Sick Chic

This is how I lost a lot of weight in a few weeks without trying:

Reactions to my new look remind me of a particularly awkward moment I was witness to in my friend's apartment in Brooklyn: a goddess-like female was visiting from Haiti, where she had been on a midwifing mission, determined to save the world, one proper birth at a time. Let's call her Hathor, after the Egyptian goddess of beauty and fertility. Hathor had had a rough time of late.

About a year and a half prior, she had a tough decision to make. She was in South Africa, the flagship country of her pilgrimage, and she got knocked up by a local man she thought she was madly in love with. As head midwife to the birthing program, she decided to set an example -- she kept the baby. The daddy then, predictably somehow only to Hathor's mother, turned out to be a dead beat. Single motherhood, in addition to being a power-housing saint, was really taking its toll and so she came home for a breather between godforsaken countries.

Hathor was once shining, bubbly, blonde, and as voluptuous as the clay sculptures of fertility totems with big hips and mesmerizing, pendulous breasts. Looking at her after, she had gotten skinny. The light had dimmed in her eyes, replaced by a dull luster and dark circles. Even her flaxen hair looked retired in its exhaustion. Every time you glanced at her, you somehow caught her in a moment of exhale.

That night at the apartment, our acquaintance joined us for dinner, arriving fashionably tardy. Upon seeing Hathor, the only aspect he noticed, unfortunately, was the weight loss.

A partial hug and a kiss on either cheek, the superficial city embrace.

"Wow, you look great!"

A brief silence in the room.

"... I contracted hepatitis." 

Aaaaaaaaaaaaand I'm calling it, time of death of a dinner party: 1 minute 32 seconds into the arrival of the relatively unobservant, situationally unfortunate guest. No other way to say it: that's awkward.

So! Looking to lose some? You should probably diet and exercise.

I absolutely do not recommend going to South Africa and drinking the water or somehow inducing life-threatening mental disorders to then medicate. You will be sick, and you will not give a damn what you look like. Compliments will seem hallow, and you will not know what to say to them because you will not feel grateful. Perhaps eventually, the compliments will stop coming from people you know. Worried glances will follow. Only strangers will still look at you and smile.

Delicious Evil

I'm not much into sweets. "Not much" as in: not at all. But my one of my organs is currently ripping out it's internal lining and ejecting it forcefully from my body. In response, for some curious reason, nature dictates that I crave something hot, dark, and evil to fill my belly to replace it. Something Satanic. Something... chocolate. 

Simple enough to whip up in compromised states, delicious enough to make your eyeballs roll back into your skull, and not-at-all too sweet, this fucker will do the trick. I got the recipe from my mother, and I share it with you here in hopes that another female or female-identified body will writhe in this dark pleasure's respite in a similar time of need. 

Pets

“Do you think this is cat meat?”

Sweetie leaned over my ambiguous meatballs in indeterminable sauce and sniffed.

“No, but mine is definitely rabbit,” he concluded as he shoveled another greasy spoonful into his mouth.

I’ve been learning a lot lately. I’ve learned that under a certain price point, the kebab is likely dog or cat meat. I prefer cat, as it turns out. I don’t know if I’ll be able to look my adorable pet feline in the eyes when I get home. Ironically, Sweetie is never phased by eating rabbit or dog, even though he has recused a cat companion, but he won't eat fish. 
"Fish aren't food, they are for aquarium."
Apparently tuna doesn't count, because it comes from a can. 

I also learned from my Turkish lady friend that Sweetie is seen as an Apaçi (as in "Apache", the Native American group). I asked Sweetie what an Apaçi is, he said that it's an insulting term that light skinned Turks call dark skinned (read: Kurdish) Turks. According to him, Apaçi hang out on street corners, get wasted, and rob people because they have nothing better to do than dance to techno music, gel their hair, and admire their white shoes. He was insulted, and silently went back to his food.
"I am the furthest from Apaçi."
I eyed his hoop ear piercing as we ate and watched the game on the overhead TV – it was Russia versus Real Madrid. The Spaniards had a new Turk on their team, the whole lokanta watched with abated breath.

Sweetie’s been keeping me fed 2-3 times a day, more than I was used to on my own. He likes to take care of me. I’m his pet, his princess. There’s no water or heat in the apartment, so I’m cold and filthy. Still, we find ways to keep warm. He's kept me placated with pleasure. Maybe he’s not taking care of me out of love, maybe he’s feeding me simply so I’ll stay alive. I’m beginning to feel like an addict, like all other activities besides fucking him are simply frustrating intermissions to the real act of living.

Sweetie loves to rape his little princess. Both of us report feeling the buzzing high and the injury, our respective parts throbbing from desire and sore from its frantic fulfillment. He promised not to fuck me for two days so we could both heal, but almost immediately that dark, hungry expression fell over his face. I squirmed in fear and discomfort, but he held me down and took me exactly as he wanted to. Having surrendered to pleasure, we collapsed on the couch as double-decker skin bags covered in cold sweat and other fluids. Exhausted, we managed to fall asleep this way, melting and sticking together.

I’m his pet and his slave. He doesn’t like when I go out on my own or with friends, he doesn’t like when I have a drink. He's told me that he doesn’t like my long hair, that I wear makeup, the sound of my voice, or my name. He doesn’t like the music I listen to or my jokes. He hates that I have other boyfriends and he hates my perverted friends, saying:

“At least murderers I can understand culturally.”

I took a pregnancy test and he was upset that it came out negative. Every fiber of my body and mind screams, “HE IS TRYING TO IMPREGNATE YOU: RUN!”

Sometimes he shakes me awake in the middle of the night to tell me that he loves me so much, he can't stand it and that I have to hear it again, to know it. In my head I scoff and think that he couldn't love me because he doesn't even like me. He's manic. 


He told me I looked fat in a picture. I slapped him across the face. I’m starting to think that perhaps we aren’t very compatible, after all. If the sex weren't there, maybe nothing would be left. 


Meet Sweetie HERE and drool at our hot moments described in The Golden Cage and Snapshots. 
Find the latest from Seduce and Confuse. It's like vitamins for your groin. 

Face Soup

The first inquiry is usually: "Who's face was it?"
"I don't... sometimes I don't ask questions."
Followed by: "Well... was it good?"
"It was better than the stomach stew."

Istanbul: I'm in the modest living room of my handsome musician friend who happens to be Kurdish-Turkish-Armenian -- a politically volatile pedigree in Turkey. Turks and Balkaners say Kurds are "voodoo people," liable to be liars, gangsters, and thieves.
"Yes, but being Armenian is even worse..." he chuckles, deciding between his Persian tar and his Greek lute.
I don't have the experience or the blood memory to fully understand these kinds of aggressive racial-cultural accusations or to have their meaning resonate in my bones. I do know, however, that my friend is a sweetie -- he's good natured, good humored, talented, and clean of heart. As he plucked out haunting micro-tuned melodies on his lute in 11, 15 and 7 time signatures ("the ladies must love this guy," I thought), I tried catching on to the beat as best I could.
"Us Westerners are used to 4 or 3," I said.
"Ok, so we play something in 9."
3 times 3 is close enough, I suppose.
[As a passionate side note, I love beats divisible by three -- I've always been naturally drawn to waltzes and vals. There's a symmetry in trinity that I'm attracted to, though I didn't even notice it until I started drumming.]

After we played our fill of exotic odd meter, the subject of food came up.
"So... it is soup, made of face (tongue, cheeks, eyes, you know), and you put much vinegar in, and much boiled garlic, chili flakes... and all this helps the smells."
"What smell?"
"The smells of... face."
SOLD.  Garlic and offal? Perfectly monstrous date-food. I couldn't possibly imagine something further from my hungry imagination, so of course I had to try it.
"This is normally food Turks only drink when very drunk, so if you are to have to soup you must have some of this first," a swig of ouzo.
This guy is into Greece. Charming.

Now I'm not saying it was the face soup, nor am I positing that the rambling Benigni film that followed was the most erotic thing ever, and for the record, though strong, a single swig of ouzo isn't obliterating. Perhaps it was some gypsy voodoo from this guy's bloodline, but some kind of aphrodisiac ("padişa macunu" in Turkish) magic happened that resulted in the two of us making love like it was our call to prayer - roughly four times in 12 hours. And roughly. This guy is so sweet, with an extreme gentleness towards cats and a kind of soft fairy voice that at first had me question his orientation, that the impressive cock that hung below his skinny-man six pack and the perverse energy with which he wielded it took me by surprise, which was more intoxicating than the ouzo. I wasn't expecting anything from our date except for some music, but Sweetie gave it to me like man for hours and hours, somehow tapping into fetishes I wouldn't speak aloud and executing them with an unforgiving panache. All of this perverted exuberance was punctuated by peacefully entwined hugging naps, endless marathons of tender kisses, and quiet exclamations such as "My beauty! My beauty... you make me so happy."

What the fuck? What kind of sorcery is this? Where the fuck did this guy come from? He doesn't wear leather gear or bondage raver pants, or for that matter have anything about his demeanor, outward appearance, or media taste that would suggest that he is anything other than a sensitive, sweet, well-traveled musician. In fact, his Nepalese sweaters would make me think otherwise, but the fact is that not only is he one filthy-sick lover, he is also the king of aftercare! This guy should teach workshops, god damn it, and he doesn't even know what the subject's called.

It occurred to me at some point in the seduction process that perhaps this guy's voodoo power was from sheer slutty experience. The persistent thought arose, that sex as an end-game shouldn't be rewarded -- that's how girls are taught to protect themselves, that their sex should only be doled out to those worthy by seemingly arbitrary factors. But who am I to guess what Sweetie's end game is? Even after his second orgasm, even after MY second orgasm, even into the present, he's made me feel cherished and loved, and I love sharing pleasure with him. Whether his endgame is the love or the sex, and the other is simply a part of his emotional/sexual "slut-style," I'm into it!

What's the punch line here: Don't judge a Kurd by his soup? Offal the name of love? Hey baby, I want your face-soup? Now accepting entry related pun submissions in the comments...