Best Sex Writing 2010 by Rachel Bussel

Author:Rachel Bussel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Cleis Press
Published: 2011-12-02T05:00:00+00:00

The Portal

Janet Hardy

I am, like most human beings, forked, more or less symmetrically: two legs, two arms, two eyes, two halves of the brain, two halves of the soul. There’s the half that demands integrity, that loves its seamless skin and doesn’t want it breached. Then there’s the half that yearns for invasion, occupation, company. And right where they come together is my cunt.

My cunt is outer yet inner, private yet vociferous, armored yet vulnerable, part of me yet somehow separate. It is a burst baked potato, the place where containment fails and the overheated meat of me spills out for the tasting, complicated and discomfiting and fascinating.

It was cunts that made me think I wasn’t bisexual, and then, later on, it was cunts that made me think I was.

My first girlfriend, in spite of being as inexperienced as me, was an instantaneous cunt gourmet: I got to know the top of her head as well as I did her face. You may think this doesn’t sound like a problem, but it was. I was discovering the “when do you stop?” issue that seems to saturate a great deal of sapphic sex (the male orgasm, while it lacks a certain something in repeatability, at least provides punctuation). As a result, I often found myself in the unenviable position of wishing I could watch TV instead of coming.

And then there was the reciprocation.

There are very few things I don’t like to have in my mouth, and cunt tastes like several of the ones I do. Here, however, is the number of things I like to have jammed up against my face: none. Don’t put your hand over my mouth. Don’t hold my head when you’re kissing me. Don’t even think about gagging me, you pervert. And, most especially, do not ask me to shove my mouth deeply into what seems all too much like your internal organ.

While cocksucking is not on my top ten list of ways to while away the time—well, let’s face it, not even on the top one hundered list—a cock is discernibly an appendage and not a giblet, and it is possible to suck cock without getting pubic hair up your nose. I suffer, it seems, from cunniclaustrophobia. My friend went on to practice her new skill on more appreciative ground, and I returned to my quondam heterosexuality.

But once I had cunt on my mind, it stayed there. The phrase “potential space,” used to describe the closed-yet-open paradox of the vaginal vault, developed new echoes and resonances. I became fascinated with the rawness of cunt, tender as a partly healed wound, complex and multifoliate, tremulous and nervy. Even the softest epidermis—say, the skin of a penis—began to seem harsh and repudiating. I wanted in.

And, being the kind of girl I am, in is what I got. First a finger, then two, then four, then, with a little fussing and adjusting and several great dripping dollops of lubricant, the whole shebang, swallowed like a rabbit into a python. Surrounded.

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