“

Our sentence may be caught in the sweet grey matter of another’s head; our sweet pink matter may grasp a cock or a finger and hold it tight and squelchy as a toddler’s fist. Still, we are alone.

But the beauty is that this futility doesn’t stop us. We may be restrained by our own humanity, and in the prisons of our own flesh, but we reach out, and we reach out, and we are reached, and we touch in language and in flesh and if we’re very, very lucky, in both, and occasionally we meet in bright hot white-pink seismic flashes and we feel blessed indeed.

You speak my language. You get me, and as I lie under you, around you, writhing like Joycean syntax below you, we get each other, briefly, painfully and sweetly.

”

— Chelsea G. Summers On a Grammatology of Fucking

December 26, 2009, 4:50pm