Letter to Charles Bukowski

Women. How could you do that to me?
Pull me in, speak in promising and beatiful simplicity, and then
dehumanize me.
A dead man stomping on my skull.
"Big Pussy, woman's greatest sin." Becuase, of course, I am reduced to the sexual pleasure I can offer you. But
, Of Course,
the sexual pleasure is not enough,
and I must also stroke your ego by submitting, by degrading, or by demonstrating some monstrous appetite for semen.

Big Pussy, Bukowski? There are about 3.25 billion cunts in the world right now, and they aren't made Big. The insides of a cunt, they close in and kiss each other all day long. There are no cunts out there whistling wide open, presenting a gap bigger than even the smallest of penii. There are no cunts out there with tissue limp and all give like some half-inflated flotation device. No, no, no.

But there are cunts out there with integrity. Not frigid. Not virginal. But women who want to experiment with their sexuality and who wish to maintain their integrity. Or not even so much wish, as are utterly incapable of yielding their integrity for the sake of an orgasm. Not yielding their integrity, of course, is defined as not being able to orgasm for a hung-over fat man flopping around inside their cunt the first time they have sex with him. For the same reason they don't orgasm while watching a mechanic cursing and flailing around on the underside of a car: It's not stimulating.

Big Pussy? No, no, no, Bukowski, let's name it properly: You had inadequate substance. You were swallowed whole in that girl's sexual desire, and your floundering around was the result of you being entirely too small as a man--not a penis--to support the simple demands of her sexuality. But you knew that already, and so had to name it, cast the blame outward, and accuse her of having a Big Pussy. No doubt, you meant for the accusation to cut deeper than an insult to her anatomy.

This makes you the scum floating around the rim of my toilet bowl.

I could have loved you, thought you immortal, absorbed you whole. But you threw that away, having never even met me, and presumed the right to stomp around on my skull.