“That was like fucking a ghost”
He was laying on his back and staring at the ceiling. He had finally caught his breath after a bought of arrhythmic and sadly unsatisfying lovemaking. His hand crept over the roundness of my hip I think he was looking for my hand. My back was to his; it was customary for me to turn away from a man after we’d fucked. It was my subtle way of saying ‘don’t worry, I don’t expect to cuddle.”It was a not so subtle hint that I hate each one for not volunteering his affection. I lay there looking at the folksy decorations of his dorm room.
He nudged me, “ Did you hear me, are you awake?”
“Yeah,” pillow talk, awkward.
The vast majority of men that fucked me much like one might play a sport. Can you imagine a basketball player playing a scrimmage and asking the court ‘how was it for you?’. They mostly did their business and moved on. I never asked them to stay because it seemed more and more I didn’t want them to.
“You fuck like a ghost,” he said.
“What does that even mean? How can you fuck like a fictional being?”
“You don’t believe in ghosts?”
I made a non-commital grunt/hum noise. It seemed to sate him for the time being. He turned his body to mine and put his arm around me and pulled our bodies together. His hand began to search my body. I figured this was him initiating round two. I rolled over on my stomach and turned my face to meet his.
“Boo.” I whispered.
“I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts.”
“I never said that.”
He mimicked my non-committal grunt, then placed a slightly too wet kiss on my forehead. I didn’t know the proper response , so my reaction was a passive non-action. Wrong choice, his brow scrunched in pensive frustration.
“Like fucking a ghost.”
It was uncharacteristic of him to curse. My stoic nature upset him, it upset me as well but I lacked the capacity to express it.
“What does that even mean?” I asked.
“You only look like you’re here.”
“I’m obviously really here, you cock is resting on something, that something is me.”
“You know what I mean”
“Do I?”
“You barely touch me when-“
“I’m touching you now.”
“No, I’m touching you.”
“Semantics”
“You want me to touch you, right?”
The look in his eyes made me uneasy. He looked wide open, trusting and more shockingly in need of my approval.
I learned a lot of things in my twenty some odd years on this earth, most about men. The perfect way to broil a steak, how to massage tired shoulders, and a myriad of other methods to make them fall for me, or run from me. Most of these lessons were learned in the field, not read in magazines aimed at bored housewives that don’t exist anymore. I learned how to get a man to pay my term bill by making him feel so small he tried to buy his manhood back.
My most valuable lesson was learning how to feign the exact same emotion that was reflecting from Joe’s eyes. When confronted with the real thing it shocked me that any of my previous performances had ever rung true. Just to keep my heart from breaking I had to turn my head and break his stare. It was confusing all the emotions suddenly stirring inside me, among them the sadness in realizing that I never thought that my own approval would ever be needed.
I spent most of my active sexual life asking the same question in his eyes. It used to be every time I fucked a new man it felt like reaching into my chest ripping out my heart and asking “Am I good enough yet?”, “Am I worthwhile?”, and with out fail each man scoffed at my offering. It was the same stinging disapproval I felt every time I brought a project home to my father. He would look at my B’s and snidely ask why they were not A’s. Now when it came to fucking I tried to keep my heart safely in my chest to save it from embarrassment, yet every so often I was stuck in bed with a man as little girl offering her bloody B grade heart when all he accepted where A’s.
Now here was I in bed with a boy that was offering me his heart, a tattered broken ugly precious thing.
I turned back to him without confronting his eyes again, buried my face in his chest and begged him to never stop touching me , knowing full well he would never honor my request.
I find the difference between fucking and making love is that you are required to be present in both mind and body to make love. Some people require both, while for others, fucking with merely the body is more than enough. Think of Thane in ME2. The Body does what it will; the mind is independent. Not always the case, for some people.
Beyond that, there are a few minor grammatical errors. Otherwise, well done 🙂
Yes I agree with this whole heartedly there is just something different when two people make love. I say this because I think that it has to be a mutual feeling and engagement of minds and bodies.
I also think that people have a carnal need for sex and a spiritual need to make love.
(and yeah I know there were some typos lol but I had to post before my boss got into work lol)
I agree with Paul; this was a lovely piece, vulnerable and so very true. I wonder if this particular feeling of vulnerability and ‘not good enough’ and seeking approval from men is is sadly familiar. Thanks for sharing this.
it started as a free write, a facebook buddy suggested I try to write more personal things.
Had to read this twice to take it all in. The combination of dissatisfaction, distance and longing at the same time reminded me of the end of two particular relationships.