Finally, I manage to meet someone who wants to have sex with me. After wading around in months of sludgy self-loathing, I should be excited about this. Showing patience and maturity this guy, let’s call him Jeff, managed hang out with me a few times in public without being pushy. Drinks, dinner and an Uber home after last call – he’s done all the traditional legwork. His behavior indicates a desire to continue seeing me and I appreciate the effort. The attention brightens my outlook and boosts my tenuous self esteem. Yet, we’re drunk and stoned in my apartment after half a dozen dates and I still can’t find my groove.
Jeff’s pretty. I’ve always had a soft spot for pretty boys. Well-mannered in a vaguely misogynistic way, our first physical encounter was “all about me”. Laying me out like a princess, he meticulously goes through the standard erogenous zones while soliciting feedback. Word of advice, the noises I make are not difficult to interpret until you interrupt me while I’m making them. That degree of ministration will eventually produce orgasms, so persistence counts for something I guess. I make him stop exploring when he finds the tip of my IUD and starts using it like a tuning fork. After a certain point, stimulation just plain hurts. We cuddle for a while afterward, chatting in the dark. Conversation generally consists of my sarcasm matched against his language barrier. Stoned and sleepy, I am encouraged to spend the night. I pat his cheek and firmly decline.
I can’t sleep in a stranger’s bed and that’s not even the main reason I say No. This particular person uses the Amazon in-home voice command service I’ve seen advertised on Hulu. Controlling everything from music to telling us the time, Jeff periodically addresses empty space in an off-putting commander’s tone, “Alexa, do-what-I-say.” Takes me back to a memory of the first commercial I witnessed for this service – a disembodied man’s voice consistently interrupting a female robot that’s only trying to answer him. Disturbing to witness in real life. I can’t help but giggle every time there’s an exchange, especially when Alexa doesn’t understand what he wants. Jeff’s extra proud of his “Shut the fuck up” command line.
That’s why we’re at my place tonight. It’s already 1 AM so I don’t waste time with foreplay. We’re naked in less than 5 minutes and on the mattress shortly thereafter. Clean and smooth like a young boy, I love watching my white fingers trace along his dark skin. My greatest desire is to pet his chest and nibble on all the sharp edges. II try to mount him intend to follow through with this plan. After a moment of me grinding into his body, Jeff takes control by laying me back and using his hands to rub my body. The degree with which he zeros in on my vagina is fairly acute. There’s some obligatory kissing and nipple sucking but it’s obvious he only wants to get to the main course. What am I gonna do, complain?
In contrast to my ferocity, his touches are so soft I almost don’t perceive them. It’s even more austere than before and I long to distract his clinical attention. I feel like a science experiment. He is exploring my systems trying to discover a formula for pleasure. I attempt to give him guidance but there’s no vocabulary for instructing someone to have passion. After I’ve had a few pretty obvious orgasms he asks if I have ever squirted. Squeezing my thighs with a squish I quizzically chuckle, “What did you think that was?”
“You did squirt?” surprised.
Stretching arms over my head languidly I grin, “Guess it depends on what you mean by squirting.”
His perplexity is characteristic of our relationship.
In the long run, we can’t relate. We have conversations I find completely offensive except I choose to look for good basic intentions. Questioning why I take anti-depressants. Asking why I don’t work a job like his. This accepted standard for living inherent in his existence. It’s the same culture I escaped in Memphis. A desire to have things and desperate need to keep them. A quest for luxuries that ease existential pain. If you have the prescribed stuff it means you have achieved success. Rewarded for certain jobs in certain industries, your income isn’t really up to you. Completely content to be wealthy in the middle of a poverty-stricken neighborhood, Jeff claims to live in Belltown. Turns out he just lives 21 floors above it.
When someone meets me and thinks my life is a choice, I have to laugh. I did choose to be here but only after getting backed into a corner. Escaping cost me more than I have to pay and I worry every day someone will come to collect.