Ace Sex
I laugh:
Would you knock it off?
I can’t tell if you’re being serious
with the way you’re comically
bumping your hips against me,
while I put the dishes away.
You say “oh babe”
like a nineteen-thirties radio host,
every third thrust, and I have to catch myself
from hitting my nose on the cabinets
and it’s sweet and endearing how
you like to make me laugh.
.
Oh, you actually want to?
Okay, I guess. Oh, I mean-- No, no,
It’s not a problem, I mean--
I don’t mind, I mean--
I could, I mean--
I want to, too.
.
No, it’s not that I’m not attracted to you, you know that.
I think we have different experiences with attraction.
Attraction is when I hold your kissable cheeks in my hands
and nuzzle my nose with yours. It’s when you’re working from home,
and I stand behind you and braid your long dark hair
until you’re adorned with every twisty in the house.
It’s when you bring me apple slices and a black coffee
while I do my graduate course work, then collapse next to me
on the couch, leaning, with as much contact as possible.
It’s when I fall asleep in your lap, watching Love Island,
you stroke my arm and think,
This girl has everything she needs.
.
I kiss you and my heart flutters
I try not to smile, because it’s hard
to kiss and smile at the same time.
Our lips disconnect.
.
You bite the cable of muscle in my neck,
I’m not sure where to look, so I close my eyes,
holding back a laugh.
It feels like the “aaaa!” when the plot thickens,
or the highest point on the rollercoaster,
when you unwittingly look down.
.
I ask if we can take it to bed.
You ask, “Are you sure?”
and “are you okay with that?”
while eagerly vibrating.
you’re like the kid on Christmas morning,
banned to the top of the stairs until I disable the house alarm
and holler, “Looks like someone came!”
I spread my hands in benediction and say, “my love,
I am consenting.” which is different than saying, “I want you.”
You slap my ass on the way to bed,
and doesn’t see me roll my eyes.
.
Writing about sex is almost exactly like
writing out a recipe for biscuits,
and I’ve never really had an excuse to make biscuits.
I know other people love biscuits and love to make them
but I don’t see what’s so super special about
one cup of flour and, however much salt, and, wait,
baking powder, or soda? Well. We’ll see what happens.
And sometimes spices, if you feel like it.
Other people seem to feel like it.
Because for me, it’s not about the biscuits, I don’t care
about the actual biscuits, I care
about the person I’m with-- you, only--
and if you’re happy,
your smile, the indicator. The mess, collateral.
I like the time spent.
I like the little exchanges, the rare sides of us that interact.
I like the joy of making something.
.
Oh, you’re really into this.
I guess my thoughts had wandered.
You whisper something I don't hear, which is okay,
because we have different experiences with attraction
and I’d rather think your thoughts,
and build our narrative in a way that I can tweak and edit,
than hear something that would shatter that illusion,
and strike any splinters of fear into me.
I say “one cup of flour”
and you say “oh, babe.”
I say “teaspoon of salt.”
and you say “you’re so good to me.”
I say “powder or soda?”
and you say “whatever you’re comfortable with.”
.
I wonder why peanuts grow underground, like beets.
But beets are just beets through and through,
while peanuts have a shell, and the good part, inside.
I wonder why cherries grow in twos, sometimes threes.
and why their seeds contain cyanide,
Apple seeds have arsenic, I think. Just a trace.
I wonder why soap is labelled “orange blossom”
instead of just “orange,” and why
it doesn’t taste like either when he puts his finger in my mouth.
I guess “orange” is too Trader Joes
but “orange blossom” is more Trader Jacques
but I still don’t see why that matters.
“Orange” reminds me of the soda, and summers at my Grandma’s house.
Swimming with my siblings and cousins, and that hot black driveway.
“Orange blossom” is a life I’ll never live in the south of France,
but I don’t know a lot about the south of France, so maybe Spain,
if oranges blossom in Spain. I should know more about Spain
Seeing as I was a Spanish minor in college but it was mostly
Central and South American Spanish, and I don’t know
if oranges blossom there, either.
Maybe I know enough about Spanish-speaking countries,
I just don’t know enough about oranges.
I’ll look it up after this.
I wonder if I have an attention deficit.
My brother has an attention deficit,
but I don’t want to think about my brother right now.
I wonder why, almost every time, I get a song stuck in my head.
This time it’s “Funkytown,” and I try not to laugh.
(boop-boop beep boop boop. beep boop-boop beep-boop).
I wonder when was the last time I watched Shrek 2.
The phrase “having shreks” flashes through my mind,
and I laugh, but pass it off as something else.
.
You nod, and your eyebrows squeeze
tighter together. You say,
“I want you to finish.”
and I know it would make you happy,
so I focus my thoughts inward,
into my body instead of my mind
and put a timer on the biscuits.
.
Your long dark hair flops around,
and I hold it out of your face because that’s a nice thing to do,
I think, and I see all of you.
Your big dark eyes, muted, and earnest.
Your soft cheeks with their constellations of acne.
The shades of his scruff, from amber to black.
A tablespoon of sugar,
but your heavy handed,
and sharp chime:
Ding.
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When it felt like I was your world,
perhaps, I was just like the earth
to the universe: a tiny speck of mass
in your memory, orbiting in this tiny
space you’ve made of me; night and
day, curious about how vast and vague
your mind could be; how many other
celestial bodies feed your complex
fantasies, while I look at you, thinking
that you are the only one sustaining me.
I could have said that you were my
universe. I wanted to explore the spaces
between your palms, the different
constellation of thoughts in your head,
the black holes that swallow you whole,
and the magnitude of gravity that held me
in place. But I found it hard to get a hold
of you as you outgrew my love and you
continued to expand to such vastness
no one can ever imagine. And that’s
how I learned that nothing was ever mine;
the universe cannot be mine,
as I am but a pygmy dweller
in your constantly changing reality.
– Your Universe, Samantha M.
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