Thinking about the
rest of this story, I had a saaaaaaad realization: I’ve lost a word since the
last time I wrote about sex! Let’s have a moment of silence for the word “pussy,”
which will never not remind me of the rapist-in-chief. I used to like using it
sometimes, and now I’m kinda lost about what can replace it. It sounds a little
clinical, I know, but I think for now I’ll just call body parts by their names
and hope for the best.
Okay friends. If you’ve
been keeping score, you’ll know that I haven’t had sex in a couple of years,
not since blue-canary-nightlight guy, so I might not have the most perspective
on what it was like with The Socialist, but it was good. Easy. Friendly. PIV sex has always been the big mystery to
me, the hardest thing to settle into, even though it’s often what I want the
most. This was a night where bodies just knew what to do, where everything just
sort of took care of itself.
Soon after we got into
bed, he got out of it. He knelt on the floor and pulled me to the side of the
bed, put my legs over his shoulders, and BURIED his face in my vagina, like I
was the most delicious thing in the universe. As assured as if this had been
happening since the beginning of time, like he owned the place. Urgent and
expert, he sucked my clit and thrust his tongue in as far as it could possibly
go, and it felt so ridiculously good that I laughed between cries, apologized
for laughing, then descended into giggles again.
All those years on
lesbian island had made me sort of indifferent to receiving oral sex, but I
guess that’s over now. I felt beautiful and silly and so, so happy. I kissed
his slippery face gratefully, then set out to learn his lovely penis. It was
friendly in my hand, sure of itself the way he is, and as affectionate. I felt
self-conscious about my skills since it had been so long, but he assured me
that there would be plenty of time to practice.
I was soooo grateful to
have a box of condoms in my nightstand like a boss. They’ve mostly been used to
make toy clean up easy, but what a joy for them to find a person.
There was something
different about the sex this time, and as much as I want to collapse into
giggles at the chemistry between us, I think what was different was me. In all
my adventures, though so much good, dirty fun was had by all, I could never be
fully present in my body. I struggled so hard to reduce sex with men to a
transaction so that I wouldn’t be swept up in an inevitable wave of abandonment
and hurt. But this? I was here for it,
in every sense of the phrase.
He just fit so perfectly,
bent me in all the right ways, filled me up in such a joyful, kind, friendly
way. When I looked up into his face, he was with me, and when he held me down
by my hair and insistently bent to kiss me, I felt the weight of the world
lift. This is my bed. This is my body. This is my home, thanks for visiting. I
felt grounded and pink, floaty and rooted, and the feeling hasn’t really left
since.
Between snuggles, we
chatted about music and fascism and other 2017 things. I looked into his deep
green eyes a lot, felt silly, and did it some more.
Since I started writing these posts, I’ve ruled him out
and ruled him back in again. I haven’t lost my post-election fear of white men,
the fear that somehow I’ll be swept away from The Struggle by the appeal of
testosterone and playlists. I haven’t forgotten that he listens to Howard
Stern, but I have to admit that The Socialist treated me 100% like a person. He
treated my body with respect and admiration, and I can’t dismiss that.
So for now, I’m
cautiously optimistic, thinking of an outfit for our next date, and Googling “Stranger
Things Valentines.” I can’t ever really be anyone but myself, and I have faith
that that will appeal to someone, even if it’s not this time. For now I’m
willing to say, who knows?
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