Another scene, if possible (Magyar, Dani)

by Cunt Incognita (Pina in Budapest)


To Dani:

i was told by you that “fuck off” means “come here”. words and actions and wishes and wantings can be very confusing.

finding strength and acceptance in myself after hopeless despair. letting go of the control you had over me [a love in me, eager, and later – anxious to please] that started with me pronouncing your name Da-ni-el because you said you wanted it that way instead of the way others say it: Dan-yel.

now you’re Dani. and sometimes “leave me alone” means “leave me alone.”

and i’m left with the confusion by a heart that started beating with a childlike love.

a love that observed and watched and waited. a love used to rejection. a love that saw you light up when i was standing bent over doing stretching, and you jumped up behind trying out a position, not asking: “ How would you feel about me trying out a sexually dominant position on you? Is it okay if I check what it would be like having my penis in your cunt when you’re doing astanga-yoga? Would this be relaxing for you? Or threatening? Disrespectful?” a love wanting to be wanted. to be seen. a love accepting, with a fear of not getting accepted. a love with the fear of rejection. not moving as freely as yours. not feeling as free. a love – observing watchful waiting.

i remember the boys in school. during the breaks. chasing the girls. groping. touching. i remember feeling pleased. feeling noticed. the cultural codes around me showing that this is natural and normal. i remember having mixed feelings about it. i remember fighting back. biting back.

the teachers had a talk with me, told me not to.

for some time i was a comforting love. a safe haven for you. a love listening to you complain about your other relations. a love that was new and nurturing for you. a love that now hates the idea of having been the comforting woman, instead of the sister in solidarity — the network that works fully to your advantage that could so easily turn around — instead of shattered by you: women sharing experiences, hands reached out, safe and strong — we — listening to our own voices and our own stories instead of the version that you give us.

for many months you told me to wait. you told me “later”. with words you said you loved me, and that i’m important, and. you avoided talking through the problems, and you told me that you developing a new relation would help our relation. when i tell this to others their faces get distorted with disbelief. you tell me now that my reality is distorted. i agree. it’s twisted and sick from all the things left unsaid. the things you labeled “none of your business”. our interaction for a year was not nothing to me. i lived with it 24/7. when we met here in budapest you said, with words, that it’s been the same for you (contradicting other words you said before).

i was a childlike love. and i am. still. when we’ve met i’ve felt present. sometimes wanting to say: I feel affected by you, You move me, I miss you, I want to have sex with you.

happy that i have the opportunity to say Asshole in your presence. feeling strange about holding other things inside. maybe cause you don’t want to meet. you don’t want to see or listen. you don’t care. you’ve told me a clear “fuck off”.

and i was loving and blind. and i told myself lies. and i lived in fantasies. and in memories of the tenderness that was there in the madness, oppression, repression, sexism, drinking – my own crazy crazy aggression – unfocused, random. a love knowing abuse and refusing it, a childlike heart beating through the shocks and scorn and isolation. a grown-up heart knowing no other way than wrapping itself up in sarcasm. a weak protection: “Hello, my name is Milla, i’m in love and i don’t feel cared for or respected – you don’t seem to listen to me, i want you close, but i need to escape – would you care to try my teeth?”

a love that learned to relate to you in the same way a battered child does to her parent. the conversations we had. the chats. they turned into staged plays. i felt like i was in a role. not free. couldn’t express myself freely anymore. knowing that i need to please you – follow and be sensitive to your emotions – in order to get a ‘semi-functioning’ conversation happening. like a woman in a marriage. like a woman in prostitution. knowing my position. feeling trapped and bitter, with no space to express it.

the many times you dominated the conversations. not caring for what was happening with me. the many questions left unanswered.

in me. wanting. to. work it out. why does equality feel like control to you?

you said many times that i’m weird and formal. what is spontaneous and free to you?

did you see me during this time? or was i just a reflection of your own desperation?

i feel like i know you. but i know that it’s not true.


2 Responses

  1. you should come in france .. no teacher has ever told me anything cause i was kicking the ass of annoying boys..
    but when i was kicking the balls ( could have been usefull later)!!!
    and even if they were quiet all crying before we even fight ( it seemed that i scared them so much that..) the teachers knew who were the crapules in the playground… and who were the ones defending the
    and also i remember that in my schools ( i moved on a few times) when boys were trying to touch the girls they were all shouting and fighting as they could ( sometimes no so strong enough) and sometimes crying. I don t remember that ever they felt please about…It has to be because of the french romantism and Cyrano de Bergerac…!!!! or..

  2. he tried to dry fuck you when you were practicing yoga?
    what kind of specimen do you meet arround? unlucky you!!!!

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