kk de la vida
KK de La Vida is the emerging e/porn.avatar+naughty-nom-de-plume of Kk & lover's company. An islander at heart, Kk floats along the Atlantic coast and south of borders as an xXx eco-erotic artist/activist from FuckForForest.com. Though no longer with the FFF collective, Kk continues to explore the creative power of human sexuality to help ecology, currently pursuing an MA in Media Studies at The New School. Read Uncensored-Eco-Sexed.tumblr.com to access Kk's re-search on suppression and follow their fairy trail of pixel dust on instagram@kkdelavida. Kk's autobio stories are forthcoming in The New Engagement and Milk Journal.
on pornographic holes
I can't stop my itch
to click the itch
strike & stroke
prick & poke
I can't stop my cyborg
to switch my skin in
like dirty screens
flicker & tickle
like limbed friction’s
listless thumb [ spacebar ]
habitual kiss of
human&machine [ ]
I can't stop my itch
on/off my electric
xxx marks the spot: treasure map to pleasure island
The living room is illuminated in shadows, except for the black box. Everyone is dozed off in dreams. I am eleven years old, behind the television screen’s electronic glimmer. I can close my eyes, but I can’t succumb to sleep’s numbness. I am fully awake between my legs. A moving film flash of episodic commercials, vintage music videos and late-night syndicated comedic series daze my night time vision. I let the cathode-ray tube filter away my awareness, body drifting to the darkness’ silent detection. In this closed-eye state of mind, I first permit my fingers to touch inside, a hole world hidden from sight.
I try to take off the edge. I am between work, class, tutoring, class, babysitting and a class in the evening. I am stressed out, strung out on ambition and idealism. I can’t sit in a room or a subway car without looking at a familiar face that isn’t a mirror version of a movie-star poster for a celebrity-I’d-like-to-fuck. My menstruation is approaching and my hormonal cycle is raging with irrational image associations of arousal. I jump in the shower, use the electric toothbrush my mother christmas gifted to clitoral stimulate a sense of gratification and gratitude.
For an anthropology class, “Text, Magic and Performance,” I write a paper on female orgasms. I interview college-aged women about their ecstatic states and their sound of communication. Some say they need to ghost their body, some say they need to drive the steering wheel —it’s all about control. Some call it faking, some call it feedback noise —it’s all about achieving that psycho-physiological threshold of patterned vibration. I make an aural reel of female pleasure, replay its climax for the class presentation. The cries echo louder and louder in the seminar room, flooding the space between our spinal heads and seated legs in wet suspension.
I read about Sor Juana Inez de La Cruz, the first female writer of colonial Americas. I’m obsessed with her. My friend lent me a copy of her translated work and I refuse to give it back. I think about this nun, touching herself. I think about suppression of the church, of society, against powerful women coming close to the spirit. I go for a run in Central Park, still thinking about this nun, how she couldn’t touch herself but how she’s touched me. I sneak inside the Rambles and rub myself on a rock. It’s as close as I can get to the source.
For a media theory class midterm, I write on the subject of internet pornography. "Online pornography is like the phallic elephant in the closet of media whose libidinal nature keeps its puppet shadow from quotidian discourse." Meaning to say, is that this instrument of postindustrial arousal projects the ‘informatics of domination,’ hard wires human desire to overcome skin distance with a click, too fast for our flesh to collect consciousness. My classmates seem confused when I pass out papers with categories printed off ‘youporn.com:' “Teen/ Fetish/ Asian/ Vintage/ Cumshot/ Etcetera: Pick a box you belong in.” Go ahead and choose, the future of freedom to cum.
Digitalization of contact got the world more lonely or horny, or both, I don’t know. I don’t know how to use Facebook or other social networking accounts. I don’t use Tinder, OkCupid or any other instantaneous application to keep distance in virtual touch. I can’t stand this cyborg revolution. I can’t stand the idea of depending on a stranger’s gaze to elicit sexual energy or self-satisfaction. With one finger inside and another swiping my megabits, I animate an orgasm, smiling, imagining no one but myself wiring a dose of serotonin.
I make a moving video of my masturbation clips to post online as I masturbate at the same time. I’ve been living in the mushroom forest as an eco-porn star with FuckforForest.com and here I am, back in Babylon with an electric switch. All those years in academia obsessed with orgasms and suppression and techno porno, and here I am, a hyper sex cyborg nympho in the pixel flesh. All those love traumas tripped out of desire’s need to control, being reproduced by a robot on sexXxscreen. Did I ever imagine, in my wildest dreams, that my life would cum to this?
Finally, in reality, I never finished the auto-stimulated video. And I’m not with FuckforForest.com anymore. But the failures of cohesion have flooded my brain with alternative possibilities —to establish an erotic art-ethics/aesthetic of truth exposure. I lay in quiet rumination. On the walls of concrete plaster, I project future performances that engage the embodied shadow as a holographic image equidistant to pleasure and sound echoed in code. My mind is running too much; I turn myself on, so I can turn it off.
I got a vibrator, thanks to T. It looks and charges like a USB drive and is operable over Skype, though I’ve yet to figure out this function. It works with six speeds: slow, medium, fast, medium with fast blips, blip-blips, and blip-blip-blips. With the lights off, I usually start with medium and work my way up to fast. I relax, rest the pink tip on my pink tip, feel the vibration of the machine. It’s as if I am the machine. My mind is the gear, my flesh the buttons, my finger the string, pulling up the circuits of my nerves, pushing the blood down, rushing the feelings throughout my body, becoming one beast of pleasure with the beat. Within seconds, I’m wet. I feel a weight lift off my shoulders. I go back to writing, wiring inside the rabbit hole.