Part of my staycation festivities was a visit to the
record store for car CDs—I’m trying to be more album-y lately. So that’s how I
ended up listening to Nirvana’s Nevermind three times, smiling big and
screaming along, on my short roadtrip to see some out-of-town art. No BFF to judge
me for playing “Drain You” like a bazillion times, just me, a dramatic sky, and
Kurt Cobain’s fucking perfect caterwauling and boss-of-me guitar.
So, through the combined influences of Kurt’s rasp and
The Coach’s pre-trip forwardness, all the doors of my body and spirit were flung
open by the time I got to my hotel, changed into my coziest PJs, settled
amongst the many pillows, and lay down for a nap. Of course I couldn’t nap and
of course I couldn’t wait and see if The Coach would send his eager-grin-emoji
version of a “You up?” later. It sure didn’t matter that I hadn’t packed lube.
I was soaked. I’d been soaked for days.
Even by myself, I could feel him all the way in me. I
could feel his eagerness to please. I could feel myself holding him down. I
could predict some sunny future where he’d get a little too rough with my nipples.
The Coach has never been inside me, but also now he’s in there anyway, permanently,
with the rest of them.
Maybe I started to feel the tender feeling creep in that
night when he did text and got me into a helpless bliss and then (Pause to look
up fuckboy in the dictionary. Not really but kind of.) fell asleep without saying
goodnight. (The hotel bedding was REALLY soft.) Maybe in a just-got-off-hard-twice-and-about-to-see-some-amazing-art
haze of happiness, the daydream machine whirred to life.
Or it could have been a couple nights later when a
teensy bit of regular conversation preceded another nice smutfest. Or when he
texted “Wide awake baby!” when it was taking a long time to get an ass-angle I
liked enough to send him. (He put on The Dark Knight while he was waiting.
For some reason I’m glad it was the Heath Ledger Joker and not the Jared Leto
one. Not sure why that matters!)
I’m not sure how warm feelings happen with someone who
texts “Oh can I cum on your tits too?” (Obvs yes! Hooray!) (Point of grammar
though--I think it should be “cum” for the noun and “come” for the verb, but at
least autocorrect didn’t wreck his “your” game!)
But yep, warm feelings. Smutty as all those gorgeous
sentences were, it did feel like a sticky, slippery, phone-getting-all-messy kind
of intimacy. A weird Miranda July kind of intimacy, but still. It took a lot of
trust to keep writing and writing and writing to him, letting him know my fantasies
without physics or even much friendship to ground my body, heart, or mind. Just
naked, momentarily-uncomplicated desire. The ungroundedness would eventually make
this playpalship unsustainable, but I’m glad for a little while it got to be
exactly what it was.
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