a little pain never hurt anyone

I seem to have a pension for writing horrible, sex stories. This isn't all sex, really. I've been indulging in more personal narratives though, and it really seems as though kids can't be expressive without saying "dick" or "fucking" anymore, you know? Someone go invent a new genre of teen angst, please.

I don't expect you to like me. Hell, I don't even like me. Sometimes I'm not the strong person I need to be; other times I am the strong person I mustn't be. I can't handle it. Myself. And all the awful dirty things my mind wants me to think. You, I know this already, couldn't handle me + control me + pet me even if you tried. I am a scorned remainder of the minority, and I am always understood in all the wrong ways. No, you probably don't always get me, but no hard feelings, okay? No one can have me.

I can cradle my pain in the palm of my hand and nurse it off my veins. There are so many things my body aches for, can you blame me? I want. I want. I want.

I need to know some of the things you won't tell me.

Why do I still hate my body, I've tried everything, starving it. burning it. straining it. pleasing it. carving it. tasting it. using it. misusing it. I hated it for so long, so I looked for someone to care-take me; first was a boy. He made me promise to always belong to him => in exchange, he would scream love at me. Daily nights were spent with him on dirty sheets that stung my nostrils with traces of loneliness. Wet with our mutual sweat, they would wrap up against us and enclose us. Scattered used condoms would cling to my every move refusing to relinquish their host. Mostly, though, I would lie still and wait in eternal silence whilst every pore on my disintegrating body would leak in masked satisfaction. Love, love, do you love me too? I wouldn't have an answer for the hungry little boy on top of me. Screaming, he would become a man, and I his girl. Say it again. I can't hear you. Surrender needs only to occur once in battle, but in his war-zone bed, it became a constant/continual ritual.

Love hurt my body. The thrusting, the slamming of his softening parts against my self-consciously shaven body never felt loving. I gave him up, but this was long after the pain. Don't underestimate me: it's not the pain that hurts, it's the numbing hatred one develops from abuse. I mean, a little pain never hurt anyone.

Angry and spiteful, I found another sufferer to love: this time a woman. But she was wrong too; her intensity and her fire were scary to me. Unlike the boy, she was fully grown and knew things. She could touch me in ways the boy previous would have scorned + overlooked. She was bold and angry, angry for me; she and I hoped her rage could carry me along with her, but it couldn't. She took care of me, and in return I would need her; I ached without my sister-lover to take me over. I desired her empowering domination, if I had only known how to feel so strongly.

The passion + desire she offered at my feet were lost on the vast seas of white on my body and in my eyes. Then she brought me drugs, so I could see better, if feeling would never be mine. Now the vacant white was green + red + black + blue. She brought me these things so we could sit on the floor in our socks and naked bodies + explore the galaxy. She would laugh + laugh + tell me secrets to life no one should know; all this beautiful knowledge from speed and nicotine. I would play with her hair, which the acid allowed me to see in its true, celestial light. She was the ocean and the stars. All the bleach + pinks + greens from failed dyes would make up the layers to her sea. I could dive into her and explore there too. Her body was the universe, and each curve and cut was a mountain or a shooting star or traces of a dying star. Her cum created planets and life. She was the answer to everything. She was my meaning of life. Then she died. The colors whirred around her one day, and she was lost in them, she disappeared into the promised land with all those horrible singers she loved so much. Janis would be there, + Jimi.

sooo totally not done. maybe i'll finish; either that or simply delete. as usual, this one sucks.

Do-Me of the Day (****?!)

what would you kids prefer hearing about:

~write: -introduction to book
-art vs. porn essay
-pornography under attack: the christian right vs. the feminists

or more 'personal narratives'? I'm up for anything, I haven't made any essay-progress in a few days and that makes me sick.

This is a list of essays i've written/plan on getting into soon. If you want clarification for anything, yell at me. This is how I write shit out, it doesn't necessarily make sense all the time:
Intro to my feminism
The Girl Suicides -> suicidegirls
flirting could be hurting (7th grade sex harrassment talk... why were we laughing?)
My Body -> feminist views on image
With Men Like You, Of Course I'm a Lesbian -> why bi? sex. exp. through sex... feminist is a sexual orientation now?
And The Men Went Wild <- guys gone wild vs. girls gone wild
Grrrlfuckinpower vs. Girl, um, powah -> spice girls
sex ed in school
Boy, Am I the Poster Girl<- xtina aguilara + the trend
'porn up, rape down' article
anti-porn: morals vs. feminists
The Last Dish I Washed Had Your Blood on It -> rad. fem. response to the happy housewife
Put Me Down, Punk -> chivalry
A Little Pain Never Hurt Anyone

I'd really like to get an essay done over the next two days. Tonight I'm working on a sequin-tulle skirt monster, so that should be the only thing I stop for.

p.s. I mentioned writing more on personal shit. This is the likes of what I'm talking about:

Undone
"Between alcoholic childhood mishaps and the circles under my eyes tonight lies a whole story. Between his legs is such an old story. Seeing as how the nearest pay phone is too distant for comfort, I nestle back into black, soft abyss.

You cannot tell me he isn't a beautiful creature. The way his eyes can dart and his lips can curl would make any narcotic skittish. He holds himself with some unforeseen grace and strength; but after knowing him as long as I have, I can tell you he possesses neither. He's as ugly as sin, the absolutely Venus of men. He wants to hold your hands and break each finger one by one, checking lists off in his mind as he watches your face for any sign of life. All he knows is life; he's been destroying his and everyone else's since mine began.

If I believed the red flags waving after our first date, I wouldn't be puking on his tacky 70s style carpet. Staring blindly at his tacky 70s style walls. Or his tacky 70s style cock. God, he's so punk though.

It's so cool the way he wants nothing to do with me.

I can't resist his resistance at liking me. He did me last night after slipping me all those jagged-rough drinks, why won't he hurt me again now? What about the embarrassing bleeding giveaway coming from between my legs makes him blush? I told him I was a virgin, right? Maybe I didn't... But he didn't tell me how he's been drugging me all along, either.

I haven't been sober since he let me into his tight bondage pants.

Right now, I know he isn't even looking at me. I might not be as pretty as he lied to me on a pillow just a few hours ago, but what's so bad about my blood and vomit? He's a filthy rat anyway, why hold back? Come here and come again."

Obviously unfinished. Please, btw, don't start writing hate-mail to anybody yet. The giveaway is that the antagonist is the chick's dad. Don't write to my dad now, please, because this isn't about him per se. The visual-characterists of the "dad" is someone I know from an old school of mine, and I won't get further than that. The relationship itself it based on one I had with a kid my own age (no incest, i promise), but because it's my short story, I can do whatever i want with it. I feel it probably fits the story better the way I've been writing it; and no, this is in no way a subconscious Iwantmydaddy kinda thing. Don't even suggest that, thats completely sick.


Once again, I'd really love feedback. Anything would count =)

© 2007 Lucia Doyle

Joey Ramone Turned Me Lesbian

This is a personal narrative based loosely on actual events... I'm probably not going to get into details about. Almost everyone from my life was crammed in here; so if you want to know who this chick is, back off. You don't know her, and everyone I ever knew was somehow a part of this

"She looks very much like someone who could kick yer ass. What's more, she looks like someone who should kick yer ass. And you'd better like it.

I secretly harvest a hope she'll charge + put my bf of the moment into a headlock, then force him to relinquish me. She could take me home and we'd jump on her bed to Tracy + the Plastics all night long. That would make a better story than, say, 'We met through a mutual friend of a friend.' She could hold my hand just a little too tight while I tell everyone about how, 'and then she threatened to snap his neck if we didn't date.'

She'd be really shy about all the right things, like her childhood hell and where those other four piercings are located on her beautiful body. And honestly, I could always wonder to myself whether or not she was lying about everything. Maybe she wasn't even 19, like she would have told me. Her name could've been Karen, or Sunflower, and I wouldn't ever know the difference.

She'd be my sister, my secret idol, my best + only friend. But I'd never tell her all this; we would only let the secret out when she'd hold my warm body wrapped up against hers. Or when we walk back to the train station after getting kicked out of the show for hurting too many boys in the pit. Or when my lips nervously navigated their way around her pierced mouth. Or when she'd explore me with an inexplicable vigor. I'd always wonder what her real intentions are. She'd be too sexy, fast, or dangerous for me. I would know all this. But who cared.

My family could meet her. Of course they wouldn't get along; they'd mistrust her for the blue hair and hand holding. She'd mistrust them for the cuts on my legs and the nic fits I'd get late at night. She'd mean well, obviously. Anything that happened to me would happen to her, but worse; she'd blame herself for all the wrongs everyone but she had done unto me. When she would finally turn around and take her turn at hurting me, she'd be long gone + would never know it.

Sleater-Kinney would play while we made love. Bikini Kill would play while we drove aimlessly looking for some fun on a slow autumn night. We'd fight over Beth Ditto.

No one would like us, but we'd crash their parties even if they did. I would only find out about those angry looks later. All the boys + girls had had their hearts smashed into the ground by her Doc Martins in the years previous.

When finally we did meet our untimely end, it would be okay, but it would devastate me. No more cocaine and bad acid trips. No more headaches + afternoon hangovers in unknown bathrooms. My hair would have recovered from her haircuts + I would've given up cutting and Cloves for camomile + a nice boy from Lit class.

She would be gone just like that.

She would have showed up out of nowhere, and left me with an old amp of hers and a vibrator. Hell, it would've been worth it though.

Because honestly, one more sentence about Joey Ramone will push me over the edge. "

© 2007 Lucia Doyle