
So, you slept with your fantasy
Sex on Tuesday
I want to say this was the best sex of my life, but I know that’s impossible. I knew it the minute they unbuttoned my pants; I knew it as they bit my neck.
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I want to say this was the best sex of my life, but I know that’s impossible. I knew it the minute they unbuttoned my pants; I knew it as they bit my neck.
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Do I deserve to call this violence? Was I harmed? Am I entitled to the language of hurt if I let the hurt happen to me? What does “let” mean?
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What kinds of desire have I ignored toward the goal of rendering myself simple enough to be legible to my family?
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Four months or so after the phone fucking began, we got a chance to see each other. She came to Southern California, and we left for the lower mountains.
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I’m no better than the rest of us — I want a Brooklyn-based microfarmer to top me too. I get it.
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My obsession with her became a sort of narcissism, an infatuation with myself as understood by her touching me, and my feeling it.
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“If we’re both here and we both like each other, why can’t we figure out what we could be?”
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Eroticism and friendship aren’t mutually exclusive, and I feel erotically toward some of my favorite friends. Even those I don’t want to have sex with.
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I enter open relationships not as a ready participant in the established guidelines but as an interloper. I am always sure that I might be the exception.
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I remember my first Pride, and what it meant to me. But I am not nostalgic for it. I don’t want it again. I don’t have anything to mourn with its loss.
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