The first thing you ever do is kneel before him. He is your god and you are his minion. You strip off his pants and filthy underwear and bow down to worship the phallus that completes the hole in your cunt.

The first thing you ever write is the title The Anatomy of a Penis. You are not a scientist. You are not a biologist. You have nil knowledge about anatomy, much less a penis. But you do know "penis" derives from the same Latin etymology of "pen" and "pencil". The penis is the fountainhead of all generations of humans since the Big Bang. The pen is the fountainhead of all literature spilled from its infinite inkwell. The penis is the extra body part that fulfills your missing body part. The pen's ink fulfills the blank pages in your head.

You take his hairy balls and put each one in your mouth. You nuzzle it. You lick it. You sniff it. It smells of sweat and shit and piss. It tastes of salt and grime and dead skin cells. It is soft and stretchable with folds of skin. This is the factory of the millions of sperm cells that has bred mankind.

Of the pen and the penis you must choose only one. Either you satisfy the hole in your head, or satisfy the hole in your cunt. Back in ancient history, the pen and penis were one and the same: the prolific instrument of men. Women were banned from writing. Their sole function was domesticity. To cook and clean and scrub and wash the dishes. To watch their stomach grow and tip their swelling breasts until the water breaks and their vagina is ripped open. To nurse little dumb humans and raise and nurture them without question, without denial, just because they are their blood and bones and flesh. You suffer twenty, thirty, forty years. Pump out more babies, who will pump out more babies, who will pump out more babies. Then once again you turn to your blank sheets of paper. But before you know it, it's too late to write. Your children have sucked all the juices. You are barren and empty and useless. Furthermore, you are fat and old and ugly. The thought of a wife-mother-grandmother-writer is just unacceptable. It's not just unacceptable, it is impossible. You are a female writer, and your immortality lies one way: to swell and burst with babies, or to swell and burst with ideas. Either you follow the normal course of life: working, breeding, dying. Or the one you have in mind: living, writing, publishing. You can't choose both; either bear children or be an artist. You have a calling.

You take his limp penis and wet it with your mouth. You lick from the balls up to the head. You are a kid and this is your first ice cream. You lick it slowly, but instead of melting, it hardens. His penis is the darkest part of his body. It has the same color as your lipstick. The color of your lips represent the color of his penis. And in the art of fellatio your lips and his penis are one and the same. Inseparable. Fused. Liquefied.

You are what you eat. You are what you dream. You are what you daydream. You are what you wear. You are the films you watch. You are the music you listen to. You are the books you read. You are the places you go to. Everything that you do is a reaffirmation of who you are. He wants to settle down. You don't. He wants to get married. You don't. He wants to spread his genes, have babies. You don't. You can't be a housewife and daydream instead of cooking dinner. You can't read books instead of cleaning the house. You can't develop your writing instead of looking after your kids. You can't think of revolutionary ideas instead of jumbling grocery items in your head. You can't express your creativity through the recipes you experiment with. Your taste buds lack the sophistication of your vocabulary. Words are your world. A family is not. Ideas make you excited. Sex, only temporarily. The pen is an extension of yourself. The penis you are sucking is not. The idea of children just doesn't appeal to you. They're no more than a bore, an irritation, an unwanted responsibility, a termination of your freedom. Who ever told you you should live your life just like everybody else? Have you ever heard of vibrators?

The most sensitive part of the penis is not the head but the frenulum, the strip of skin at the underside of the head. It looks like the skin beneath your tongue. You hold the shaft and trace your tongue up the underside of the penis. He begins to relax. He closes his eyes. The penis elongates and stiffens. The veins around it thickens and become more bulbous. You circle the head with the tip of your tongue, clockwise, counterclockwise, reverse. The head pushes out, its skin smooth and taut. Behold, the penis rises.

You are to give pleasure to this phallic god. He is your muse, your object of obsession, the phantom of your dreams. No matter how ordinary he appears to be in other people's eyes, he is your religious icon, the paragon of your superstitious idolatry, always powerful, always omnipotent. You want this penis more than anything in your life. This penis is what you should be having. As a body part, that is. Not this hollow cave in your cunt. You should've been born male, not female. You should've been created an Adam, not some cloned specimen from Adam's ribs. You want to be a man not because you're a lesbian but because it grants you the right to become an artist. But the closest thing you can ever have a penis is to put it in your mouth, the orifice right next to your brain. Your mouth functions what the pen cannot. But in the act of fellating, your mouth is elevated to the status of some superficial purpose: to make him come. Semen, like speech, flies in the air for a moment, and dies. Words on paper do not; they are immortal. Words will outlive you long after you are bones and ashes underneath the ground.

You encircle the shaft with your fingers, your middle-fingertip connected to the tip of your thumb. With your free hand you fondle his balls. You caress them, tickle them, tease them. You wet the entire penis by putting all of it in your mouth. You will not gag. You will not choke. You will not vomit. You glide your fingers up and down, and twist your wrist as you do so. You suck the penis in and out, while massaging his balls. You follow this rhythm with the internal clock of your heartbeat. It looks easy but it's actually more complicated than you think.

You are not a slut. You are not a whore. You are not a prostitute. You are simply a lover. The greatest pleasure you can ever have is to give pleasure to someone else. His pleasure is your pleasure. Together you complete the yin and yang of hedonism. Your submission is your domination. He moans and forces his eyes open; he is under your spell. You are liberated, but for a moment you are his slave. Freedom and slavery are blurred out of focus. But really, freedom is all you ever want. You don't want to be attached to anything, to anyone. You have no concept of possession and possessiveness. But the contradiction is that you are attached to this man and his penis. Your pen is the height of your freedom. His penis is the height of your slavery. And the only way to merge them together is to write something like the anatomy of his penis. P is for pen. P is for penis. P is also for procreation, pleasure, pride, and power. Unfortunately, P is also for pregnancy, which is the loss of control over your own life.

Think  of
multitasking: your
hands, your lips, your
tongue, your mouth,
your heartbeat, and
your brain are
all  at  work.  Up
and   down   your
hand, in and out of
your  mouth,  the
penis slides at the
roof of your mouth
and  at  the  tip  of
your   tongue.   It
turns into a moment
when  nothing  else
exists. Every second
is   amplified   and
intensified such that
even  time  ceases
to tick. Both of you are
in heaven where everything
is pleasurable, eternal, pure, holy.
Suddenly, you cream on your pants.

Sex is the closest thing you can get to immortality. It's not health. It's not youth. It's not beauty. But the worse part is that writing is your salvation, the only thing that can cement and seal your immortality. His penis' semen is not the same as your pen's ink, however you want to fuse them together. Sex is power the same way words are power the same way wealth, health, youth, and beauty are power. What humanity wants is power, except that power manifests in different ways. Virility is power, stability, force, and muscle. Femininity is impotence, instability, submission, mood swings. The term female writer has words that cancel each other out. You are in your twenties, with raging hormones, perpetually horny. You are a nymphomaniac and you are a writer. How do you compromise the two? The thing is, you can't. Writing is a calling that equates to priesthood if you have a cunt.

After enough rhythmic sucking, the penis hardens in its full glory inside your mouth. It thickens in a diameter that your fingers break off its circle. Its head puffs up like a balloon that's about to burst. He represses his moan, and all you hear is his heavy breathing, his heart palpitating, all his blood rushing to the tip of his penis. His breathing synchronized with your sucking synchronized with your heartbeat. It goes in a loop that ends with his penis spouting jets of semen in your mouth. You suck his penis dry of all its contents, and then you swallow.

The real problem with you is that you mustn't go on always trying to adapt to men's theories of what a woman should be. A woman should be soft, sensitive, compassionate, understanding, yielding, emotional. You are phallic, narcissistic, castrating, domineering, rational. You don't possess any female quality, except for having breasts and a cunt. Long after you've realized you can never be a wife, a mother, a grandmother, domesticated and always homebound, after you've decided the pen is mightier than the penis, after you've accepted this and let go of this man and his procreating instrument, after spilling your thoughts and creativity on sheets of absorbent paper, will it be worth it? How could you compare domesticity with being a writer if you haven't tried both? But then you take the option all other women won't. It's worse to do what you hate; worst you can do is nothing.

Word did you say?

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