I wish I knew something about the origins of this drawing. The minimal line work is suggests far more detail than is actually present—a style reminiscent of Japanese manga; the rough sketch look harkening back to Schiele.

What attracts me even more is the way the scale suggest a Lolita-esque subtext.

Now—full disclosure—I am not into the whole Lolita thing. I’ve tried to read the book on several occasions and I just cannot summon a single shred of empathy for Humbert or Dolores. (Perhaps that is in fact the point.)

There is a part of me that gets the whole Lolita thing. Although it has less to do with what the idea started as and more of what it has become; namely, despite the polar differences in their intentions, a strong overlap exists between those who are attracted to pubescence (i.e. hebephiles) and those who are attracted to female bodied androgyny.

While a good many things distinguish these two types of individuals what warrants my inclusion in the latter category is primarily my deeply held conviction that explicit individual consent forms the fundamental basis for all relationships. That and the fact I am enormously preoccupied with female bodied-ness in general and female bodied androgyny in particular.

I began to regularly masturbate around the time I was eight. I had no idea what I was doing but rubbing against a pillow made me feel warm and fuzzy inside.

At the time, my home life was a mire of abuse and neglect and these pillow sessions became one of the ways I tried to fill the hole where parental and community nurturing should have been.

The worse things got the more time I would spend chasing that warm and fuzzy feeling.

I guess I realized what I was doing was called masturbating when I was eleven or so. It wasn’t until I was fourteen that it established any sort of relationship to anything more than pure sensory stimulation.

All my female friends had male friends. Boys weren’t interested in me and I wasn’t especially interested in them. But at the same time, I felt weird. I saw the ways boys looked at the girls. And I knew that it was how I looked at them too. The difference was my relationship with them was fundamentally different. My female friends shared with me things they never would staring boys. It was a privilege that I was determined not to abuse. And I refused to indulge in any sort of masturbatory fantasy involving my friends out of respect for their privacy.

When I masturbated, I closed my eyes but never imagined what it would be like to share my body with another and have them share their body with me in return; instead, I focused on generalized aspects of female bodied-ness: breasts (always flat/smallish, the exponential D’s of porn stars cup sizes have always grossed me out), clitoris’, labia and vaginas. Yet, it wasn’t the visualizations themselves that edged me closer and closer to orgasm, it was about trying to see the thing so clearly in my mind that I could feel for the briefest moment something inside myself projected outwards as if it were real. The closer I managed to come, the more exquisite my climax.

I have no idea when I first became aware of cunnilingus as a thing—perhaps in my late teens. By that point, I knew way more about the variations and varieties of sexual congress than anyone in an Xtian school should have.

I became fixated on the idea of going down on a girl. Looking back I find this strange given that even the thought of tasting my own secretions—let alone anyone else’s—was enough to induce retching. (Oh, let me number as the stars the multifarious joys and wonder of sexually repressive indoctrination.)

The first female bodied individual I went down on was my best friend some years later.

We had been messing around for about a week and I remember standing behind her in the living room of her apartment my left arm around her, up her shirt cradling her right breast in my left hand; my index finger stroking her nipple. She turned back toward me so our passion could communicate itself without words via lips, tongues and teeth.

My right arm stretched down her bare stomach, pulling holding her against my body; my wrist disappears behind the waist of her mauve panties, fingers curving clutching as my slickened fingers shuttled side-to-side over her clitoris. Her lips shook and her head fell away from my mouth making the angle to awkward for me to follow. I kissed her chin and then her throat.

Her breathless voice came in short, sharp gasps: tell me what you want.

Can I go down on you?

She pulled away from me, letting my hands slide off of her and turned away to modestly step out of the black cotton watching as I tasted the wetness coating my fingers. It reminded me of raspberry vinegrette.

With her left hand covering her sex, she lay down on the rug and spread her legs. I knelt and crawled towards her on hands and knees.

As I approached, her hand lifted then fell away to mirror the other already at her side.

A single pea sized droplet of moisture was suspended in her fiery fur. I felt a profound reverence. Not the quiet reverence of a church but the rushing clarity that comes in the crushing noise of a furious storm.

I settled from my hands and knees to my belly.

Her fingers ran through my hair and I could feel her heat on my face.

Wetness drawn by gravity traced a line along the inner edge of her right labia minora. I thought: do what you would want her to do to you, closed my eyes and followed the line all the way up as if it were melting ice cream in a cone.

Shivers shook her thighs as the flat of my tongue crested her clitoral hood. I retraced the same path down again, flicking my tongue tip once right and once left as I descended. I sucked up the drop I had first seen on the way up again.

And then I stopped thinking about what I was doing and just acted. I listened to her the pitch of her moans, the pace of her breath, the tightness of the fingers she knotted into my hair.

Of course, as her panting became more rapid and she began to move her hips in time with lips and tongue, the doorbell rang. (When I tell you that I have the worst luck ever, you won’t believe me but I shit you not after we dressed and opened the door it was, and I shit you not: Jehovah’s Witnesses.)

I am still not enamored with my own taste. Although I will admit when I am feeling alone—which is more often than not lately, I will lick my fingers after pleasuring myself.

It’s weird but it never tastes like anything.

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