At times I feel like…I intrude. Even though my flesh is the requested item of transaction. It’s so easy to feel like parts of my body and my spirit are being flipped like pennies in his palm because of how malleable and conductive my libidinous and my spiritual energies are. How worthlessly he underplays them. It’s even worse when I’m laying on my back, staring at a yellow light like an estranged moth, waiting for the furious man to force a moan out of me as he scratches my lips with his calloused fingers like my clit is a mosquito bite.
Overthinking is a bitch.
Some men are afraid of vaginas. Sadly, it’s not an uncommon fear, which makes it even more defeating to parse and eradicate. But his blatant lack of attempt was even worse than his covert fear. Because he never expected me NOT to forgo my boundaries to swallow his manhood. There I was, my eyes locked in his as he released every remnant of himself between my lips, his mouth clasping onto mine like hands as he kissed me.
I misinterpreted that as love.
I was left yearning. Empty.
His tongue flickered against every part of my body except where it needed to so I could feel better. So I could feel like my body mattered. I was agitated, and needed the same clarity I bestowed him. But he left me deliberately unattended. I always finished myself. My skin loosened. My eyes swelled.
Fellas. If women argue that you need to grow up and stop being a “pussy”…if we’re following the ubiquitous assumption that being a pussy equates to being a coward…they’re right. 100%. Because cowardice leads to total fatality of unity. And eventually, of being. Yet, cowardice prevails and flourishes in the bedroom, and transgresses outside of the sheets. It lays between the pillows, it oozes from your skin. Tragic to think that we nurture what we exhibit. Which makes me wonder what I fail to inhibit. I failed to inhibit my anger when he left. I failed to inhibit my tears when he came. I failed to inhibit my begging requests to please, please be loved or at least let me pretend I am loved by him. In doing so, I haven’t failed to inhibit my pleasure.
The sexual being is the most human part of all of us. And you feel it when they don’t taste you, when they don’t feel you properly because they were afraid of you letting yourself go. As women, we tend to fall in love with men more consummately after consuming more time with them when we strive toward climax, or at least the image of climax. It’s your turn. I cannot inhibit you of feeling what you need. It’s been a long day, baby. Let my body be your machine. Let me relieve you. Automatically. It’s okay, baby. It’ll all be better. You need peace. You need silence. You need clarity.
When it’s my turn to want it, I’m denied. You were afraid to let me feel at peace with you. You were afraid to release me as I released you. Selfish.
He resorts to abuse when he realizes he cannot have you the way he wants to.
In these moments where I let go and inhabit my space, I yearn to feel weightless and unaffected. I want to know the blissfulness of sheer ignorance of the world’s gravity. In space, watching every planet and its moons in rotation with my own eyeballs rolling in the back of my head.
I peel off my shirt, slowly struggling, shrugging it off my sore shoulders. My back aches. My uterus does too, and I listen to it intently. My womb is trying to communicate with me, and I listen by stretching my legs. Spreading them, grounding my buttocks as I raise them, plucking my hamstrings as my ankles dance over my head. Would you care for this dance?
And then I notice the darkness between my legs. I remind myself that these parts, these regions that seem dirty and unconquered have more melanocytes. He senses a fierce exoticism, but he will never venture.
Thus, I explore on my own.