the habit of being

I see things that should disgust me, would have disgusted me, and find that they are not so different from myself.

- - - -

“Where did the sincerity go?” my mother asked, in tears. “What happened to the sincerity?”

“You had no business being where I’ve been. People are fragile, Katharine.”

“I’m scared of what mighta happened to the sincerity,” she whispered.

- - - -

I remind myself that I am not a whore, that I have never been a whore. Not then, not before, not ever.

I have seen them, on New York street corners. I have seen them, in truck stop parking lots. “Lot lizards,” they called them.

- - - -

An image of contemporary sexuality: me, on the bed, the sheets falling off, legs splayed, the pocket rocket, the rabbit pearl, the knock-off K-W jelly. My boyfriend’s porn on the computer screen.

I write this with the intention of putting it where someone else will see. I have been doing this for years. Since I was young, very young.

- - - -

I didn’t bring back many books. All his books take up all the shelves. I picked only a few. I did not realize until I opened the boxes: Lolita, Therese and Isabelle, The Lover. Anais Nin, Colette. These books are all about sex. Almost every title I chose.