Posts tagged ‘omnivore’s crappy childhood’

Sex as the result of intimacy

We had our first fight this week. It was hard. We survived.

“I’m afraid you’re going to write me off as damaged goods,” I said, my voice tiny.

“I don’t think you’re damaged goods,” he said. “Not any more than anyone else I know.”

He cared enough to tell me he was mad. I cared enough — I was brave enough — to explain the less-than-rational thinking behind my freakout.

On Saturday night we went to Harvard Square to see Neal Stephenson read from his new book, and I got to introduce him to one of my good friends.

Afterward we took the bus back to my place. My place went ‘splodey this week. He sat there on the edge of the bed while I changed the sheets. “How do you feel?” he asked.

“A little ashamed,” I replied. When my head’s not right, my house gets dirty.

“I don’t think you have any reason to be ashamed.”

“Well thank you for saying that. I’m sure I’ll stop feeling ashamed any minute now.”

I couldn’t say it to him, but the shame is mine. Mine mine mine. It rises up from its little pool underground and all I can do is pick up the stuff I don’t want to get waterlogged until it subsides. And change my socks afterward.

Once the sheets were changed, he sat down to take off his shoes. I was suddenly hot, so I took off all my clothes but my panties — the ones with the little ruffles, which I’d put on for him, because I know he likes them.

We’re not ripping each other’s clothes off anymore, and that’s okay. We can be naked together and not sexual.

And there was still the separation between us, the fallout from the week’s mishegas.

We drifted into sleep, and in the morning I brought us coffee and toast on a tray. We read books next to one another. Whenever I moved to get out of the bed, he’d loop his leg around mine. “Come back,” he’d say, and it warmed my heart to hear it.

Later, as I lay on my side, he rolled over to spoon me. I felt the muscular hairiness of his legs against my own smooth, soft ones. His arm draped over mine and made me safe. His chest, strong, his belly, soft. And his cock began to swell against the small of my back.

September 21, 2008 at 10:09 pm Leave a comment

Truth, love, beauty

The mind-blowing orgasms continue apace. And I’m in love. I am loved – by friends, family, and a wonderful man. By the Goddess.

Truth and beauty: those are trickier right now. Beauty is still there.

Truth is subject to perspective. But I did something I’ve always had tremendous trouble doing yesterday. I spoke my truth. My emotional truth. Bran makes it easy. Well, no, not easy. But Bran doesn’t negate my truth. He doesn’t try to talk me out of it. He just offers his perspective.

After crying and talking for about half an hour, just as things had settled down, I blurted out something I’ve been thinking of and pushing away for months.

“I wish you told me you loved me more.”

He looked pained. It was a tough week for him — he bears up under the pressure, but I could see the strain. It was all I could do not to apologize for having wants and needs. God/dess knows it didn’t seem like a good idea to have them when I was a little girl.

But I didn’t.

And I know he loves me.

I feel loved. In all sorts of ways.

September 15, 2008 at 12:18 am Leave a comment

On race and sex and skin types

I haven’t known where to start with all of this. So I guess I’ll just start in the middle. Actually, let’s start by talking about race. I met a woman on Craigslist a while ago. She sounded pretty awesome via email and her photo was promising, but in person she was just a little… weird. When did gainful employment become a turn-on for me? Probably around the same time that I got my own gainful employment. Probably because I realized it means a person has a certain groundedness, a sense of responsibility. I envy people who have traveled all over the world, but I’ve never been able to wrap my head around how they just pick up and leave. I mean, who pays the rent on their home when they’re gallivanting all over the world? It’s a quality I admire, but I’m not so sure I want it to be in my life.

How this relates to race: this woman (sexily butch, but unsexily fat and not in a curvy/delicious sort of way) was raised in Northern New England totally surrounded by other white people. A couple of things she said to me clearly indicated racism. Not that “I hate black people” kind of racism, but the “black people are weird and alien and we are better because we’re white” kind of racism. New England specializes in undercover racism. It drives me insane.

I consider myself somewhat fortunate to have been raised in a more integrated sort of setup. I mean, it was still painful. Segregation still existed in the town where I spent most of my childhood. But I spanned the divide between the people of color who (mostly) lived in the projects and the white kids who (mostly) lived in places that had grass and trees that didn’t look stunted from living in little blocks of dirt between concrete. We moved to the projects when I was about five years old. Long story, maybe I’ll tell it some day, but the upshot is that my dad was a fucking asshole and we moved three thousand miles to get away from him and his grabby parents. We stayed with my Mom’s aunt for a while in a leafy, blue-collar suburb and then Mom got semi-subsidized housing in a high-rise downtown.

My best friend in MLK Towers was a girl whose name is definitely not Rita Calderone. She was mixed-race. I never really had much of a concept of that fact, or that her last name indicated either Spanish or Latino heritage. She was just Rita. We used to play in the hallway together, and in her parents’ room. We found a dirty book that belonged to her mother and read all the salacious passages together. We played a game called “R” (for rape, I think) where one of us would abduct the other and tie her up in the bedroom, and then go out, the the other would try to escape and get caught and dragged back. We knew something was supposed to happen in the bed, but we didn’t know exactly what. I think Rita must have witnessed some sort of bed-grappling in that tiny apartment, because when it was her turn to abduct me she blew me away with all the writhing and moaning and hair-pulling on top of me. Me, I think I mostly lay on her and wiggled around a little bit.

Later, a black boy and I sniffed around each other a bit. He was really cute, but it didn’t go very far, because we were both very aware of the race barrier. See, not only was I a white girl, I was a white girl who wasn’t really tough enough for the PJ’s. They called me a Momma’s girl because I cared about things like books and my clarinet lessons and not about hanging out in the playground and learning the latest dance moves. Later, it meant that I went to college and Rita had a baby while she was in her teens.

I didn’t really have a concept that I enjoyed privileged status because of my race. That’s probably because I was so lonely and alienated and sad and traumatized. White, suburban kids were mean to me because I didn’t have the right jeans, and the kids in the PJs were mean to me because… well, see above.

It wasn’t until college that I really got white privilege. And it was because of my black girlfriend and her black friends. Of course, the black kids at my small, liberal-arts college weren’t much like the black and Latino kids in the Towers. They were “the talented tenth,” the result of Nixon’s affirmative action program. You know, the one that made some black people rich instead of making all poor people not starving. But still, I got it. And I also experienced the joys of sexing up a black person. I realize that this might sound racist, but there really are physical differences between white people and black people. And — duh! — it has to do with the skin. The black men and women I slept with had this lovely, smooth, sort of extra-impermeable quality to their skin. I loved it. In all other aspects, they were exactly the same. The men didn’t all have ten-inch cocks. The women didn’t all have huge, high bootys. Oh, wait, yes they did. And that was okay with me.

So when this white butch from New Hampster made these not-so-subtly racist comments, I felt simultaneously pissed off and sorry for her. She just didn’t know what she was missing.

January 16, 2008 at 12:31 pm Leave a comment


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