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. 

Conflagration

I’m burning in ways I didn’t expect with him. Find myself wanting to put my mouth on his length, bite a pattern around his hips, mold my hands to the shape of his thighs, take pleasure from his pleasure—I want to make him feel good. That makes me feel good too. How unexpected. My fantasies have never featured me as the aggressor, or the one who draws out the shudders from the other person’s lips, but the script’s flipped, and what used to be a passive sequence has turned active. No longer done to, but doing. I like it.

I wonder what’s caused the change, but I think I’ve always known. The role switch was already happening when I was with him on Tuesday, spread-eagle on his sheets while he licked an uneven line down my stomach. I wanted to return the favor. Again, the urge returned on Sunday night as soon as he slid my underwear off and pulled my hips towards him, towards his waiting mouth, because I looked right into his face as he did so, and the hunger in his expression—pupils black and blown—elicited a gasp I sucked in at the last second.

That kind of naked longing, seldom experienced and thus so memorable: how humbling, how infectious—and all of that directed at me. I want to make him feel the same way. To have his hips buck at my attentions. To clench tight around him, my nails scoring trails down his back, and swallow every moan he can’t hold in. To see an identical expression on my face staring back, dark-eyed and red-lipped, my voice thick with heat and intent. To listen to his body come apart in my hands as he has done to me. I want to undo him. 

Dragon*Con Weekend

I had brunch with him on Saturday. Yeah—hadn’t seen him in four months and was unsure of what my next move would be. Scratch that, I already knew what my answer would be. It was only a matter of when. Certainly not that morning, my period ensured that along with his schedule. But the meal was his compromise, and we finally set eyes on each other after an entire summer of false starts and stops that raised more questions that could ever be feasibly answered.

I couldn’t stop smiling as I ate, to my horror. Across the table, he casually tucked into his food while every glance he threw became a loaded gesture.

 

Later, I proposed my own compromise in the form of twenty minutes stolen in my car in broad daylight on a filled parking lot. As soon as I shut the door, he turned my head towards his, body preemptively angled as if to fit over mine, and at that first touch of lips, I grabbed at him, one hand on his waist, the other sliding up his chest. When he grasped the back of my neck with his fingers tangled in my hair, I realized how little had changed from our encounter in May. The heat coiling deep in my belly came as no surprise because my desire had not diminished in the slightest. I wanted—want—him just the same.

Judging by how he tugged at the neckline of my shirt, I think the feeling was mutual.

And as he bent down to leave two teasing nips on my thighs, I felt the impatience in his teeth and the proximity of his mouth, so tantalizingly close to the seams of my underwear that converged at the neat, budlike shape he hungered for the most. The urgency in his hands made me shudder. I hadn’t expected that both of our reactions would be this strong. I hadn’t expected things to circle back here this soon, but no—I did. I’ve never known how to say no to my urges.

Eventually, we disentangled. My locks were falling out of place from my bun that’d cheerfully dislodged during the proceedings. After straightening ourselves, he landed a bruising kiss on me and climbed out of my tiny car. I licked my lips, leaned back on the seat, and closed my eyes, waiting for my heart rate to go down. 

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. 

I am sufficiently horny to consider making bad decisions.

shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit shit 

I will never understand little white boys. He contacted me first, was completely honest with what he wanted from me (unlike some), we come to an understanding of sorts, and then he doesn't bother messaging me again unless I'M the one initiating the conversations. Is he just taking cues from me and letting my bossy butt control the flow of whatever-this-is? Is he too lazy to maintain good(ish) relations with me? What is it???

And why do I even care? At least it's nowhere near as much as last time. 

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?

details

When I’m with someone or I’m sitting at my desk, hours (days, weeks, months) after the fact, I try to think of that person’s focal point, the single detail on them that provides a jumping off cliff into a lengthy rumination on romance and intrigue. If I can’t find one, that’s usually a warning sign. They hadn’t been interesting enough. I was hasty. I made a bad decision. People like Rasmus and his vanity, Dane and his wheedling, George and his lack of respect: proof that I don’t always think clearly. It happens from time to time—means I haven’t learned my lesson yet. 

The more details I can find, the more fruitful my writing is. For Karen, I don’t know where to start: the dark gray fedora on her curly hair, her tiny brown eyes, that thin, snapping mouth, her richly textured voice. Others, I find to be more easily definable—Ben and his age, etched into his laugh lines and the effortless way he held me; Trey and the glasses I slipped off his face as he took my virginity; Catarina and her wide, splitting grin, validating half a decade’s worth of self-doubt about my feelings for women

.

There are some I can’t contain to a single point at all. Zul and the city of Singapore, that week of freedom and exploration, that entire summer, the days and nights and afternoons and mornings and meals and hours spent in my hostel room together—all of that is him. To talk about one would only lead to the other and then the next, until I’m writing another essay again. But would it be about him, or the experience of having had him as a summer fling? Two years after we happened, and it’s still impossible to separate the two. 

-----

I ramble about all of this to reach an uneventful conclusion. That was what I’d been looking for during my evening with him: something, anything, to draw my attention and latch onto. I found it soon enough in the green music notes on his arms, big and eye-catching (the former, not the latter), and that was (is) enough for me. I like them. They make him more memorable, more interesting. I kept touching them when we were in bed, slowly rubbing each note as if they’d somehow rise from his skin to turn a small tune. He probably noticed.

Reasons to be Sidetracked

I liked the date. In fact, I like him. I didn’t think I would this much. He’s fuzzy-chested, big-headed (as in literally), blunt-fingered, and BEARDED—Chance is simply not what I’m used to, or go for. Different can be good though. Like now. Maybe different is what I need. 

The details I normally file away in my mind for later, written records are uncharacteristically scant this time. I don’t even remember the color of his eyes. I usually would, for such an important, descriptive detail. But I do recall them being dark and glossy, trailing over my face and across the dress I had carefully chosen for the date. They stayed on my own eyes most of the time: friendly. Steady. Open. As a result, I often looked away; sustained eye contact like his makes me feel vulnerable and examined. I wasn’t quite ready for that. 

Dinner was fine; I chose a nondescript restaurant for a nondescript meal. The conversation (among other things) had been what I was truly after. He’s a smart boy—sarcastic, witty, and with a never-ending supply of quips. His voice was unusually resonant, projecting far beyond the small borders of our table space. He smiled more than he laughed. I forgot to ask him about that. When the appropriate amount of time had passed, we split the check and left. The car ride was equally uneventful, apart from us exchanging additional, personal morsels about our lives. 

His apartment was painfully neat and spare. I liked that too. 

In his room, he was very careful to let me set the pace. He started when I started, slowed when I slowed, stopped when I stopped. Our discussion about books stretched longer than need be, but the fault lay with me, not him (alas, the shortcomings of someone with a nervous disposition.) He took the cues I gave him in small, acceptable steps. His hand, although not broad, slid well enough over the crook of my waist to settle his fingers on my hip. Lightly tracing my collarbone in the few moments before he bent over to kiss me was a nice touch too. Books were then dropped altogether.

I’m more present than I have been in other encounters. Even though I notice things like the freckles on his arms and the way his hair is wetly slicked back, they quickly get lost in a fog of want that’s been clouding my head for months. I hold in a gasp as he spreads my legs open, hands to my mouth when he dips down, knuckles clenched bone-white on the sheets as his tongue darts out. A frisson—or bolt, more like—runs through me when he praises my taste. It’s secretly my favorite thing to hear, and I’ll be replaying this for weeks to come.

His grip is sure and firm on my legs as he moves me. I’m filled up, and it hurts, but suddenly it doesn’t, and then yes, it does hurt, at that slant, at that pace, at that—no the pain rounded the corner again back to yes please. Soon, I’m too confused to disentangle the two so I keep my eyes closed, which is a shame because more than anything, I like watching the way he looks at me—a clear-eyed gaze that’s crinkled at the corners, silently asking me to stay in the present with him instead of floating away like I always do. 

The question’s laced with honey and good fucking. I can’t say no to that. Even after he comes, and we’re still on the bed with parts of myself carefully angled away from him while I rub circles on his chest, how can I leave? That would be rude. It wouldn’t be something I want to do. I’ve done so before though, very easily and with little fuss. I’m forever thinking of my escape plan from the room or car or other enclosed area, often prior to the meeting, or during. 

No plan this time. I’d be lying if I said that my mind is completely blank, but the music notes—green and vivid on his arms— warm to the touch of my fingertips. It wouldn’t hurt to stay.