i want sweetness and filth now, in equal proportion. it feels like the most impossible equation—one i have yet to solve in my life.
i see us fucking and talking, and we’re talking about things that matter to us. we do it simultaneously, the talking and the fucking. i can feel the faint vibration of his voice in the once broken bones of my chest. the tight ache there. the unbearably sweet pitch. he tells me what scares him, and his lips form the words against the thin skin above my breasts while his cock moves slow and thick inside me.
of course, i wish that i just wanted to fuck. the more exacting the criteria of my desires, the more torturously slow the progress in this part of my life becomes. i see what i don’t want to see and i can’t look away. i make myself look at it, every day.
*****
i’ve been given this friendly advice from more than one person: that after such a catastrophically long and soul-rending sexual drought, i need to go out and break the spell. to simply fuck someone.
the man who installed the cable in my new house was lovely. tall and broad, late 40s, nigerian. and though he had terrible taste in music——he was scrolling through the music channels and he told me that his favorite was the smooth jazz station—-there was still an easy charm to him. he was so relaxed. maybe it was all of that awful jazz.
he was also unhappily married, and thought of himself as a bit of an expert in these matters. i discovered this after answering his question about what it was that brought me here to this new place. he began to politely and not unkindly lecture me, and it was then, out of pride——because i can’t bear that people might think that i don’t have what it takes to endure the inevitable difficult spaces of a long-term relationship—-that i bluntly and succinctly told him more of my story than i perhaps should have. later, he wrote his cell phone number on my contract and told me to call if i needed anything. i realized that he would have gladly done this for me—-broken the dry spell. all of this, despite what i consider visual deterrents. my physical limitations. evidently he was not deterred.
*****
i cried when I read joan defers‘ virginity story. i saw too much of myself there and it took me off-guard. my ob-gyn told me after an exam, in wry and bawdy language, that a critical part of my body has wound back the clock. it dawned on me—painfully, and somewhat embarrassingly—-that there is an accompanying emotional rewinding that has occurred along with the physical one. at this relatively late stage in the game, i’ve become a virgin of sorts again. fucking for sport seems ill-advised under these conditions.
i know i will cry this first time. if i am lucky, it will be tears of joy. but either way, it kills me that even the most sensitive and enlightened of men are so often bewildered by this response in a woman.
the thing i want to say to them is this: i am letting you inside of my body. even if a part of me just wants to be fucked, and fucked senseless, i can’t pretend to not want these other things, whether i want them with you or not. i can’t pretend that the last decade of my life didn’t happen.
the thing i want to say to myself is this: i can’t pretend.
couch
source needed
(via theladycheeky)
