On Words

theotheremma

(Special thank you to the friend mentioned in On Dirty Minds for helping in the editing of this.) 

The alphabet will affect me far more than kisses and bites and fingers ever will.

Or is it the tongue that wraps around the letters, that forms sentences that travel through me, making my mind turn to mush, melting me into a puddle that no longer wishes to move, to think, to feel anything but that person wrapped around me.

Or is it the timing, things said as I’m already floating up in space, words that send me higher, which feel like a jolt of electricity down my spine, sending shivers straight through to my toes.

Or is it the person themselves, that have read each reaction so carefully, that have cracked through exterior walls, that understand which things will have more of an effect than their body ever could, or make me more than willing to accept what their body could offer.

There are times I crave the silence. Because some people need to stay silent so I can fly above the atmosphere, so I can be somewhere else in that moment, or get through the moment, and then come back to be present with the person beside me.

Sometimes silence is our language, growls and sighs whispered in ears, and it’s more than enough. It can be positive, negative, or neutral. In whatever case, human language is unnecessary.

But there are those that have understood the power of words, in the most intricate of manners.

That can ruin with a sentence.
Melt with a whisper.
Destroy sanity with syllables.

And I can only reply with a yes, no, or sigh. I will paint landscapes with a mouth that never utters a sound, but I will come undone under the power of words.

But only for those who know how to properly wield this power.

On The Bad Stuff

theotheremma

I’ve been running into this problem lately, of only remembering those stupid ass moments.

When I fucked up.

When I got too drunk.

When I said something stupid.

When you had to deal with my incompetence and idiocy.

And I don’t want to only remember these moments, because for one, it makes it sound like you’re perfect, and no one is, and two, I want to remember the other moments.

When we lay on your couch doing nothing all day.

When I made your coffee in the morning, and wafted the scent towards your nose to breathe life into you.

When you put your hand on my knee.

When you made me talk about things without a hint of uncomfortability, pushing past my layers of shyness, so you knew exactly how to to pull me to you, hands around my wrists, holding me steady as your tongue made earthquakes travel through my spine.

 

I want to hold on to you as a whole. I want to be able to look you in the eyes, and know that we are on equal ground. I want to know that one day you will crush me into a hug again and I will not dwell on this, that, or the other but only on that moment, on your arms and skin and feel of you around me.

I never expected to feel an intensity with you, and you still don’t know all of these feelings rattling around in my head. Because when we talk it’s about something related to a previous conversation. It’s me sending you a TV show release date. It’s not us talking about the intricate details of our lives, our thoughts, our feelings. It’s not those kinds of conversations anymore.

Maybe it’s just the unsettled-ness of my life right now, but it’s so easy to dwell on the negative, to focus on my faults and my derp moments, that which makes my brain say – well you had fun, but do you really expect them to stick around when you’re such a dumbass?

But I know this isn’t fair, or true. People come in and out or your life for such a variety of reasons. Maybe you’ve got a blog somewhere writing about the depths of my ineptitude, but I don’t think so. (Others on here, maybe. But not you.)

 

You sent me three words the other day, and it helped far more than you know.

 

I miss you, too.

 

On Leicester Square

theotheremma

2015-10-14-tgag_614_feminist

Headphones in ears, giant fuckoff bag beside me, and a book open in my lap – all the telltale signs of leave me the hell alone. And yet, I could feel hipster fuckboy’s eyes on me for two stops before he crossed over to sit next to me. It should be noted that my entire end of this conversation was said almost completely deadpan.

“What are you reading?” He asked brightly.

I held up the book. It was Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s We Should All Be Feminists.

“Oh, so you’re a feminist?”

“Yes.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t until last year. I thought they were just all feminazis who hated men, but then my ex got me on it. I know it’s about equality now.” His smile still in place, nodding at his own innate genius for figuring out that 2 + 2 = 4.

“Good for you.”

“Yeah, like, we’re all equal right? Just makes sense.”

I nod, and turn back to the book.

Yes, well done for understanding that women are, indeed, equal to you, and those fighting for said equality are not the same as actual Nazis. Excuse me while I swoon over your unwashed beard and immediately drop my pants here on the train. Who said a little vibration ever hurt anyone?

“I didn’t think I should come over here, but, there was just, something about you.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Something about me?”

“Yeah, you just have that vibe about you.”

“What vibe?”

“I don’t know, but that vibe.”

I know what he’s talking about. It’s the ‘you’re different from the others’, vibe. The, ‘you’re not like other girls’, vibe. The, ‘you’re a challenge and therefore I must prove my manhood and make you want me’, vibe.

It’s the vibe that says I’m calling you on your bullshit and you don’t want me to, you’re not used to it, or you want to convince me to stop, that you’re different, you’re different than the other fuckboys.

“Maybe you’re a party girl?”

He takes stock of the eyebrows creeping up into my hairline and tries again.

“So, you’re a student?”

“Sure.”

“Can you help me?”

He doesn’t know what stop he needs to get out at. It’s with a sinking feeling in my gut I realise we’re getting out at the same station.

“So you’re like, far out of town?”

“Why do you say that?” 

“All the students have to live far away to afford to live here, so you’re far away?”

Yes I will definitely tell you where exactly to bury the body.

“What are you studying?”

“Politics.”

“Ah wow.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m just visiting here for a couple days.”

“Cool.”

“Can you guess my country?”

“Probably not.”

“Oh, come on. It’s shaped like Africa!”

Fkdajfkladsjf;lkasdjfladsf

“What?”

“It’s in Europe and shaped like Africa!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You study politics and you can’t guess that country?”

>.>

“No.”

I don’t remember the country, but it sure as fuck is not shaped like an entire continent. Side note, you reckon that was a good imperialist sentiment? Sure, we can take it over. Our country is a mini version of it. We’re *supposed* to expand there, just like God intended….

“So what are you doing now?”

“Meeting friends.”

“We should hang out.”

“No.”

“What are you doing tomorrow?”

“I have a date.”

“Ah really?”

“Yes.”

“Can I come?”

“What? No.”

“Please?”
“You want to come to come along with me to my date?”

“Just tell him I’m gay.”

Can we take another moment to consider just how many groups of people he’s insulted at this point?

“No.”

“It would be so fun.”

“No.”

We’re approaching the stop. I grab my bag and sprint out the door. He’s left with a bemused expression on his face, twirling in a circle trying to find the right exit.

I left him to his confusion. For all I know, he’s still wandering around down there.

On A Good Quote

theotheremma

But snakes are smart creatures,” his aunt said. “In ancient legends, they often help guide people. You find this in legends from different cultures all over the world. But when a snake leads you, you don’t know whether it’s taking you in a good direction or a bad one. In most cases, it’s a combination of good and evil.”

“It’s ambiguous,” Kino said.

“Exactly. Snakes are essentially ambiguous creatures. In these legends, the biggest, smartest snake hides its heart somewhere outside its body, so that it doesn’t get killed. If you want to kill that snake, you need to go to its hideout when it’s not there, locate the beating heart, and cut it in two. Not an easy task, for sure.”

From the story “Kino” in Men Without Women – Haruki Murakami

On Humanity and Memories

theotheremma

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I’m unpacking boxes, suitcases, and storage containers, and keep finding little bits of you.
The blanket you got me, so we could keep my place a temperature we could both survive.
The whisky glass, because I had none.
The signed comic from my favorite series.
The stuffed dog, to soothe the ice around my heart.
The letter you wrote, and left on my coffee table while I was still asleep.
And every piece is a precious memory, and every piece makes me smile, and every piece makes me sad, because you’re no longer in my life.

We met so long ago now, pushed together by familial interference. I don’t think either of us cared too much, but I should’ve seen the warning signs back then. On New Year’s, when you said in no uncertain terms you were not okay with the fact that I was leaving the city so soon, and then said the same thing over text a couple days later. We’d just met. It freaked me out a bit. I was told that was just how you were. I didn’t dwell too much on it. We exchanged birthday messages, talked a couple times. We’d gotten along well, & I viewed you as a friend that could maybe develop into something more. I, one, didn’t want to get my hopes up, but more importantly, didn’t want to get your hopes up. I knew you were a serial monogamist, and I was even less of a letssettledownletscommitthisisathing type of person than I am now. Didn’t exactly spell great prospects in my head.

I was kept somewhat up to date on what you were doing by our mutual friends. I was worried, but as a friend. I was told about your girlfriend, and understood the story was being told by biased parties, but knew there had to be some truth to it. When I moved to your city, you kept your distance, and I kept mine. You’d hurt those closest to me, and at that point, you needed to come to us, not the other way around.

And come you did. But, in ways we didn’t expect. You & me – suddenly we were joking about sex and whisky and movies and before I knew what was happening you were kissing me goodbye. You felt so good to me. You made me feel human. You made me feel like I was worthwhile. It scared the shit out of me. It scared me that I wanted to talk to you every day. It scared me that every particle of my body kept telling me to run away, and I stayed put.

But we never talked, did we? We never talked about what we wanted, what we expected. Did you want to see other people? Did I? Did we see a future together?
I can guess your answers.
No, and yes.
Whereas mine were yes, you are my only partner right now, but in the future, probably yes and no, I’m not planning beyond next Tuesday.

Which is why, when you were once again drunk on New Years, and I was half dragging, half carrying you back to mine, and you told me how you felt, my body froze. My mind went on lock. And I knew it wasn’t fair, to either of us. Because you were honest from day 1. I may have felt like we tumbled into a thing, that there was no ‘right time’ to tell you how I felt about monogamy and love and long term commitment – how, at that point, I couldn’t envision myself having a serious relationship.
But, in that moment, we’d reached a point of jump, or leave.

You would say jump. You’d jumped from the beginning. You wanted this. And I was still wading in the shallow water, unwilling to dunk my head all the way under and start to swim.

So I told you that I needed to take steps back, that I needed us to just be friends. And you said you couldn’t do that. I didn’t want to understand, but I did. I respected it. And we haven’t talked in almost a year.

On some days, when I’m feeling okay about everything, I’d like to think I gave you a few months of breathing space, where you had someone who was cool with basically whatever it was you wanted to do. We had no fights, we had no tension. We could relax around each other and just be. On other days, I wonder if you think of the the time we had as a lie of sorts, that you felt betrayed and hate every part of me. That you saw me as aloof and unresponsive and cold.


I assume that the truth lies somewhere in the middle.

I hope that you’ve forgiven me, if you haven’t already. I hope that you find someone amazing, who gives you everything you need and treats you with respect and wants the same things out of love, if you haven’t already.

Because you gave me so much I could never tell you. You saw me at my most vulnerable night in some time and took care of me. You always let me know you cared. You compromised. You treated me like I was a human being and worthy of respect, and I know that sounds like an obvious thing, something that shouldn’t come and go, but it does.

 

You were not the right one for me, and I was most certainly not the right one for you. But you taught me things, you gave me lovely memories.

So I still have your blanket on my chair, the stuffed dog on my bed. Because they matter to me, and will for some time to come.

On Bitter Disappointment and Disappointed Bitterness

theotheremma

overqualified

The first time the ‘just close your eyes and think of Europe’ line applied was also the first time a guy ever went down on me.

This had been a long time coming.

Not because of any particular attraction I felt towards this person, but because we’d been explicitly told not to do it.

Another girl he’d been hooking up was a friend of mine, and one night she called me while messaging him – telling me if anything happened between us she could no longer be my friend, while telling him she would not be comfortable with him hooking up with me specifically, but of course their relationship was just casual and of course he could hook up with other girls and of course she was a ‘cool girl’ who could handle it all.

There’s something always fascinating in the forbidden, isn’t there? That desire to touch which can not be touch, to feel which can not be felt. Your imagination builds it up so much in your head, making it into something that will be fantastical and wonderful.

More often than not, it’s mediocre, at best.

It’s part of why I’ve never understood abstinence only education programs, or programs like D.A.R.E., which, besides being proven more often than not that they don’t work, only make the thing seem more deliciously fascinating.

So one night, when I had friends over, hanging out, beer, pizza, good times, and he came up behind me, I did not say ‘No,’ I said, “We shouldn’t.” I dared him to continue.

And in my tipsy haze, in my sex starved body, he felt warm and smooth.

We didn’t get very far before we passed out. It was late, he was high, and I still had a voice in the back of my head saying, “This is a really bad idea.”

In the morning, he was young and clumsy. He was rough in the wrong places, trying to take control of a situation like he normally would, expecting me to swoon, and I refused. I refused to fake my enjoyment when all I wanted was him out of my room.

Guys, I have already stated that girls will fake orgasms. Sometimes, it’s just easier that way.
If we aren’t moving, if we are enjoying ourselves, you will know.
If we tell you “Keep doing that,” “Don’t stop,” “No, just there,” Or any variation thereof, why would you change what you are doing? Unless you are in a play situation of orgasm denial – why deny us when we are giving you clear cut instructions? If we’re going down on you and you say “Just like that,” “Yeah, faster,” or “Not that hard,” when we’re sucking on your balls, do you want us to go harder and/or bite the damn thing off? No.
(Yes I know that there’s a difference in the harm involved there, but the concept is the same.)

So by the third time I was asking for the incessant drilling of fingers in my pussy to be backed down to a tolerable level/the angle to be changed, when I’d been denied twice already, I gave up. I gave up on instructions. I gave up, and I got irritated.
Very irritated.

We both liked biting, and but I had stated that I did not want any marks on my body. He had no such qualms.
I started slow, nips here and there, finding the correct spots. And moans and groans led me further and further.
I understand that this was not the most mature way to handle the situation, but I was rather unhappy. Unhappy that this had built up so high, that I’d been hearing about the amazing, take control skills of this guy for months, how fantastic he was in bed, and how it had been ohso amazing. Unhappy that he’d been flirting so much with me, telling me things he wanted to do, and that none of it was even remotely close to living up to reality.

I was annoyed that this was the first time I’d let anyone sleep in my own bed, stay in my room, invade my personal space, and it was so profoundly disappointing.

So when his tongue started to lick at me like a hyperactive puppy I stared at my ceiling and held out for as long as I felt reasonable – before using his neck like a cat scratch post.

I can’t say that either of us were particularly satisfied that morning, until he came back because he forgot some of his stuff. My flatmate opened the door, I heard them muttering, and buried myself deeper into a blanket cocoon.

“Uh, what the hell happened last night?” If I’m remembering correctly, she didn’t even bother knocking.

“What did he say?”

“He said he felt like he was returning to the scene of the crime,” She tried to suppress a laugh, “Did you mean to maul him?”

Eh. Kinda.

“He didn’t seem to mind at the time,” I shrugged.

I will say, that we stayed friendly after that. We fell out of touch due to distance and just simply to not having that much in common. And I’ve since found better ways to channel my slightly sadistic frustrations.

TL;DR – Don’t eat the apple. There’s probably a worm in it.

On Neon Lights

theotheremma

toonhole-comics-flash-28dc29-date-1334058

He’s running late.

I’m sitting in a freezing hotel lobby with a dying computer trying to relax, trying to watch a movie, when I’m nervous and cold and aching all over.

He didn’t tell me he wouldn’t get off work until hours after my flight got in.
He didn’t tell the hotel that I was authorized to check in. So instead, I’m sitting here, beside a fake Holiday Inn fireplace, hoping my laptop battery holds out, trying to keep myself calm.

In truth, I’m not so angry as I am nervous. I haven’t seen him in almost five years. Our history has been…bumpy? We’ll go with bumpy. And we’ve talked about this, built this up. But, it was all fantasy – timing and distance getting in the way of fantasy becoming reality.
So when I said I could potentially have time/money to come up for a weekend, I didn’t know what to expect. He enthusiastically agreed, and I suppose I thought he’d put a semblance of effort in.
I certainly expected him to try to get to where we were staying at around the same time as me, or let me know if advance if there would be a problem, let me know when to try to arrive, but…

He finally comes through the door, and I shove the computer away. He hugs me, and he’s bouncing up and down. A barely closed bottle of happy energy.

I thought we’d talk for a bit. I’d have time to decompress, to relax.
I thought I’d have time to get my hands back to a normal temperature, anyways.
He’s on me, kissing me, holding me, and it’s almost like I remember but at the same time entirely different. I remind myself I wanted this. I remind myself I came here. Of course this would happen immediately.

And he’s tearing off my shirt and my pants and I’m so, so nervous.
It’d been a while since I’d had sex. Too long. But my previous experiences with it had been a combination of both wonderful and exceedingly painful. This was height of ‘the time of vag hell.’ I had halfheartedly tried dating, but this wasn’t exactly a time in my life when I would call myself “happy,” I was struggling in my city, between moves again, and finding someone to just relax with, while it would’ve been nice, was just another stress I didn’t need.

So while his foreplay might’ve worked for some, for me, no, it was not enough.

It was pain. Tense, terrifying, horrible pain.

We try a different way, and it helps. And he manages to make me orgasm, for the first and only time that weekend, but far from a release it feels like agony. Like tearing something from me that didn’t want to give.

He stands up, still that happy energetic ball, and leaves me to pull myself together. I’m a mess of emotions, with a steel mask in place.

Will it be like that for the rest of the weekend?
Well, he hadn’t seen you, he was probably excited, maybe he’ll take more time, you’ll be ready next time?
Oh God, what if he does take longer next time?
Maybe booze will help? Can you find a bar near here?
Maybe you won’t have to again tonight?

He’d mentioned going to a concert, when we were sort of planning this weekend, saying things we might want to do.
He’s pulling out some sort of drug, he calls it a supplement, but it a drug, just the kind a test won’t care about, and I say fine, but I’m driving back.

It’s not until I’m in the passenger seat of the pickup truck that he says it’s a three hour drive. Because why wouldn’t it be?

 

We grab dinner before the show, and talk about old friends, old memories. I say how much I want to travel, don’t want to settle in one place. He’s saying he wants to come with, if I need a travel ‘companion’, he’s there, and I don’t know how to respond.

 

The concert, as it turns out, doesn’t start until 1AM. It’s not really a concert, though, it’s part rave, part club night, and this would be fine, but I’m so tired already, and looking forward to a three hour ride back in a truck I’m not sure how to drive with a guy taking uppers and drinking. If we could just get a cab and go home, I wouldn’t care.
And then I go to the bathroom and see blood.
Because he’d torn me.
I come back, and he’s whispering in my ear that he wants to fuck me again when we get back.
I don’t know how to deal with this; deal with him. I don’t know how to yell at him and tell him he’s acting like an asshole when he’s been in my physical presence for less than eight hours, and I don’t have a flight away for two more days. I don’t know how to deal with a body that at that point, I had no other explanation for than sheer hatred of dicks.

 

So I took a deep breath, and said, no, I’ll be too tired. I got his ass in the car, got my ass in the car, made him stay awake long enough to help me figure out the controls, and got us back.

 

And I’m exhausted, and he’s rolling over to me, and trying to touch me, and it burns. I tell him the Reader’s Digest version of the truth. That he tore me, I need the night to recover, he can fuck me in the morning. He groans, and falls asleep.

It’s not so bad, in the morning. There’s no foreplay, at all, but I’m so tired my body gives up resistance, and I convince him he doesn’t need to try for anything but his own pleasure because I’m still sore.
We have a nice day, go explore his city. I take him to a very nice dinner for his birthday. We don’t run out of things to talk about, and it’s nice, and easy. He makes me smile.

I’m relaxed again.

 

We go to the hotel and watch TV, and eventually, he kisses me. 2 seconds of foreplay and he’s in me and I want to scream. I’m trying to adjust, to take him, not even to enjoy it, just to make it through. I want it to be okay more than anything. But he pulls away, and there’s blood on the sheets.

And he doesn’t get it. I’m upset, and I call down to the desk to get fresh ones. He says it’s just my period.
No, it’s not. It was too rough and you tore me. He gives me a raised eyebrow.
I understand that wasn’t rough for you, but that was for me. Why am I justifying myself? I’m the one in pain. I’m the one bleeding. I’m the one trying to deal with this.

We don’t mention it again that night. In the morning, he has to give the car he was borrowing back, and get a different one. He gives me a kiss, and I pack my stuff. I debate. Do I want to try again? Do I want to leave it like that?

He calls me. To get me to the airport, he was borrowing another car. This car has a girl attached.
Okay. Whatever.
But, girl attached is girl attached.

 

I think it’s been established by now that I really could give a rat’s ass about commitment. But, there’s a difference between ‘we’re not committed’ and ‘here’s the other girl I’m fucking let me dangle her in front of your face as you’re on your way out the door.’

So he comes in to get me, and we kiss goodbye then, because it’s an unspoken fact that from that moment, I am the ‘friend,’ and not the fuckbuddy. That’s her role now.

We spend a lunch with them on one side of the table sharing their own inside jokes and old memories and secret glances. I smile and laugh when appropriate, and let them get on with it, not showing how upset I am.

 

They drive me to the airport and he gives me a hug.

My flight won’t leave for seven hours.

He said he’d check in on me later, we’d talk once my flight got in, but we haven’t spoken since. I’m okay with this. I haven’t felt the urge to reach out, to like any pictures, to say hello, to know even cursory details of what’s happening in this guy’s life.

I understand that from his perspective, this story will look different. That he may have expected something much more enjoyable. That he may have wanted some crazy off the walls fuck machine and a destroyed hotel room. And that’s fine. At that point in my life, I never advertised that. He knew full well the extent of my experience. From my perspective, it was a fucked up weekend where my emotions and physical limits were pushed far beyond what I ever would have hoped, and I was left alone in the airport terminal feeling sore with a queasy stomach half full of thai vegetables.

We can’t know how these things will play out before hand. No one knows the future. And sometimes it takes stupidly shitty couple of days to figure out whether or not your gut instincts on a person/situation were right all along.

On Birth Control

theotheremma

8f1f7be89e6a2db3886383d56e0c9098-uterus-funny-cartoon-memes

Some of these stories will take place during what I like to call “the time of vag hell fire.”

This is, quite literally, the time when sex felt like terrible, horrible pain, because of the medication I was on at the time.

See, when I first heard about male birth control, and the fact that trials would stop due to side effects, I was a little ticked off.


Scratch that, I was pissed as hell.

 

For seven years, I was passed from birth control pill to birth control pill, and spent five years on a pill with dangerously high estrogen levels that put me at higher risk of a stroke, (even more dangerous because of my family medical history) put me at a higher risk of infection, and caused severe damage to the nerve endings in my vagina.

Also, because I kept trying to have sex while I was in pain, my body tried to defend itself against said painful sex, and started causing muscular contractions that still existed up until this year.

There’s actually physical therapy for people who need to work their way through stuff like this.

Essentially, because of ineffective doctors, lack of information, and myths perpetuated about how sex is supposed to be for those who possess a vagina, I suffered for years when I didn’t have to.

I don’t know how to describe it except for the feeling of ‘out, out, I want this out right the fuck now.’

And that’s not how it should feel.

Even if you’re doing it wrong.

 

Which brings us back to this idea of male birth control.

My first reaction was that of, “So they can’t handle a few mood swings? Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

 

I then recognized my pettiness, and felt guilty. I wasn’t angry at the guys in the trial, I was angry at an industry that for decades has refused to recognize the very real complaints of people suffering from depression, from nausea, from weight gain and loss, from very serious side effects, and has done nothing to improve their products.

But, just because we have suffered doesn’t mean others should as well.

 

I am lucky. It took multiple doctors appointments to sort it out, but eventually I moved to a different city, saw a different doctor, and received competent treatment. They recognized what the meds were doing to me, prescribed medication to help heal the damage done to my nerves, and got me on Mirena – the plastic version of the IUD that I will advocate until my dying days.

 

I say this not only to bring attention to it, but because this era of ‘the time of vag hell fire’ played a role in stories I will tell. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, but knew that something wasn’t right, and when it was fixed, that played its role as well.

 

For so many reasons, this should no longer be an issue.

  1. We should not be demonizing feminine sexuality – turning feminine virginity into something that can be ‘taken away.’ If we could begin to dispel this myth on hymens and sex ‘supposed’ to be painful the first time, maybe it wouldn’t have taken me such a long time to sort it out. (see above video)
  2. I feel this goes into the stigma attached not only to the health care of women and transwomen, but also to mental health care and sexuality in general. When you’re taking a hormonal contraceptive, you’re taking just that – hormones. You are altering your body chemistry. If we, as a society, were more open to talking about mental health and cis and trans women sexual health, maybe we could get better at sorting out which medication was right for us.

 

The pill and other hormonal contraceptives can be so helpful, but that doesn’t mean they cannot also cause harm.

We have to be better at recognizing this is real, and acknowledging that cis & trans women who are saying something is wrong are probably more aware of their bodies than men are.

 

With that being said, stay tuned for some more stories about terrible sex.

On A Simple Request

theotheremma

drama

I have a request.

I want to see in a movie, in a TV show, in a webisode, in an HBO special, those moments when you’re having sex and it doesn’t look sexy.
Those times when you’re finally getting going and it’s hitting the right spot or God she feels so tight or fuck he’s doing it right and then…the dick slips out.
Or the condom falls off.
Or you queef.
Or you slip out of position and can’t get it back again.

I want to read a story where two people have an actual negotiation before they start fucking – where instead of the guy saying, ‘Well I am the domliest of dommy doms and you are a natural submissive’ -(side note what the fuck is a natural submissive. Everyone has hard limits.) Two people have an awkward conversation where they have to get over the awkwardness and say so I like this or I don’t like that, and the they’re finding it hard to put into words because societal stigmas and they have to figure it out together.

I want a story that says this is what it actually looks like when people try to navigate sex, because sex ed sure as hell didn’t teach you it, porn and erotica need to stay sexy so you have something to get off on, and it’s this fumbly weird messy thing that can be afuckingmazing or can be complete fucking shit.

I want us to be honest that 99.99999% of the time it is not going to be passionate people in the midst of lovemaking and it’s happening and it’s perfect and women come in this beautiful cataclysmic event (most of the time for women it doesn’t happen during penetrative sex anyways so let’s stop pretending it does.) and then the guy comes looking like he’s just conquered all the pussy in the world.

Let’s talk about all the different types of sex, escape this heteronormative only p&v missionary nonsense, and discuss openly that a) wanting different types of sex is entirely okay and healthy b) maybe not wanting penetrative sex at all is totally okay c) sex is not going to look like how it does in porn, it’s just not d) if something goes wrong, it’s okay. It’s probably not your fault, not your partner(s) fault, not anyone’s fault.
Human bodies are weird.
We need to be able to talk about our wants and our needs and the fact that we can’t always control when we get a hip cramp.

I want a story that says, yeah we tried, but the wind was blowing towards the southwest so we tried x thing but she fell and I couldn’t stop laughing so she hit me with a pillow and that was the end of that.

I want a story where a guy says, you know what, it’s entirely okay that I want to bottom, and screw our societal preconceived notions of ‘twue manhood’ and his partner replies, ‘Cool. I have lube.’

I want a story where people talk. Really, actually talk. So it opens people up to the idea that’s okay to do.

On That Drunken Night

theotheremma

dfs

She’s just gone to pop into her room and you’ve stumbled into me, and your hands are in my hair, your lips on mine. My arms knot around your neck, and we sway from side to side.

“Christ,” She mutters, just loud enough for us to hear, “Can’t leave you guys alone for two seconds, can I?”

No, she can’t. Because we’re at this point in our lives where we can’t be trusted to be alone, with booze, and single.

We stumble into my room, and even though you’re drunk, you’re in control. It’s like a high, whenever we do this. You know exactly where to touch, where to kiss, where to be firm, where to be soft.

But I don’t want to fuck you. I don’t want to fuck you when you’re this drunk. It’s held me back before, and it’s holding me back now. I couldn’t put it into words. I could never talk to you, not about this. We never actually talked about anything remotely serious, nothing about ‘us,’ not that there ever really was an ‘us.’ There was just this, when you got drunk enough to find me at or after parties, and I let you every time.

But in the morning, you’re sober, and even though all I want to do is ask you to fuck me, I say nothing when you say you’ve got to get home. I say nothing when you stay for another two hours, talking about books, movies, the friends that have disappointed you. I’m sprawled on the bed in a tank that just barely covers me, hoping you’ll kiss me and from there…from there I could take you to where I want to.

But you don’t. You eventually realize the time. And it’s okay. The night was enough. It was fun. A part of me knows that it will probably be the last time it happens, we’re just in two different places now. So you give me a hug, and walk out the door.

Three years later, and we’re sitting with tea, and once again talking about all the books and movies. You read more than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s so nice, the way we flow into these conversations. It’s natural, and easy and light.

Which is why I don’t even try to bring up the questions that I’ve wanted to ask you for so very long.

You briefly mention your girlfriend, and I’ve seen her in pictures. She’s pretty, and you brighten when you mention her. I’m so happy for you.

You say goodbye, and give me another hug. We make the perfunctory statements of keeping in touch, but I know we won’t.

I wish we would, because you’re smart, and funny, and someone I want to be friends with.

The first night you took me back to your place, I was so young, and I was scared. I asked if it could be private. I still haven’t decided if I either shouldn’t have said that, or should have told you why. I had reasons, but they would’ve swayed you away even more. Who wants to get into that deep of shit when they first try to fuck someone?

I feel like it set the tone of everything after that. These are the things I’ve thought about since. I doubt you have.

I want you to be happy. I want you to successful, and to find whatever it is you’re looking for.

After you left, I ordered another pot of tea, and finished a book.

You really wouldn’t have liked it.