The Locus of Chaos

Vomiting and oral sex are the most immersive forms of meditation in the digital age. One might argue (incorrectly, in my opinion) that a variety of sex acts – particularly procreation – is the ultimate meditation. It certainly can be, in the best context. Nearly everyone has the propensity for reaching the most intense, blissfully altered state of consciousness through penetrative sex. However, the most careless among us will insist on checking their phones and scrolling mid-act! In the same way one would scroll on the toilet, in line at the store, during a meal, at the bar, etc. The most sacred form of intimacy is perpetually being threatened by the baleful intrigue of our digital devices in increasingly perverse ways. That’s no secret. Granted, the mid-sex scroll example may seem egregious, but it happens more than one might realize… at least, that’s what I’ve heard anecdotally and online. It’s not that hard to believe, really. Beyond that, many (most?) of us are still preoccupied wi...

Meghan and I met at a menial service job after I had just turned 21. I can’t remember the exact moment I saw her for the first time, or even what our first exchange was like. I do remember thinking that she seemed nice enough — quiet, dutiful, polite, but mostly unremarkable. I remember pitying her for having very deep, pitted acne scars all over her face. They looked even worse in specific lighting and when her face got red. Perhaps it was due to rosacea, or maybe skin sensitivity from all of the peels that she and her fellow esthetics students were using on each other in beauty school. We struck up several friendly, predictable conversations together during our shared shifts. I was eager to connect with everyone and anyone at the time, as I had just emerged from a particularly dark, isolated period of my life. I got the sense fairly quickly after speaking with Meghan more than once that she felt just as lonely as I was, perhaps even more so. She harboured a strangeness that I had yet...

There’s this one prominent vein that bulges along the side of his pulsating cock that I love to run my tongue along. His cock, so hardened yet so vulnerable and fragile; it’s the vulnerability contrasted with the solidity that makes me beside myself! That’s the beauty of the penis, the beauty of manhood. Bundles of nerves instantly bristle just recalling the feeling, texture, and image of it raising up, growing larger in my mouth. My chest surges with excitement, and any awareness of my surroundings and sense of self is lost in undulations of pleasure. I place one hand between my thighs, one finger making circles around the already slippery opening which aches so fiercely, aching to swallow him whole. I start rubbing more vigorously, circling my hips wider, gently tightening my other hand on the shaft and jerking it faster. I feel the warm tip hitting the roof of my mouth, so I exhale slowly and push it further. I feel the warm tip hitting the back of my throat, hitting a point of resi...

For as long as I can remember, I have always adored and gravitated towards women. In true Freudian fashion, my earliest memories involve women’s breasts and the soft curvature of their hips and ass. Standing just below most adults’ waistlines — likely at around age four — I observed the way women’s hips swayed as they walked and how perfectly or imperfectly their fat was distributed in the usual places. I watched curiously, forming judgments, adding data to my little inner dialogue. A year later, I announced with conviction to my parents that I would “only marry a girl” when I grew up. The feelings of romance and desire for the opposite sex was naturally foreign to me at that time, and the possibility that I would ever choose to pair up with a male seemed ludicrous to me. Why would I? Boys in my kindergarten class were far meaner, louder, and more annoying than most of the girls; they made fun of me when I did cartwheels that revealed my brightly-colored underwear, or pointed when I h...

       A dear friend of mine who irrevocably changed the trajectory of my life died tragically nearly three months ago, and I’ve been privately spiraling ever since. He was — on an individual level — more valuable and brilliant than 99.99% of humanity to be completely honest, and I should probably be shy about saying that, but it’s just the truth. He was one of the only men I’ve ever truly loved and will ever love again. His life was so strange, so horrifying, yet speckled with many moments of beauty and clarity that cannot be overshadowed, despite the immensity of his illness. I’m now notably more disgusted by the world and humanity than I was before, but he fought so hard to be here, to be in the world, so I feel uniquely responsible to embrace my place in it regardless.       They couldn’t contend with your brutal reality when you were here, but one day soon they will have the research and language and mass social awareness to do so effectively...

You awaken to the sounds of a gentle stream and chirping birds. You lie on a soft bed of dew-speckled moss. Warm, dappled sunlight shines between the palms above. The air is filled with citrus and petrichor.  From time to time, angelic apparitions pass by, stopping to gently offer a warm welcome and a kiss.  And for the first time in far too long, you are completely, wholly at ease. All is well.  For W.S. I love you forever, Eva

          No, my body does not “keep score”. My body does not “keep” anything other than the necessary parts and processes with which it needs to function and thrive. When my body is hurt, it will either heal or die, but I will take care of it regardless. My body is God’s plaything. My body is the harbinger of the creative spirit and Life itself. My body is not a scorekeeper; it is a portal.

It got me young. I was fine before. I was slightly anxious at times, but otherwise fine. I was cherubic and especially vulnerable when it happened, making the assault feel particularly cruel and calculated. I can picture it in my mind’s eye like a lucid dream. The scene remains more pristine in the palace of my past than it actually was in real time. It snuck up on me that one sunny afternoon on the small grassy hill. The lengths and ends of my hair lifted gently off my neck as warm winds swept past. The other children chattered around me, clapping their hands in unison as tree branches shook above us, clapping too. Birds chirped. The grass cradled us gently. I was smiling, looking up at the summer sun that winked at me playfully through the branches. At the time, I believed Mother Nature herself smiled sweetly upon us — her little creatures. In hindsight, I realize she was grimacing. They couldn’t have seen it coming, nor could I.  How could I?  There was no way I could’ve id...

          Treading lightly into the new year; not timidly, but with intentionality in each and every step -  hyper-aware of the frigid winter wind that whips my hair across my cheeks and into my field of vision. I am attentive to the high-pitched whistle of her voice and the bitter intensity of her kiss. She is just as intense as I am.      I am attentive to the cadence of his voice and the softness of his kiss. I am overjoyed when his eyes smile into mine and how they wander across and down my frame. I am endlessly inspired when he talks frantically about the history of music and menswear and Thomas Ligotti and the ancient mystery cults of antiquity. I am proud of the way he grabs me and digs his fingertips into my skin and the marks that they leave. I am comforted by the fact that nothing is ever left unsaid between us, even if we don’t explicitly say it.

My version <3 As follows: INS: Gratitude. Self agency. Daily walks. Consuming some form of animal-based protein daily (non-negotiable). Raw organ meat. Perfecting the art of the blowjob (always in). Daily stretching (hips and legs especially). Reading fiction. Reaching out to the people you’ve been avoiding for no reason other than your own mental abstractions about not being good enough and strong feelings of shame. You know which people. You care about them deeply, and they deserve to hear from you. Reaching out to your relatives on a regular basis, especially your grandparents. Honesty. Even when it’s painfully awkward  and hurtful to acknowledge out loud. Saying no/revoking consent/being rude when necessary. Probiotics. Lending Grace to others, and perhaps more importantly, yourself. OUTS Frequent complaining. Purchasing excessive supplements and skincare products (which typically do more harm than good anyway). Learned helplessness. Abilify. Shame-spirals. Plant-based diets...

   After a while, I grow easily restless. It is as though my mind is a wild horse forced to run around a small, circular pen in perpetuity. Only he can rein me in. Only he can corral my frantic desires.  My sexuality is insatiable, but mostly in an abstract sense. It is less like a pressure valve that needs release, and more like an amorphous, gaseous haze that emits a putrid stench; crackling and sparkling dangerously. My fantasies become inverted. At Church a few Sundays ago, I became fixated on the image of Christ on the cross. His bloodied, open wounds and pointy ribs began to make me restless. I was squirming back and forth, readjusting my seat. I tried to consciously redirect my attention to my breath in an effort to ease the tension that was starting to build inside of me.  I began to wonder what Jesus of Nazareth might have smelled and tasted like. What his calloused hands would have felt like around my waist, tracing my skin. His breath on my neck. The rank,...

Pull me closer Kiss me harder I’m shaking, but not from fear Can’t you see how desperate I’m getting? Using your hands, and I’m already begging   You are my first  And I’m dying of thirst I’ve always longed to be consumed I’ve always longed to be destroyed and made anew Flesh on flesh, tears streaming Throbbing pulse, I’m screaming I want to be torn to shreds And leave your sheets a bloodied mess Rank and rancid Lush and lurid Soaking wet, but I’ve burst into flames Red moon night, full moonlight No lukewarm love tonight  Red moon night, full moonlight No mediocre love tonight Pull me closer Kiss my softer A salted, earthen taste I’m faint from this torrid mess we’ve made Thank you for opening my floodgates

     In my experience, forgiveness is something akin to a revelation. Forgiveness is bestowed upon me and expanded within me. It is through the grace of God that I am able to forgive, as I find myself unable to evoke the same response within me of my own accord.       When I have been wronged, the feelings of acrid resentment and the hot sting of shame, a hardening in my throat, and a strong undercurrent of fear begin to fester within me. My archaic lizard brain goes into overdrive, flooding my veins with adrenaline and cortisol. Then I feel the nauseating waves of shame; how could I have been so stupid? Why did I allow this to happen? How quickly this fear and shame mutates into rage.      There have been many nights where I’ve wanted to kill you. I want to believe that I would be capable of doing it myself. I want your rotting teeth ripped out one by one. I want your genitals shoved into a meat grinder. I want your fat white thighs sl...

I understand that positivity is not necessarily “high vibration” in and of itself, especially if it is feigned or false - TRUTH is always of the highest cosmic order. Not cynicism, solipsism, navel-gazing, and “negativity” for its own sake, but plain, unfettered honesty. When we reveal ourselves in ways that truly matter and bear witness when others do the same, then our image and likeness of God becomes even clearer, more defined. Those who speak and live truthfully are the most remarkably radiant.  

Lord I am grateful but understand that I often find myself wondering whether I was ever really meant to be Eva as I exist today right now but instead inchoate primordial Eva living in the lush density of an island jungle with my lover having frequent sex and swimming and dancing and eating fruits and organ meats all day long! They say Heaven is a mindset and how you conceptualize it and if that’s true than please Lord when this soul exits this body and says goodbye to this strange dreamlike haze that is life on earth I humbly ask you to return me back to where I belong… deep in the etheric tropical jungle!  

I’m slowly rotating my hips and staring at him. It’s him and only him, always has been. Even before we met. I’m on fire; if you were to touch me right now, you would get burned. My desire is violent. My breasts are full and throbbing, I’m shaking and sweating. Creating friction is quick and easy, but not nearly as satisfying as when he’s inside of me. I never truly came so much, so hard, so quickly before that fated day. I bit his neck. I needed his blood in my mouth. Nobody has ever wanted that man more than me, his children more than me. I worship his cock because it saved me; I’m neurotic without it. I begged him to finish inside while I writhed around on top of him, possessed by Eros. Please god, please cum in me.  Sex without love is not sex, it’s meaningless masturbation; my infinite, undying love for him is the only reason I am able to have sex in the first place. Sex is just as innocent and romantic as it is fiery and passionate. Sex brings me to tears. It’s the reason I wa...

“Almost every woman I have ever met has a secret belief that she is just on the edge of madness . . . that she must be on guard constantly against ‘losing control’ — of her temper, of her appetite, of her sexuality, of her feelings, of her ambition, of her secret fantasies, of her mind”.     - Elana Dykewomon. I am almost certain that I’d be capable of torture or murder. That’s always been a given for me, never a mystery. What disturbs me, however, is how much glee arises when I allow myself to fantasize about it… that I would, in fact, enjoy violently murdering and torturing certain people. Not in a psychosexual way, per se, but purely from a place of fear, envy, and revenge. Revenge most of all. I can’t go in depth about my murderous fantasies; I don’t want to shock and offend too much, nor excite myself in a way that genuinely frightens me. To say nothing of morality, it makes perfect sense for us to kill each other; we’re animals after all. I don’t seek to self-correct my ...

I am both his lover and his devotee. Once during prayer, I freudian slipped and said his name when I was addressing God. Through his love, my spirit expands and my doubts eroded. To him, I am eternally devoted.

My pussy is both a portal to Heaven and a daemonic, carnivorous lotus. I constrict and devour his cock with it. I take great care of it, treat it with necessary reverence. Boric acid and probiotics in between menstruation. Cranberry and pineapple juice. Fingers along the inside while I pray, rubbing gently and then furiously until I release. A few nights ago, I felt the presence of an angel during this nightly meditation and I cried. 

Months later and I’m still burning from the UTI you gave me with your dirty mouth and those dirty teeth you useless ugly fuck. The truth is I’m not even that mad at you, more than anything I’m mad at myself for allowing it all to happen. Why did I let it happen? I hated myself and I still do. I betrayed myself and I still do. I was sitting there pretending to like it, fake moaning while your greying facial hair scratched my labia and you gnawed at my clit. Heather said you smell like rotting flesh and she was right, you do. I thought the same thing when you got close to me, forced your lips on me. Because you are rotting flesh. Rotten, putrid flesh. Rotten with a lecherous desire for younger women with their guard down. Rotten with romantic rejection. Rotten with bad intentions. Karma doesn’t treat men like you very well. But here I am months later, crying rocking back and forth lost in this bad memory, typing this out. When I see you, I’m embittered and afraid. When I see you, I’m the...