If you’re a girl
And you enjoy sex
It’s perfectly okay to talk about your enjoyment of sex
And don’t ever think otherwise
tiré de l’hippocampe; jean painlevé, 1934.
Feeling body positive today.
And I’ll bet you he couldn’t remember what I tasted like, not because it’s difficult to put to his tongue but because he never cared to pay attention, he never savored me in his mouth and turned me around or pushed me up against his teeth to figure me out like I did him. He’d disappear for months at a time and when he got back I knew him by mouth, I took him in by the mouthful and I knew he was home, and that I was, too. I always thought it was nothing short of unfortunate to be the last one up, but now I know it’s because it’s the only time I could pay attention without something he said disrupting it, without his disregard interrupting my silent walks. He’d fall asleep first every night, and I wonder if it has anything at all to do with having a tired lover or a naked body in the bed besides yours that’s just empty weight, a stranger who couldn’t tell you things you wanted to hear. I’ll bet he couldn’t tell you anything. I’ll bet he could never appreciate a back the way I did his, and how he’d get annoyed if my fingers lingered on his skin too long and snapped a remark, thinking it was a selfless act, thinking every touch given to him was to please him, when really it was for me. I was selfish. But I was selfish softly. He was too hungry. Making noises against my neck just because he knew it was the things most I wanted to hear, when really it was my way of begging him to say something. Anything at all so that I could feel anything at all. I thought I felt love but now I wonder if it was all just a praise over not feeling empty. I’ll bet he never realized how many cuts were left on the insides of my cheeks when my teeth gnawed at the sight of him coming out of the shower. Steam clung to his shoulders, the heat burrowing on his cheeks and leaving him looking so naive, sad, even. I didn’t know what to do with myself. What to touch first. Some nights turned into a pleading, throbs tumbling lower lower lower from my abdomen when he’d lie right next to me and my murmurs would keep him just up enough, only to fall back to sleep as soon as my voice quieted. And all that was left was a stale room, the blinds moving from the open window them, giving brief blinks of light into the room from the street lights of the road. And I’d listen to the car doors shut, and I’d listen to the TV in the next room, and I’d listen to the noises all around and wonder just how much love was going unnoticed. And I’ll bet none of them remember, either. But I know he’ll try when he’s worn himself out of a quick pleasure, maybe he’ll recall the times my lips planted against his spine when he’d curl away from me in bed, giving in while I gave in to him, though there was no one there to give it to. He’ll remember me stretched up onto my toes from the push of his body against the wall in his house, that wall, with the last taste on our lips. He’ll remember the day we let our sleeping bodies stay still in bed, the strong wind over us, and did nothing but lie there when we weren’t anything at all. Virgin mouths, sexual intentions hidden besides his thick forearm curled around me under the blanket. Hinting. Just a beginning. Just a quick touch. Just a taste. Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe he didn’t know how to love me without it. Maybe he didn’t know how to fuck me when I cared. Maybe he didn’t know how to love me when he had me. Maybe some people only know how to have in bursts. Maybe some people don’t know how to have at all. And to him my body is just a body. My tongue just another tongue to talk to. At least once I must have had his attention, and if anything that’s when he’ll remember. When I loved him he left himself all over me, all over places he had never once touched me in. But he never paid attention. He never remembered. He never cared to. So where am I? What do I do?