with a cigarette hanging from the right side of your lips and we’re not even touching but I feel the tingling and we recognise that your cigarette is also a dildo and we both know where that dildo will be penetrating later on.

we don’t need men and their dick-exploitations. we need post-masculine dildo explorations. we reclaim penetration. we reclaim dick, reclaim dildos. i love dildo.
dear dildo, is it hypocritical that i still fuck and get fucked by men?
If you were here we’d pen stalky letters to Preciado and would become the post-human Chris Kraus the world doesn’t know it needs.
oh god, Target.. Come with me to Rosi Bardotti’s summer school in Utrecht this Summer. Have you been to Utrecht? To the Netherlands? I’m scared as I think I’m still hooked on my ex and our co-dependent connection and he lives there so you know how we are, you know what will probably happen and I’m gonna spiral back down to a hole.
But Kat, If you keep fucking me everything everything will be alright. right?

it feels ever so less romantic to type you some half-arsed letter using notes on a fucking smartphone while sitting in the middle seat of a crowded Ryanair plane than when you write your texts. let’s ignore the problematics of this nostalgia for a past before we’d lost control over globalised capitalism.
let’s forget how nostalgia is twisted to erase the power of our current voice.
i wish our times merged.
did you know we both write always in bed? well, apart from when Ryanair early flights become sleepy comforts.

i am so full of love for you. fuck.
i wanna call you tornado, i wanna call you tempest, wave, rock and guts.
i wanna call you eagle. pussy. bender,stretcher,fleece,maid,nomad.
i wanna call you virgin. i wanna call you sex. i wanna call you blood.

Eurydice i’m not a stalker and i’m not a copy cat, i promise.
it was never my intention to break in the way you did, it was never my intention to lie as you did, to move as you did, to write as you did. or a much poorer version of as you wrote.
you were somehow in me even before i read about you or read you.
you were the writing i needed to find to gain strength to call myself a poet.

and in my head we hang out daily. we stroll down the streets of islington as if you were still here. i feel like i could’ve made you enjoy London. maybe because I hope you could’ve made me enjoy it too.
and we sit in hampstead heath and I listen to you gossiping about Burroughs and how fucking bored and angry we are of his big male ego and masc writing and woman hatred. maybe I’d like him more if I had met him and could’ve shouted at him like I do at all the basic white cis-gays at the glory or the rvt. maybe you could’ve made me enjoy him as a writer because, although you were terrible at compartmentalising, you were surprisingly good at filtering the little good things out of fucked up shit.

and we go to the mixed ponds and swim but then it’s disgusting so we never go back.
we start going to the men’s or to the women’s cause it’s nicer.
and people try to stop us but then i wear your breasts or you wear my cock and we morph bodies and they’re so confused looking at us and their mouths open and close like they are trying to say something but they just leave in gender non-conforming speechlessness.

and we laugh and jump in the water.

and we go out in New York City, you show me the places where you walk, and see art, go out. You show me your city, the city of the moments you weren’t in bed writing, another thing I couldn’t know unless through you. And I see you happy and full of energy and hopeful. I see the flat where you lived with Len and where you started seeing Dan and you look at me and you tell me I’m a thousand times a better fuck than any of them. I see your light and you recognise it in me.

Oh Eurydice, we dance. As soon as we get to the dance floor, our arms slide against each other’s bodies. We kiss and our tongues enter each other’s mouths. We remain this way for several minutes. Hot spasms are shooting up and down my spine. I’m scared because I feel so turned on. I move my face down and to the side so that my face sleeps in the hollow of your chest under your head and in from your armpit. Your muscled arms hold me tightly enough that I feel protected. We alternately kiss and dance with my head under your head. We, as far as we know, are the only people left in the bar. We keep on dancing.
“Let’s go” You tell me.
We walk by the high white pension wall. Across the street, the ocean. We sit down on the grass and begin to kiss.
“What do you want to do?” You ask.
“What do y’mean, ‘what do I want to do’?”
“What do you want to do?” You smile. I kiss you.
“Well, what do you want to do?” I bury my head to the side in your lap and giggle. “For God’s sake Kathy you know what . . .” I can’t finish my statement.
“I want you to be sure”
“Good god I am sure.” We kiss for a while.
“Look at that couple over there,” you say. “They’re really in love. They’re quarrelling. Oh brother. Once two people who are really in love start quarrelling, they can’t turn back. Their love’s starting to end.”
“That isn’t always true. I think for love to last you have to learn to survive the quarrels. I mean it’s possible to survive the quarrels, but you have to be real smart and know how to compromise. I don’t know. I’ve never had any love that lasted.”
“I know. Once two people start quarrelling, that’s it. There’s no way they can patch it up. Things just keep getting worse and worse.”

and maybe it’s problematic that i’m constantly in awe or hiding in the shadows or holding the hands of powerful and daring women. I don’t do it to surpass them and not to bring them down but just to be next to them somehow, just in order to feel safe and to feel valid.
and i guess if you were here today you would probably have a better word to describe your gender or you’d refuse as you kinda did to describe it at all.

and still you were such a woman.
and i owe it so much to women for showing me i don’t need to be a man.
i’m too good to be a man but not strong enough to consider myself a woman.
this is sort of kinda as much of a letter as i can write you but it will be on going.
we will always be on going.

I get up to the bathroom. You hear me piss.
“Come here.”
You walk into the bathroom and see me sitting in the toilet.
“Sit on me.”
You sit down slowly, your back facing me. My cock slides up your asshole. My hands grabbing your tits. You wonder if I’m still going to the bathroom.
“Shit and piss,” you think to yourself, “Fuck and suck what and not.”
Everything’s everything else. You’re crouching behind the window, watching the grey cat stalk someone you can’t see.
“Let’s go to bed,” I say. I take your hand and lead you to the bed. Lay you back down on the bed.
“This bed makes too much noise.”
“It’s just a lousy bed.”
“Let’s move it away from the wall.”
“Do I have to get up?”
“No.” You pull the bed away from the wall so the wood headboard doesn’t bang against the wall and lie down.
My head is in your cunt. I stick my tongue in your cunt and lick. Then I raise my head. My dark brown beard hairs are rubbing the lighter brown wet cunt hairs. My beard hairs are partly white from sucking you. You moan.
“Now do you like my beard?” I ask.
“I’ve always liked your beard.”
“But now you see why my beard’s so special.”
“Oh shit.” your heat’s rising. You’re about to come again. I don’t want you to come again from my tongue. I rise over you and stick my cock into your cunt. You don’t exactly know what’s happening. We fuck and then stop fuck and then stop fuck and then stop. We’re actually fucking slowly and in a steady rhythm. Your cunt is so sore that you come whenever my cock is inside you. Yet we’re fucking slowly enough that you’re not becoming hysterical. Fucking is not fucking and not fucking is fucking. No one can tell who’s coming and who’s not coming. No one knows and forgets anything.

We know and remember everyone.

it’s incredible how it feels to live alone and free with you. Not as a couple, but as a two.
i’ve always lived in dialogue with other people that exist inside myself. sometimes i gave them names. they were always memories – false or real – but what does that false means when they are so real in me?
i have deaths in my head that my body still mourns. i guess that’s how it feels to live under a constant state of violence. i make up deaths so that my crying is acceptable but actually we’re just all nonconsensually fucked.

i’m glad I can give you a name now. I’m glad you’re not an unnamed voice inside me anymore. i’m glad you existed in this reality, or in some reality.
i wish our realities could’ve crossed.
but thanks for existing – i’ll do your best to make me exist too.

We look at each other. Our lips meet. We stick our cock into our overfucked cunt. we come. We feel every inch of our cock spasm back and fourth as clearly as we see the white ceiling above us. Our orgasm makes us hot.
We stop fucking. Our cock is hard again. We wet our finger and stick it into our ass. Our finger moves around easily. We slosh some saliva on the asshole and ease our cock into our ass. We don’t feel any pain at all. We’re moving our cock back and forth rapidly. We’re coming like a maniac. All of our ass and intestine muscles are shaking.
“Oh oh oh,” we cry. We stop coming. We’re still shaking away. We feel a little pain. We both come again.

My Kathy Kat, Target, Erica Jong, Janey Smith, Rip-Off Red, Gold Lamé, Silver Lamé, Pussy, Karen Alexander, Black Tarantula, My Eurydice, Kathy fucking Acker…
i know there’s a place somewhere, anywhere, where we can co-exist
where we can be together where we can hang we can hug where we can fuck.
i promise you i’m gonna make of my life a journey to find it.

Love Love,
Andre x