I wrote this love letter of sorts almost exactly one month ago, shortly after meeting–and fucking–someone with whom I had been chatting for nearly two months. The significant and sudden entrance of someone into my life, especially during this pandemic, could not have been more surprising. Perhaps more surprising still was the surprising amount of comfort I felt, not just with someone new but with the first person since my diagnosis and removal of abnormal cervical cells, which left me feeling a deep sense of betrayal from my body.
A week ago, we were watching the sky brighten the cracks in my curtains, fingers interlaced and cuddled together. I was both shocked at how the hours had already passed but also impatiently waiting for you to kiss me. I thought about taking the leap of faith myself, but I couldn’t quite read you. In the end, you were right (again); I was more comfortable with you than I could have imagined, but I wasn’t bold enough to kiss you. (I might argue that you were wrong not to invade my space and press your body against mine immediately, however).
Perhaps it was a well-thought-out machination because I was certainly hungering for your lips by the time they pressed against mine. And there was no way I could (could you?) let any more time go to waste when we could be enjoying the very activities we had spent nearly two months talking, dreaming, and masturbating about.
As far as first times go? It’s hard to top that. I don’t usually let people stay in my home for over a day, let alone my bed. But it just came so easily once our limbs were finally entwined. I so quickly found myself experiencing not just pleasure but safety.
Even now, the sense of longing I feel to kiss you; to run my hand over your chest, and thighs, and cock; to hold your hand; to glance up at your (seriously attractive) lips before kissing you; to watch how the diffused light hits your cheekbones, it’s all so overwhelming. I have to pause in case I might shed a tear.
But if my mind can’t stop racing now, it was put at such ease then. It felt so natural to fall asleep in your arms or wake up and glance over at you or kiss your bare skin or move closer or arch my body to give your hands better access or spread my legs for you to enter me (an unfuckingbelievable source of ecstasy for me… And hopefully for you). There was a distinct lack of self-consciousness and judgment as I simply let myself… be. One of the few times in my life. Even eye contact became noticeably easier (and sexier?) from just a few hours before.
I do recall grateful thoughts for not having to compartmentalize sex the way some people do. It didn’t feel like we had to shrink ourselves in my bed. I could be whole, perhaps more than whole, with you next to, beneath, inside of me, and I felt so thankful for that.
There was one nagging thought at the back of my mind: would I cry? I’d made no efforts to hide the fact that I hadn’t had sex since having part of my cervix electrically cauterized, and while all went well, I still felt so betrayed by my body. It has taken months for me to touch myself again; I was briefly afraid that I wouldn’t be able to experience pleasure anymore. You can imagine my relief when it–and my sex drive–returned over the course of last year… And stayed once I started taking SSRIs. But I thought that whoever I slept with that would demarcate the “after” would need to be easy.. because what if I had to deal with pain or blood or tears from the trauma?
Except none of that came. Only I did–repeatedly and sometimes surprisingly–as the hours (and then a full day) passed, comfortably, enjoyably, sleepily. We filled the hours with sweet words and pillow talk, kisses and cuddles, and the type of ease that I rarely get to experience. The tears never arrived, and I was surprised when sleep finally did. I’ve struggled to sleep next to everyone I’ve ever shared a bed with, and while it wasn’t my best sleep ever, it was surprising nonetheless. To one of us, at least.
When you said it felt so right, I couldn’t have agreed more readily. I’d be lying if I understand how, but I feel it in my god damn core. Without having to convince myself. How can that be?
