Author Archive

February 28, 2011

Tearing at the Roots/ Dec. 2006

by feyruhan
Dust bunnies

Image via Wikipedia

Breathe.  Stop.  Let it sink in.

My room is a mess of small clutters.  Papers, cables, boxes filled to the brim but not yet sealed; never sealed. Could I ever seal them? I’m getting whiny and should stop.

Move-out is in eight and a half hours. Dad will come by with a truck from the store and give me an encouraging hug before getting to work.  I can’t expect much from him, but I can expect something, and it’s more than Mom will offer.

The walls are bare; painted a dusty light-blue, the wall along my bed–at my back–cluttered with small cards, a poster, train tickets.  I should take these down, but I won’t, not yet, not until the very last hour.  I will carry them with me, and these walls, and this dust, and this oppressive air, and the sourness between the woman who is my mother and myself.

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February 25, 2011

In Your Arms, I Am Home

by feyruhan
For Fey’s linked post, Waiting, please go here.

Image via Wikipedia

My home is in your arms. My home, is in your arms.  I am at home when I am in your arms, and when you are away I can’t help but be homesick.

How can a person be a home?  How can a person be a home, when a home is walls, and doors, and windows and portraits, and furniture, and so much baggage?  You are my home; you are my furniture, my windows, my doors, and my portraits.  You are the baggage I carry around, waiting to be found, by you.

The heart of it is that I’ve been lonely, a long time now.  Maybe I’m hungry, or horny; I could say I’m tired.  And, sure enough, all those things would be true.  I’m listening to a song that breaks my heart, because feeling my heart break is the best I can do.  It’s the most I can manage.  It’s hard to simulate solace when there’s no one around.

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January 31, 2011

My (Not So) Secret Crush on Hugh Jackman’s Chest/ Jan 2011

by feyruhan
Hugh Jackman

Image by Barbara.Doduk via Flickr

I like a man who isn’t afraid of his chest hair.

Okay, so this is not the most forward (make that forward-thinking) thing I will ever say, but it’s true.  I like a man with a sprinkling of short, dark, curly, man-smelly hair on his chest.  My gal-pals and I have exchanged thoughts on this briefly, and they strongly prefer the hairless chest.  In fact, my friend C has mocked me for getting silly at the sight of chest hair peaking from an actor’s shirt (because, you know, God forbid I should acknowledge my weakness in public).

Hugh Jackman is an excellent example.  But then, he is an excellent example, period, no matter what, if anything, is the topic of discussion.

Visually, he can pull off rough and rugged (any and all of the X Men flicks, but especially X Men Origins: Wolverine, where he wears flannel–“Lesbian lingerie”, as (The Delicious) Brian Kinney of QAF puts it (oh, don’t start complaining about the merits, or lack-there-of, of those films; that’s for another, less hormone-crazed, man-hungry post, don’tcha think?)) , refined and flustered (Kate and Leopold, as the delicious Duke of Albany), and daily casual.  If you’re unsure as to which is my favorite, scroll up and re-read the first sentence.

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January 5, 2011

Waiting/ April 2010

by feyruhan
She's Been Waiting

“Kiss me or fuck me, I can’t take it anymore.”

I did neither.


I watch my reflection in the windows of the bank as the bus drives away; I see a girl in a blue shirt, dark hair tied up.  We hit the second street corner and an announcement for tickets to this summer’s big event comes on the speaker, as usual.

“You go all the way around the state before you get to the point,” I remember my friend telling me.  She was laughing but, still, it hurt a little.

[Long pause in journaling]

“How do you know I’m ready?”

“Your body’s ready.”

“I’m almost twenty-three, my body better be ready.”

[Pause in journaling]

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December 1, 2010

Fear, Faith, and Forgiveness: My Journey Through PTSD and Depression/ Nov. 2010

by feyruhan
Land of dreams: Temple of Forgiveness

Image by arno gourdol via Flickr

I’ve been wanting to contribute something new.  A new post, that is.  I’ve chosen to fall into a cycle of never-before-told post followed by a more current one, and now it’s been turn for a current post.  I’ve been working on a few different things, and they each have their merits, but I’m a bit stuck in each of them, in their own respective ways.

So, I’m going to write about my process of creating, and transforming, meaning in my life.  Let me be clear, because I won’t mention this again in this post: this is my process.  This is what has worked for me.  This is how I work.  This is not how I think everyone else operates, or should operate, or needs to operate.  If in reading this you feel that I have set unreasonable guidelines, I’m sorry.  It is not my intention to set guidelines for others, reasonable or not.  I’m merely using this space to explore and express my own experiences, and perhaps contribute my small part to the larger discussion.  That’s all.

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November 13, 2010

Substitutes/ May 2010

by feyruhan
Lenore and Bill on a bed in Palermo

via Flickr

He looks away from the screen, “What?”

“What about me do you want?  You keep saying it, all the time, but, what about me do you want?”  I’m sitting on his bed, a few feet away from him.  It’s evening, or late at night.  We’ve taken a brake to recharge.  We’re not in any hurry to get anywhere.

“That’s a strange question.”  His lips curl a bit at one side, that quirky smile of What’s this now?  Is this game going to be fun? “I’m not even sure I know how to answer that.”  He gets out of his chair and takes a slow step, then another, towards me.  “I want your body, of course.  But that’s not the answer you’re looking for, is it?  I want that sound you make,” he crawls onto the bed, follows as I lower my back to the mattress, “the way you sigh when I kiss you here…  Right there, that sound; that’s what I want.  I want the way you sound when I touch you.  I want your orgasm.”

“I think that’s the one I was hoping to hear,” I lie, as much to myself as to him, because my inability so far to achieve orgasm is easier to face.

“I want to be your first.”

“I want you to be my first,” I whisper, and then, to make sure he’d heard me, “I want you to be my first.”

“But,” he says, climbing off of me, bringing us back to the boundaries I’d set earlier, “not tonight.”

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November 3, 2010

Class Reflection: Sex in the Victorian Era

by feyruhan
Cover of "Tipping the Velvet: A Novel"

Cover of Tipping the Velvet: A Novel

Psychological Aspects of Human Sexuality

Class reflection: Sex in the Victorian Era.

There was *sex* in the *Victorian Era*?  Gasp!

I had heard of John Ruskin before, in a literature class at my previous college.  We were assigned an essay of his, I believe it was Lilies and Sesame Seeds, and I had a hard time getting through it because I found Ruskin’s message so infuriating.  Later, when we discussed the essay (and the essayist) in class, the professor (or maybe it was one of the students? Hm…) shared with us that poor old John had run away from his wife on their wedding night when he found, to his horror, that she had pubic hair.  It was bad enough that his wife had pubic hair, but the concept it implied was even worse: women, in general, had pubic hair.  Pubic hair was notably absent from all images of women he had ever seen, and the absence of it somehow epitomized to Ruskin the un-sexed nature of the “fairer sex.”  What could possibly be more mortifying to a man who so deeply perceived women as nonsexual, child-like in their simplicity, purity, and power of reasoning, than to discover—on his wedding night—that women, his simple play-thing, are in fact whole and sexual beings?

There was a lot of noise made, in the Victorian Era, about homosexuality: its wrongness, its rightness, its illness and its naturalness.  That is, the wrongness or rightness of male homosexuality.  Has anyone read or heard of Tipping the Velvet?  It’s a novel, a historical romance novel of some four-hundred and eighty pages, written and published in the last ten years—which should mean it has no relevance to this discussion, since it’s a work of fiction, right?  Wrong-o!  The book takes its title (Tipping the Velvet) from a term of the era in which it is set, the 1880’s—late Victorian times—a term referring to cunnilingus (oral sex performed on a woman); the term itself, which deceptively sounds like a boring aspect of millinery, was used by women of a sapphist persuasion.  That is to say, lesbians.  Victorian Era lesbians.  Yes, the Victorian Era had its lesbians, and they had their own hidden, under-the-radar, legally reprehensible but not legally recognized (that is to say, there were sodomy laws for homosexual men but no laws set out for homosexual women; Queen Victoria is supposed to have dismissed the possibility of female homosexuality when it was brought to her in legal concerns; “female homo-what?” was more or less her attitude), sub-culture.

The Victorians, thanks to England’s Queen Victoria and others, were known for a reserved attitude towards sex, sexuality, and all things involving the (female) body.  It’s interesting to notice that a (modern/contemporary) leading lingerie company—the opposite to a reserved attitude on sex, sexuality, and all things involving the female body—is named Victoria’s Secret.

October 21, 2010

Hair Long Enough for My Fingers/ April 2010

by feyruhan

We showered together, the last time I was at his house.  Monday?  Yes, Monday.  We showered together and then fooled around some more.  I felt a little overwhelmed in there–so close, so private, so… naked.  But he’s good to me, he makes me feel good.  He stops when I ask him to.  I’ve been wanting him; I want to be good to him, to take care of him.  The way he says my name… like he’s surprised, and grateful, that I try so hard, and yet so effortlessly, to be good to him.  I’ve never been so good to anyone before.  I’ve never wanted to be good to anyone.  Not like this.

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October 14, 2010

I’m admitting I Have a Problem/ September 2010

by feyruhan
Advertisement for curing morphine addictions f...

Image via Wikipedia

Addiction is simple.  There’s something you in some way shape or form enjoy.

A drug.  A drink.  Sex.  A person.

You obsess over it.  You get as much of it as you can.  At some point that thing, the need for that thing, starts interfering negatively with your life, and you either say, “I don’t care,” or “I don’t like what this is doing to me.”

And you either quit, or keep going.  And then once you’ve gotten through the first day, the first month, the first year, without that thing, you’re done.  You’re finished.

You’re free.

Is it really that easy?

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October 3, 2010

Overstimulated/ March 2010

by feyruhan

It feels so good.  His fingers.  The palms of his hand.  His fingernails.

Overstimulated Economy

I’ve been wanting him.  Wondering, imaginig.  Fantasizing.  He told me where one of his sweet spots is.  He licked and lipped and nibbles on my nipples.  We made each other whimper.

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