misspelled

It's like losing my virginity all over again. I had hoped I wasn't the same person I was then. This time, I was going to be the one in charge, setting the pace, laying the groundwork, and I was going to be the one getting up, getting dressed, kissing you goodbye and walking out. But it didn't work like that.

Is it men like me who made you a lesbian, He asked, tracing the outline of my ribcage with his index finger. I wish I'd said It's men like you who fail to convince me I'm not, But instead I laughed, looked away, and said Some lesbian I am, As I lay, exposed, like a butterflied chicken carcas on the sterile white-sheeted mattress, the blankets i may have used to cover myself folded neatly at the bottom of the bed where he'd placed them before undressing us both. Somehow he'd succeeded in turning my act of subversion into yet another assertion of power.
Was it your father, then? He meant it as a joke, but I realized that a moment too late. I sometimes wonder whether I love him so much that I was spoiled for other men, I replied. So does that mean you love your mother less? He was probing, analyzing me, poking around the gutted carcas like a butcher searching for the meatiest bits. I adore my mother, I replied. She is the idea of femininity, and I am the demystified realization of woman. When I'm with a woman, I'm with another realization, another possible incarnation of myself, or what I could be in another life.
And when you're with me? He asked.

It was his damned hotel room, and he still got to leave me lying in an empty bed, waiting for the inertia to wear off so that I could recover my body and re-enter the half-light of the rain-washed streets. Somehow I'm still just that little girl wielding the one piece of power I have left, to prove something unproveable. This time I know I'm a lesbian, and sleeping with him wasn't about denying that. But I also knew that once again I was the one with the most invested in this, and even my play-acted non-challance couldn't hide that. My weak point isn't my sexuality, it's this desperate need to be recognized, to be seen and remembered. He could spot me in a crowd a decade later, take me to bed, and challenge my self-concept, but he still couldn't spell my name.

We all need somebody to love

Is there really anyone in the world who doesn't want to be loved? And not just platonically, either. Why do we all have so much at stake in loving someone, and being loved in return? And why is it so hard to make it work? Knowing that we were once loved isn't enough, either. Please, God, let this work out for all of us. I know you wouldn't have made us this way without reason, so please help us figure this out.

I love you, don't go.

I don't know what I'll do without you, she said. You have been in my life for such a short amount of time, but I can't remember what it was like to live without the knowledge that you are in the world. I thought I might take whatever I could get, let this relationship be as casual as you seemed to want, just because having some proximity to you was better than nothing. But now that you're ready to move on, and I have no hold over you, no reason to keep you here any longer, I suddenly see what an imperfect arrangement that was. You are about to leave, and I don't know what I'll do without you. I never said it for fear of driving you away, but after today, I will have nothing to lose. And so I'll say it anyway, on the off chance that you might reconsider: I love you, don't go.

the nearness of you

You were the last person I was expecting to see, but what a great surprise. The sight of you, smell of you, nearness of you, makes me smile. Can I just sit like this forever, surrounded by your presence, drinking in all the things that convince me that I'm falling in love with you?

sunset

The last puddle of sunlight sank beneath the waves, and almost instantly the temperature dropped. I pulled my sarong more tightly around my arms, and suddenly, unexpectedly, was overwhelmed by the memory of a sunset I had watched from the balcony of a friend's New York apartment earlier that year. The sun looked so different from there, but the effect of the sudden chill was familiar, and the effect on my flesh was stronger, even, than the memory. I fought the tears, but they would not be banished, and to my horror the first little droplets slid off my chin, and splashed on Aurora's wrist. She tightened her arms around me and burried her nose in my hair, and for a moment I considered letting the tears flow. But the time wasn't right for that. I didn't want to give in to that melancholia on such a spectacular night, and so I leaned into her embrace, and fought the cry in my throat.

Magic moment

The emotional rolercoaster has begun. A downer yesterday, a high today. I don't want to get dragged along by it, but I do want to celebrate what it feels like to have been kissed by you. Unexpected, and SO good. Is it even a possibility? I am holding my breath. And the memory of your lips.

the filter of good impressions

I do not like the early stages of relationships of any sort. I hate feeling ill at ease and unsure of how to proceed, especially when there is a power differential involved. How do you say "I want to spend time with you. Not productive time, just time getting to know you, and trying to figure out where our lives intersect and diverge. I want to spend time getting past those difficult moments, being quiet together, and finding out how we, mutually, engage those quiet moments. I want to laugh with you. Laugh until our bellies hurt and tears roll down our cheeks, and our best behaviour displays go out the window. I want to look at you without the filter of good impressions, and see how beautiful you really are, when you're not trying to be."