aumsworld

The NC-17 Monologue

I am often seen clad in brooding darkness, and in those times have nothing to say, but simply ponder, and stir up my own bubbling thoughts like a witch's brew. I speak little then; I have better things to do than to create assemblages of those clumsy verbal blocks you call words. When I do speak, however, I remain dreadfully honest, even shocking sometimes, heretic, tactless seer that I am to you. I toy with concepts that are beyond your grasp. I play goddess with dolls and paper angels. I never mention my personal life. "She is strange," you say. "Peculiar, indeed." Because of my strangeness - my peculiar nature - my secrecy - you begin to invent all sorts of absurd labels, for the simple sake of understanding me. "She's a goth. She's a freak. She's a witch." And, today: "She's a whore."

A whore. I’m a whore. In your eyes a whore.

Until I turned thirteen, I didn't even know what the dictionary word meant. I learned it when my teacher accused me of having called her THAT, which, of course, I hadn't. Pleasant irony that it should be a teacher - someone normally charged of instructing language, history, and mathematics to ignorant pupils - that should also be instructing ME in the ways of life, although I do wish she had chosen another way to do so, perhaps: a sexual orientation movie, a lecture about the social consequences of prostitution, or even one of these quiet chats they seem so fond of giving you after school? “Come and see me once class is over, darling. You’ve got some and then more to learn about the technical terms.” But when it comes to this type of insider information, the only way to learn the basics is the dirty way.

Now I’m not one of these teenagers with raging hormones. As a matter of fact, I’m remarkably detached from physical pleasures - “not quite the horny one,” as those who know me will say. What I know of the intercourse procedure, the male/female anatomy, and the rest, I learned at fourteen, when my friends decided it was about time I got initiated to the mysteries of adult life. I have to say I didn’t overly enjoy their enthusiastic lessons. I remember reading Elisabeth Vonarburg’s “Chronicles of Mother Country,” at the beginning part, where the two little girls try to figure out how children are made, and decide that fertilization occurs when the boy inserts his penis in the girl’s belly button. Well, that’s basically what I believed before my initiation. I have to say I found (like the two little girls, as a matter of fact) the reality much less attractive. The guy puts that thing, that disgusting pink thing in me? Oh no, oh no no no. I won’t allow that. I decided I would never have children. I wanted to marry, but I wanted my husband and I to remain chaste - and if he didn’t agree, well, too bad! I’d stay on my own. There would be none of the fornicating business for me.

I *may* have changed my mind a little since then. But I’m still not quite the horny one, not at all.

Girls always seem to be talking about fantasying, masturbation, erotica, pornography, and, of course, what they call “fucking.” I’m out of it.

I don’t fantasize. Well, you could say I do, but my fantasies are deprived of sexual content, and most people would really have trouble finding what I enjoy about them (although the pleasure they give me is definitely more emotional and inspirational than merely physical.)

I don’t touch myself. The mere idea disgusts me - not that I’m disgusted at people who do it, but I can’t imagine doing it myself. It just sounds… Odd. What do people seem to find so amusing about it? I’d rather read a book or twiddle my thumbs.

I don’t enjoy reading erotica, and I groan at mushy scenes in movies. They’re not disgusting, or offensive, but rather boring - really, like watching someone sleep, brush their teeth, or go to the bathroom. Where’s the interest?

I hate pornography with a passion. I even thought about becoming a cop, once, in order to chase out the sick-minded pedophiles and womanizers that dare treat another human being THAT way in order to make money, and provide some equally filthy-minded voyeur a sexual thrill. Pornography is concentrated lust tinged with selfishness, violence, and not a pinch of heart.

I don’t fuck. I will someday, but not with someone I don’t care about. Not with you. I won’t fuck with you.

And yet I’m a whore. You call me a whore. Truly my virginity is, in your eyes, more than a physical thing.

I’ll admit I am a spiritual prostitute. For a clever idea, a prayer, a wish, I’ll sell you my soul. My mind is yours to rape, my thoughts yours to suck and absorb, my spirit naked before you, exposed, writhing here, under your eyes, in masochistic pain. Be kind, be kind, please be kind, though, listen! To me these things matter more than my body will ever do. But why, why, why must you go and condemn me for this? Why should I be outcast for thinking what I think, flogged for saying what I say, beaten like the whores of these graphic pleasures for doing what I do? Don’t say these things. You don’t realize how much a whore dislikes being called a whore, no matter how dissolute and corrupt she may indeed be. Be kind, be kind, please be kind, listen! I don’t care for all your entertainments, your leisures. I see no amusement in them, but respect them and the value they hold in your eyes. Why can’t you, in turn, do the same for my own playtoys?

A whore I may be, but out of the two of us, in no way the least.

- Aum is Sad, Needs Hug

If Hell is a swearword, then Heaven should be, too.

If these were the medieval times, you'd burn me at the stake.

Please check out my Seven Deadly Poems!

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And, of course, don't forget my peculiar journal.

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Sherye's amazing Spiritual and Religious Contest!

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The Rebels of the Literary Arts...

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(Aum is now a professional plugger)