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I, Clitoris
by Adam Engel
www.dissidentvoice.org
January 24, 2004

"Let’s face it: most guys know more about what’s under the hood of a car than the hood of a clitoris. Maybe that’s why the biggest complaint women have about sex is an inability to reach orgasm during intercourse."

-- Ian Kerner, Ph.D., She Comes First

“A man goes down. No excuses. No hesitation.”

-- Amy Sohn, Just Be a Man: Six Simple Suggestions

Shame on you thinking with your monkey heads these 5 thousand years. Shame on you all for wasting this planet without at least consulting me.

Your heads above and below incurred this outrageous bill from Mother Earth, but we're out of all the Time we borrowed we have no collateral we cannot pay we’re through as a species, finished.

To hell with your priests and philosophers, your Taylor, Ford and Edison, your Bacon, Newton and Descartes.

If only you’d consulted ME, tried thinking with MY head for a change. It only LOOKS small, but that tender button in its little red riding hood is just the peak of a tree of neural networks and interconnected pleasure mechanisms from A to G-spot.

I’m the most complex organ South of the Brain.

What you see is the fruit of what you don’t see the invisible tree of pleasure beyond your Xanadu dreams.

But it’s always “size” with you “size, size size” and can you keep it up for fifteen minutes and the world you’ve built around this farce is unlivable your sperm ain’t so fructifying after all, now that you’ve poisoned the damned womb.

Look where your two-headed thinking has brought us. Look up from your Popular Mechanics and Time Magazine. Look where we are and quit your “we can fix it” babble cause it’s the same narrative, the same failed methods to cure the same pandemic madness.

You should have come to me sooner. Now, I can't help you. Us. Our children. MY CHILDREN. And of course when it all hits the fan you'll cry for "Mommy" in your agony,

Idiot.

Once, a long time ago, when I was important, before your Totem polls and Sky Gods and Taboos (not that long ago, actually, in Cosmic Time); the Goddess erupted from your awe. No "Holy Men" had to teach you to respect the absolute mystery of ME and the abundance of my Womb, nor could they dominate you from fear, for it wasn't really the "fear of god" with which THE MAN oppresses his workers, it was LOVE OF LIFE. You thought I was quite important for a while there, some 200,000 years, the bulk of human evolution.

Yes, it was, once, long ago, evolution. Not this hell on earth most of the six-billion folks on this overpopulated, biologically exhausted planet are "living."

And believe me, if you’d been thinking with MY head there’d be no more or less people alive than the earth can sustain. I am, or was, the mistress of ecology. Creatrix of every civilizing invention to satisfy human need and desire (agriculture, medicine, art, the ecstatic song and dance precursors to the "Sex, drugs and Rock 'N' Roll" trip you thought you dreamed up in the sixties) without waste. You name it I figured it out right here between these lithe, muscular thighs.

200,000 years of progress, then YOU mess up the planet in less than five thousand? Our mothers are rolling in their wombs.

Now nobody but nobody can argue with me when I say you’ve devastated the planet, you and THE MAN who owns you (while you pretend to be so free). Wrecked it. Trashed like a Frat House after celebration of The Big Game. Goodbye. No saving MOTHER this time.

Soon, very soon: nothing to drink but crude oil and petroleum. The same black goo that got us into this mess cause you wouldn’t listen to me when I said leave that slime in the deepest deep, where it belongs, there’s plenty of renewable energy up here, where Life is, you don’t need that "Little Deuce Coupe" or Mazerati or whatever to prove how big your “thing” is, I believe you.

THE MAN is, after all, only a man.

But what do I know? Some say all I need is a good licking (I wont argue) and my place is in the kitchen or the bedroom, after all, so what do I know?

I know this: I exist only to bring pleasure. Scientifically proven fact. To make women happy is why I'm here. Ecstasy my cosmic purpose. Ecstasy my evolutionary function.

Go ahead, buddy, beat that.

Adam Engel writes and lives in NYC. He has published essays poems and fiction in numerous magazines, online and off, and has just completed his first full-length book, Topiary, which he hopes to publish by the Spring. He can be reached at bartleby.samsa@verizon.net 

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