Fuck The Milk

This is the piece I read at Skit for Tat last night. Is long, but I had ten minutes to fill!

Fuck the milk. Give me the whisky tits. There is a girl in the bottom of my glass.

Its warmer than fresh milk in here. My breasts are sweating white juice and my cream is turning sour as my internal temperature rises. Unrefrigerated, unhomogenised, unpasteurised, unprocessed. Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet/Turning to curds and whey. My solids liquefy and I am mozzarella oozing from my areole, my liquids solidify and I am lumps of cheddar wedged fast beneath my nipples. Its warmer than fresh milk in here. My blue-veins throb with exertion and heat-stroke and its all beginning to stink.

‘When the eyes see or the lips touch that skin on the surface of milk― harmless, thin as a sheet of cigarette paper, pitiful as a nail paring― I experience a gagging sensation and, still farther down, spasms in the stomach, the belly; and all the organs shrivel up the body, provoke tears and bile, increase heartbeat, cause forehead and hands to perspire’ (Kristeva, 1982: 3).

Scene One: You are in your local supermarket one weekend, absent-mindedly cruising around the fruit and vegies section trying to remember exactly where it is you are supposed to put your bananas if you want score. You notice a young woman lurking at the end of the health food aisle, fiddling with the buttons on her shirt. You suspect she might be cruising you, so you start to suggestively finger the tubes of organic wasabi and move a little closer. There are at least three shirt buttons undone now, and your jaw drops as she brazenly removes one nipple from her bra. For a brief second the nipple stares at you and you stare back, before you break eye contact and look down nervously at your Birkenstocks. You don’t even see the baby coming, yet in the wink of an eye she’s got it securely attached to her chest. You are relieved, and leave the scene feeling all warm and fuzzy and making a mental note to call your Mum when you get home just to say hello. You suddenly realise how hungry you are- and long for a big glass Milo^[1] , and maybe an ice cream, but you can’t quite fathom why.

Scene Two: You’ve moved onto the meat and seafood cabinets, trying to decide between the nice rack in front of you and the promise you made to your girlfriend to give up your carnivorous affairs. The girl behind the counter looks at you expectantly, ready to take your order. She’s pretty cute, and she ought to know what the carefully arranged lemons (and, ahem, melons) in your hand basket mean. You smile flirtatiously as you assess the whole range of carnal opportunities spread out before you. Nice dye-job underneath that hair-net, beautiful eyes, lovely large tits… but wait, what the heck is that? Nah, it can’t be. There’s a white stain spread along one side of her cleavage, starting to dry in patches and forming a slightly curdled crust on the engorged nipple pushing exuberantly against her uniform shirt. You try to convince yourself that she probably just had an accident in the dairy cabinet but you can’t quite be convinced. You’re not smiling anymore. Sure there’s something vaguely sexual happening here, but its not how you imagined it. Its all a bit icky really, not quite nice- actually, it makes you feel a bit squeamish. Maybe you don’t want that nice piece of meat after all. To paraphrase Moon Zappa^[2], ‘its like, someone else’s food’. You shuffle off distractedly only to come to standing confused in front of the feminine hygiene products. Two days later you are still drinking your coffee black.

You are who you eat. Milk-fed and fattened up for the kill, I could gobble
you all up! Swapping saliva and mama’s milk, cross-incorporation, sharing cells and selves. Spit or swallow. Dregs of mamma's special blend dribble down your chin, glazed cheeks, crackling crusts form on your suckling lips. Lap me up, swallow me in small doses. Seethe in my milk, marbled and marinated with my fat. I am eaten alive, drunk and digested. Flesh of my flesh. Nipple to mouth to skin to heart to brain to
every pound of sweet juicy young meat.

‘Now in the corner of a hallway there was a saucer of milk for the cat. “Milk is for the pussy, isn’t it?” said Simone. “Do you dare me to sit in the saucer?”

“I dare you,” I answered almost breathless.

The day was extremely hot. Simone put the saucer on a small bench, planted herself before me, and, with her eyes fixed on me, she sat down without my being able to see her burning buttocks under the skirt, dipping into the cool milk. The blood shot to my head, and I stood before her awhile, immobile and trembling, as she eyed my stiff cock bulging in my trousers. Then I lay down at her feet without her stirring, and for the first time, I saw her “pink and dark” flesh cooling in the white milk. We remained motionless, both of us equally overwhelmed…

Suddenly, she got up, and I saw the milk dripping down her thighs up to the stockings. She wiped herself evenly with a handkerchief as she stood over my head with one foot on the small bench, and I vigorously rubbed my cock through the trousers while writhing amorously on the floor. We reached orgasm at almost the same instant without even touching one another’ (Bataille Story of the Eye: 10)

Prolactin procures sobs sweet and salty, breasts and eyes both shed tears at orgasm and grief. Sitting in the warm bath, my breasts cry me a river in delight and distress. Breasts bared in mourning or lust or some intoxicating affective combination, weeping straight from the heart. Let-down and letdown. Drowning my sorrows and washing away my sins, drop by drop by drop…

My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard. At the Milk Bar, my breasts offer a refreshing brew best served at body temperature. My right nipple likes a party and readily supplies schooners of Coopers Pale Ale to all and sundry, spits it out right across the room. My left nipple likes to take its time, slowly oozing thick Stout into pint glasses for a select few.

A hard-earned thirst deserves a good stiff drink. White perspiration runs rivers beneath my wife-beater. Fermentation is its own reward. A sniff of the milkmaid’s apron and she’s anybody’s. Gagging, gargling, gurgling.

Fuck the milk and give me the whisky tits.

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[1] With full cream milk, of course.

[2] Frank Zappa’s Valley Girl single from the 1980s (I think).