Wrote this little story. It has some bad words in it so cover your ears if your feathers are easily ruffled.
_______
"How long have you been attracted to me?"
I wasn't attracted to him. Never had been. But I also didn't want to crush him because I know how men are.
He had told me about his masturbation problem. I wondered how many times he'd jacked it today, wondered if I had run through his mind doing nude somersaults and lipping my licks and rubbing my clit. I wasn't afraid of the answer per se, but it didn't make it any less weird.
I'd just come to realize the harsh truth that I was a sexual being in a sexual world, and in the eyes of many, I was a piece of meat. I was newly single and felt as though all my friends who had kept their desires in check out of respect for my former relationship were now finally allowed to express how they felt, and it was only a matter of time before they all came a-calling.
I'd broken up with my boyfriend two and a half weeks ago and in that time had hooked up with him 4 times (once after coffee, once after lunch, once while his roommate scowled and simmered jealously in the living room, once in the bathroom of a very small apartment in the middle of a party).
I'd also hooked up with a close friend, a photographer I often worked with, a photographer I used to work with, and I had gone on no fewer than 3 other dates with people in my orbit. It was getting a little overwhelming, in truth, but it was nothing I couldn't handle. I savored the chaos and delicate web of emotions. It was a puzzle I had to solve.
But the immediate puzzle before me was what to do about this situation: my friend, whose boyfriend I hooked up with two weeks ago, who herself had expressed interest as well; my friend, with whom I was about to live for the next year in a small house in a small city; my friend, whose brother sat before me on the bed in the spare bedroom at their parents' house where I was staying while I figured out the rest of my life; my friend's brother, who I'd known since before middle school, boner pressed against his gym shorts, lips puckering up for a kiss.
And who was I to refuse? I had opened my legs to all sorts of men--the geriatric sculptor with liver spots on his hands, the man who limped and photographed with one arm because of his condition, the artist with the alcoholic menopausal wife, the sexual predator with the chickens running around the yard, the man who hadn't felt a thing in years.
What was one more, especially if it would lead to happiness? It didn't cost me much, but meant so much to them.
The truth of that fucked me up real good.
Comments