One thing I should probably stop doing is mourning the loss of certain possibilities once a pathway has been chosen and things have been established and man is fucking me and all i can think is, “We can’t go back now, can we? Oh, god, the decision has already been made.” And I’ll explore all the different possibilities while some man I’m half in love with already is heaving over me and I’m squinting into his face, or trying not to, deciding whether I know him or not, deciding if he still qualifies as a stranger, deciding if I liked him better before I knew this part of him, deciding if how he thinks of me has changed the way it has for me. I wonder if I am a pinball lay victim to the different sexual preferences of men. i wonder why i only seem to catch up to the last guy’s hangups by the time I’m with someone else. By the time I start to get ashamed of all of my nympomania and perversion I find myself in bed with a pervert and he’s wondering why I’m shrugging and giggling and grabbing his shoulders and asking if he really likes me before he takes off my bra.
I feel like my compassion stretches to fit someone’s pathology and then on down the factory line I go and everything’s all wrong again.
Halfway through being with someone I remember past selves and call them back to me, recite old lines and practice old maneuvers, all the while questioning if this is okay, if this was what i wanted a few days ago, if I am already past this or if I am rediscovering some part of me I wish I never lost. It’s so hard to remember what is true sometimes, when a man with blue eyes has you on his lap on the couch and is kissing your shoulder with such gusto that your party dress nearly takes itself off. You haven’t been like this, found yourself completely naked on your back in your bed before you have even thought to take off his sweater, in quite some time. You haven’t shoved a man’s hand down your tights against your better judgment, even when you did squint into his eyes and you didn’t know him yet, you decided, but he was very cute, you decided, cute enough and smart enough and good enough at kissing you that none of it even mattered.
So damn, you told him you wouldn’t have sex with him and he said, “That’s fine!” almost too quickly as you crawled up to kiss him and the parts of you that werent going to have sex yet grazed against each other and, “oh, this is torture,” he said, and ‘I want to fuck you” you said and after lots of looking up at each other with an array of expressions and noises, a regular getting to know you of fucking, you lay down and gave up and said you needed to sleep even though he said he would never let himself come because he never wanted to stop fucking you and you really, you just were thinking too much. and you told him this as he dragged you to the edge of the bed and turned you over and fuckedyou that way, and he said, “That’s the right answer,’ but you wondered why? Did he like that you thought too much or did he just mean that you were right, that you needed to stop thinking? It was probably the latter but at the time you thought it was the former and felt pretty good about things. If only men would always follow you around and tell you everything you said was the right answer, while making relatively grandiose gestures to satisfy you sexually.
so you lay down and cuddled and made out and then wanted to fuck again and it was an endless cycle and endless curling into each other and torture and sweetness and revisiting moments from before the tension broke, laughing at the different lies— the fake business meetings, the conjectures that surely the train wasn’t running at this hour so we should probably just go up to your place… the necessary, did you think this would happen?” “i had no idea. well i had hoped.” that’s always the answer. it’s almost boring how much that is always the answer.
but we cuddled into each other and started to fall asleep and then started to kiss and then started to fool around again, and then fell asleep with his hand between my legs, both of us hours before nervous, cerebral, talking about our years and what lie ahead and how things are changing and me wondering the whole time if his hand on my lower back guiding me through rooms meant he liked me. just an hour before we were stuck at my door fiddling with the key and i debated taking the risk to just kiss him, but still wasn’t sure. and i mourned the loss of that, I wished it would have lasted longer, but also, his hand felt so nice between my thighs and his socks were adorable argyle on the floor of my room and i hardly remember what he looks like now but I know that he is cute and wonderful to kiss and I am almost sure we will do it again.