‘Fantastic Breasts And Where To Find Them’ By Brenna Twohy
Here is one of the most memorable poems we heard about at the National Poetry Slam.
Ask me what kind of porn I’m into, and I will take you on a magical journey to fanfiction.com/harrypotter/nc17 What turns me on is Ginny Weasley in the Restricted Section with her skirt hiked up, Sirius Black in a secret passageway solemnly swearing he is up to no good, and Draco Malfoy in the Room of Requirement Slytherin in to my Chamber of Secrets, I am an unapologetic consumer of all things Potterotica, and the sexiest part is not the way Cho Chang rides that broomstick, or the sound of Myrtle moaning, the sexiest part is knowing they are part of a bigger story, that they exist beyond eight minutes in “Titty Titty Gang Bang,” that their kegels are not the strongest thing about them, and still, I am told that my porn is unrealistic. Not quite as erotic as flashing ads that say “JUST TURNED 18!” so you can fantasize about fucking the youngest girl you won’t go to jail for; I’m told that my porn isn’t quite as lifelike as a room full of lesbians begging for cock, told that this is what is supposed to turn me on, Don’t you give me raw meat and tell me it is nourishment, I know a slaughterhouse when I see one. It looks like 24/7 live streaming reminding me that men are going to fuck me whether I like it or not, that there is one use for my mouth and it is not speaking, that a man is his most powerful when he’s got a woman by the hair; The first time a man I loved held me by the wrists and called me a whore, I did not think, “RUN.” I thought, “This is just like the movies,” I know a slaughterhouse when I see one. It looks like websites and seminars teaching you how to fuck more bitches; Looks like 15-year-old boys bullied for being virgins; It looks like the man who did not flinch when I said “Stop,” and he heard, “try harder,” If you play-act at butchery long enough you grow used to the sounds of the screaming. It is just a side effect of industry; Everything gets cut into small, marketable pieces, you can almost forget they were ever real bodies. I will not practice bloody hands. I will not make-believe dissected women. My sex cannot be packaged, my sex is magic, it is part of a bigger story; I am whole. I exist when you are not fucking me, and I will not be cut into pieces anymore.