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May 8, 2006
Naked bodies and the place where hunger dwells
I just took a shower. I used the hair conditioner
you leave on for three minutes, and the soap that smells like
fire. When I got out, I put lotion on my body. I usually skip
that step, but this time I rubbed it into my arm and noticed
the black hairs that usually disturb me. I stroked hard, beneath
the little hairs and deep into my skin. Slick and smooth, I felt
the muscles under my hand. And then I said, "Hello, arm." Not
like a nerdy affirmation, but forcefully, the way I do to overrule
shyness. "Hello, Arm." Like an honest politician with a voter. "Hello,
Arm, meet Alex." I didn't plan it, but in the shower I really
dug my body.
My hands were soapy slick, and I ran them over
my breasts. Part of me feels dirty for saying that, but Marty
would chastise me for making a big deal about breasts. He hates
those ads for Girls Who've Gone Wild at the Seashore.
I weighed my breasts in my hands, and remembered
when they stood away from my body like hills in the midst of
plain, but now I can feel their definite weight, and I like it.
My hands felt full, and soapy and good. I ran them over my belly,
and noticed the roundness and fullness below my breasts. Pink
skin in hot water. I hesitated to let my attention go lower and
thought about how our culture doesn't like the bottom halves
of bodies. The scary parts, the dark parts, the sweet, rolling,
real parts. The place where hunger dwells. I live in my skin
and my belly, in the round and holy parts. In the holy parts.
A friend of Maurie's had just started dating
a man when he squeezed a round part of her body, as if to warn
her that she might be a little too round. She turned to him and
said, "I love my body. If you can't love it as much as I do,
then we have nothing more to talk about." Phew. I don't know
her, but I love her for putting her body and her self before
someone else.
I need to make love to a woman. I need to be
mothered. It's a natural need, and logical, since I never got
enough when I was a kid. It's okay. I'm probably not gay, but
I still need to make love to a woman. It's okay. It's okay. It
seems like I've always wanted to make love to a woman. It's okay.
My grandmother's lap was the only real love I knew as a child.
Who couldn't love a baby? But I was thinking in the shower that
I could have had it a lot worse when I was growing up. I was
never told I was stupid. I was never beaten. I was only punished
when I'd actually done something wrong. Their issues were just
with my body, and I heard a lot of anger, but I was never told
I was bad until I got angry and rebellious in high school.
I want to dissociate now. My body feels good.
I'm wearing my favorite silky pajamas and I'm in my favorite
place. It IS my favorite place, come to think of it. The air
is cool on my skin, and the glass of water beside me is floating
with slices of lemon.
I was only rejected as a child for my body.
I was neglected and my body was reviled, and I'm not sure who
did more reviling - me, or everyone else. When I took my shower,
I realized writing about my past is cleaning out my head. Unburdening
it of so much weight.
I remembered my old house as much nicer than
it is now. Now it's the crappiest house on the block. It's weird
the way the house was unchanged, untouched and unprovided.
Jesus Christ, I just realized something. We
had a little shed in the backyard, and I liked climbing onto
its roof, sitting on the hot shingles and feeling a measure of
control. But when I remember it now, I'm seeing the scene from
a distance. I'm looking at myself on the roof, as if from a distance.
Not from my vantage point on the roof.
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