Sex, Love, and The Shy One, Part Three

 

Sex, Love, and The Shy One, Part Three

I want to try and remember, the way our bodies loved each other so easily, traversed all the very real distances between us and bridged the gap. Together. The most possible together.

The warmth of him. The way he gave himself to me wholly and (almost) without reservation. When he held my hand, my hand felt home, it felt made to be there, folded into infinity, across ages, across universes, folded into whatever divine thing made him. The best possible hands, the best possible me, glowing with light and safety and hope and wholeness.

And the kisses, slipped together and seamless.

Last time I quoted Lottie, this time it’s Lettie. In the bonkers treasure that is Fast X, Michelle Rodrigues says to Vin Diesel something like “If you spend too much time looking in that rearview, there’s things you might miss…like eternity.” But eternity doesn’t work that way, Lettie! Eternity is everywhere and everything and always, you can’t face toward it or away from it, it wraps you up and winds you into the solidness of being, grounds you to the center of the universe and doesn’t let go. Eternity holds your hand. Is this the purple-est prose ever inspired by a The cars..they drift! Movie? I don’t know. All those big, big explosions.

The Shy One only slept over a handful of times, and each time, no matter how many times I’d gotten off (SO MANY) it was so hard to sleep next to him. I was wound up tight with excitement and wonder, not wanting to miss any chance to feel him breathing next to me. Mostly, I slept after he left in the early morning, exhausted and glowing. The sadness of him leaving so quick only occurred to me after I woke up. There should have been a way for him to stay and make me pancakes, but there was always the beautiful pull of home.

It wasn’t all a starfield of bliss. Once, he grabbed my hand to show me how he wanted his penis stroked, impatience and contempt glimmering through him in a way that made me wonder if I’d been doing it all wrong all along, if there was only one meant-for-him person in the world who knew how to do it right.

When I wrote the first draft of these paragraphs, my heart just melted and filled with peace: My darling just wanted to go home. I wish I’d found a way to be kinder about it, and kinder to myself about it. I wish, wish, wish I could have been a kind of home for him, that someday I’ll be that kind of home for somebody new. Somebody mine.

I got self-conscious sometimes about my blowjob skills. I worried aloud once that I was bad at it and I think he actually agreed. He could have meant “Yes, I know you’re self-conscious about it.” Or “Yes, you’re bad at sex.”

Given time, and maybe less judgement, I could have learned. I want to have that part of intimacy, where you take your time learning somebody’s body, letting him learn yours. Every pairing or constellation is a new beginning, and I hope for many more chances to learn.

This morning, I can see myself there in the middle of my biggest dream, maybe being bad at blowjobs, definitely fucking it up in other ways, and feel peace. Today, just for a little while, I’m tuned into my eternity wavelength, past present and future and never and nowhere all at once. Stillness and peace and ungrasping love. Something like acceptance.

Sex, Love, and The Shy One, Part Two

 

I think it was Lottie on last week’s Yellowjackets who said it’s hard to form memories when you’re in an ecstatic state. Not like anyone should be going to Lottie for advice, but the idea’s relatable. I can’t always access the sensations and emotions of my lost love, my first real grownup love with a man.

Some nights, close to sleep and looking for a little extra. peace, I say a little prayer inside my head: “Come back to me.” Now that I understand that he wasn’t the right one (one of the right ones) for me, I don’t think it’s entirely a prayer for his miraculous somehow-return. It’s like, let me reclaim the experience. Let me remember and care for the beautiful things that happened between us without the shame of rejection or the grief of loss, or at least alongside them.

Of course, sometimes “come back” is just “come back.” That’s love and heartbreak and I hate it and I love it.

The love part, I handled so badly. Not the part about loving him almost-instantly and thoroughly and eternally, that’s all fine and on-brand. But when the love word crept into his side of the text thread, I think in a GIF of a cartoon bear with a wheelbarrow of hearts saying “Goodnight, my love!” and then didn’t come up again for a while, I freaked.

The thing, the ELUSIVE THING was so close. It might have been there all along, in its own way. He said the love word to my body the first night, easy and unencumbered. But no matter which way he said it, sometimes I just couldn’t hear it. Then, later on, in the highest heights of sex, he would withhold it. But first—

I freaked. He and Mrs. Shy One had fallen in love with the lady who came right before me, and in my worst moments, I wondered why she was easy to love and I was so impossible to love. This comparing, this sense of inherent inferiority, might be one of the things that makes it harder to love me and of course, sometimes I choose the situations that will trigger it the worst.

It’s a lifelong struggle—the thought that I’m missing some secret thing that other women have, like my orientation package was missing a map or some other vital page. In the background of that fear are my millstone words, or I guess my family’s words, probably both/and at this point: Stupid. Empty. Worthless. Here by mistake.

When someone loves me I think: Get out now or I’ll be humiliated. I’m already humiliated. I’m ALWAYS humiliated. Wish it was in the fun way a little more often.

I didn’t tell him the millstone words situation directly, but I did ask: Why is it easier to love (previous girl) than me? What was I missing? Jealousy tumbled out everywhere and he did NOT have the space for it, which made the panic worse. The shame of it is hard to argue with, even as I try to treat myself more kindly.

So when he, a day or so after all the jealousy and tears, texted “I love you” all friendly and sweet, I was overjoyed of course. Peace filled up my heart and spread warmth through the rest of my body, as it did again when I wrote the first draft of this post.

But as things fell apart, I couldn’t stop wondering (and I still wonder) if I’d manipulated him into saying it, it he’d offered that phrase to calm me down and keep me happy-enough.

When I look back at what happened, when I (so rarely, I swear) revisit the vacation WhatsApp thread or read his second-to-last email or putter around the apartment in either of the two robes he gave me, (One silky, one fuzzy) or see his fancy Eid-gift teacup at the back of the dish cabinet, I have to admit that his love was real, and I know I didn’t take good care of it.

What I’m trying to do with these paragraphs is to keep what’s mine, to honor whatever things belong to me so I can truly let him go. It’s hard, it’s sad, but I’ll keep writing.

Sex, Love, and The Shy One, Part One

It’s been three and a half months since his breakup email, not that long in the grand scheme of things, but I feel a lot of shame for not having moved on properly yet. I can feel him in my psyche, perhaps unfairly cast, the heartless, contemptuous version of him, hurrying me along like “What’s wrong with you? Why are you still thinking about this? What is the big deal?!”

I should probably think about where that judgey voice is coming from, because I don’t think that’s what he would say to me, if he said anything, which he doesn’t.

Three and a half months of perfect silence between us. Eventually my heart and mind will understand there IS no “between us.” Cold turkey is the only way when it’s this deep. I’ve quit smoking before, I know it eventually gets better, and this kind of quitting makes me way less bitchy.

I know this is right, that this is things working themselves out, but I just run low on faith sometimes. Patience wears thin like the toe of a sock, useful until it isn’t.

Last Sunday, I took a field trip with Rainbow Pal to the nature preserve over by the airport. We talked about everything, big talk only. I egged them on to message cuties in their Feeld queue and they did the same for me. We (Okay I) prevailed upon some strangers to take our picture in front of the beautiful waterscape. We saw a heron, turtles, yellow water flowers.

Rainbow Pal and I found the perfect shady bench to have a picnic of popcorn and fizzy water. The bench was pleasingly broad in the bright green dappled shade. I saw a frog hop close to the shore. The trees made a perfectly patterned net of coolness and light.

It was the perfect place for a sad confession. I told Rainbow Pal I was really struggling with the worry that sex might never again be as good as it was with The Shy One. We attributed his prowess to the fact that he’s been married so long. I mentioned that I’d wanted to send Mrs. Shy One a thank-you note after the first time.

I’ve been thinking all this time that he’s so good at sex because he’s so tended-to, so cared-for and thoroughly loved. He was so loved that he had extra love just lying around to give to me! I think I just explained polyamory. I’m so burned out and empty from all the sharing, but could I ever truly leave poly behind?

But putting aside Mrs. Shy One (PLEASE) and wherever else his beautiful skills came from, I need to untangle what his lovemaking meant to me. I need to claim whatever part of the experience as MINE.

I would attribute my swooniness and devotion to the love I felt for him, except, it was there RIGHT AWAY. From the moment I took his hand on our river-walk first date, I felt like: Oh. Yes. This.

His first touches were so kind, so meant for me, so loving before we ever knew each other at all. Maybe he IS just really, REALLY good at it, maybe everyone he kisses and touches feels that warmth, that thorough grace, but I want to believe that some of that sparkle, some of his hunger and softness and playfulness was just for me. I want to believe it sparked from the chemistry of just us, the alchemy.

“I love your body,” he said the first night, sitting behind me in bed and wrapping his arms around my waist. Simple and unbothered generosity. Animal bonding. Grace.

Helpless, Not the Fun Kind

I wanted a release. I wanted an escape from softness, from the mossy melancholy that still muffles my days in this heartachey in-between. Thinking back to the absolute REFRESHMENT that The Song Sender brought me last summer, I wanted this new guy to spank the softness OUT, to kindly knock me into my heart’s next phase. This new guy seemed promising, with the good banter,  probably because, like three messages in, I responded to “How was your weekend?” with “Lovely but I didn’t get spanked!” (Three sobbing emojis)

It wasn’t the best news week for this, but when is it ever? E. Jean Carroll’s courtroom journey was milder than, say, the Kavanaugh hearings, but still. In clips from that hideous CNN “town hall” thing, I’d heard the Trump crowd’s laughter at her expense, at the expense of all survivors. That crowd is why my body has trouble moving through the world, moving at all sometimes.

Sometimes on Feeld, all there is to go on is a pretty smile and a vibe—guys, for the love of heck please write bios. But I did my screening questions and:

“We’ll get along if you listen,” he’d said.

“We’ll see.” (Angel emoji) I’d replied.

He was BEAUTIFUL in the selfie he sent me, broad, dark-skinned, silly/frowny Dom expression, cute glasses.

I was EXCITED.

I put on one of my favorite red first-date dresses and headed over to my favorite restaurant, the same one where I’d met the Princely Guy. (I’ve decided to become an in-person regular there as my summer hobby, regardless of dating. BFF and I are going this Friday before we go see Fast X!)

When I saw him already at the table waiting for me, I just started to GLOW from within. He smelled so good when we hugged hello that I wanted to skip dinner and drag him right home.

The conversation tumbled into politics like falling off a cliff, though! I’d screened for politics, I always do, but I suppose that “I hate politics but I’m a registered Dem,” does sound pretty moderate in retrospect.

He really dug in and tried to convince me that there’s blame on both sides. That the hate only came when Trump arrived and said it was okay. That “we have to be nicer to Republicans if we want them on our side.”

“You sound like my mom,” is not a thing I ever want to hear myself say on a first date! Or ever! But there it was—the “very fine people on both sides” vibe even though he insisted that wasn’t what he was saying. My brain started fizzing with alarm and I couldn’t remember the phrase “false equivalency” or anything else coherent.

“Victim blaming, it’s…bad.” I said. He agreed with me there but was so determined that I should just give up. When I said I’d always fight for justice, he said “How’s that working for you? What are you going to do when Trump wins again?”

 I was already on the move. I offered to pay for dinner but Prospective Dom insisted. As the waiter very kindly packed up my samosas and rice, (I was getting rice all over the table!) my date said:

“So this means we’re not talking anymore?”

“Yes, I’m sorry, and it’s too bad because you’re SO BEAUTIFUL.”

At least it was one date in instead instead of seven, like it was with This Charming Man, that fall when Dave Chappelle was ruining everything.

Before I blocked Prospective Dom, he texted “I apologize,” and I wrote back, “It’s okay, that’s what first dates are for.”

But my brain stayed fizzing. As I drove home, I heard rustling sounds that turned out to be the takeout bag I’d left on the roof of the car—I would have to face the night samosaless. I overshared with my neighbors outside my apartment and regular-shared with closer friends over text. I called BFF while I added a few pieces to my 1000 piece puzzle of dahlias.

Sometimes, the cloud of dread seems real and insurmountable, like tyranny has already won. The “behave and maybe they’ll stop hurting you” impulse that has followed me from childhood can seem like the realest thing, can cast a shadow over everything I know and everything I am.

But. That beautiful impulse to flee. The grace with which I carried myself to safety. Knowing who it’s safe to let in, and who isn’t. It’s unreliable sometimes but precious and hard-won, I’m so, SO grateful for it.

A Princely Guy, A Surprising Lapse

I was home with the sniffles and this happened, before we'd even met! I'm just really happy to know that guys like this are out there.

A second princely character in as many weeks, is this just what dating with self-esteem is like? Is it an older-lady thing? Whatever it is, it’s nice being a queen in all caps. I liked this guy almost instantly. I was swiping absentmindedly on Bumble, really just going by faces, not bios, but this dear had all the things—36, a grad student at the same university I went to, and the sweetest smile. I could feel his warmth emanating from his profile, a pretty amazing feat.

Plus, Princely Guy’s from Ghana and he promised me a great Afrobeat/Hiplife playlist. I figured he’d probably have a swoonworthy Bristishy accent. (Yesyesyes, he did bring both the playlist and the accent. Ohmy.) He promised to teach me Twi. (Ohemaa means queen!) He invited me over to WhatsApp and you know I find it very cozy there.

His texting style was sunny, effusive, and kind, and I felt a safety talking to him that I don’t usually feel with people I haven’t met in person yet. (I swear it wasn’t JUST because I like being called a queen. Guys in the apps do that fairly often.) He offered to take me to dinner in my neighborhood, so last Friday night I picked out an all-pink-including-undies outfit and met him at my favorite place. Well, my favorite place to get takeout, anyway! This was my first time dining there—they reserved us the table near the window.

His texting manner had been so perfectly tuned to my whole thing that I suspected he might be some new kind of dating app AI, but he was real, and RIGHT on time. Sometimes you can tell from someone’s picture that they’d be a whole lot of fun to have sex with, and he was even more swoony in person—an openhearted face and a carefully-but-not-too-carefully sculpted body, a little slight compared to me, but strong and full of Chi.

As we ate our dinners, I told him I was experimenting with monogamy and he said he hoped to just find one woman. It was the first time I’ve taken anyone home with a monogamous intention, maybe since Sweetie.

For the first time in my life, I’m on birth control, the IUD they put in during my surgery back in March. From what he’d told me, Princely Guy didn’t seem to be that experienced or sexually active, and I was relieved to be free of the gotta-be-safe-enough-for-the-whole-constellation (possibly for the entire world) feeling. For almost my entire adult life, I’ve been a good, good, good citizen of sex. I haven’t had a PIV sex without a condom since literal 1995.

I was in a haze of happiness and trust and music with Princely Guy when he started to enter me without a condom on. It didn’t get mad or scared like I usually would, just told him he needed to get up and get a condom from the bedside drawer. But while he was rifling around in there, I was like…

Huh.

“I’d kinda like to try it without.” I said. So we did. We played and tickled and laughed and we fucked three times without a condom.

And I liked it so much. I liked being all the way against him, being filled up in this new/old way. I liked the feeling of (definitely ill-advised at this point) trust.

The match fell apart for me while I was driving him home. (Universe, send me the guy who’ll drive me around please) not BECAUSE I was driving him home, of course, but I didn’t like the way he talked about women or about my body—just an immaturity underneath all the sweetness that I knew wouldn’t serve us longterm.

On the drive back home, I landed back in wistfulness, missing the soul-connection/body-wisdom of The Shy One and wondering if I’d ever feel that kind of connection again. But my body was HAPPY. When I woke up the next morning, my vagina was full of well being. My heart felt hurty, but my body felt whole and loved and fulfilled.

Of course I’ll get tested, of course. This was a reckless choice, especially for someone who came of age in the Nineties to make. But I feel nothing but peace about it. I feel like a once-in-27-years lapse is allowed and I wonder if I’m headed towards monogamy? Or if this was just another body adventure? We’ll see.