December 2012 - Comments Off

My Talking Clitoris: A Memoir

Amanda Buckley

an excerpt

When I’m drunk I like to go in bathrooms.

Very specific bathrooms.

I stumble into the bathroom of my old dorm… so many good memories in here. Yes, I think. This is where I want to be. There’s the shower where I cried for forty minutes that one time and I’m pretty sure no one could hear me. And look! The mirror I stared at when I couldn’t recognize my face. Oh hey! That’s the same brand of toothpaste I used to prep my mouth for that occasion that never happened.

I collapse to my knees, my face plummeting towards the toilet bowl. The smell of a goldfish’s grave has never been so alive in my throat. This isn’t how this is going to happen. It’s not going to happen this way. I will control everything in my body all the time always forever.

I haven’t vomited since 2008 and I’m not going to start now.

I hear the muffling in my pants.

“Mhemmalmostffftouchedfffmmme.”

Clit’s gotten louder. She knows we’re alone. I turn on the faucet, creating a background of white noise, and unzip my pants. I yell down to Clit, “You can’t want him. Okay? So shut up.”

“Why?”

“You can’t. Just stop it.”

“But—“

“Why can’t you want something more realistic…”

“Is he not real?”

“Why can’t you want something… like a spoon?”

“A… what? Why would I—“

“Why can’t you want a fucking spoon or something?”

“What am I going to do with a spoon?”

“Well…”

“I don’t want a spoon.”

“Shit. I’ll get you a vibrator just—“

“No.”

“I’ll buy you a nice vibrator—“

“No.”

“I’ll buy you a stripper?”

“No.”

“A hooker—“

“No.”

“I can’t—“

“I want that.”

“Well you can’t and if you do, well… you’re only hurting yourself because you’re not getting that. He doesn’t want you.” I look at the wall and start counting tiles. If I think about numbers I won’t vomit. You can’t count and vomit at the same time. That’s just science.

“I’m not getting any action anyway you slick the cake so I might as well want what I want because what the fuck difference is it going to make?”

“Just… shut up. Please.” Maybe if I start thinking about the Fibonacci Sequence the room will stop spinning and Clit will stop throbbing... Maybe if she realizes this is a problem of numbers, of undeniable truths she’ll shut up. A triangle is always composed of three angles equaling that of two right angles. Eight will always follow five in the Fibonacci Sequence. These are facts that are undeniable despite perception or existence. These. Are. Facts. The. Thing. That. You. Want. To. Fuck. Will. Not. Want. To. Fuck. You.

“I need you to not want this one thing. You can want anything else but this one thing. Hell. You can develop some sort of weird fetish. I don’t care. You just can’t want this one thing anymore. I ask so little from you.”

“You ask nothing of me. You don’t even acknowledge me. You muffle me. You stifle me. You keep me in the dark and away from the party. You’ve made me Helen Keller. I’m deaf, dumb, and blind. You ask nothing of me and therefore make me nothing.”

“…So you agree? I ask so little from you.”

“I’m going to kill your mother.”

“Just don’t want this one thing?”

“Your clitoris is Helen Keller and I’m going to kill your mom.”

“How much more of the alcohols do I have to drink before you shut up?”

“Don’t lie to yourself. You’re not trying to shut me up. You’re trying to shut yourself up. I only get louder the more you let yourself go.”

“So?”

“So… go away. Let me do the talking for awhile.”

“Never.”

There’s a knock on the door. I cover clit with my hand, muffling her cries for help.

“Yeah?”

An unrecognizable male voice replies, “You okay in there?”

“Yeah?”

“Okay. Just checking.”

Clit and I wait for the footsteps to fade away. I whisper down my pants, “See! He was nice. Why can’t you want that one?”

“Y’know, everyone’s going to think you puked.”

“But I didn’t. I don’t puke. I’ve never puked from drinking.”

“They think you’re puking right now.”

“But I’m not. I know I’m not puking. This is not puking.”

“And even if they did they probably wouldn’t care—“

“It’s doesn’t matter what they think. It’s a matter of pride. I’ll know whether I puked or not and I don’t puke. I don’t puke. I don’t fart. I don’t urinate.”

“You urinate. I know you urinate.”

“Jimmy doesn’t know I urinate.”

“…I think he knows.”

“No. I’ve scheduled it so that he’s never seen me exit or leave a bathroom.”

“Exit or leave…?”

“Exit or enter. Shut up. He doesn’t know about my urine yet.”

“Well… he doesn’t know your urine personally but I think he knows you urinate at least a little—“

“He doesn’t. He doesn’t know I urinate. He doesn’t know I don’t have sex. He doesn’t know I don’t fall in love but I do but I don’t tell anyone about it. He doesn’t know I have a brain or a heart—“

“Or a talking clitoris.”

“Or that. He just knows about my boobs thus far and I’m going to keep it that way.”

“Look. Just let me say ‘hi’ one of these days. He’ll like me. I know he will.”

I stand up like a baby giraffe and slap the button on the hand dryer hoping to drown Clit in a bed of multilayered, white noise, monotonous gumbo.

“…Y’know what’s weird? I always get stuck around 21 when it comes to the Fibonacci sequence which is really upsetting because that’s pretty early on to screw up.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Published by: in Prose, Volume 69: Issue 1

Comments are closed.