Return to Lolita (idea)
There was a [veinal] thrill in the months between fourteen and [at seventeen|seventeen]. There had been hints at it earlier; at twelve, [nymphet|ten], perhaps even seven if my memory has not betrayed me. To revel in the sheer, innocent [lascivious]ness of being a [young girl] was to look in from outside. To eroticize the self as [male gaze|desirable object], porcelain doll, coveted [coltish|colt].
Driving me home from a group gathering at [Shari's]: a young liar with a ponytail played music to appeal to me, [woman-child], and agreed with me that age had nothing to do with [mental maturity]. Yes, especially for dating. Everyone else was dropped off, the [pedagogue]'s car lifting from its load of jealous children. Not jealous of me or of him, but with the [avarice] of youth in a small town. We wanted to [Move to Seattle]. We wanted to be artists, actors, designers. We needed these things, or the thoughts of them, to sustain the fevered pace of our waiting.
[He asked for my phone number]. I do not know now whether I gave it to him or not, but I received a phone call from him later, at home, when his [pheromone]s had ceased their threat or their intoxication (for it is a mixture of both with the [humbert|older men], always). I was frightened and pleased at once. This time I had teased too much, [beguiled] the wrong [mark]; someone who did not have the failsafes of societal conditioning. My [thirteen] was not a taboo. He received a phone call from one of my large male friends and never spoke to me again. I had won after all.
A year later, that [large male friend] seduced me with anger and devotion, still far older than I, [old enough to know better]. I knew better, but was not old enough to act on that knowledge. I was old enough to writhe under his long hands with their curiously wide [nailbed]s until all hours of the morning. Old enough to pleasure him, too, delighted with my [male orgasm|absolute power] over his body and the way my pulse raced so that I felt I would faint. My body did not know the correct sensations to feed my brain. I learned over the course of months what it was to know all those tremblings. Pain was filed under Pleasure; for years afterwards it was difficult to tell the difference in [bedroom|context]. My [mons veneris] was only dusted with hair, and that was soft as the first coat on a [foal].
While my denial and ignorance insulated me, I was happy. Not just content, but spilling over with a kind of [we're all mad here|mad glee]. Eventually I [the pill|protected] myself and he properly [deflower]ed me in a tiny [studio apartment] in [Bellingham, Washington|Bellingham]. There was an awkward shower after that, and pain. Pain for days afterwards, and for the rest of my time as [codependence|his girl]. It would fade and be renewed, retorn, sometimes bloody but always taken in stride until it all began to crumble at the end, as these things are [wont to do].
So I [anorexia|shed] that skin, and writhed into the lap of a [inevitability|poet]. That was a love forged in [The erotic nature of storms|thunder], and we should have known the signs. Older still than the last one, and armed with words he [vladimir nabokov|wielded] [jeannette winterson|like] [steven jesse bernstein|venom]. We tore at each other through three states; [washington|adoration], [louisiana|agony], and [oregon|indifference] kept me [wrapped|rapt] for three years.
I was his [Rosetta Stone]; he carved as many languages as he knew into my flesh. Only when he finally deposited me, [frigid] and bleeding, at the mercy of my own strength, I began to erode his [cuneiform]. It is still [legible], at my discretion.