HUNDO EXPANSION | GUMMY & SQUIRMING | PROSE POEM | MEMOIR
Ode to Kit Love
I created you as an alter ego to be a money maker of hot smut, or so I thought.
Your name Kit Love was a pun I had hoped was more chin stroker, and less groaner.
The sex and situations were over the top, the scenes graphic and detailed, the characters as dimensional as a straight line.
You wrote fingering and fapping fantasies meant to produce squirming orgasms, not erotic existentialism,
But I had hoped that you were at least a couple notches above Fifty Shades of Grey.
As you wrote through me, a pattern emerged:
Often, the story
— with a corny title like “Gender Swap Gummy Bears” and told in first person narrative —
is of a lonely and awkward guy who’s magically transformed into a hot slutty woman who’d fuck anybody willing till she cums again and again and again.
For me, this template was So. Fucking. Hot!!!!
Yeah, they were basic and porny and riffed off a lot of stereotypes.
The tales were meant merely to be masturbation aids.
I for one had to take many breaks in between (or during) scenes.
You wrote the endings all in the same vein: the sexually adventurous protagonist realizes that her transformation wasn’t a curse, but rather what she wanted all along.
I thought you were so clever writing that ending. What a plot twist!
Then a funny thing happened between your writing about the guy transformed by the gumdrop and fucking non-stop and writing about the guy transformed by Santa’s elf and fucking non-stop: I realized the narrative “I” was actually me.
I wanted to be those women, to be free from the shackles of my male body, to be sexually liberated and proud.
I would go through a lot of soul searching: Was it real? Are those thoughts just a weird sexual fetish? Do I truly want a pussy? Am I really — dare I say it — a woman?
But the night of that epiphany I did what I often do when I have something on my mind: I drove. I wound up pulling over on some dirt road out east of Denver, surrounded by farm fields. I got out of the car, the cold October air showing my breath. I looked up, the Milky Way in sight, away from all the light pollution. A shooting star streaked. And it sparked: I had my first name.
Years later, on a wintery morning in 2022 I received the court order with my chosen name on it. The paper felt magical, somehow, like the tattoo, or Cupid’s Arrow, or the magical weed, or any of the other plot devices I had used to transform my main characters.
Thank you Kit Love for showing me the way.
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