I’m Done with Dick — I Deserve Something More
Learning to discern the sacred from the ordinary
Something awful happened to me this spring: For the first time in my life, I lost interest in dick. I didn’t care to see it. Fantasize about it. Touch it. Taste it. Enjoy it inside my body.
Nope.
The thought of dick made me sick to my stomach.
It’s not that dick isn’t a joyful experience in life. Or that it isn’t beautiful in all its forms (except for dick pics). Or that it isn’t one of the most fascinating parts of the human body.
The problem is that I only know it as a weapon.
My body has been battered by dick’s insatiable hunger. It’s been torn, it has bled, and even in my pain, dick has criticized me for not being more “ready” or being able to “power through a little while longer.”
My heart has been cleaved by dick’s single-minded focus. It has been broken beyond repair by all the I love yous and I care about yous that so easily cleared a path into my body, only to have that love and care rescinded when dick was spent and fulfilled.
And my soul has been shattered into glass so fine, it feels like a pile of sand for all the ways dick has held it so tenderly, affirmed its worth so passionately, only to…
