The Vagina Diaries - Entry #2: Vaginally Dominated Out of Home

by: B. Kodak

"She's made me lose my sense of 'home'. I don't feel centered anymore. But I love being off-centered. Completely surrendered. Janet Jackson, Nasty Girl no wait--Brittney Spears, Slave (for you)....but  like: transgendered!" I pause. I can hear myself. I salivate and swallow as I glance around the room. I wonder if these tweekers realize that I'm already high. I fight the urge to sniff. Sniffing at an NA meeting is almost a dead giveaway. Narcotics anonymous ...aka the legalized trap-house is a breeding ground for continued drug use.

I don't usually share anything actually relevant. I can't believe these fucktards had me actually share my personal life. 

"Mya? Aamya..." The shrill sound of her voice rips me from my second rate observation of the room. I know I've gone too deep. Spoken too much. There's no way out of this story:

"I was saying my house, it doesn't feel like my home..." I took a deep breath. How do you explain to mortals that you've encountered a genie? Houdini herself. 

Queen of the fucktards says, "Mya, this is a safe zone. Please continue. Why doesn't your house feel like home. Are you saying she somehow stole your house?!"

Fucking dummy. This is why this NA shit is pointless. These bitches are dumb. I half want to tell them: I am so not high enough for this shit. But this asshole has to sign my papers. She's the only one who can help me STOP attending this stupid shit. I realize, whether I tell my truth or not... I've gotta say something that sounds half decent.

I continue: "She didn't 'steal' my house. She stole my 'sense' of 'home'. The deeper I fall into her, the more I fall out of myself. So when I'm not with her, I don't recognize myself."

I close my eyes and squeeze my thighs together, my hips slide down and sightly to the left... I use my foot to stabilize myself in the chair. My body curves into an 's' as I slide up and to the right. I can hear her voice, like a liquid honey drug: it drips down my spine and into my blood stream. All that exists beneath my eyelids is her voice, the stage, and my chair-dependent yet ever-dancing body.

I listen to her purr as she rolls over. I remember how her eyes will open slightly before they would kiss her lids... allowing her to return to her dreams. I feel the familiar wondering of how far her dreams carry her away. I smell the citrus dancing through her pours as I watch her eyes dart beneath the lids. Even as I sit in rehab, I am lost in her.

Suddenly I feel like all the air is leaving the room. My nipples swell. I can feel my vagina pulse. Beneath my eyelids, I see her repositioning. My ears can hear the purring noise again. I can feel her clit against my ass. I remember how only hours before she allowed it to slide between my butt cheeks (as the warmth of her juices trickled downwards). I can smell our sweetness mixing together. She and her hypnotic vaginal powers dominate me. My pulse rises as I relive the feelings of her arms around me. I want her. Her smell becomes a taste that I crave. I choke. Then as I cough, desperate to clear my throat...

Q.o.f. interrupts my thoughts (that albeit are racing between a daydream, a fantasy, and a wet dream) by saying, "Mya... Dear, that doesn't sound healthy. It sounds like another kind of addiction."

I roll my eyes. (When the hell is this shit over?) I check my watch. (This bitch is dumb. 3 minutes. She can kiss my ass. Addict this bitch. How about I use the last 2 minutes to finish snorting my damn coke --in YOUR bathroom?) I smile. Walk gracefully to the bathroom.

As I walk, I remember her way of apologizing as she got dressed to leave (less than five minutes after she came-- so loudly that I was sure she wouldn't have the energy to stand) the night before, "I don't know what is happening but in all of my 30 years, I've never been touched like that." She kisses me on the forehead. I can see the layers of her words twist, unfold and stack themselves like prison bars --keeping her from me. She turns on her heel and leaves. I wonder at her ability to walk away. I was sure that the vaginal domination that just occurred would leave her trapped in my world, desiring to stay forever…allowing me to become her personal drug.

In the bathroom stall, I release the pendant from my neck. I prepare to see the white crystals dance upon my finger. My cell phone chimes. I read the text message with my right hand as I dig a straw from my purse with my left hand.

"Will call you in 2 minutes," I can hear her voice in my head as I read the words.

Finally, I sniff. 

My cell phone rings. I sniff twice more before lowering my head to read the screen. She has called.

 "Hello?" I can hear noise in the background. I feel her disconnection. Italy. So far. But it is the first time I have breathed all-day so I am happy to hear from her.

She says, "My show was amazing! Babe, these Italians love me! I wish you were here! We're about to grab something to eat now...I figured I'd call while I had a quick second." 

I mute the phone. I sniff. I cough. I unmute the phone. "That's awesome, beautiful. I'm happy for you. I miss you." More noise. I hear her cheering excitedly. 

"Babe, what'd you say?" She's back. I don't even remember what I've said. I try not to steal her high, "Girrrrlllluh! I said, DO IT!!! Go enjoy your night so tomorrow comes quicker and I can see you."

She says, "I never want tomorrow to come."

 

by: TT the artist

by: TT the artist

Just Things

by: Nicoletta Darita Brown

Just Things, 2014, Video, A Kuleshov Effect Experiment

In the 19010's and 1920's A Soviet filmmaker (Lev Kuleshov) was one of the first to dissect the effects of film editing and implied meaning. Kuleshov discovered through his research that depending on how shots are assembled the audience will attach a specific emotion to it. This short film is my play on this concept as I continue to develpoe my style as student/filmmaker.

ARTIST

Nicoletta de la Brown is a filmmaker, interdisciplinary sculptor, and performance artist. -- Like a magpie, Nicoletta assembles intriguing images and objects in reliquary. Her films and sculptural works are inventories of visual conversations: memories, sounds, objects, drawings, photographs, moving image, and other rendered notions.

Nicoletta studies all aspects of filmmaking at Maryland Institute College of Art. During her time as a full time student she has completely fallen in love with the medium. She excels at, and is most passionate, about directing, cinematography, and editing. Nicoletta has written and directed several short films. Her work has been well received by audiences at public screening events.

 

WEBSITE

 

The Vagina Diaries

by: B. Kodak

Introduction:

See, I’ve heard people say that vagina’s can be intriguing things, interesting things, … hell, I’ve even heard them labeled as “oddly-repulsive” things. I’ve bared witness to men, children, and those who could only be called “sadistic” describe vaginas as: “flowers, tuna fish, pearls, diamonds, kitties, kittens, cats, twat, snatch, goodies, candy, goody-boxes, nookie, private spots, woo-woo’s, unmentionables, monkeys, pum-pum, garages, ports, portals, and fantasy islands.” All equally ridiculous and wildly inaccurate.

See, the beauty of a vagina can be compared only to: the nature of the earth or the beauty of life, the purity of a newborn infant, the arousal found in everyday life: a woman awakening as the sunbathes her face “just so”, the delicacy and even brilliance of a perfectly cooked sunny-side up egg, or the hypnosis inspired by the sheer artistry of an aquatic being in its natural habitat.

Yet, men spit out epithets to the vagina –as if they are gifts to women: “Yea, I’m beating that pussy up. Who’s your daddy? Tell me it’s my pussy.” While there are some women who behave just as lowly –claiming stakes and false entitlements to: “What this pussy earned. Momma needs a new __________ (ßhell, fill in the blank). Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.

You might read these diary entries and decide: the author must be pessimistic, a negative Nancy, or simply unstable...which may bare some significance if this were only about my opinion of women or society and their degradation of their most precious gift. Rather, this is a collection of testimonies to this life creating gift...perhaps I fancy myself the creator of a twenty-first century version of The Vagina Dialogues.What makes these diary entries unique is that each voice represents a different person and their thoughts about, experiences with, and even journey to the discovery of the vagina. The voices are that of men and women all from diverse sexual backgrounds: straight, gay, lesbian, and transgendered. Each experience is different. Each unique. See, the one thing that society has forgotten to mention about a vagina is: it's a lot like our DNA, no two are the same.

image by: TT the Artist

image by: TT the Artist

 Brittaney and her first love

It's funny to be asked about my thoughts on female anatomy...specifically the female vagina. To me, talking about pussy is a lot like talking about my first love. I've watched countless shows that highlight the beauty, delicacy, and even intimacy involved in falling in love. I am 29 years old and the only thing I've ever felt intense feelings for is vagina. Vaginas have always spoken to me like a canvas speaks to an artist. I hear the sweet moistening sounds when a lady adjusts her sitting to squeeze out the obvious excitement. If she happens to be pantyless, I even hear the small release of air that comes out like an infant yawning. It never fails to bring a smirk out of me. I see it as an affirmation of my gift as a vaginal-whisperer. But perhaps if I had to round out a solid thought about the vagina--I could only be described as a "connoisseur".

The first time I knew I was in love with vagina was probably at the age of 14. It wasn't the hypnotic nature of porn or some earth-shattering orgasm that lead me to this resolve. Rather, it was watching a girl, on all fours, shaking her ass that captivated me. It was as if her vagina was trying to tell me something. Her name was Olivia.

Thinking of Olivia always takes me back: Trampoline in the back yard, marigolds springing from the ground (where there was grass), the sound of cicadas buzzing dangerously close to our bodies. To be young and free. For my biggest worry to be, "Does Olivia know that I like her, like her?"

The days were always the same: the 7th period bell would sound, I would rush to my locker to touch up my lip gloss before Olivia made it there. She'd round the corner with her Megan Goode shaped mouth, her Angelina Jolie daring eyes, and the ever so innocent Jennifer Love Hewitt look in her eyes. Always excited to tell me something (that she'd ramble on about the entire bus ride back to Davis-Monthan Air Force base). This day, it was romance.

"Did you read chapter 8? Omg. The Great Gatsby is amazing! I just love Daisy. She's so hard to read. And what do you think Jordan's deal is? I don't know but I'd sure love to be a world-famous golfer." She giggled.

I watched her mouth move as she laughed. The way her eyes folded and her lips turned upward. She turned to face me. Our eyes locked. I remember the roller-coaster occurring in my stomach. I feared that she finally saw it.

"Have you loved anyone yet?" She asked.

The look in her eye was odd to me. I didn't remember seeing the particular sparkle behind her eye before that day. "I don't know," I told her.

"You think you might love me?" She asked.

I was mortified. How could she possibly know what my look meant? How could she see it? I told her, "I might."

She smiled. It was as if she were waiting for me to tell the truth. But then she shrugged and simply stated, "We're going to make out when we get home. Think we should go to your house or mine?"

I was elated. Giddy. Could not possibly careless where she wanted to go. I only cared that she wanted to go with me.

We were silent the entire walk home: both pretending to be absorbed by the atmosphere. I kicked rocks and jumped over the cracks in sidewalks. She collected flowers, weeds, anything with color.

When we got to her house, she grabbed both of our bookbags and threw them on the living room couch. I remember my hands shaking as she grabbed my arm instructing me to "Come on."

In her room she asked, "I want you to give me a hickey. What do you want to try?"

I hesitated and mumbled, "I don't know."

Again, she giggled. She looked at me and said, "Yes you do. I've seen you think about it."

I covered my face with my hands. I could hear her moving. I expected her to grab my hands at any moment, to remove them from my face. But after what felt like an eternity, I realized, she wasn't going to touch me. I removed my hands. Olivia stood before me completely naked.

Silence.

She laid on the bed without a word. I could feel her eyes watching me. My eyes never left her body. I watched as she spread her legs. I watched her massage her own breasts. I watched one of her hands glide between her legs. I stood zombied. I stood as if hypnotized.

When she began to separate the lips of her vagina, it was if the music began playing again. The shock had worn off into a desperate curiosity.

Fingers intertwined with hers. Eyes closed, head back against the pillow. She taught me how to explore her.

Then I heard a creaking sound as the door opened...

Olivia shrieked. But it's not the shriek that I remember most clearly. The fact that I never saw her again doesn't seem to bother me either. I don't remember the (what must have been a horrified) look on her mother's face. I remember the vagina opening and closing, I remember the sounds it made. I remember it as the day I fell in love with vagina.

Image by: TT the Artist

Image by: TT the Artist

WRITER

Brittaney (B.Kodak) is an avid reader who teaches school by day and moonlights as a writer for the LGBT community by night. While the majority of her work focuses on the lesbian experience, she does tend to dabble in elements unique to Caribbean literature and superstition. Wildly passionate about literacy, Brittaney strives to publish her first fictional novel in the Winter of 2016. 

 

ILLUSTRATOR

Performer and Visual Artist, Tedra Wilson known as TT The Artist received her Bachelors in fine arts with a concentration in video from the Maryland Institute College Of Art. Her work is influenced by pop culture, politics, race, sexuality and gender. She is also a community artist and philanthropist  in the Baltimore arts community from hosting events at local venues to teaching art workshops and mentoring Baltimore City youth.