everything hurts and I'm dying

not really but I have been crying off and on for the past week because asher and I have broken up I suppose

but is it a breakup if this was never a conventional relationship to begin with???

When I (didn't) Know, remix

When did this all even start? Was it a conscious, deliberate decision? The best I can manage is to narrow down the timeline to the April visit of this year, the month I was connecting with Nathan in that feverish, intense freefall. He was there to anchor me, I suppose—is that quite right? No, he was my confidant, my reality check, my…reminder? During one phone conversation, Nathan asked me if I’d ever give up everybody in order to be with one person, and the first person I thought of was Asher.

Could I have done it? No really, could I have truly done it? I nearly did. The temptation to be uncontested #1 in someone’s life for once was almost overwhelming. I’ve never had that, the unassuming confidence of coming first, occupying the highest rung on a list of priorities I wouldn’t even need to consider. What did it feel like, having that kind of security? To always know your place? Deep down, I knew I could be that for Nathan, and he for me. I liked him so fucking much. But for how long? How long before we’d begin the inevitable slip-slide down each other’s lists? Before we fought? Before I came to resent him for keeping me tied, before he came to resent me for having such a storied sexual history?

There were too many variables. Then again, Asher isn’t exactly variable-free either. No relationship is—but he’s the one whose variables I’m familiar with. That’s not the sexiest reason for choosing one person over another, but remember, Nathan ultimately didn’t give me the ‘luxury’ of choosing. On the last night, I essentially cried into the phone for two hours while he told me in the softest voice imaginable why he was preemptively ending our whatever-we-could-have-been. And in the morning (that I somehow, fitfully slept through), I called Asher so he could murmur and let me tell him all about it in a voice that sounded as swollen as my eyes. Then I spent the rest of April with him as I had already planned on doing anyway. We left things as they were, and did not quite leave them as they were.

Maybe that entire month taught me to value what I have now: leaning back into the curved space his body makes when he curls around me to watch a movie, hearing the low hum of almost-petulant want at the back of his throat whenever he pulls me into his arms, laughing (or groaning) too loudly at an article he’s linked, running my fingers down the shirt I bought as his Christmas gift (the one he now inexplicably wears for half of my visits), tasting myself on his lips, closing my eyes to sleep after a phone call with him—let’s try that earlier question again. Would I have given all of that up?

I still don’t know for sure, but it would surely have been the most difficult decision I’d have made this year. 

When I Knew, Deep Down

We were on the bed, and Asher was 3 seconds away from dozing off when I realized this night marked the end of a full year of not having seen Chance. My last encounter with him happened late-April ’14 in the parking lot of the Lenox shopping mall at 10pm—not difficult to fill in the tawdry blanks. Since then, I had cut off contact with him for good and struggled for the rest of the year to not think of him every day as my emotional interior mended itself bit by bit. An entire year without setbacks or reneging. I didn’t text him, call him, or try to contact him in the obscenely numerous ways I could have through social media. I didn’t look him up to see the latest updates in his life either. All I had to myself were a very mixed bag of memories.

Half of them were filthy and exhilarating; the other half was one long lesson in manipulation and neglect. When I wasn’t over-the-moon happy, I was miserable, waiting for him to reply to my messages and photos, pretending to hate him, vowing to end things and not, arguing with him and feeling the sting when he’d ignore me afterward for days, beating myself over what I’d *maybe* said or done to upset him. It was a miserable year with a wretched human being for whom I had very strong feelings. The ordeal was over though. I would never have to make feeble excuses for his toxic behavior again, never put myself through the wringer for someone who couldn’t give half a shit about me, never look at him and wonder what went on inside that abusive mind. It was all fucking over.

The finality of it hit me then.

I silently cried while staring up at the ceiling as the tears slid down the sides of my face and onto the sheets.

Asher heard me sniff too loudly, and at seeing my face, a deep line appeared between his brows. He didn't look shocked. “What’s wrong?” He was already half-asleep.

I sighed. “It’s been a whole year since I ended it with Chance.”

He only nodded and rubbed a tear off my cheek. I leaned into his hand, closing my eyes. Maybe this entire set-up—talking about an ex like you still miss him while in bed with your current partner—would have felt wrong with anyone else. The next words slipped out without warning.

“Do you like me the same way I like you?” The question hung in the air. I cringed at the neediness in my voice. Was it so bad, craving a bit of certainty with the people you care about?

“I do,” he rasped softly.

“The exact same way?”

“Exact same way,” he repeated.

I blinked back more tears. My “okay” came out like a sigh. 

The night was late by then, and the moment briskly segued into dressing ourselves and me getting in my car for the hour-drive home. I didn’t think much of that night at the time, figured we had an intense moment and that would be that. Thinking back on this months later though, I think this is when something in our relationship shifted—a subtle deepening of how we relate to each other, laying the groundwork for what I told him at the end of the summer.

This is probably when I knew, deep down, that I love him. 

What I Didn't Have The Strength to Write at The Time of Occurrence

We spent a few hours at a park near his apartment while the sun was out, and the air stayed cool. There were children playing by the lake, dogs catching frisbees in their mouths, and a swatch of gently inclining lawn we could stake a blanket on. I couldn't make this shit up if I tried. When we weren't talking, we were laughing; when we weren't laughing, we were quiet, letting the April afternoon pass us by in cloud-after-neatly-formed-cloud. I remember combing my fingers through his hair as he curved an arm over my hip, uncaring of how many people could see. He smelled clean, like aftershave and warm laundry, and later, in his room, his hands and face smelled like me, lingering oh-so-tartly and sweetly.

I suppose I wore his scent too, in my hair, the crooks of my elbows and inside of my knees, the small of my back, and the center of my forehead where he kissed me so many times. He told me, amid the self-inflicted tangle of limbs locked around each other, that he really liked me. I said it back and let myself imagine a summer of equally eventful dates. I thought I was strong enough not to let my mind wander that far. But I also thought that he meant everything he said. At the end of the night, I kissed him goodbye in the car and left him for what I didn't know would be the last time. That day was the closest to perfect I've had, and I'm terrified of how long I must wait until the next one.

small milestones

Last May I had a conversation with him about dating more later that summer, to which he agreed easily, but with a caveat of sorts that this was highly unlikely to evolve into a conventionally monogamous, committed relationship—best summed up in his exact words, “I love being around you, but I don’t love you.” I didn’t raise much of an objection at the time. We’d known each other for barely half a year; what was there to object to? That summer (well-documented in these archives) passed by uneventfully, and so did the rest of the year as we continued talking, connecting, staying in touch—learning more about one another and growing closer as a result.

Should this week have surprised me then, when he came back into town for a visit, and we fell on each other, starving for tangible contact—his, mine, not anyone else’s, not at that moment—ruining his bedsheets, wrapping arms around the other afterward, and I, carefully holding my breath before gently exhaling, telling him how I’ve felt for the past few months? If the previous sentence sounds rambling and leisurely, that is because it intimately parallels my own emotional journey through what has been the steadiest, most stable sexual/romantic arrangement with a partner thus far. The feeling came in time, nearly two years in the making, and didn’t take me by surprise so much as tap my shoulder one day to say, “I’m sorry it’s taken me such a while to show up, but I’m here. I am here.”

I wasn’t sure I would tell him until Tuesday afternoon when we both reclined there in bed with his head on my chest and my fingers combing through his hair. When I didn’t feel afraid, I knew that it was okay to say the words, even if he didn’t return the same sentiment, even if I’d be exposing myself in the biggest way since Chance, even though that was my very first time telling anyone—out-loud—that “I love you (a little bit.) Don’t be scared because I’m not scared either.”

“...I love you (a little bit) too.”

Time changes things and the nature of things so quickly. 

I was your primary the whole summer?

And here I tried so hard not to think about that possibility too much.

What He Got Away With

1. I text him. He replies two days later. I text him. He forgets to reply. 

2. He goes down for five minutes, fucks me until he comes, and watches while I finish myself off. Repeat. 

3. I am upset with him over something. I don’t bring it up because the last time I did that, he ignored me for a week. 

4. We schedule a meetup. I hold my breath until five minutes before the appointed hour because I never know if he’ll cancel at the last possible moment. 

5. I cry. He insists we’re “just talking.”

6. He has the sweetest mouth and says the most careless things. 

7. I try not to care. He actually doesn’t care.

8. He doesn’t touch me in public. 

9. I let my walls down. He torched and salted the earth beyond it. 

10. He saw me cry.

Clockwork

What does it take to have a stable, reliable, predictable, semi-romantic arrangement in my life?

Am I asking for the moon here?

This was us

“

I once knew a man who came on very strong at the beginning of relationships, but couldn’t seem to help closing his heart as soon as a woman had opened hers. I have heard that kind of behavior referred to as an “addiction to the attraction phase” in relationships. This man did not maliciously go around hurting women. He sincerely wanted to be in a genuine, committed relationship. What he lacked were the spiritual skills that would enable him to settle down in one place long enough to build anything solid with an equal partner. As soon as he saw human faults and weaknesses in a woman, he would run. The narcissistic personality is looking for perfection, which is a way to make sure that love NEVER has a chance to blossom. The initial high can be so heady, so tantalizing, that the real work of growth which needs to follow the initial attraction phase can seem too dull, too hard to commit to. As soon as the other person is seen to be a real human being, the ego is repelled and wants to find somewhere else to play.

At the end of a relationship with someone like this, we feel as though we’ve taken cocaine. We had a fast and exciting ride, and it felt at the time like something meaningful was happening. Then we crashed and realized that nothing meaningful had happened at all. It was all made up. Now all we have is a headache, and we can see that this kind of thing isn’t good, isn’t healthy, and we don’t want to do it again.

But there’s a reason why we’re attracted to relationships such as this. We were drawn to the illusion of meaning. Sometimes someone who has nothing to offer in a real relationship can come on like they’re offering the world. They are so dissociated from their OWN feelings that they have become highly skilled performers, unconsciously playing whatever part our fantasies prescribe. But the responsibility for our pain still remains OUR own. If we hadn’t been looking for a cheap thrill, we wouldn’t have been vulnerable to the lie.

How could we have been so stupid? That’s the question we always ask ourselves at the end of these experiences. But once we’d had enough of them, we admit to ourselves that we weren’t really stupid AT ALL. We suspected this was a drug. The problem was, we wanted it. We saw exactly what the game was with this person, usually within the first fifteen minutes, yet we were so attracted to the high, we were willing to PRETEND we didn’t see it, for just a night, or a week, or however long it lasted. The fact that someone said to us, “You are so fabulous. You’re such a wonderful woman. This is such a great date. How lucky a guy is to get to date you,” when he’s only known you for an hour, is a blinking red light to any thinking woman. The problem is, the depth of our wounds can be so great—we can be SO hungry to hear those words, because deep down we suspect that they’re untrue—that hearing them can cause us to put aside all rational consideration. When we’re starved, we’re desperate.

”

—	Marianne Williamson

Sigh

I'm going to spend the next 4 weeks oscillating between being okay with him moving away and not being okay with him moving away.

-----

In the end we're just too incompatible. My temperament's pretty much the opposite of his. But I knew it. I knew he felt something. You don't have that kind of intense sex with someone without feelings on both sides.

-----

Let this go. Let this go. Fucking let this go and be a healthy person dammit.

Listening to: Night Diving by Thrice

I wish I could tell you all the things I've had to keep to myself. Last night I was with you again, the second time in a month, and after we had our fill of each other, we twisted the sheets haphazardly over us while our legs got even more hopelessly entangled, and I could have soundly fallen asleep in your bed (in your arms) as the music softly played from your desktop.

I didn't though. Of course I didn't. I'm always leaving you, always a temporary guest in your room and if I hope for something more permanent than a few snatched hours, I don't even whisper the words aloud to myself on every lonely drive back home, with my knuckles pale on the steering wheel and my mouth pursed tight from the ache in my chest. I never present anything but a casual, level-headed front to you when all I've ever been since May is a young woman burning up with too much want and unspoken passions.

Were I a braver person (to either face my own desires or your decidedly cooler attitude towards me, I can't say), not a single meeting would pass without you knowing the full scope of my longing: the fever your touch instills, the desperate way I claw your back as if to claim what isn't mine, the breaths I hold as my fingers trace the line of your jaw and commit the shape of your eyes to memory. I wouldn't be afraid of the strength of my feelings, and you wouldn't be afraid of the intensity of this side I've tempered for years.

But who could see this nature, my true nature, and not shy away for fear of being consumed by it? Who could--who would--want someone like me, once they learn the truth? Would you? Dare I entertain the thought? I don't. I won't. At the very least I can be honest here.

Things I've Been Told

"you’re hard to read"

"it’s difficult to gauge your emotional reactions"

"I can’t tell if you’re mad or just annoyed or…?"

"what does that face mean"

"I don’t know what you’re thinking"

"you keep yourself really distant"

"please tell me what’s on your mind"

Really? I never thought of myself as hard to read—my face gives away so much, I can never hide if I’m upset or happy or excited or w/e over something, but I’m told these things often (and usually by my various paramours or people-trying-to-be-friends-with-me).

But I mean, yeah. I push you away if I feel like you’re getting too close. My walls don’t give unless I think your walls have come down enough too. This doesn’t make me an impossible person to know. It simply means that getting to know me isn’t a light investment. I don’t do superficial whatever-ships with people. I’m a no-nonsense person; show me you’re worth my time and energy.

Does this make me any less worth getting to know?

Out With It

I wish I could just resume whatever was happening with him back in May instead of constantly having to draw and redraw these new boundaries/parameters that wind up blurring and getting crossed anyway. Potential dating! Kidding, now it's cut-off-ties-and-move-on. No wait! He's apologized, and I've extended the hand of friendship without any expectations to sleep with him again since he has a girlfriend. Kidding, now he's broken up with her and has been hankering for time with me. But wait! We should redefine this nebulous thing we've started up again. And on and on and fucking on.

I feel like there's bait dangling in front of my face, and he keeps lowering and yanking the hook. I've been talking bullshit for the past few weeks here when I should have just owned what I feel instead of pushing down everything like I always do.

Yes, I do like him. Quite a bit. And I would like a more serious arrangement with him, but I'm convinced/certain that he doesn't want the same, especially considering that he just got out of a summer relationship barely a month ago. I'm ashamed that I would still have feelings for someone who's hurt me the way he has. I'm angry that I can't concentrate on much else. I'm humiliated that I've let myself become more invested in some whatevership than the other party. I know better than that.

Mostly, I'm terrified of feeling more vulnerable than I have in years.

Hot and Cold

Sometimes the shame of what kind of person I truly am cripples me. Not a confident, cool person, but a fraud, too wracked with insecurities and self-doubt to be of much admiration or help to anyone. This intimidating front I put up, it's convincing so long as I don't let the cracks show because once one of the walls come down, the rest tumbles quickly afterward, and it becomes apparent that I'm not strong at all. Better to keep them (to keep him, to keep her) far from my soft inner body so there's nothing to hurt when we eventually part ways.

If I’m not careful, I get invested too soon and too much. My emotional spectrum exists in two opposite ends: either I've written you off or completely invested my time and energy in getting to know you. Happy, middle-ground mediums were never an option for me. If they were, I would have taken advantage of them by now. Instead, I scare people away, whether by my coldness or passion. The former preserves my defenses; the latter blasts them open. Which is the more frightening, or genuine?

People think I don't care, but I do. 

I care too much. 

Fool Me Once, Shame on You; Fool Me Twice--

By this point, I know full well I can’t quit this guy so when I made plans to drop by his house last night, nothing was unclear about the nature of that visit.

-----

I’ve fallen back into bed with him because I can’t be bothered to restart my search. What makes me curl my toes has him groaning into my ear, and there are too many of them to count—why go through the same song-and-dance number when he’s pinned me to the mattress with his mouth right then, right now? I could rehash the sequence of events in the weeks following his elaborate apology letter, but I’ve already talked myself hoarse about it to other people and spaces that aren’t here. This is for when I’ve made the decision, the recount of the before, during, after, and everything in between. I’m tired of making excuses. I simply want his hands on me.

And if our interactions seem guided by baser intentions than before, that’s because they are. With any pretenses of dating or romance out of the way, I’m obvious in my lust, an altogether more manageable variable in an arrangement made richly volatile by the new, potential baggage he and I both bring in. Without (his) pressure to emotionally open myself up, there’s only the heat and sweat generated between two bodies pressed tight together, reluctant to break apart for fear of allowing another situational wrench to set us at odds again. This could be the worst call I’ve made this year. This could be the best. Or it could be another call made in the running timeline of my romantic and sexual endeavors that I won’t examine until all’s been said and done.

For now, he lays me flat on the bed, hooks my legs over his arms, and leans in to breathe the heavy scent between my thighs. I’ve come to his house on my period and warned him off of putting his mouth there. Up until this moment, he’s kept away, but the towel rubs soft under my back as he drags my hips closer, his eyes lingering on the darkest corners of myself. A second passes; he mutters a curse under his breath and dips his head down. A sharp intake of breath then fills the room, and I realize that it’s mine.

He can’t stop touching me. I can’t stop touching him. His fingers spread and curl and dig deep for me to rock back against, my face buried in a pillow to stifle my moans. When he slides all the way in, I sink my teeth into his shoulder, sucking the freckled skin there to leave a mark in the morning, and it hurts god it hurts, but it’s a familiar hurt from months ago, a pain I’ve wanted to revisit, but the tight, aching fullness of him can’t possibly hurt worse than what he had dealt me with his absence.

Afterwards, my roaming, restless hands map the shape of his chest while his palm fits over my waist. I inhale the muted, comfortable smell of his deodorant in the curve of his neck, and he drops kiss after kiss in my tangled hair, my damp forehead, my red, wet mouth. I should have left immediately—that’s the protocol, isn’t it? But I’ve stayed, and pressed myself against the whole length of him, and curled my shoulders towards his, and let him catch me up in his arms where his music note tattoos come in and out of view, wordlessly playing a song I have yet to hear in its entirety. 

Up in My Tower

I assumed when I first found out the news about your girlfriend in the middle of a family dinner that my reaction would be worse. Instead, I laughed once and kept quiet for the rest of the meal. My head was strangely blank on the drive back to my cousin’s house. Maybe a shower would ease the tightness I imagined locked in my chest. However, nothing happened while the hot water pounded my shoulders. After toweling myself, my eyes remained dry despite how they’d stared unblinkingly at the mirror for several seconds too long. I went through the pre-bed motions and fell asleep without a lingering thought. The next morning (and the mornings after that) passed similarly, resulting in a well of satisfaction at having handled the news in such a mature fashion.

As it turned out, denial and pride had fooled me into believing that I came away unaffected; my reaction had in fact been merely delayed by a few weeks. My emotions were patient enough to wait until I returned home to the States, settled in perfect comfort and routine within the walls of my room for when I finally checked my inbox to find a message from the person I had expected never to hear from again. The email was two months late and of worth to no one but me. I scanned lines that sounded contrite, that acknowledged exactly how unfairly you had treated me, and yet the expression on my face failed to change, my armor seemed impenetrable—all the way up to this line: “Perhaps it was because you were pretty good at convincing me that your mile-high and mile-wide guard wall was impenetrable.”

I reread it twice, and sure enough, the tears welled up quickly, running hot down my cheeks at 3am. Perhaps it’d been better if you hadn’t sent anything at all. At least then I could pretend that the truth of your silence was not so glaringly obvious in every apologetic word. The girl doesn’t bother me. Let’s be honest, finding someone else while I was abroad sounds like something I would have done too. No. You thought so little of me that whatever investment I had made in our potential arrangement meant nothing, my stake in this floating weightless in your mind—a non-factor. Like me. What an inconsiderate coward you are, fleeing a scene you yourself had caused. How utterly predictable to boast of your candor in the beginning, only to admit to your fear of being forthright far past the point of decency. In the end, I’m left feeling stupid, to have shown honesty and expecting reciprocity.

But mostly? I’m tired. I am so tired of keeping these walls up, and as you’ve demonstrated, they’re up for good reason. Sometimes I want to bend (and break) under the crushing weight of all this emotional armor, but I know that if I don’t wear it, disappointments like this (like you) would crush me even more. I’m very fragile once I let someone in, but s/he wouldn’t know because I wouldn’t—I don’t—let him/her know. The simple truth is that my feelings have never mattered to anyone because I refuse to let others think I even have them. This prison-fortress, then, is my own making. I have no one to blame but myself. This is what I get for allowing vulnerability without telling you.

Of course you’re not the first to hurt me. Don’t flatter yourself. But you’re the first in months (even years) to make me think long and hard about how I choose to navigate (romantic) intimacy.

you didn't owe me anything like commitment or loyalty

All I wanted was honesty from both parties. I supplied one end.

Where were you?

Softshock Redux

It's summer again, and I'm on the bed, running my fingers underneath the cold side of my pillow. If I switch off the lights, I can pretend I'm back in my rented room in Singapore again, June 2011. If I squeeze my eyes shut, I can almost feel you beside me, sliding your cool hand up my thigh.

***

Nowadays, I just relive snippets of our time together, relishing the details that made our connection so memorable in the first place: The small fan whirring in a corner of the ceiling. The freezing tile beneath my feet as we tiptoed our way to the stiff mattress that masqueraded as a proper bed. The film of sweat that still lingered on the back of my neck from our stroll around the boardwalk. The imprint our bodies made on each other, sliding, sticking, and sliding again. The hushed words we whispered. The laughs we stifled. The tense line of your shoulder blades as you bent down to kiss me. The deep brown of your skin set against your dark hair and darker eyes.

There were fun things I remember that happened outside the room as well: our day-trips around the city and the night-walks we would take afterwards. The way we stepped side by side, arms swinging but not quite touching, matching a beat we wordlessly sang to each other. My hand linked to yours as you pulled me through noisy street markets and past sing-song hawkers to the cozy hole-in-the-wall food stall you like to visit once a week. The blend of smells in the air--spicy noodles, ocean salt, cigarette smoke, and your own woodsy musk. Our sandals thwacking erratically on the pavement as we raced each other down a deserted incline at one in the morning. 

Details flood my mind, and I can't keep track of them all. In the end, when the longing grows to be too much, I force myself to recall our last goodbye at the airport when I shyly slid my arms around your neck and leaned forward, my foot kicking up just so. I have to remind myself that you kissed back too, your hands firm and solid around my waist, your lips soft and wet. I have to tell myself that you remember this too. That you love this too. That I'm not the only one still reeling from the impact of a single week in a city I most likely won't visit again for years. 

Softshock

I decided to watch a Youtube video tonight about Singaporean firefighters because I'm horny and I missed you. I clicked on the first one I saw: fan-made, but with nice production values.

You were in it.

Halfway through the video, you appeared on the screen out of nowhere, and I jumped several feet in my chair. You weren't supposed to be in it. You don't hear me complaining though.

Obviously, this brought a lot of things to the forefront.

*****

Your song, by the way, is "Softshock" by the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. I listened to their It's Blitz! album during my week there, but this song reminds me of you the most. I should have spent more time writing about that whole experience, but similar to so many other hot-button people in my life (Old Geezer, Ex, Karen, Cat, etc.), I needed time for all of the feelings and thoughts to sit. Age. Mature. Complete. I think I'm ready now, or as ready as I'll ever be.

No white girl would look at you twice here. Let's get that out of the way first. You're not a tall, white man with money or a muscular, black man with a big penis. You're short, skinny, and wear glasses. In other words, just right for me. You go unnoticed so people like me can snatch you away. You're dorky and awkward around women, masking your insecurities with bravado and cockiness. I don't mind. It's endearing because I see right through it.

You changed the game forever. I mean, I knew someone would eventually come round to shake up my preconceived notions on romance and sex, but I didn't think it would happen so soon. But there you were, perched on the edge of that beach chair with a beer in hand and a smirk on your face while I described--with hand gestures--merely one of my many sexual fantasies. We had only met hours before, but I was telling you all of this anyway. Like we had known each other for the longest time.

The connection was instant, electrifying, and suddenly everything felt new and familiar. (Was it normal to experience such a heady rush?) I brushed my fingers over the muscles on your arm, giddy and restless with excitement. (Were we going too fast?) You grinned back, eyes lingering on my dress straps. (What if I was making a mistake?) The day dragged on until I finally led you back to my room at night, with my laptop screen as a stand-in for romantic candlelight. (fuck it, let's see where this goes.) And for the record, it wasn't perfect; nothing is. But it was so damn close.

Those five days existed in a pocket of time outside the life I've returned to. On some days, I don't believe they were ever real. On others, I know better. They either passed too slowly or too quickly, depending on what we were doing at the moment. I don't even remember who else I interacted with. Just you. We had more in common that I realized, or dare to hope. You saw my weirdness in all its naked glory and chose to stay. Whatever I proposed, your only answer was "yes." How could I not have grown fond of you? How could I not?

If only there had been more time to see what we could have evolved into. When I conjure up the image of us tangled in my sheets, sticky and sated, laughing at each other, the memory tastes sweet, dissolving like sugar on the tip of my tongue to savor and hold in my mouth until there is only the ghost-taste left as a nostalgic reminder. I recall the piggyback ride you gave me as we ran down an empty street at midnight. I remember the weight of you and smile to myself.

You made me believe. You made me doubt. You tumbled into my life and just as swiftly winked out. A softshock to my soft side.

Bits

Bits taken from Creative Nonfiction:


I never wanted to lose my virginity in a loving, stable relationship with a boyfriend. And no, I didn’t want to lose it after marriage. In fact, I threw away my maidenhead with a boy I barely knew one night over Spring Break in the later semester of my junior year, on the living room floor of a friend’s house between three and six in the morning. I wasn’t completely sober either. When I tell my friends this (or anyone who wishes to know), the expression on their faces is a hybrid of incredulity and pity, as if I had been tricked into that situation and taken advantage of like all good girls who unfortunately find themselves mixed up with the wrong people.

Don’t let this quiet, wholesome girl façade fool you. That night happened exactly the way I had planned it to. The boy was a friend of a friend, a 22 year-old biochemistry major I knew for all of five hours, and the entire encounter—while playful and breathless—had a current of cool detachment running underneath our movements. It didn’t hurt—that surprised me, I’ll admit that much—but we kissed each other with glazed eyes that did not truly meet until the end of the fact. The next day, he gave me a perfunctory hug, and we parted on neutral-friendly terms. My one-night stand replaced the movie ideal of a high school prom night deflowering on scented sheets to a soft rock soundtrack.

I never treated my virginity as a gift. It wasn’t a trophy, a prize to be won, or a pot of gold at the end of the sexy rainbow. It was a thorn in my side for twenty years, a personal nuisance that made me vicariously live through the details of other friends’ tales as they gestured obscenely and giggled behind their hands while I could only cock my head to the side and wonder. I had read all about sex; I was obsessed with the horizontal tango: books, stories, videos, pictures, online erotica—by the age of eighteen, I was a sex aficionado in all but practice. I wanted to be the female Casanova, bedding beautiful people by day and/or night, but my “purity”—and the misogynistic myth surrounding it—stood in the way of my wet dreams.

On the drive home, my hands wouldn’t stop shaking, and I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles shone white. I was finally free.