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Frank Selasie

The Evolution of A Hoe

The Evolution of A Hoe

Artwork by Hanson Akatti; Edited by Frank Selasie.

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In the past few years, I have come across a profound change within myself and with my relationship with sex, love, and general romantic affection. These changes became glaringly evident in the past year, specifically when I attempted to heal gaping wounds within my soul with the same methods I had employed in my early twenties; that is to say, when I tried using dick as a tourniquet for my gouged emotional arteries.

At the turn of puberty, my relationship with sex took a particular shape; I was ravenous for it. I loved the practice of it, the acquisition of it, I enjoyed beautiful people on top of and underneath me. But I have come to understand that it was less about the actuality of sex itself and more about to process of acquiring it. 

I loved to dazzle and impress, I loved to overwhelm and blind, and sex was the most accessible means of doing so in the shortest amount of time.

I was and remain a classical lover. I have notions and ideas that my Thundercat and I were much better suited to the understandings of love that could’ve existed in the centuries before our own. I envisioned myself as a sumptuous courtesan of a high Persian court, the favorite of an emperor, and a lover of the freedom that world of counter-culture could provide for me as a woman. I have always had great respect for the more successful courtesans of a time gone by, I saw like minds in lives that lived outside notions of respectability for women. These thoughts were always fully grounded in misogynistic hogwash. I saw these women as renegades, as true harbingers of change in the perception of what a woman was and could be and always had been. 

I desired the type of respect I had for these women. I demanded as much for myself.

Not to mention the massive cultural influence that had its hands in my understanding of my self concerning sex. In Ghana, my tribe is known for our sexual prowess; Ewe’s are said to possess magical abilities in this regard most especially.

In my bloodline, I found evidence of real-life sirens who used their sexuality as weapons against men who would’ve otherwise terrorized them in the practice of sex magic. In every aspect of my understanding, I was exposed to women who drew power, literal and actual energy consumed and reveled in, from their sexual abilities and relationships.

I could not help but want a taste of such a life lived for myself.

But trapped within my time as I was, I found these sentiments did not translate well in our notions of modern love that are so deeply entrenched in the demands of monogamy or popular renditions of pure apathy against a porn industry fueled backdrop of hypersexuality. I have found that love and indifference are not suited to one another and that many of the men I was indulging in who could not help but fall in deep affection with me bored me in their refusal to accept or understand their measure of attachment. They either annoyed me with their lack of emotional intelligence or frightened me with their conditioned responses to said emotion. As much as I enjoyed the passion that was created from a man falling in love with me, I did not appreciate what it translated to within the confines of modern romance.

Men love you, and then they cage you. 

That is, without pretentiousness, their conditioning.

Love has never been something to be frightened of, and yet I found myself surrounded by an entire generation of peers who proudly proclaimed “Fuck feelings” as they sought to bury their heads in sands of sex; Sex whose qualitative value rises exponentially with the inclusion of such shunned emotions. 

They had no seeming defense against the nature of their emotional realities because they refused to acknowledge said reality in favor of a created world fueled only by perception as opposed to fact. 

Engaging as such left a terrible taste in my mouth. I wanted to feel and be felt for. I wanted the utmost of passion that lived outside the pursuit of orgasms I had no real interest in. Sex, for me, was never about the pursuit of an orgasm, it was always about the activity in itself. The high art of the courtesans did not lay in the finale of their work, but the process of it. In the creation of feeling. In the alteration and manipulation of moods and energy. The best of courtesans could feel like an automatic reprieve from the ugliness of one’s world.

I wanted to be an experience, above all. I wanted to enjoy and be enjoyed, but I couldn’t articulate this feeling for myself or my chosen partners as I simply followed the script that our conceptions of modern love entrusted me with. I was a sexually fluid and confident woman; therefore, as current law dictates, I was a hoe.

“Hoe is life,” I screamed as I ran through dicks and the hearts attached to them.

With these desires, my evolution as such was, of course, inevitable.

Of course, I would grow bored.

Of course, this mode of living would no longer suit my sensibilities because it wasn’t ever the proper fit for them in the first place.

Of course, it would feel lifeless and empty because that is precisely what it was.

This discovery in myself could not have come without a great deal of fire in the forging of my gold.

I suffered many deep losses in the year of our lord 2019, from the very first day of the year when one of my dearest friends shot herself going on towards the loss of a pillar of my very foundation, my grandmother. I was fraught with pain and heartache and had no idea how to accept this newfound relationship with death.

So I did what I always did when faced with unknown emotional trauma, I had a lot of sex. 

To numb myself to my pain, to replace it with a physical distraction, to disorganize it with meaningless pursuits. 

I was a walking, fucking, and dancing wound; I festered as I bled. 

I would not heal; I could not recover.

I even thought I could practice sex magic in the midst of my cancerous melancholy.

It drained me & I suffered greatly.

I made many a grievous error with my Thundercat in pursuit of healing that could never be attained outside of myself, and I justified all of these errors with my badge of anguish. It was against this juxtaposed backdrop that I realized how ill-suited I was in that manner of living. 

Sex was, is, and always has been an incredibly emotional experience for me, that’s probably why I’m so bloody good at it. It almost served as an automatic aphrodisiac to my partners. We’ll call it my Venus in Pisces. I have been hailed as an extremely sensual person; apparently, I can, at times, simply ooze sex. These are talents I can’t deny; I fully acknowledge the power of the divine feminine as it lives and breathes in my pores, and it is this acknowledgment that has led me to the understanding that hoe might not be life. 

It failed me when I needed it most; it highlighted all of my wounds and added it’s own. It betrayed my true delicacy; it misunderstood the very fabric of my strength. 

Or perhaps, I was simply doing it all wrong.

Admittedly I have been accused of “casual sexing” incorrectly, but I ascribed this misunderstanding of my methods as further evidence of my lifelong conflict with modern-day love. In the accusation it was slated that I am far too intimate in my application of casual sexing, it would seem that my existence as an entire experience conflicts with what causal sex is in this day and age, that being the basic attainment of an orgasm.

I have always been far more significant than the sum of such. 

I want to enjoy and be enjoyed; I want to love as I am loved, and being someone who has never been overtaken by lust in any moment of my sexual history, I find that these wants lived and live entirely outside the confines of merely keeping a phallus erect. 

I want to enjoy and be enjoyed in every way that I exist.

The sum of my parts is not my divine Thundercat; she’s simply an exponentially wonderful bonus that enjoys as she is experienced, and she cannot be used to heal what she did not harm. She could not be used to forget death, to forget despair, or to forget sorrow. She has her place, she has her portion, and her role had been wonderfully bloated for the entire decade that was my interstellar twenties.

In the last year of this decade of mine, my relationship with sex was almost torn asunder in its evolution. I found myself realizing just how deeply it failed to satiate the hunger of my soul. At first, I shunned it in direct response to this realization; I belittled it as I had used it to belittle myself. This response was quite saturated with folly in that sex is not actually in any way the enemy. It is another tool of enjoyment, it is another translation of divine communication between human minds and bodies and within my life, and at the beginning of a new decade, it is finally being respected as such.

And so we begin anew, with an evolved sense of the scope of my existence and full of conviction not to betray it or myself in the pursuit of passionate and true enjoyment. 

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