I once fucked a man in my driveway.
It wasn’t as scandalous as that sounds, but it also wasn’t exactly the romance of the century. What is was was one of those things where you meet a man and you just want him. Like nothing you’ve ever wanted in your life. Being close to him is all you think about, you feel like you’ll never be satisfied in life if you don’t have him. So the first opportunity you get, you fuck him just to get him out of your system.
That strategy worked for a while. The next time I saw him I still wanted him, but not with the deep and abiding passion I once had. I still eyed him hungrily whenever he crossed my path, but when he was out of sight he was largely out of mind. When the opportunity arose to get down and dirty with him, I availed myself of it, but I was no longer scheming and plotting to be next to him. I slid in and out bed with him as easily as I slip into and out of shoes.
Until the day I actually talked to him. Not that I hadn’t ever exchanged words with him before – even the most perfect zipless fuck requires at least a little discussion – but we had never really conversed. I’d never heard an opinion of his about anything more significant than the epic-ness of my tits. But then I slipped up and went and had a conversation with him and after that I was sprung.
Years went by and I spent more time with this man, and each time I did, he talked more. And the more he talked, the more I dug him. It got to the point where – as beautiful as he was and as epic as the sex was – I began to look forward to talking to him more than anything else. When he wasn’t around, I stopped daydreaming about his body and started fantasizing about knowing his secrets. The urge to hear about all the things he wanted to do to my body was replaced by the urge to hear what he thought about OB4CL2. And then I knew I was in trouble.
It’s always been like this for me.
There’s a man in my life now who can best be described as baffling. A good 60% of what he says or does to me is in some bizarre code that I have to translate in order to figure him out. He can be unsupportive, rude. Antagonistic. He is, in a word, an asshole. I tell my friends stories about him and they smh and *facepalm* me and ask me why for the good love of Jesus I don’t just quit him. And the answer is because he talks to me.
Talking to a man and hearing him answer is to me the greatest intimacy. Giving up my anal virginity is a great way to seal a bond with someone (don’t get excited you guys, I still haven’t done that), but for me it doesn’t top hearing the story of how he popped his cherry at age 11. Being the only woman he ever sends pictures of his dick to is a great way to get the warm and fuzzies, but being the only woman he talks to about the girl who broke his heart is way hotter.
Despite my openness, I’m a pretty secretive person, and to me the tightest bond is between me and the person who hears my stories. When I’m in a relationship, what binds me to Mr. Max is not the freaky shit he does that no one else has ever done before, but the secret shit he tells me that he’s never told anyone before. The men that I’ve loved the most or felt the closest to in life are not the ones who have seen my body from the most angles, but the ones who have whispered their stories to me in the dark, the ones who have heard my secrets and kept them as their own.
When I was a teenager I read a story set in a world where intimacy and closeness existed only through words. You greeted any random acquaintance with a squeeze of the ass or a peck on the lips, but the people you were close to were the ones you actually spoke with. The closer you were to someone the less you touched them; your intimacy instead manifesting through the length and depth of your conversations.
Clearly that story shaped my worldview in a major way because all these years later that’s still how the world works in my mind. In my world, being physically intimate with a man has about as much significance as watching tv with him – it’s not something you do with everyone; but you don’t have to love him to do it either. But talking to a man and hearing him answer? In the immortal words of Toni Morrison, “that’s the kick”.
What’s the kick for you?
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