In my first year of college my room-mate once asked me what face I make when I cum and the first thing I think I said was, I don’t know. It depends. I’m not sure.
After years of experimentation, meditation and weird yet wonderful self-exploration I now know what my O-face looks like.
It depends…see I have o-faces like colours of the rainbow. My o-face isn’t the reflection of an event. But the expression of a thousand different variables coursing through my being.
I have an o-face that sings purple rain, washes my blues down the drain then lays next to you saying, ‘bitch, get up and go make me a samich!’
I have another o-face that curls my toes, soothes my woes and has me singing, ‘glory hallelujah! I don’t love mens no mo! [what?] No more homies only hoes! [oh]’
Then I have this other o-face where I’m trying to hold back a hurricane with pure will power cause she hasn’t bust a nut yet and I’m about to blow. Bitch it’s almost been an hour!
I’ve got this o-face I make when I light the fuse on that veiny, triumphant feeling New Year’s boner, but then the thing blows and kinda feels like the January blues.
But the scariest o-face is the one that jumps through time from the bing-bada-boom seed coming through to the day when I get a phone call saying baby my periods late. ‘ooh!’
See the o-face I make is determined by the kinda orgasm I’m having. I have an o-face that knows that every butt-clenching, spasming thrust is blowing generational codes into the darkness in generous loads and breathing light onto the shadows of your genealogical roads, then months from now a doctor unfolds your legs as the silence explodes with new life screaming independence as a starving world beholds tender flesh making me a father that fearfully molds his child in preparation for life’s perils and woes.
I have an o-face that fears that my beautiful son will be equated to trash and have his rights stripped and given to women. I have an o-face that fears my daughter will have her inner peace ripped through the space between her thighs. I have an o-face that reels from the memory of running from slave ships that came across the ocean and I have another one that fears that those ships may come back. I have an o-face that dares to hope my seed will find true freedom before the end of days finds them.
My o-faces are a man’s call to war and the dropping of a boy’s body at his mother’s door. My o-faces are the brief, but acute realization of empires rushing from my being. Seeing kings, tyrants and slaves all swimming their best, the fate of every cursed seed clutching to my heaving chest.
When you see my o-face you’re not just seeing 50 shades of pleasure but the overflowing of breaking dams; the thunderous rush of nations; and the genocide of millions for the creation and preservation of one life.
You’re seeing the big bang imitated and the voice of God mimicked as my convulsing body whispers into this heaving night, ‘let there be light’.