Crying With My Pussy E-Book

Isabel Hillborg

• Herausgeber: Aniara
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 112

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

"I fuck, therefore I am." Jennie isn't searching for love—she's chasing something far more urgent: escape. From her earliest years marked by silence and sorrow, through a string of lovers, one-night stands, and emotional wreckage, she discovers that sex is the only thing that makes her feel real. Not joy. Not comfort. Just raw, electric presence. In Crying with My Pussy, Isabel Hillborg tears through every taboo with blistering honesty and dark humour. This is not a story of sexual liberation—it's a story of survival. Of fucking through the void, crying through the climax, and trying to stitch together meaning in a life that keeps coming undone. Brilliantly filthy, fiercely feminist, and heartbreakingly human, Crying with My Pussy is an unflinching look at desire, damage, and the lies we're told about womanhood.

Leseprobe

Crying With My Pussy

Isabel Hillborg

IsabelHillborg©2025

Aniara Press AB, Stockholm 2025

Cover: Anze Ban Virant

Translation by Aniara

www.aniara.one

[email protected]

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by EU copyright law.

Contents

1.Foreword1. The Weeping Woman2.Martin3.Christian4.Charlie5.Peter6.Jensen7.Joe8.Ollie9.Tom10.Sam11.Alex

Foreword

The Weeping Woman

Custardcakes,mouth-wateringchocolate, frosted cupcakes, cheese sandwiches with too much butter, a vintage Birkin Bag, red-soled Louboutins, glossy interior magazines—those things you comfort and treat yourself with when needed.

But for us, who haven't robotically bought into consumer society's myth of happiness, none of these coveted attributes will do.

No, for heartbreak, life anxiety, or good old everyday tedium, or PMS for that matter, there's only one thing that works—sex.

There's nothing that makes me feel so alive, so present, so free and so curious about what life has to offer as when I manage to get in a really good fuck. It's as if with every thrust, every moan, every orgasm—fake or not, all doubt I might have had about life's meaning simply disappears. That paralysing feeling of meaninglessness has fled. I am happy. I am beautiful. I am desired. I am someone.

Descartes—I think, therefore I am.

I fuck, therefore I am.

I truly wish there was something else that could give me the adrenaline rush that fucking does—I've tried drugs of every kind, alcohol, and what people call adventures, but nothing gives me that intense feeling of euphoria that I get in the moment a cock enters me.

That's why I keep fucking and being fucked.

That's why I continue to cry, with my pussy.

Martin

Alarge,heavyemptiness has built its nest in my chest. The word suggests that it's empty, devoid of content, but oh how misleading that description is. The emptiness isn't empty at all; on the contrary, it's completely packed with things that push and shove and use every means possible to make themselves heard. Sometimes I wish I couldn't think certain things, that there was some limitation in my brain that even I couldn't access. It ought to be that way. Those rooms where the horrible and brooding resides should remain locked. Such knowledge makes everything feel worse, the knowledge that I'm the only one thinking this thought and I don't want to be able to think it, want to escape the feeling that has intertwined its fingers with it. I don't want to have to pick a leaf into a thousand pieces and compulsively whisper to myself ‘now I’ve broken the leaf once, twice..., seven times...,’ or be forced to do "box breathing" on the subway to prevent my damned thoughts from assaulting me in front of unsuspecting onlookers for the hundred thousandth time.

I remember when they first came to visit, they crept up on me like smoke on a fire, and by the time I discovered themit was already too late—I was irreparably smoke-damaged.

Summer was in its early stages and I was going to spend the weekend at my grandparents’, as I had done many times before. Gran and Grandad—a unit that was somehow taken for granted, always mentioned together, never separately, not even when Grandad died when I was ten years old, which was actually strange because Grandad was never really there anyway. I can actually only remember three times when Grandad was physically there; other memories I fabricate, readily exaggerate and romanticise because it sounds so cozy to say you've been to 'Gran and Grandad’s' That's what you're supposed to do as a child, it's part of having a happy childhood: Gran and Grandad, freshly baked cookies and fuzzy blankets over sticky little children's feet. “Happy childhood”, by the way—let that phrase sit on your tongue for a while, doesn't it leave a bitter taste? Doesn't it sound more like a punishment than a reward? Who, in their right mind, can honestly say they had a happy childhood? Don't you also get incredibly provoked by people who say that and see they genuinely mean it? Or is it just people like me who, at such a utopian claim, immediately get warning lights flashing: 'repression'...? Post-construction, repression, or simply naivety or low standards—something's definitely fishy when someone claims to have had a happy childhood. Still, it's something we continue to strive for and find enviable.

Once, when I was about five years old, Grandad sat at the round kitchen table in their small kitchen, his worn brown leather slippers shuffling against the ragged rug as he noisily sipped his light brown coffee with trembling hands.

'Jennie, come and sit with Grandad, I'll make you a sandwich.'

I didn't think, just strode over to him and settled into his suit-clad lap - he worked as a manager at a technology company, so suit trousers were his everyday attire. He spread butter on a bread slice for me, a thick layer of butter, just the way he knew I liked it, and split it in two - not across the width as would be usual - but lengthwise so I could easily dip it into the coffee cup, as I loved dunking my sandwiches in coffee. Grandad laughed, finding it amusing and a bit peculiar that I, at just five years old, could appreciate such an adult taste as coffee. There was a slight sting in my nose, not from the coffee scent but from the sharp, slightly stale smell of beer. Grandad reeked of beer, it seemed to evaporate from his entire body, like craters in a volcano, his pores spewed out stale beer and made me feel a bit queasy. But I stayed put anyway, this was Grandad’s scent after all, this was how he smelled, otherwise he wouldn't be my Grandad. The other memory of Grandad is from another time I stayed overnight at their place. Gran had made up the mattress for me, in the corner between the sofa and the TV, carefully made with the usual sheets I always had – the pink ones with small white flowers and lace trim – my favourites. I sat on my knees on my mattress, waiting for Gran to finish up in the kitchen so we could start watching 'Annie', as we always did when I was there. 'Annie' was mine and Gran’s favourite film, we could watch it any number of times. When the song sequences started, Gran would turn up the volume, and I would sing along with that unabashedly loud little-girl voice that young girls have before they start worrying whether they have enough vocal talent to sing so boldly and loudly. Then Gran would show me how to copy the dance steps that Annie and her orphanage friends did – Gran knew how, she was good at dancing and worked part-time as a children's dance instructor. With childish delight, I looked forward to our movie time and hummed the song about tomorrow in my head, while Grandad dozed in the pilled beige-brown fabric armchair in the corner opposite my bed. He would snore occasionally.

'Grandad, Grandad,' I tried whispering to see if he could hear me. No answer, just a sudden snore.

I went back to my own business and hummed softly while doing small somersaults on the soft mattress.

'Are you planning to eat one of those sweet little gumdrops before I finish them all?' Grandad had woken up.

He held out the dark green ceramic bowl where he always kept his sweets. I shook my head, still in the middle of my somersaults. I wanted to save my appetite for the potato crisps and dip that I knew Gran was plating in the kitchen.

The third time—the time when thoughts invaded me—built nests and settled in, was a day when autumn threatened at any moment to dampen the summer mood. I still have trouble with autumn, that time when brightness is forced away, as if chased into flight by an adult bully who wants to smother summer's laughter, bring the lighthearted mood down to a more serious level and inject a dreary solemnity into childishly innocent games. It makes me feel like summer, the brightness, is departing never to return. Hope dies. It was a day like that. I lay on the bed in Gran and Grandad’s bedroom, the door was ajar and I could hear Gran’s bright, slightly trembling voice from the kitchen, and Grandad’s humming responses. I wasn't thinking about anything in particular and had no special feeling in my body. Suddenly, without warning, it was as if a dark shadow swept past me in the room. But instead of quickly moving on, it hindered itself, lingered, only to then sink into my ten-year-old little girl's body. I lay motionless and felt how it took over, made me feel things no child should have to feel, think thoughts whose formulations children had not yet learned. The shadow made me heavier in just seconds, a melancholy that would cause much trouble. But even as I was afraid and felt a strong discomfort, there was also a curiosity, a fascination that something like this could happen - so I fell deeper into it, went further into the pitch-black room that had opened in my fluttering chest. The meaninglessness and the emptiness might have waited a few years to introduce themselves otherwise. I'll never know that. Instead, I lay there with a spider's web of philosophical life ponderings that remained unanswered and grew more tangled and completely impossible for a ten-year-old to unravel. I tied knots in the threads and my heart beat harder and harder, the threads multiplied, winding around my thin neck and suffocating me. Everything spun in my bursting head and I screamed, still motionless I screamed as loud as I could:

'Gran, help me, Gran!' Tears ran down my cheeks and I found myself in a glass bubble, trapped with the meaninglessness and the emptiness for all eternity, amen.

The door burst open and Gran rushed in and threw herself down beside me on the bed. The worry and fear in Gran’s eyes made me almost even more terrified, but when Gran wrapped her arms around me, she broke through the glass bubble, at least for a little while - now it could float without me inside for a moment, but it would always keep a string around my neck, if I went too far away or tried to escape it would make itself known; 'Don't think you can move away from me, I am your home, this is where you belong.'

Grandad looked inside the room, said he'd drawn a bath for me - a warm bath was what I needed - but Gran waved him away.

I tried to explain to Gran but didn't have adequate words, only knew that the thoughts trying to form themselves wouldn't fit, there were too many, shaping themselves and getting on top of each other, making my head feel like it would burst from the discomfort they caused. I think that's exactly what I told Gran - that lots of thoughts I didn't want just kept spinning around and around, and she fell completely silent. She looked at me with that expression I would later encounter in many of the psychologists I'd meet about ten years later. I realised then that there was no point in revealing what was going through my head; it would remain my secret.

The summer between sixth and seventh grade was almost over. Johanna, my best friend, and I were cycling our usual route between my house in the part of town where nobody wanted to live, and Johanna's house in the part where everyone who didn't already live there wanted to.

'You've only got a little more than a week left, Jennie,' Johanna said, looking at me with what appeared to be genuine concern.

I actually thought it was quite silly, but of course said nothing and replied with an expression conveying even more worry: 'I know, it has to happen before we start seventh grade, or I'll die.'

Johanna was quiet for a moment, but soon started chattering away about her plan - how we would manage to get me to lose my virginity before we started seventh grade. A vital life mission.

I was jealous of Johanna; she had everything I wanted too: she lived in a nice two-story house in super-posh Majåker, she had a mum and a dad, a little brother, a little sister, and a big brother. Her very own big brother that she could roll her eyes at and scream things like "you're so fucking stupid I hate you" to. I've always wanted a big brother. I imagine that I would have felt so much better then. That a big brother could have protected me, not just from teasing older boys, but also from the cunning, malevolent emptiness and the meaninglessness. Johanna pretended she wished she didn't have an older brother, but I knew she was actually happy about it; that she loved how overprotective he could get when he found out some boy had a crush on his little sister, that he'd say 'I'll fucking kill them' whenever Johanna tattled about someone being mean to her, and that he had such handsome friends who she'd noticed would steal glances at her as they slipped up the stairs to his room when they came to visit. But what I was probably most jealous of was that Johanna had a father.