Mac Wilder

Mac Wilder (ze/zem/zyrs or any pronouns) is a homebound high femme whose work explores queercrip sexuality. Zyr work is forthcoming in Sinister Wisdom. Zyr self-published chapbooks and zines can be found at: justfor.fans/assonance

Easy read of the poems in the images above:

GLOSS FOR ONE MORE PERSISTENCE

until a lover hailed you, femme slut pretty pretty

Honorific. Femme meant worship

this lover, devoted, Please, femme-gasm

for me, soak the sheets with your femme

“The Revered Femme Bottom,” Amber Dawn

We could start calling it a lived politick, huh,

the embodied autonomous high femme,

self-sufficient sexual terror. Name our T-cells

another Narcissus. How many poems can contain

a pun on the second coming? One more, for me.

When this started I thought only of the cultural imaginary:

our exorcism spine, some ‘99 vibe, the conspiracy of cure.

Now I shepherd your spark clitward, siren sextant, pinup

saint. An incomplete list of things we hadn’t felt

until a lover hailed you: femme, slut, pretty, pretty

selfish, magic-wielder, life-changer, oathbreaker, tease.

All that ruination in one cunt; no wonder she

can take so much. It’s okay. I’ll hermit-shell

over your seared core, I’ll claw-burrow, I’ll scuttle

sand & blanket & softened bark to bar the doors,

I will splay a mosquito net across consciousness

until you storm shelter whatever I endure.

I do wonder sometimes if what scared them more

was their want or ours. How they named suspicion

honorific. Femme meant worship

but worship has meant a whole lot to us,

including surveillance. Including shame.

These days I invoke instead the malleability of context,

the art of reception. Our border fluids. My permeable

spitfire, my flux queen, we’ve learned flexibilities

our forefathers’ phrases never could’ve dreamed.

There’s a halo round the moon, honeydarlin,

let’s waste our body with anyone

who thinks they can stomach all

this lover. Devoted, Please, femme-gasm

as you will, they’ve gotta want, & I’ll give

the only thing I ever do. Otherwise, it’ll be me & you

jerking off with the press of one fingerprint into the other,

livewire lady, faggot inferno. I want you to know

I don’t regret what we’ve become, none of it. I’ll no longer renounce

your hallway wisdom, your baking scale tongue,

your survival by the palm. I want you as you are

more than I want you safe. As unsafe as we are now & then,

I come back to you, I’m coming again, please come

for me. Soak the sheets with your femme.

CRAZY EX JOYFRIEND

The earliest references to PGAD may be Greek descriptions of hypersexuality (previously known as "satyriasis" and "nymphomania"), which confused persistent genital arousal with sexual insatiability.

Wikipedia page for Persistent Genital Arousal Disorder (accessed June 2024)

The accounts […] of gay men having sex twenty to thirty times a night, or once a minute, are much less descriptive of even the most promiscuous male sexuality than they are reminiscent of male fantasies about women’s multiple orgasms… Promiscuity is the social correlative of a sexuality physiologically grounded in the menacing phenomenon of the nonclimactic climax.

Leo Bersani, “Is the Rectum a Grave?” (1987)

I’m gonna ruin her for any healthy lover.

I’m gonna / cunt him down. Every time I count

all she can say is / fucking insane, so fucking crazy.

That’s the only kinda fuck I’ve got left in me.

overfull on my iterative orgasm /

bandpass filtering their cycle / my redundant

pleasure / if that’s what

she’s still calling it // my fastidious

submit / disorderly clit / bottomless

reception / cuntagious need // it sure

is hard work being this easy

goddamn! goddamn god-

damn! the most costly

decision of ur life: ur sense

of touch + proprioception + self.

probably also reputation. baby ive

been there. & then these days.

her numbers game / his irritated

angling / its awe // faer timeless trust fall

No matter how fast she shuts me up, still

I’ve got too many points of entry. Sponge girl,

all eyes inside me. Try us again on a better

morning. Louder coral creak. My own pinup

tragedy, my centerfold saint. Bundled in her

dingy Pentecost, I move irreplicable: unanimal

in the wrong direction, too traversable,

semiplural & unsound.

fifty-one beads

on a red string:

I pray ‘em all,

hand it back

to her glisten-

ing.