Everybody says they’re a freak in the bedroom, but they’re faux freaks at best, still excited by trivial doggy style. Most couldn’t tell you what it means to reach into the bottom of their soul and scrap the edges for the last bits of anger, fear…passion, and turn it into uninhibited sex.
I remember when I had my first taste of “who am I?” sex. The kind of sex that made you want to figure yourself out. The kind of sex that was so mind blowing you’d forget you were having sex, that your bottom half was even moving.
It took heartbreak to get me there.
I had just got out of a situationship, you know, hanging onto a man who wasn’t ready for commitment. I was a serial situationship girl. I always seemed to get the guys who would talk a good game to get me in bed and do everything to keep me there. They’d go as far as to fake a relationship just to preserve my gullibility so that they could continue riding my body until theirs gave out. Exploiting my love only to make me their love slave. Dramatic, I know, but that’s how I felt; taken and left.
Until I met a new man.
A man who thought he had it all figured out just like the last one. A man who believed he was just about to walk through the double doors of my life and own me the same way the others had. He had a nice swag about himself, educated, physically in shape, and liked to tell lies for sport. The prototype dude I date, yet I was numb to his advances.
I still remember him sitting on the couch talking on and on about himself and me dropping to my knees, enveloping him in my jaws, and interrupting his narcissism mid-sentence. I remember his words turning into groans for help. Most importantly I remember for the first time in a long time feeling empowered.
I remember his veins bulging.
I remember his voice losing base.
I remember him violently throwing me to the floor…and apologizing for his aggression. Yet to his surprise, and my own, I was delighted by his gesture, and so it began. We tacitly agreed to engage in unbridled release.
No gullible girl, but a willing participant.
We shared a commitment to fornication.
I committed to perfecting my fellatio technique to dangerous levels. I committed to seduction served on a platter; Miles Davis in the background, sexy outfits, and flirtatious chatter. I committed to exhaustion out of desperation for a rise. And surprisingly I committed to abuse; verbal and physical because to me all of it was sexual. All of it was arousing when taken out of the real world and placed on top of a penis.
He’d choke me hard and hit me harder just to test my dedication.
And I’d never disappoint.
No matter what name he’d give me for the evening, what challenging position he’d try, or how hard he slammed me.
I’d never disappoint.
I thrived in an environment where nothing was gross; all my body flaws on display. All our mistakes were exposed. I wasn’t working toward being his girlfriend so nothing matter. I was free.
We’d cry sometimes and other times we’d laugh with little to no words expressed. It was a carnival that only we had passes to, it was a place we had discovered accidentally; a joy not to be tamed.
Until one day…
I stayed longer than I should’ve. I was fanning myself on the pillow after a tsunami orgasm and that’s when he hit me with the, “don’t you want more out of life,” conversation.
This man didn’t know me, to him I was probably just a freak hoe with no boundaries, and I was okay with that. What he thought about me was his business. And who I really am is my business. He didn’t need to know about the PTA meeting I attended earlier or about the new book I’m working on. My sexual candor is what got us here, not my mind.
“I mean you don’t want to be someone’s wife someday? Have a family?” He continued on and on with a concerned look on his face.
About two break ups ago I would have died for a man to say these things. A man of his stature to make an “honest” woman out of me, but now I was merely entertained and annoyed.
Entertained that for the first time I had pussy whooped someone into a captain save-a-hoe uniform.
Yet annoyed that for the first time my ideal man cared and I didn’t.
I finally spoke, “Listen, I’m happy with the way things are…” It was time to dip, I started reaching for my clothes.
“Girl you love me, just admit it, I’ll be the first to say I want to see where this goes.” I almost died. I didn’t love him. And now I was panicking, my power had back fired and now I just wanted to roll out leaving no damage behind. Damn, was this how guys felt when girls pulled out the gushy conversation after great sex?
I was now fully dressed, he ignored my motions to dip, “I mean I could help you get your life together, have you thought about what you want to do for stability? What about opening a salon? Your hair is always tight…” This conversation was taking so many lefts and it wasn’t right.
“Look,” I began, “I appreciate your help, but you clearly don’t know anything about me otherwise you would know I hate doing other folks’ hair. I write, that’s my dream, to be a writer.” I was now standing at the bedroom door, purse in hand.
“You may need to do something more practical…what else do you like besides writing?” he said.
Is he serious? The blasphemy.
“Fucking.” I said. I looked at him for the last time, “that’s what I like.” And just like that I was gone. Heels clacking down his hallway. Leaving a stain in his mind the same way my past lovers had.
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