We can do this differently.

Vertaling. Klik hier voor het origineel in het Nederlands.

Every time I heard “You are too eager,” I shook my mane, as if I was chasing flies away; “Stop searching, and you will find it,” and I raised my eyes to heaven; “Why do you attract such men?” and I wondered if I could hit an artery with my fork; “Pain is perception.” Of course. How about I permanently separate your head from your torso? Let’s see how that works for your perception.

In short, the well intended advice from friends and relatives was beginning to irritate.

As were the men to who I owed it to. You can only hear : “What lingerie are you going to wear?” so many times. The second 20 year old who doesn’t want to see you in his own city because “not all his friends have to know it yet”, and the oasis between your legs becomes and impregnable fortress. If I give lap dances. If I swallow sperm. And that he thinks about me a lot. Especially on Wednesday night when his wife is out.

Instead of being approached like a delicate oyster, that requires gentle opening before you are allowed to taste it’s salty sweet content, I was being treated like a fast food drive-through. And no one even bothered to look for pearls.

It was Monday June 6, 2011. I had been single for 4 years and 7 months, and a writer for the same time, and in me something vanished.
It wasn’t a “Fine! I’ll leave!” where the departing party hopes to be begged back.
Neither was it a departure where tasks are handed over to the new employee.
It was a woman gathered her belongings, she packed her lingerie,  her diary.  She put the chilled bottle of wine and the chocolate in her handbag. Her replacement wouldn’t enjoy them anyway.
When she got into her cab she caught a glimpse of a motorcycle pulling into the street, speeding over the hump and against traffic. The slim rider wore her long hair in a pony tail.

I re-read emails that came without hi or bye. The DMs that offered or asked sexual services. I was called for phone sex and turned off my cell phone. I removed all men I had been in love with from my address book.
Slanting penises. Suddenly I thought a lot about slanting penises. And half-hard penises. The ones that stood out straight, possessed other hilarious features. And the muses I had never slept with all turned out to have some ridiculous quality or other Achilles’ heel, that demanded them to be written off as lover, muse and man.
It took me less than 24 hours to extract root and branch of all my unseemly feelings.

I cleared out my schedule in order to make time for publishing my books, and I estimated if I had enough Dutch erotica to turn it into a book. Since the writer of those stories had left, I would have to manage with what she left me. She was probably in Cyprus on a beach by now, dressed in a golden bikini, and interrogating some Muslim boy if he was circumcised.

It was a Thursday night, I was writing a blog post. “You were cuter on your previous avatar!” one of my 370 Twitter followers cheered.

The quiver was leaning against the antique desk. A pink heart was hanging down from it, as were a miniature perfume and a keychain with an A with little diamonds. My fingers slid over the smooth leather before I pulled the arrow out. The bow was behind the computer. It was a smaller model than I was used to, but it would suffice. I placed the arrow. The string creaked when I drew the bow.

“Liked the previous one better?” I tweeted back. “Deal with it! I’m not here for my pretty face. And  for hamburgers you can piss off to the Mac.”

The time I was shooting hearts was behind me. From now on I was aiming below the belt. I would leave the slanting penises up to my imagination.