1. The Blow-Job—1990
Top bunk, belly flattened to my pink comforter, radio turned up
to the red markered line, I am listening to President Bush declare war on Iraq.
For the first time, I feel like speaking, but there’s something stuck in my throat.
2. The Poorly-Executed Cunninglingus—1993
Freshman year of high school, after having yellow cake with chocolate frosting
nunchucked at us by members of the Young Republicans, John Hobbs and I
form a school club, name it SDS in honor of Tom Hayden
and the entire decade of the 1960s, which we truly feel cheated about missing
out on. We wear black. We protest absolutely everything.
we are nearly expelled for inciting trapper keeper riots.
The ACLU gives us lip service.
The local news loves us.
It feels fantastic.
3. Missionary—1995
After watching me take it, for months, when the evangelical boys
presented evidence daily that my father’s sexual orientation was vile and unholy
and had corrupted my very breakfast cereal soul with its gay maggotry;
after watching me stand up, finally, and take it personally,
the US History teacher makes no move to restrain me as I viciously
emasculate their skinny baptized asses in front of the entire awestruck class,
punching the leader in his soft pudding face.
The match ends when the bell rings—Mr. Button holds me back, and when we are alone,
hands me my first copy of Howard Zinn’s A People’s History of the United States.
4. Reverse Cowgirl —1998
I begin my career in herding student loans at a small private university
in Orange County, a golf-course-landscaped money trap where
rich important men pat my bottom, call me young lady
and tell me withdimpleslikemine, i’llreallygofar.
I memorize faces and license plate numbers.
I smile sweetly.
I decide I need permission from power like I need a hole in the head.
I decide that every time I see a protest with no white people,
I will pick up a picket sign.
this is how I learn to speak Spanish.
5. Doggie Style—2001
The same year I graduate from university and take a job at an upscale sex shop,
a coke head prince slips in the back door of democracy and steals the big shiny prize.
It is the most violent year of my life. I make a killing
selling desensitizing creams and clit stims. I re-read The Art of War.
I try to intellectualize an enemy that will always unleash the pit bulls
when you’re down, that will always take you from behind.
I sign up for ju-jitsu at the local Y,
but they kick me out and refund my money
when I stop fighting back.
6. Cum Shot on the Face—2006
I am teaching a class of remedial 8th graders and they have my number.
They know the trick to getting out of vocabulary building exercises
is to ask large, important, questions like, "Is it true you can get pregnant from kissing?"
and, "Why do we have to learn history, anyway?"
Today it is, "Why are we at war in Iraq?" I do not answer their question,
but become distraught, and to their horror, start crying,
launching into a three hour lecture about the horror of cluster bombs
and the shamelessness of George W. Bush.
They will not ask this question again.
Everything comes
full circle.
Hopelessness does strange things to you.
I don’t read the newspapers anymore. At night, I lay flat on my back,
listen to the fan, stare at the ceiling, imagine that tomorrow will be the day
I begin my training as an assassin.
