Gilmore Guy Part Four: Your Arms Make Me Wish I Was Still a Poet

I'm not saying this night was about love, oh wait, maybe I am. Not about couple-love, that still feels a million miles away, but the love of bodies, of luck, of my neighborhood, of the rhythm of Amy Sherman-Palladino's writing. It was a night about the love of LIFE, and I'm so glad I indulged in it. Gold stars all around.

            As we kissed on Gilmore Guy’s couch, the magic of desire took me over like a fluffy pink cloud. The comfort and pleasure of him was making me feel woozily submissive. (In my favorite book-I-didn’t-finish-because-it’s-too-triggering, The Body Keeps the Score, I learned that the impulse that makes us freeze when we’re scared is the same as the one that holds us still so we can bond with someone. This is my favorite romantic-but-horrifying brain fact!)

           

            Rather than totally succumb to the blissful frozenness, I remembered that he’d said he’d like to try a little submissiveness himself. I took a deep breath, grabbed him by the shoulders, and shoved him away from me, back against the couch. I straddled him (aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhh like a horny homecoming) and immediately felt a Wonder Woman jolt of confidence. He tried to put his arms around me, but I pressed them back, held his wrists as tightly as I reasonably could with someone I JUST met.

            “How does that feel?” I gently growled into his ear.

            “Good.” He gasped, “It feels good.”

I reached to the nape of his neck and pulled his hair. I was worried it might be too much, and it was.

            “Don’t pull my hair,” he said a little reticently, and I let go.

            “Okay, thanks for telling me. Do you feel okay?”

            “I’m okay. Just…don’t pull my hair.”

            “Okay. Meanwhile, you are freeeee to pull mine!” I said, placing his hand in the right spot.

            Oh my GOODNESS I needed my hair pulled! It’s always such a relief. I arched my back, squirmed in his lap, and moaned, semi-realizing that I was giving the revelers downstairs on the sidewalk and earful. I hoped nobody I worked for was down there. Downside to geographic desirability, I guess. Totes worth it.

            He helpfully noted that the futon perpendicular to the couch was easy to fold out, and I was all “Yes please!”

            I was in such a happy haze (I feel like I should assure you that I only had half a drink, this haze was pure hormones) that I don’t really remember how my pajamas and sort-of-pretty underthings got strewn about the floor and coffee table. He took a moment to catch up with me in the nakedness department. Is there anything happier than meeting a new penis? This was a GOOD one, big and ready and delicious-looking.

            But no time for that yet, because his eager talented face was already between my thighs. I came easily and repeatedly, in giggling jolts until I pushed him away by the forehead.

            When it was my turn, though, I felt stunned with self-consciousness. It had been almost a year since I’d had a dick in my mouth (Season Two of Stranger Things with The Socialist—ah, fall.) and I suddenly felt like I’d written exactly NO paragraphs about blow jobs. It felt too big to manage, I was paranoid about teeth, I couldn’t get my head at the right angle

            No matter about my precarious blow-jobbing, he pulled me into a kiss, and our bodies wrapped back up into a snuggle. He ran his hand over my ass and I said “You know you want to smack it!” So he did, hooray!

            The intercourse part just…sigh…fit. It was as natural and as easy as the kissing. In concert with his strength, I found my own lovely rhythm, pausing to realize how transcendent this moment was—a near-stranger and me, making something lovely together. A glow as lovely and golden as the fall sun.

            There was this little dip between his shoulder blades that I could have spent weeks caressing. His body was glowing perfection to me, and so, in that happy haze, was my own.

            “Your arms make me wish I was still a poet,” I said. He’s yoga-strong, like a huggable sculpture.

            “Well, you could always put pen to paper…” he said.

            It’s helpful to have permission to wax poetic about the deep, glittery waves of release and joy I felt as we cuddled, then fucked, then cuddled some more. He spent a long lovely time with my left nipple that I will use (and have used many times already) during personal time. When I come from the inside, there’s rarely any big finale, just waves and waves and waves til we both get tired. I yelped and giggled. “Welcome!” I wanted to say. “THANK you!” I probably did say.

            Afterwards, until we eventually put back on the Gilmore Girls, we lay listening to a mix of silence and street noise, breathing and heartbeats. He put his hand on my heart, I lay my head on his chest. There’s just as much romance in short-lived flings as in more serious stuff, I think. Maybe that’s why I keep revisiting the casual—these brief sparkles of connection are no small thing. They’re important to me, and they give me hope.

            There was talk of sleeping over, but I wanted to go home. Not just because they have a no-other-partners-in-the-bed rule. (Though it did bring to mind a piece of Cunning Minx’s advice from years ago that still chimes like an old friend in my head: “You got all these rules? You don’t get me.”) (Also, in fairness, Sweetie and I had that rule as well. I was soooooooo happy when I got my own bed.) It was more that I wanted to go home and be with myself, to honor and process what had just happened.

            He put on his shoes to walk me out (It was around then that we finally exchanged last names. I wonder how/if he ever spelled my last name in his phone) and I thought he was walking me chivalrously to my car.  Instead, he gave me a quick peck at the door, looking around exactly like somebody who’d done something wrong. While I later wondered if he was being secretive or ashamed of me, I also do enough thinking about weaponized white womanhood to wonder if he just felt unsafe being seen with me at night.

            Whatever the reason, his furtiveness didn’t register until later. I went home well-fucked and starving, ate some night cereal, and slept the best I had in a long time. There are more Gilmore Guy paragraphs to come, and I’m so glad I gave us a chance.