Strap-On

The strap-on rested between my legs. It was weighty. I pretended I could feel it when I moved my hand up and down the whole length of it, like it was really part of me. In the mirror I couldn’t help but admire it. It was beautiful in a way; soft pastel pink and long, a flamingo neck or milkshake straw, an extension of myself. I liked the angle in which it hung away from the rest of me; straight out with slight droop . In OSHA they advise you to position ladders at 45 degree angles to make the climbing easiest. That was my strap-on too; 45 degrees and it’s the first time I’ve ever felt sturdy enough to be considered a wall, proud to support whoever would take that climb. I liked how little my body looked and how powerful the strap-on made it appear, becoming a thick knot of muscle;capable, a pitbull, or jaguar, all prowess and strength.

All of the people I’ve known to have a real one had been drenched in taking, and I had been what was took. There is something about being the one who enters that says pioneer and the one who is entered that says room; the door knocked down and boot-marks on the hardwood floor. But I don’t want to pioneer or conquer; I want to enter on tiptoe. I want to cum with tenderness. My strap-on can be as gentle as my pussy and I need you to know that. There will be no taking here, I will not take anything from you. When you lay down for me I do not see a buffet in the way men have made a feast of me.

~~~
McKenzie Hurder is a new poet just beginning in Boston! She’s interested in the interiority of the self and how feminity shapes experiences. She believes writing is  a healing process as well as a gratitude process. Follow her on instagram @elwyn_esque

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