When I watched the Annabelle Chong story I was disturbed. It was a moving documentary, a well executed piece of work, but I wondered particularly, about her relationship to sex, her public embracing of what we usually keep private. She was starring in a Gang Bang and I watched the male 'actors' sitting in the auditorium waiting their turn. Each one of them was there for their own particular set of reasons. Each one waiting for the man before him to finish so that they might step up to the body on the table, the thin Asian lady, the piece of flesh smelling of other mens' sperm and sweat and pheramones.
Am I like Annabelle Chong? Am I the same feisty but fragile creature, daring the waiting hoards to step up to the plate? Am I using sex as a shield, a red rag, distracting the bull from the truth of the situation. And what is the truth?
The truth is that I am invisible under this veneer of sexuality. I am somewhere inside and sometimes it is impossible for anyone, including myself, to find me. Sometimes I am unsure if there is really any 'me' to find at all.
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