On sex and surgeries

You switch sadness to loathing or the other way round, whichever befalls you first. Of course it depends on your personal preference for that very moment. However, let me tell you that I chose loathing, as for me, this is a way of producing creative energy. Why would you choose to be weak if you could dominate? I’ve worked hard to get here, no matter how high the bars were set at the beginning. Teaching yourself reliance is the most essential lesson in self-development. There is no one out there who is able to access your inner faculties apart from you. I’m not sure if this is what they call soul for I have none. Or I may have decided to sell it to the devil who promised to heal my heart, but it was more like tossing a coin into the well. Since nothing ever happened, I decided to step up to the plate and start working. Waiting for a single miracle might take a whole life and you do not want to waste time, thus I made a decision. The novelty of decision making is one of the least acknowledged rights that we have and yet people are scared of it as they do not know what they want. Speaking of rights, not each of us stands up for his rights, even on the philosophical front referring to mind and body, we face a huge dilemma involving the several voices within us to which we need to respond: the many voices of the conscience and that of the body.
Now you see, not everyone has a conscience, which means that there is no right and wrong. I never really concerned myself with this, for in my case the voice of the body has always been more dominant, particularly the adventurous travelers in my veins. Even Nietzsche put a great emphasis on the human body. It’s the body that makes us who we are. The spirit (if there is one) is nothing without a body; the spirit is not life, it’s either holy or eternally damned and always yearning for heart and brain.
And there you go gibbering about your spiritual path and inner peace like there was something invisible that you can capture. What would you say if I had your heart in my bare hands?
Some people can’t think with their brains or their hearts are devoid of feelings. There is a lot of that kind and since I’m devoid of any identifiable emotion, I yearn for that warm feeling that engulfs the heart during sex and the tingle in my spine during climax. I barely remember this feeling from when I was a child.
In order to get back there I need to fix other people’s hearts. A very wise man, after discovering my dark energies, once said to me that these energies needed a playground and that I was to further exhume them until there was nothing left. However, I’ve realized that those energies are endless, even now. Therefore the only way to accept this is to secretly hope for a cure, but until then I will carry on holding other people’s hearts and succumb to this daily routine in the operating theater with the halogen lights shining upon me.
My hands are always hungry for their flesh and blood and the more I am responsible for their well-being the hungrier they get. Fixing their hearts ultimately makes me visualize my own open thorax on the operating table. I see my pumping heart behind the gates and I wonder who will ever have the power to break through them and save me from that misery. I’ve already done a great deal of self-therapy, not even the novelty of meditation has brought me any closer to my heart, as if it’s not meant for me. I guess I know what people mean with “that person stole my heart” and I am certain that mine’s been stolen, too, and that this pumping organ in my chest is merely a prototype for my android self, an android that longs to be human. If this is how Zarathustra feels, then I’d rather decline the being of an Ubermensch and sink back into the abyss of atavism and dwell in the distant past whose existence at least incorporates the significance of nociceptors, the real meaning of flesh and blood.
What would we be without pain? The day of my downfall is not just my failure to remove those negative energies, but also the loss of nociceptors. I never thought about this so rigorously since the sex I had with Will. The way he drew his finger down my vertebral column sparked a curious chill in my body, not just any chill, but one that made me realize the connection between my brain and my heart. Throughout my life they have secretly been friends, maybe even lovers, but it’s not until I’ve slept with a neurosurgeon that this realization came to mind. The sex with him did serve its purpose. I could tell that he cared about my pleasure as he eagerly delved into my head to read my brain signals. It was intimidating and intriguing at the same time. Unlike the others he noticed on the spot that cunnilingus does not work for me, neither does poking my clitoris. It’s all down to the way of penetration. This is the only invasion and desecration that I allow men to perform but only with my dominance upon them. I used to repress my vaginal discharge so I wouldn’t be moist enough for a good penetration. The result of that was blood. The penis would rub against my sensitive cervix and scratch open a wound. It was a self-induced blood bath during which I lost my virginity again and again. Seeing my blood on their bodies used to give me an unnerving thrill, which I now feel in the operating theater when cutting through the bodies of sleeping subjects. I break their gates by removing two or three ribs and there is my treasure, not bigger than an angry human fist. During each heart surgery the heart is connected with the CPB that stops the heart from beating. The subject is kept alive through a machine. Therefore during surgery I hear no heartbeat which is why it’s necessary to replay the Depeche Mode song over and over again in my head. I need the certainty that the subject is alive and not a machine.
Regarding sex, it is a race of hearts. The harder a heart beats, the more love this person has to offer. I calculate the rate of all my sexual partners. Important is not their heart rate, but mine. And with Stuart I exceeded my limit. Like Will he concentrated on nothing but me and he made me look into his eyes so my mind wouldn’t slip like it always did. With Stuart, however, it wasn’t just the way of penetration, but the way our hearts competed with each other. And for the very first time, I won.
That day I was tired, so I chose sadness.

 

by Paula Deckard (c) 2012

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