The first night, he came to my show bright-eyed. He wore a button down shirt full of punk patches with a slim black tie, grinned a crooked-toothed grin at me from the audience as I floated into the spotlight. A friend at the show told me later that they knew exactly who I was taking home. “Yeah, I saw that boy, and I thought ‘That has to be the one who’s cruising her.’ I know your type!’”
After the show, I mustered up enough courage to say “I was wondering if I could take you home with me…” and he grinned, and said yes. And just that yes, after a year of so many no’s, so many false starts & disappointments, just that yes gave me something back that I didn’t even know I was missing.
Rolling around with him in my bed, his hand in my hair and his teeth grazing the backs of my thighs, feeling his throat under my fingers and his pretty face give when I slapped him, the way he moved his hips, the way he threw me around by the scruff of my neck, took my clothes off like he was unwrapping a present, said “my, my, what fine lingerie you have!” like the Big Bad Wolf and leaned in for a kiss that opened me – what I don’t want to write about and what I have to write about is that my body happened, the way bodies do. We’re both panting and moaning and laughing and his skin feels so good and then, fuck, it happened like it happens sometimes, a lightning bolt of pain shot through my neck and my shoulder and I whimpered & grimaced, squinted & held my hand out. “I really really like what we’re doing, and I really really want to keep going, and I’m really really in a lot of pain right now. I need to lie on an ice pack. I’m sorry. Ow.”
And he said: “Okay. Where are your icepacks?” He fished around in my freezer & brought one to me, brought me 4 Ibuprofen & a glass of water, too. I propped myself up on a bunch of pillows, tucked the icepack behind my neck & left shoulder, sighed, took my pills. He cuddled up next to me, on my right side. And after a minute, he asked, eager & sweet: “Can I still touch you while you’re lying on your ice?”
It was not the first time I’ve needed to take a break from fucking because of pain. But it was the first time someone had treated me like I could still be sexual while I was in pain. It was the first time someone had said Can I still touch you?
And it was all I wanted in the world. Even in pain. Even sick. Even with this complicated, frustrating body.
“Yes,” I said. “Please,” I said.
His hand cupped around my clit. His fingers sliding into my cunt. He growled at me as I was coming. He couldn’t stop grinning & kissing me after I fucked him. His eyes earnest & open, his mouth bright & joyous. His chest pressed up against my back and his lips on the nape of my neck. And his palm, flat up against my heart.”