And He was asking him, "What is your name?" And he said to Him, "My name is Multitude; for we are many."
«Erection: center of the sexual fenotipism. I’m part of this imposture; I remember when I didn’t ‘have a boner’ the first time I ‘slept’ with my girlfriend: I blamed myself for it. And I became a cock vigilante; I’d always taken a peek between the swirling bodies to be sure I wouldn’t be betrayed again.»
day 6, around 1 p.m.
I slept alone. I laid down with H., who, on arriving to bed, held my naked body against hers. I fell asleep restless. I woke up half an hour later with the abrupt feeling
[We are not libertarians; we cannot be so because we no longer intend to be more ‘ourselves’, to be ‘freer’. ‘Ourselves’ is a fiction. If ‘we’, as others feel us and think of us , is an illusion, then ‘we’, as ‘we’ feel and think of ‘ourselves’, is equally an illusion. The processes of constitution of identity must be completely separated from the personal sphere and be recognized essentially in the realm of context. Only then may the sovereignty of such identities be challenged.]
with this abrupt feeling that something was wrong. I wished H. goodnight and went to a bed in another room. It’s unusual this feeling of being safer as a lonesome naked body than as an embraced one.
I woke up again with the feeling that something was displaced, that something wasn’t quite right. I read H’s last entry and realize that if this dichotomy of desire does exist, although I’ve never felt it, then there is an obvious supplement to the production of its naturality: the performative iteration = the GrandMother. We continued reading Testo Junkie:
I remember that the first time I fucked a guy his dick felt like a secondary subject of involuntary movement, whose operation could not be a reliable indicator of desire or arousal. On the contrary. It was like I was facing a significant impostor, an ancestral biopolitical residue whose presence was able to eclipse the place where desire really comes from.
The erectile dick is the instrument of the imposture that thinks the erection as an equivalent to arousal, erasing its multiplicity. Erection: center of the sexual fenotipism. I’m part of this imposture; I remember when I didn’t ‘have a boner’ the first time I ‘slept’ with my girlfriend: I blamed myself for it. And I became a cock vigilante; I’d always taken a peek between the swirling bodies to be sure I wouldn’t be betrayed again.
The Man who doesn’t know how to use the penis is impotent, has no power. Im-potent. And every time the feeling would repeat itself, it remited to the image of my wilt dick, to that physiognomic dissonance felt by the one who wants to raise an arm, and cannot, who wants to stretch a leg, and cannot. Looking back, I see a double-impotence. The impotence of not being a man and of not being able to not be one. The impotence of not being able to erect my dick and of failing to go beyond it. The inability, lack of potency, of power, the impotence of being no more than a phallus.
But today I feel more skin than phallus. The skin; it has been my sexual organ par excellence. My back, my neck.
Pleasure has also been having another topology. .
[In a homosexual community dominated by the obsession with “top” and “bottom” identities, the penetrative paradigm, it’s not always easy to explore forms of non-genital sexual pleasure, or experience roles that are not directly imported from the mainstream gay porn script.
[The anal pleasure of penetration lost its subversive capacitance as it was incorporated into new normative sexualities, as homosexuality was constructed. The affinity around a non-genital form of pleasure was incapacitated by the identity constructed upon it.]
another topology. I do masturbate. I cum occasionally when having sex. But the greatest pleasure I have been having, the one I have sought, does not resemble a hand-job; does not have the form of male ejaculation. It’s similar to what I feel when, on awakening after a day of exercise, I stretch the sore muscles; I strain the tension of the day before; I provoke the pleasure and caress the skin with some strength. I masturbate my legs, my dorsal muscles, the ones near the collarbone or around the neck. Dermo-muscular pleasure.
Here’s the problem: beyond the institutional context defined by the state, testosterone is no longer part of a hormone replacement therapy and simply becomes an illegal drug. Like cocaine or heroin. One has then to face the consequences: I am addicted to testosterone.
This is not a solitary thought in Testo Yonqui: Preciado builds the whole conception of a pharmacopornographic era inhabited by beings that are “defined by the substance(s) that dominate(s) their metabolisms, by the cybernetic implants that allow them to act, by the kinds of desires [governed molecularly and semiotically] that guide their actions.” As I put the book down I realize, with a certain slowness, that this displacement I feel, this malaise, the abrupt feeling I wake up and go to bed with, it has to do with my own drugs.
Well, yes, I take an estrogen pill every day, and the anti-androgenic supplement, and the anxiolytics that have been present long enough for me to say they’re part of my body.
But these are not the drugs I am thinking about. While B.P. intoxicates herself with testosterone, and becomes addicted to it, I techno-drug myself: the cyproterone, estradiol and CloxamTM, the vegan food, the continuous readings, the absence of the bustling city and the permanent drag, either dressed or naked, are a habitat different from the one where I’m used to living, where I form myself, where I generate my self. And here I don’t have my apathy drugs, my ritalinic(TM?) cocktail of TV series available on streaming and the constellation of sites where several times a day I manage the fluxes of repeated news. Here I do not have my ¿natural? anxiolytics – masturbation and pornography – because since they are subject to the reflexive look they cannot escape the consciousness that constitutes the anxiety mechanism. And here, far from my psychometropolis, I do not have the drugs that get me high and that distract me from life: dealing with rough arguments on the internet, managing conflicts with my family, or letting myself sink in the psychoanalytic surveillance of emotions. I cut myself with a small blade, I bleed, it hurts, and the pain feels better than having an inert skin.
This is what I understood this morning: my unease, my inability to be, is nothing else than a process of withdraw. I’m in rehab. I left, for a couple of days, the drugs I take daily, and my body begins to resent it.