- OK so let me thoroughly describe what it’s like to make love to someone whom one detests. They come over and while they’re in transit and you know they’re coming you tell yourself over and over again ‘I will not fuck them, I will not fuck them’. Then she shows up all full of nonchalance like she doesn’t want to fuck but bringing you food, a whole dish, and green, green pot. She gets you stoned, your friend smells the future and leaves, a thing you didn’t want, you are now alone with her. The conversation is distracted, boring, and useless as she waits for you to touch her in that invitational way. The tones of her voices grate on your nerves until screaming on the inside, anything to shut her up, you grab her almost forcefully she complies with eagerness you pull her to the floor and it begins. At first the hormones rush through your body and the excitement of sex helps you forget. You feel the soft lips, the smooth, peach fuzzed stomach, the beauty of a woman’s young nubile body eagerly wanting your touch and caress. You justify it by her desire. And the erection pushes more truly than a compass into that soft enveloping direction. You stall to enjoy the parts you really want, the warm mammalian mother intimacy, pushing out of your mind the character which you hate trapped inside of the fine body which you fondle. The illusion falters for a moment, so you kiss harder, quicker and quickly put your mouth to breast to stop your moans of agony, and drag her to the bed, for foreplay can no longer keep the bile down. You push your conscience to the lowest point of sexual lust, for anything above that contains misgivings and doubt, and guilt. And yet the soft lips, and the wet spots which your fingers and mouth find out, and pleasantly peck at, for joy of their existence in separation from the rest of their body. And then it really begins, and it is short, and quick, sensually satisfying, and you barely remember it thirty seconds afterward. Yet she pulls on, wants more, you kiss and distract, try and think of something to talk about, nothing comes to mind, your penis shrivels at her beckoning touch, for more, more touching and caresses that you cannot give her. Your disgust flows in as the dam of sexual lust breaks down and those soft, soft lips that you can feel are even in their softness grating sandpaper scratching out screams of guilt and sickening bile and they want more and you don’t even know why. You don’t know how she can look at you, and not see you. How can she not see you. How have you blinded her, seduced her with blindness, the blindness she craves along with your cock. You get up, and thoughtfully grab a towel and wipe the cum off her ass, leave the room, where she begins to feel hurt with the realization that she was not fucked, but stabbed, and you light a cigarette and distract yourself from her until she leaves, angry. But you know she’ll be back. For whatever reason, with gifts, and a warm hand.
And so let there be housewife. And so let there be the eyes of man to judge her by. We will strip her naked and defenseless of all desire sexual. Where there is no desire, there is no complaint. She will be strong in her passivity. She will be brave in her docility. She will be god in her oppression. Her true soul will be revealed through make up. She will be naked and pure through her tight, uncomfortable dress. She will be creative in her quietude to the demands of her liege. Make your liege a birthday cake. Make your liege a pot roast. Make your liege slippers from the soft holy down of your pubic mound. Push out of your belly like a virgin an heir for your liege. Do not feel faint and daunted woman weak, for help is here in the sacred broadcast doctrine of commercial. In this sacred deliverance you will find instruction on how to prepare the seven sacraments of devotion to your liege. The sacrament of dinner. The sacrament of meals. The sacrament of shopping. The sacrament of babies. The sacrament of the shutting the fuck up when told to. The sacrament of lipstick. The sacrament of emotional vulnerability. The sacrament sex, to be given at demand. The sacrament of no complaint. The sacrament of the diet. The sacrament of uncomfortable shoes. The sacrament of ironing, of laundry, and dusting. The gospel of daytime television and the twelve ghosts of the sopa-opera, the parable of the perfect hair, and the soft childlike moans you must make when you please your master. Herein lies your identity, housewife, the taker of Adam’s rib, the eater and sharer of the apple, the only escape from a life of whoredom and sodomy, herein it lies, in the beautiful, angelic, voice of our creator. Television, and the women’s magazine.
What we really need are those silky smooth hourglass hips, the paraphernalia of aprons and infants. Stretch marks from the constant haircuts high heeled permanent press ironing board blues. I love you daddy, I love you daddy, say that a couple of times and your tears give me an erection. We’ve come a long way for that size nine baby special K, and if you place a matching patterned, possibly crocheted pillow casing on the floral print ceiling of your mouth maybe America will shine bright and true again. Your children and your husband are your life and find freedom in the sensuous drama of Kit and Catherine as they peel the clitorises from the grease pan with shiny perfumed cosmopolitan kitchen mitts, lunch pack away your dreams of an identity beyond the oriental manufactured doormat given to you by your husband on your four-hundredth wedding anniversary. Junior needs hemming, but maybe your nails will be polished enough to avoid your own reflection, just this once, you need that vase, and you don’t need to eat for those eighty extra calories from that oatmeal cleanser did you just fine and your corset is pregnant. And Dr. Mary is right about not complaining and you are beautiful because you know your place. How your rosy red lips are like obedience. How your sweet melodic voice never questions. I can only protect you, the world wants your delicacy, and I love your casserole, baby, honey pie, sweetums, baby, bake me a cake and I’ll get you a color TV, and a new duster, and a fur coat, and a Hoover vacuum, and a diamond, and I will bury your sweet delicate corpse in the bowels of JC Penny’s lingerie department.
How much like your kitchen you are, my sweet. How much like a child. How so your dress is so like your living room, your soul is folded laundry. How much your breasts are like the camel’s humps holding your energy and devotion. How much like your small feet you are. How much your sex is like thanksgiving dinner. How much you are like the fluorescent laundry room light. How pale and virgin-esque are your dish pan hands, how strong and independent you are in not succumbing to the temptation of the devil’s incubus career.
Put yourself in the picture. Put your perfume in your mouth. Put your mouth. You’ll love the warm shades and the comfy shapes of fall’s newest sweaters. The fashionable farmer’s daughter, the rooster crows when Mary rises in her black evening gown, two hundred twelve dollars. Happiness in hard nails. How to lose to a man in tennis. How to lose to a man in bed. Her tasty secret? Clean, refresh and even remove unsavory odors from her dry clean clothing by using Dryel at home. Now Mary can squeeze more free time thanks to her new chains. Now thanks to the television Mary can forget the bothersome trouble of the filling of her life. No more waiting for Joseph to bring home the bacon, when with our new waist weight losing sparkled glitter, the modern women can make bacon from her own celluloid fattened thighs. Cheaper snacks and better sex for your man. Now Mary can squeeze more time to wear and shop for her favorite attire. Keeping your dress size close to her heart. My panties, myself, the secret of younger looking skin in a non-irritating formula. Similar hues and fabrics echoed throughout your home express your personality while soothing your soul. Realize the power and purity and profit of sexual favors. Everyday easy macaroni dinners. Sunday taste, Tuesday effort. Cunt. Hydrate and reduce at the first sign of wrinkles. Hydrate and reduce the world to pillows.
And if you do succumb. If you do not fold to your identity from underneath of the under drawers of your liege. You will be fat. You will be butch. You will be a whore, with no name, rough, calloused hands, no children, and the bane of all bright existence you will die on the streets a shame to mankind.
Bake me a cake. As fast as you can. Mark it with menses. For daddy and me. Mark it with the blood of the dead earth mother. Bake me a cake of the green menses of Gaia. Mark it with your rape. For father and I. Bake me a pie. Roll the dough from your fertile breasts into the flat unit of production. Patty cake, patty cake. Mark it with the blood of the dead earth mother. For mankind and me. Bake me a child, tender and mild. I will mark it with my phallus. Bake me a cake. Mark it from your womb. For the dead earth mother.
I think that’s all I have to say about women for now.
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