Celestial Bodies
tatiana de la tierra
We arrange to meet at my place, with this condition: I must be on my knees when she walks through the door. She will be taking a taxi from the airport; she has the keys to my house. It’s a long flight, from Madrid to New York, and she might be a little tired and agitated. It is my job to relax her, to bring her into her body, to properly welcome her back to the U.S.
She will be wearing her dick.
I have been waiting for her forever. She always makes me wait and wait. When she is gone I think that I will forget about her, that I will not want or need her, that she doesn’t deserve me. But when she phones me from a hotel in London and says, “Hey, little girl, how are you?” I forget about all that. “Missing your dick,” I respond.
I stay home all day and prepare for her arrival. Clean house, cook, wash my body with sandalwood soap, paint my nails wild berry cream, dust my skin with lavender body powder, burn sage. Put on a skirt and paint my lips pink.
I place the pillow on the floor near the entrance to my house. Light a red candle for Changó. Put on some Mexican music and float in the room. Wait and wait for her. Keep an eye on the street, listen for car doors slamming shut, for sounds at my front porch.
I start to get anxious. What if the plane is late? What if she doesn’t come? What if she doesn’t want me? If my need for her dick is too big for the both of us?
I kneel on the pillow. Close my eyes and wait.
The chill of the night blasts my body when she walks through the door. She is wearing blue jeans, boots, a black leather jacket. Sets her bags down, stands with her legs spread before me, says nothing. I am looking up at her, feeling ever so desperate. She seems distant, like she is still in another country. I can’t quite read her. Her looking at me, the silence, these things are driving me insane. I want to scream and pounce on her for making me wait. But I remain quiet, expectant. She takes a step until she is right above me. Says, “Come here, little girl.” Pushes my face into her cock. “This boy needs some attention.”
I close my eyes and brush my face on her stiff dick, feeling the hardness beneath the fabric of her pants. I am overcome with emotion and desire. I nudge her dick with my cheeks, brush my nose up her shaft, cherish the moment before she will entrust her most delicate and powerful part to my mouth.
She loosens the button at the waist, pulls down the zipper, and hands me her tool, as if it were an offering and an obligation. I take her cock, solid and heavy, in one hand, stroke it gently with the other, kiss the tip. Make acquaintance, once again, with the pinga that is the source of so much pleasure, its desert brown shade and bulging veins. If ever I have any doubt about this boy’s desire for me, I will find a certain answer in her dick. Always, it wants my mouth, needs a little girl like me who will jerk it and stroke it and lick it and be there for the boy’s ejaculation.
I let my tongue travel down the shaft, roll her balls in my mouth. Begin to notice her breaths, am startled by the grip that she has on my hair, pulling, almost ripping the follicles from my scalp. “That was a long flight,” she says. “All this pent-up tension.” Open my mouth wide and take it, width-wise, between my lips, tapping my teeth lightly while I suck, careful not to hurt her. “Where did you learn to love dick like this, little girl, huh? Who taught you how to please a man?” I continue to service her. I am a servant for her cock. It is my ruler, it tells me what it wants, obligates me to please. I am an obedient blowjob girl.
The boy’s voice deepens, becomes breathier. “You’re doing good girl, so good. . .” Her grip on my scalp is even more painful now. She becomes infused with new energy, with her animal self. She is the warrior about to plunge a spear through the enemy’s heart, the lion that decapitates its prey with one hungry bite, the cock that must be rammed into a little girl’s mouth. She rams her pinga into my face, could care less that it hurts, that I can’t breathe, that I am gagging. This is what the blowjob girl is here for, we both know this. She comes with a yell, pulls out, smears her load on my lips and chin, fucks my mouth with her fingers, as if coming wasn’t enough.
I remain on my knees, wrap my arms around her legs, stay there, her cock dangling at the front of my neck, so vulnerable. I think that this is how I should always be, between her legs, her dick the center of my universe.
“Come here little girl,” she says. Pulls me up from the floor, kisses my lips, sets me down on the couch. She feeds me marzipan, gives me presents that she has brought from overseas—a black mantilla with embroidered red roses, a card with poised Flamenco dancers, a pair of castanets, and a book, “Beatriz y los cuerpos celestes.” I put my thumb through the strings of the castanets and toy around with them, try to make sounds with my fingers.
She begins to love me like a boy, taking control, making me more of a girl with every touch.
I don’t know if she knows this or not, but there is a part of me that gets smaller and smaller when I am with her. She has a way of being so sweet, melting me, and then so rough, destroying me. Sweet and sour, subtle and spicy, kind and cruel, these are the keys that she holds, that she uses to enter and break me. I become so small with her, a girl who is so little that she is always new, always untouched. A girl without language, uneducated and unsocialized, a little animal girl, a hungry hungry girl, so needy and natural with desire. A baby girl, with a little baby panocha and pink pezones. A desperate and dirty girl, one who needs to be teased and punished for being what she is.
The boy sits on the couch and has me straddle her. She drapes the mantilla around my shoulders. I am playing with the castanets, trying to make a rhythm with my fingers, pa-pa-ta-ta-ta. My tap-taps are clunky, and I keep trying to make music while the boy caresses my forehead, cups my cheeks, kisses my eyelids. I come up with a little riff, da-da-ta-ta-ta-pa-pa-ta-da-da, and start to hum. This is when she slaps me, making my skin resonate, tingle and burn. Her cock is rubbing my panocha while she licks my nipples as if they were honeyed. Sucks them as if she was giving me head. I am tapping frantically with my fingers. My brain goes on a wild ride. I wish her pinga was inside of me, I wish to be a fuck machine. But that is the boy’s prerogative—to decide when to ram a little girl’s panocha. The boy clamps my nipples between his teeth, attempting to sever them from my breasts. I scream, not only for the pain of that moment, but for the pain that is to follow.
Little girls always have to be punished first. They have to be broken down and bloodied before they are loved. I know this.
He pushes me off him, leads me into the bedroom. Undresses me. I get so scared, completely naked before a boy. The fact that I am a grown woman is impossible to hide then. I am ashamed of being so big and so vulnerable. I wish for complete darkness. I wish I could disappear, I wish I was not conscious of my flesh. I don’t want her to see the shame on my face. He looks at me, and I know that he knows, and I know that this excites him, to be fully clothed and in control and to have a girl-woman to do as he pleases with. I look away, focus on the flame of Changó’s candle, await my instructions.
“On your stomach,” he says. I know what he is going to do and I want to cry. I need this so much. All my life, this is what I have needed.
She dangles fat strands of seasoned leather on my back, teases my nerves. Whips me once or twice, twenty or fifty times. I don’t count. Black leather becomes a switchblade on my back. It aims to lacerate me and to put me in my place—my place on the bottom. Under any other circumstance, I would wrestle for my survival. But black leather is here because I invite it try, oh just try, to break me.
Black leather always wins, of course. And the boy always stops, after I’ve screamed, after there’s visible damage. During the moments between pain she trails her fingers on the hot fresh welts. “So red and tender,” she says. Her voice is always soft then, her words so careful. Somehow, I feel like I am being loved, and that is always when I cry; it is the gentleness that hurts.
The first time I cried with her, she said, “What’s wrong girl? Where are you going inside?” I can never respond intellectually to my pain. All I can do is feel it, yearn for it.
If ever she asks me what I need, I say, “I want you to hurt me.” I don’t need to be pierced or stabbed or burned, though. All I need is just enough to let me go beneath the surface of my skin. This is where I am most me, where I hurt and love, where my power lies. Where I am a little girl, one that gets smaller and smaller, needier and needier. It is the place of everything unnamed, an encyclopedia of dreams, my true self, that which I must hide if I am to live. Going there always makes me cry, makes me break down. The tears that come to there are my key to myself.
Sometimes I fear that I will pass out inside of myself, that I will never come back to the moment, to my body, to the room, to her. That is why I need her and her kind. She opens a path for me, one that leads inside and then brings me back. One that takes me to the bottom.
“You’re such a good bottom,” she says. “Look at you, all wet and sweet.” I am in her arms now, and my back is throbbing, alive with pain. I am a girl-woman in tears who is about to get fucked.
“Turn over so I can fuck you like a dog,” she says. As if I weren’t exposed enough already. He knows what he is doing to me, obliterating my self-respect as I get on my knees and spread my ass for him. I hear him remove his boots and pants, hear him tear open the condom’s wrapper, snap a latex glove on one hand, squeeze the bottle of lube. Watching my ass all the while. The latex hand goes right for my asshole, fucks me without any further preparation. “Such a tight asshole,” he says. “Gonna have to stretch it out some.” He finger-fucks my ass, brings blood and sensation to this forgotten part of me. Makes me wonder if I have a brain deep inside my ass. Me da cerebro. Expands my asshole, has me pounding my fists into the bed. Then he pulls me up by the hair, keeps a finger in my ass, sits me down on his cock, and finally, finally, finally motherfucking fucks me.
How long have I been waiting for this boy to ram his cock into me? How long has my papaya been on fire? How long was my panocha sweet and unfucked? How long have I longed for this boy’s big, bulging, brown dick? I become a madwoman, a crazy fucking whore, a cheap fucking whore, a shameless fucking whore. Fuck-me-or-I’ll-kill-you, fuck-me-or-I’ll-kill-you, fuck-me-or-I’ll-kill-you.
I take a long fucking ride on his dick.
I push him down on his back, slap his fucking face. Why did you make me wait so long, cabrón? Make him suck my tits just right. Punch him in the fucking chest, bite his nipples until I can taste the blood. Fuck me, asshole, I order, I don’t care if I am fucking hurting you. Fuck me, hijueputa, fuck me, comemierda, fuck me, cabrón, fuck me, you fucking dickhead. Fuck-me-or-I’ll-kill-you.
He complies because I have my hands around his neck. If he lets up I’ll fucking strangle him. Let’s see how much power you got now, boy. You think it’s up to you to decide when and how to fucking please me? When and how to fucking please yourself? You think you’re the only rapist in the house? That you can get away with catching my emotions in your hands, putting them in your mouth, and never letting me see them again? Eso es lo que crees? I slap the fuck out of his face, make sure he keeps fucking me all the while, ride him hard enough to dismember any man.
I used to be terrified of being on top. Now I think that I am a terror on top, a social menace. I want to violate this little boy. I think he needs to be put in his place. You think a dick gives you all the power? No matter what I do, I say, you have to keep fucking me. This is my command. I wrestle around on top of him, turn, touch the leather straps that keep his dick in place, spread his cunt open. Don’t do that to me, please, he says. The boy has a terrified little voice. Who asked you what you wanted? This is to please me, not you. I push the strap aside, plunge into him with four fingers. He has a wet pussy, ripe for fucking. Keep fucking me, asshole, I say, while I pound his cunt, pumping his liquid, raping the little fucker. I’m not certain that he’s enjoying this, but I don’t even care. In fact, I hope he hates it, I hope he feels exposed, I hope he feels like a girl. I hope he feels powerless. I hope this takes him to his pain.
I take my hand out of his cunt and force it in his mouth. Make him eat his girl cream. He is crying little-boy tears and I kiss him so soft. It’s okay, little boy, I say. It’s not your fault. I had to rape you. I couldn’t help it. I’ve always wanted to rape you. You are just so powerful with your cock, little boy. You make a fuckhole out of me. You open me up and make me river and thunderstorm and volcano. You make me so little and so scared. I had to punish you for that. You make me cry and you hurt me, and then you don’t hurt me enough. You’ve never hurt me enough, you’ve never fucked me enough. You always make me ashamed of my desire, and you leave me with so many images, and I never know when you’ll be back. For all these reasons, I have to hurt you. You understand, don’t you? I have to cause you pain, take some of your power away from you. Because I want to be a poet and all I am is a whore, and it’s your fault.
I know this boy understands why I had to rape him, just as we both understand why I am his blowjob girl, the servant of his cock. We play this pain-pleasure, top-bottom, boy-girl game together. I kiss the little boy and sweetly tell him, I am not done yet, little boy. I still need your dick. Your life is still in danger. You have to fuck me still.
I think that there is an army of women inside my cunt, and they are all getting fucked along with me, and they are ready to kill him if he doesn’t comply with our collective desire. I think these women want to get eaten. They want to sit on his boy’s face, come in his mouth. I pull out his cock, kiss it, it is so wonderful, put it in his hand. You have to jerk yourself off, I say, you have to stay hard, because I am not through.
By now I have no shame. I sit on his mouth while I face his cock, make him suck my asshole, first of all, and touch himself at the same time. He is making little-boy sounds, strokes his dick while he eats me. I position my clit right on his tongue. I kiss the top of his cock again, suck him while he sucks me. We are in that place of no language, the moment of truth. The place of death and desire and confession and pleasure. I am gagging on his cock and he is making the entire Amazon nation come in his little boy mouth.
But like I said, I’m not through with him yet. I get off his face, jam my throbbing papaya into him again. He sits up, throws me on my back, bites my head and fucks me like he could give a fuck about the Amazons. Ejaculates inside of me, slaps my face hard, over and over, and holds me so close and sweet that I cry.
20 de noviembre de 1999, buffalo, nueva york
Originally published:
de la tierra, tatiana. “Celestial Bodies.” Gynomite: Fearless Feminist Porn. Ed Liz Belile. New Orleans: New Mouth from the Dirty South. 2000: 29-42.