99 Problems, and My Clit Isn’t One
Somewhere in the rooms of ruined houses, cheap hotels, and marital beds grown colder than the ghosts inside them, a thousand hands have tried to solve her–
Most left her bored, half-sighing, wondering if this was the ecstasy men claimed, or just the entry fee for being alive.
He came so fast she thought the clock was wrong, apologized by checking his phone, and called it “love” as if she hadn’t seen love drip off the side of her thigh and vanish into dirty sheets.
She’s learned patience from porn that lied about everything–every fake scream, every quick edit, every man who thinks his spit is a sacrament, every hand that’s more apology than worship.
He says, “Relax,” but his fingers miss the mark, fumbling like a priest who lost his faith but still wants the power.
Her body’s a haunted mansion, full of locked doors and forgotten rooms, while he rushes the front hall and wonders why nothing opens, why no light ever stays on for him.
She’s called “hard to please” by men who have never traced the slow, looping ritual that would let her open–the breathing, the teeth and tongue, the grinding and the gasp–
They claim she’s “complicated” as if complexity’s a flaw and not the reason the gods invented lust in the first place.
She can come alone with two fingers and the memory of better nights, but when the sheets are crowded with shame, she bites her lip, counts ceiling tiles, fakes a gasp for mercy, and lets him finish, then finishes herself.
He tells his friends he’s a “giver,” and she lets him, out of the pity you reserve for lost children and sad pets.
She’s not broken. Her clit isn’t a crime scene.
She wants to be devoured, not pitied. Wants to be made holy in sweat and sated violence, not talked down to in the language of boys raised by bad porn and worse priests.
If he ever read her like a spellbook, he’d see the map: circles, patience, roughness only when invited, mouth open and hungry as if praying to a goddess who still answers.
She doesn’t need a savior–she needs a sinner willing to be lost in her heat, to make her shake and laugh and curse at the ceiling until the walls learn her name.
The problem isn’t her. The problem is men who learned the wrong hymns, who think climax is a race, who think after is a cigarette and not a place you live in for hours,
Who think “foreplay” is a negotiation, not a holy requirement, who think lube is for pornstars and not every honest fuck.
She’s had enough of their pride and their endless apology.
She’s made love to herself more honestly than any man ever did,
Turned her bed into a sanctuary of sweat and fevered hands,
Stared down the shame and the guilt, the old words and old rules,
And come out grinning, soaked, undefeated, bored by anything less than full-blown worship.
Let him brag to his friends. Let him call her “too much.”
She’d rather die dry than live denied.
Ninety-nine problems, but none of them are in her blood or her sex or her skin.
She is her own answer, her own invocation.
The clit isn’t a problem–it’s the riddle that unmakes the world for any lover who bothers to ask the right question and wait for the trembling, brutal, sacred reply.