Here it is: You have been touched so many times that a hand on your back doesn’t make you flinch anymore. You know what’s coming. Your legs spread effortlessly, your lips bloom, your hands turn to waterfalls. You are able to let yourself go quickly, almost too quickly.
We were seated across from each other, having a conversation about the weather, when his hand slipped under the table. Your eyes widened for a second and then you went right back to spitting up thunderstorms and floods. When he pulled his hand back up to wipe your scent off with his cloth napkin, you didn’t so much as blink. You told me it was supposed to be cold next week, that an Arctic wind was coming in.
I wonder the last time you were touched and felt something; when you didn’t just close your eyes, lie back, and hope it’d be over soon. You’ve told me story after story about the bedrooms you’ve seen. Boys who lived with their mothers. Men with shiny, modern lofts overlooking screaming cities. Women who decorated with candles and stacks of books. I wonder when you last brought someone into your bedroom and let them see something besides the smooth insides of your thighs. When they saw your journals, your dog-eared books, your photographs, your thoughts.
You are better at the language of sex than love. I get it. Sometimes I think I am too. Sex is simple. The game of “grab your clothes and go” always plays out the same. There are rules and restrictions in it: don’t ask them to breakfast first, don’t leave anything behind, don’t text back, don’t get attached. Sex, when it’s just sex, is easy. It’s nothing. And that’s fine, that’s just fine. But I wonder if you have forgotten that being wanted is one thing and being loved is another, or if you now say “I love you” with a shut mouth, shut eyes, and open thighs."