H O M E  A L O N E

By Thea Hillman

Sometimes, Iıd rather fuck myself than leave the house.

I center whole days around masturbation. Wake up, eat my cornflakes, clean my apartment, come with my vibrator, vibrator and dildo once, vibrator once again. Fall asleep. Read. Masturbate. Talk on the phone. Masturbate, read, not even wondering if Iım depraved or thinking that itıs weird that I havenıt gone outside all day, that I came six times today.

Itıs sweet the way I masturbate when Iım sad. When no oneıs been as nice to me as they should be. Tears, self-pitying, mix with moans as sharp intake cry-breathing turns into cum-breathing and I start feeling hot and all of a sudden Iım a sexy fucking number, coming hard, forgetting what no one did wrong and remembering how much I get from myself and how much I mean to myself.

I love the sounds Iıve been hearing lately, that no one taught me how to make -- funny, awkward, deep sounds that come from my belly and from my clit. Sounds expressing wonder, fear, anticipation, that sound exactly like me.

I love the stories Iım not afraid to tell. Grabbing my brotherıs penis under the bath water when I was little, letting my cat lick my pussy. Or watching my guilty flush as I recall playing "I'll show you mine if you show me yours" with my cousin after he showed me the porno movie, "The Budding of Bree."

I love the questions Iım not afraid to ask. Asking my mother, "How do you masturbate?" And me, dissatisfied with her answer about how people touch themselves and me insisting further, "No Mom, how do you masturbate?"

And the book she got me the very next day suggested looking at yourself in the mirror, so I crab-walked up to the mirror on the back of the bathroom door and thatıs when I realized it was true‹I did have two holes. Which of course I had to explore. And it was kind of tight in there, and thatıs when I discovered vaseline.

I love the way I get off on everyday occurrences. Walking down 14th Street, the setting sun like breath on the back of my thighs.

I like watching my late-night posing in front of the mirror, making my cotton underwear sexy by pulling up the corners and lifting my faded olive-green T-shirt just-so to showcase my belly curves. Or rubbing my clit while reading "Cold Sassy Tree" to test whether I can come while immersed in rural Georgia in 1906. And I can.

And I still havenıt left the house.

"Home Alone" İ Thea Hillman,
from her book Depending On The Light (Manic D Press)
Go to www.manicdpress.com to order Depending On The Light
or other Manic D Press publications.