Tickle Theory Skepticism (ROUND 6)
scent of the day: Nose Rest Day
*Let’s workshop this poem about how the high-pressure physical response to violation can eclipse vanilla intimacy in such hurts-so-good fashion that it multiplies the trauma into something unnameable.
*Changes to every stanza!
Tickle Theory Skepticism
Her unwanted arousal soon jackknifed into wanted enough for her commands (“Get it! Get that shit! Get that fuckin shit!”) to seep out through the panties he drove down her throat (crotch first: blown-out, glairy), past the arch—what would have been, even with the retching, a mercy. For this let her be loud—in it—yet not quotable. It freed her from that spiritual war of muzzling her feedlot carnality into mumbles while still—the runoff all guttural groan, gagged gibberish inadmissible in the court of fetal-ball showers—garbling her stenography, catalytic, from any clarity beyond the neck-bulging gravel of petechial wrath, snarling orchestration hindsight would readily neuter into “No! No!” even with all the incriminating marks against her champing flesh:
like how, hilt-greed gone hypercerebral, the cervical origin of “Balls to the wall” struck her for the first time; or like how the law “Hips don’t lie” would read the squelching testimony of her gyrating gallop; or like how the bludgeon she swung at his ugly head, sockets popping in her clawing for the nightstand, happened to be the Hitachi Magic they took armistice turns, tender transfers, holding against her slop. But no, he stole back even this dangled grace: psychic deniability— yet not by pulling the panties out. Ass-fouled fingers lodged them deeper still, choking the say-anything-to-live loophole, and—eye to eye—he cut straight to decrypting that soul-tribe communiqué frothing—like her—beneath the torn dress of all that blubbering:
“Mmm. Look at it. Knew you was a mahfuckin nasty pig! Huh? Huh?” To see herself shift like this—right to bald grind work—after strokes too few—too flaccid—for the alibi of orgasm, shift so far from the first pardon-window (as if this mom of two—jam-jamming the slick button like a morphine pump until the wand, bogged down in that mess of lips, cycled—were less a spectator, screaming to hearten the homestretch, than the head coach, screaming from the very first bungled drill)—how could that not square her trauma into bucking self-revulsion (“Mmmffh! Nnnff!”) unnameable even had there been no struggle to get in the mood, let alone juice out round upon round of ceiling-fan PSI, no matter how much pill-hardened cock-ringed overtime her own husband put into it?
