Not Kidding

by Chelsey Clammer

I’m not the first person to say “fuck kids.” Not fuck in any sort of physical action way, because that’s just fucked up. No other way to look at that. “Fuck kids” as in pa-shaw. I got other shit to do than tell another human being they’re doing the whole life thing wrong, to taint their experience of what it means to be a person by doing something that’s really fucked up like telling them what they can and cannot do, and that I—because my body has been breathing longer than theirs—know how life is to be lived.

The word I hate most in the English language is taint. My friend hates moist the most. She’s queer. Like me. Moist in the sense of some sexual connotations is not as fun as the slippery word lube and how that slides right off your tongue. Moist is a soggy vagina. Moist is sponge cake with a side of flan—which, btw, I fucking hate flan. It’s a texture thing, which is why, perhaps, moist is such an ugh word. “I feel moist today.” See?

This way to a reiteration of a just-stated opinion -> ugh.

Taint, however much it makes me vomit a little in my mouth when I hear it, is actually a word a love to speak (ironic, no?)—the fun phonetic obstacle course of those t bookends and its innards that consist of a rebellion against the alternative “is not” conjunction of white American English. (Side thought: It’s stupid to think one version of the same word is classier than another. Take towards, for instance. Toward works, but towards feels a bit more sophisticated possibly because it has more letters, and of course more = smarter, because as shown with taint and fuck, the single-syllable words ain’t hard to say. A kid could say them. One should keep in mind, however, that kids under the age of five may be smarter than all of us, because their minds ain’t yet tainted with fucked up shit, such as the God Bless America US History lessons provided by the racist and lie-filled and delusional and single-syllabled dumbness that is the public education system. And to prove my theory a bit more: the acceptance rate of ain’t versus isn’t? More syllables, again, wins.)

Tainted doesn’t bother me. (Why, Chelsey? Because of its two syllables that can mean I’m more intelligent? I’m glad we’re all catching on here), but taint means spoiled, and taint means that anatomical border between sexy shit and shit-shit, which to me are two concepts that must have a boundary between them, so the utility of taint pretty much rocks, but the sound of the word just feels sharp and penetrative in a way I am not comfortable with. Though now that I’m in a post-dyke era of my identity because this lesbian married a dude, I get how penetrative is pretty fun. That said, the symptoms of straight sex can really suck sometimes. Re: fuck kids.

And now I would like to introduce you to the three most important letters in my life: IUD, which isn’t actually an ego thing. I do not come before U, Duh. Unless we’re talking sex here, which I think we are, and how I prefer a good clit-gasm first, followed by the mighty G-gasm(s). So in terms of what occurs on the north side of the taint boundary (if we’re talking about me on my back, and not my knees, which gives the correct coordinates of my cunt’s location as stated as being northwardly), I do indeed come before U, my dear husband Dude.

He’s a great guy.

Cunt is supposed be a no-no word, but I like cunt, and not just because of my dyke taste preferences. Cunt has character to it. It soft-curves you in with that voluptuous c. An entrance point, then the pointy thing—like my preferred order of orgasms, eat it then stick a fork in it and by god now we can circle back to the pointy thing and the real topic at hand here.

IUD = fuck yes, because IUD = fuck kids.

Ain’t that handy?

When I moved into my new apartment post-relationship with the philosophy-lovin’ crazy in a fucked up sort of way four-year girlfriend, my transgender friend, West, was hauling boxes up the back stairway—rickety is the word to use here. Though sway works well, too—he observed there were massive layers of putty-gray paint on the original wood. We’re talking years of layers. “Well,” West said, “thank god for the paint, or else these stairs would break.”

I think of those stairs every time I hear “taint,” because of the phonetic similarity with paint. I never knew which version of human genitalia existed with West’s version of human, which seems irrelevant but we’re talking about sex here, so why not include it? Plus, it brings West a bit more into this essay, which is helpful because I now need to come up with an ending  that circles back around and makes a point and I can do so by mentioning the fact that West and I bonded over our similar life theme song of fuck kids.

Ain’t that the truth.

Fuck kids.

I’m not kidding.

Fuck kids, indeed.

In other words, I have better shit to do than dictate some little being’s life, such as contemplate the phonetic texture and taste of moist, post-dyke.

Chelsey Clammer is currently enrolled in the Rainier Writing Workshop MFA program. She has been published in The Rumpus, Essay Daily, The Water~Stone Review and Black Warrior Review among many others. She is an award-winning essayist, and a freelance editor. Clammer is the Essays Editor for The Nervous Breakdown and Founding Editor of Her first collection of essays, BodyHome, looks at how we can find the concept of home in our bodies. Her second collection of essays, There Is Nothing Else to See Here, is forthcoming from The Lit Pub, Fall 2015. You can read more of her writing at:   

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