I never fucked Wardy Joubert III before he died / or even after he died.

i clarify not fucking him “after” he died because you never can tell / love and passion make death rot maggots just more innocent witnesses to a long history of doing whatever comes to mind in the moment with your beloved.

maybe i’ve inoculated myself against the repulsion of necrophilia, as i used to jerk off terrifyingly and longingly to a scene in an old Vanessa Del Rio porn movie where she’s nude and dead, laid out in the dark on a metal table in the morgue. / finding himself alone with her in the dark, the attendent janitor guy spreads her legs, then mounts and fucks her hard as her head wobbles around lifelessly off the back of the table.

and she’s hotter than ever that way– even dead what magnetism Vanessa has! i was convinced to the point of it being immediately logical and acceptable: what morgue janitor or grieving family in the next room wouldn’t sneak in and climb up and try to fuck a dead Vanessa Del Rio circa 1980? now i care nothing for who killed JFK, when for me it’s Marilyn Monroe’s vagina rigor mortis telling many more hotter vignettes about how many different secret samples of semen were ultimately buried in the casket with her because Dead Pussy Tells No Tales.

ain’t shit on tv or at the pictures, so i’d pay dearly and in installments plus interest in a new york minute to watch hollywood re-enactments of those scenes as i’m a sucker for period pieces as we just have no glamour left in an era of strategically set net inserts in yoga pants standing in for black tie.

come in kamala’s face and she’ll make it to president and you’ll tell me it’s because all little black and/or indian girls can grow up to be anything they want as long as they suck willie brown’s dick. but try that with Pam Grier’s face? she’d bite your dick off with pussy teeth that telescope out like they used to in the ’60s.

i was there: 1960s pussy didn’t take no jive.

that’s because it was all natural fro and hadn’t been waxed tortured and ridiculed into frightened obeisance and servitude.

by the way: my use on capital B for black isn’t according to any new rule the times makes. my rule is obama and harris are little b black. B Black is what we’re gonna be talking about here and in the future. it’s the undulation of real Black Man fucking. capital B Black would never sell out their preachers for a job or notch Black men’s incarcerations on her headboard.

obama fronts cool but anyone and everyone talks black now. obama doesn’t have that Undulation that even Michelle has sideways in her neck when she’s angry. if it’s in her neck it’s in her body and maybe she taught obama how to answer her back.. because that’s what Whitney Houston meant when she said Bobbie Brown taught her how to dance… he taught her how to fuck and answer him back with her body and that’s why she died without him… because without his undulation she was like a phone number that rang to nowhere in particular anymore. not much undulation in her world no matter who made the hits. undulations come from pain and swagger / Michelle’s daughters won’t have it. even if they can mimic the neck, it’s pretend: it won’t even be vestigial attitude.

the undulation is visible in the 3D but it’s all about what’s in the 5D./ fuck someone with that undulation and you know what i’m talking about.

undulation is the opposite of just lying there. it’s body sonnets about how amazing it is just fucking you.

the undulation makes no promises for the future. it can’t.

it’s real. you can’t fake an Undulation the way you can fake an i love you.

and that’s the thing about necrophilia–the exact opposite of all things undulation— and the america of today: i don’t usually find cold dead passivity hot, as it’s a lot like trying to force yourself to lick up congealed cold semen off a man’s stomach and look like you enjoy it, and yes, we must try and expand our repertoire to acommodate our lovers’ fantasies best we can, but fucking the dead was more about raping fucking sodomizing the passivity of a decaying empire before me, spreading its lips with your fingers, looking in closely like pussy’s a diorama of possibility—for it is—and doing whatever you want to it because you think no one will ever know because people haven’t had cameras implanted in their anuses just yet.

considering how much creepier i find swiping and internet dating culture, i can’t help but find that necrophilic metaphor adorably innocent ferocious and life affirming now… until you push your luck and try to round out the memories and story for later, and get down off the metal table and crack open the rigid jaw, like that attendant janitor guy did—talk about fucking a gift horse in the mouth, it’s always give me more! more! more!—you then try crack open her jaw and sodomize Passivity’s face.

just as you force back her neck to take you all the way to her motherfuckin’ collar bone without gagging.. to the moon, alice! to the motherfuckin’ moon! ….and what’s a little rigor between lovers? it’s to be expected in time as we come to take each other for granted, and as you just hit your stride and push past a quickly hardening trachea, it awakes as the true vampire passivity is and bites your penis off.

at least that’s what Vanessa did in the ’80s.

i got my early makeup tips and more moderate sex faces from her, so you know i still find secrets in the texts of her sacred gang bangs, where she manages to save face no matter what.

for that’s the thing. you can’t fuck everyone and not understand the world.

and that’s why i never fucked Wardy: because King Daddy already long since belonged to the whole world and while i understand how holy a sacrificial gift that can be, i am a mere weak egotistical shrill woman “fuck like a king but love me madly like your first and ever only!” he was an angel here on earth and loved everyone huge and i doubt anyone who loved or fucked him got away scot free.

to be honest, his penis size terrified me, and i was always secretly relieved he wussed out on me the three times we tried to make a go of us.

that said, it was the hottest nastiest most erotic and strung out endless sweet and dirty and complicated courtship over about four years. and all without fucking him, and in public and few knew what was even going on.

see, that’s the thing.. when everyone’s looking down at their magic phones you can get away with the most obscenely obvious things in Real Life now that few are in Real Life anymore, and they’re looking for all their human adventures on a phone.

just like Vanessa being dead was a lie, Wardy dead is a lie. dead he is still more alive than people still here on this earth. and i dishonor him by staying silent and keeping these things to myself when i think maybe for some of you it could remind you of the life within you the way Gloria’s dancing did when i was ten and carried that look with me til i had the courage to take it and make it my own in my (finally) fuck-you-all forties.

so that’s where we’re at now: making Vanessa’s metaphorical corpse of an oblivious bloated irrelevant dying liberal elite deep throat my proverbial dick and to further orgy my metaphors, i’m about to fly not too close but straight into the sun and lose it all even worse this time if i’m not careful:

see, in this new even faster and deeper thrust into an era of fear boredom and weak tiny ankles of america caving in on its own strategically-placed hypocisies, i want to use my propagandistic training as an artist visionary asshole and be a counter to the online bully mob aesthetics of what it is to be alive and human from here on out. i want to show you how boring rigged and tedious it all is being liked, going for the numbers clicks and thumbs ups.

i want to render embarrassment something you court on purpose because you know the person with the guts to do that is worth fucking well and long over the long haul. i want to turn shame something you step up to and own because it makes you a complex human, and in light it transcends into compassion and understanding instead of all this pretention barely covering all the self hate and shame.

i want to sell how transcendent it is to force yourself to be uncomfortable embarrassed daring adventurous nasty hot sexy wrong inappropriate and lurching toward triggers and tossing aside sofa cushions looking for spare triggers hurldles hard times and new things and potential fuck ups and amazing kisses instead of staying safe detached and swiping passively through your boring tedious predictable world.

now that the internet is as over as the new mall, we’ve all lost our jobs to cancelation or shut downs, who’re you holding your stomach in for? if you knew how secretly creepy we each are (and if not, that’s even hella creepier trust me), you’d scratch your ass, pick your nose and eat it in front of the world.

as a jersey girl, i thought donald trump was simply just a complete asshole all this time, til the first debate when i saw only myself. i suddenly understood him and his role. i actually thought he was on good behavior at that debate, holding back on a flustered doddering old Joe, as here in san francisco i’ve got people clutching their pearls every day and trying to eradicate me, too.

now that he’s gone, and they won’t have him to kick around anymore, we’re up. the rest of us cowering assholes who were watching him with relief that i was being left alone for a change. / but they’re coming for us anyhow.

who? anyone with a deviant thought. deviant not as in drilling holes in skulls so’s you can screw them, but deviant as in merely “straying or deviating especially from an accepted norm.” / the first most basic dictionary definition will do.

don’t leave it to one person to take on the asshole role. it’s too much to bear. time to share it.

time to repopulate the world again with 5D secret nastiness and plausible deniability again… for now. plausible deniability always has a way of manifesting into something definite.

i want to make it pretty to be Wrong again. to make being vulnerable look like the bad ass move it is in a dead dying society. this time my pitch is to dare be earnest, sweaty, embarrassed, care too much.

broken hearted.

you have to die to live.

and that’s my asshole role during this advanced, deeper time of death retraction contraction fear.

there’s plenty of nonsensical incongruency absolutely everywhere. so in the switch to where absolutely nothing makes sense anymore, i make my own pitch to the angels.

i do this as the daughter of Rafael Lopez Sanchez, the man who never dared say a bad word about the mother of his children. to defile her would be to defile himself.

it took me decades to understand how you’ve gotta think to be that way.

players are holy. they are not meant to be captured and neutered. they are sent to love so many because they cannot but help and see the best in whomever they want to fuck. and they see so much beauty and sex is where you really heal. in your innermost self.

and we women are taught to shred men who do not completely submit and conform themselves against their natures to our earthly needs of security. i get it. i get it. oh i so get it. but we kill them and ourselves as well as our salvation.

i don’t know the answer in this current world. / i only aim to find the right questions now.

all i know is that as my father’s daughter, my talent–inherited and honed—is merely seeing the god in everyone without having to fuck them.

that’s what i see and that’s what i’m trying to act on because i no longer have a choice but to try to show you each yourselves because all the pain fear and self hate is killing everything good and fun about being here in the first place.

i aim to balance things out and bring back the holy in the nasty wrong inappropriate triggering deviance of being truly yourself and human.

especially now. who the fuck can swagger past any of this without coming off as a fucking sociopath? nobody knows nothing. and we each know it now. the jig is up.

time to return to secret passwords in our eyes.