Why is there no girl?

April 29, 1977 at 8:00 pm (1977)

I can't get over my single-star need, my desire, my want for a girl. I must have one. I must have a girl.

Gradually my spirit has sunk out of me, turned bone, dropped out of me. No longer in quick, quivering flesh-form, but bone. Every car passing, tonight outside the window, helps drive my spirit out of me. And the day-hours in classes, in the library, reading, the order of day-to-day living—hounds the spirit more and more completely out of me. Damn knowledge, I want spirit.

All these Christians with their eternal afterlifes, they are able to hinge everything on knowledge, and on the mind that is a soul—not me.

It is my whole life that is at stake, here, now, this very minute. For me there is no afterlife; everything depends now on touch, on connecting with the other—on a girl.

And always, I recoil away from touch—afraid of stings.

I want a girl, touch with a girl. I want total consummation with her, the utter physical, emotional entrance. Everything, all life itself, must depend on it, touch with a girl; otherwise it isn't good enough. For me life itself is at stake, and must be at stake. It can be no other way.

I have to be willing to risk the sting of complete rejection, or the touch can't be gained. I have to risk. I have to risk.

But most girls—it just scares me to think of it.

My body, whole body, is ready, is created for a girl. And what keeps me from one?

How to make touch? How to know who to make touch with? How to judge stingers from non-stingers?

And damn Christianity is a further problem—so many Christians, so many God-believers. I don't want to be forced to deny someone else's experience. If a person believes in God, that's fine. I'll leave them alone; no need to go denying their experience, which is only cruel stinging.

But so many girls, 95%, believe in God, and how is one to know? Most of the other 5% are just vulgar, meaningless, searching stingers.

It seems to me easier to find boys who don't sting, who aren't Christian, yet view life sacredly—than it is to find girls.

My blood flows only for a girl—it has no other reason. The very redness of my blood is sexual; the very blood-flush that enters my breasts and lower chest skin, is sexual. My cheeks, even my earlobes, are sexual and await the sexual touch of a girl. My arms, even they seem to exist solely for intertwining the girl. They yearn. They yearn. With almost pain, they yearn for her. Beneath my fingernails, the redness, even that is sexual. Everywhere my blood goes, at the skin's surface, it is out for touch with woman. Touch of blood; touch of blood.

Blood.

The penis, so red with blood. The legs, thighs, red with blood. Neck, red with blood. Hands, hands, red, red, red with blood. And my arms are a light bronzy red.

But there is no girl.

“Why?” my arms ask. My whole body asks,

“Why?”

Why is there no girl?

“What are you up to up there, that there is no girl?” My body is not happy. My body is overcome with the urge to mutiny—a change in government.

“We want a change in government!”

“We want mating, or we mutiny!”

Why am I failing up there, when my whole body is blood-ready, won't fail—but gets no chance? My body; my dear, dear body. It won't take this. Must, must have a girl—it's only reasonable. A reasonable request. Just a girl, that's all. Surely there are girls around. So many, so many girls. So why this de-spiriting, involuntary chastity?

You see, there are emotional considerations, I explain; you can't just go out and grab a girl any girl. Like as not she or someone, you maybe, will suffer. You can't take a girl just as object—even if she takes you just as object back.

My body, even, agrees with this. It doesn't want pain—even emotional pain. Yet, it is telling me, sometimes the choice must be a choice between pains; and perhaps better to suffer a bit of emotional pain than the engulfing, sterilizing spiritlessness of this damn chastity.

Then, next girl I see, I'll invite her to bed. Even outdoors beneath the magnolia tree. But I warn you, there are repercussions to these things.

A touch means a touch; a blood-touch means a blood-bonding. Emotionally, physically, sexually, maybe even socially, if she becomes pregnant. There are repercussions. The bonding itself is a repercussion, when it bonds unlikes. When it bonds me with the wrong girl—with one who, it turns out, stings.

To be stung by the very one you touch, nothing can utterly destroy spirit faster.

One must discriminate among girls. And so my attention to earrings, to shaved legs. For those are major clues, see.

But all right, body. I'll be, from now on, more radical in my search for a girl. Every girl I'll ask:

“Do you wear earrings?”

“Do you shave your legs?”

If they slap me, I'll consider I got off lucky.

I've got to pass my life out of my body into another. My life, my whole life, must be passed. My seed, my blood, my body, my thoughts, my warmth, my sense-feelings, my emotions, my very breath, it must pass into her. Or I am nothing. I am a dead thing. And I want her, I must have her, all of her passed into me that can be passed. Or I have no spirit, my life ebbs low, miserly, and I am wretched.

The very hairs on my arm, the very hairs on my arm must be worshipped by someone. My own worship gives them nothing. They must be worshipped from outside, and I can't do it. In return, I will worship every part of her from outside.

I am desperate for this stuff. My desperate blood rushes, ready; but nothing is ever accomplished, for there is no other's blood to provide the accomplishment.

Tonight, how can I survive tonight?—another night passing, and no girl-touch.

In day, how the sun so sensuously falls on me, and my blood rushes to the skin, to lap at delightfully at the sun. Oh, oh, the strength given me by the sun, how I feel it streaming into me.

But it all goes to waste. All runs out, unused. My blood cannot hold onto it; it laments. It has the sun there burning in it, it rushes eager, eager, with the warm sun-embers in its power. But, nowhere to bestow them, its power. No other, outside; no girl, with which to turn embers into passion, into unknown, rushing, wild touch. It can't be done when there's no other. When there is no sister blood.

Oh my male blood seeks female blood, and can't find it. Oh it rushes, it rushes, and there is no thing to rush to. And the sun burns out, sterile, in my blood. Sterile, unused sun.

And after, my spirit just falls atrophied in me, strengthless, and a feeling of no meaning.

A girl. But she must be one who can give me her tip-full, blood-full touch, her whole self, and especially the eager, silent self.