He saw me naked for the first time fully clothed.
There’s something kind of special when someone makes you climax.
When they make your hands grip, toes curl, by asking you the right questions,
biting your bottom lip to distract yourself by the fact that they are not distracted from you.
I lean in—lean in closer to my edge of comfortability. The point where before I stopped to weigh out the consequences. Their responsiveness.
Wanting to but not.
But with you, it’s simple-ness.
My fear of rejection makes me weary as my heart beats.
You hold my hand tighter and we jive. I feel so alive.
F*ck past relationships and the way their pain survives. Because here’s this new guy and, man, f*ck my mind.
Why can’t I just chill and have a good time without consideration of the obliteration of my aroused mind?
Past pain makes me no stranger to counterfeit.
Not blind to the fact—I’m not new to it.
You ask the right questions, fake a good ear, touch when appropriate, occasionally not.
Send a few texts, and then you expect we f*ck.
And I’m not new to it.
But I’m new to this.
To the way your voice kisses my lips, how you place me in a trance, how when you smile my heart begins to dance.
A perpetual swirl of calm butterflies leave my insides and I, for the first time, authentically fly.
His thread count equates to the rapid rate of my heart pace.
He tugs on my hair the way I secretly love.
And without penetration, we make love.
Why do I feel this incessant need to preserve my ladylike physique when inside I’m screaming to peak, feel his technique, not to be dramatique, but whoever shamed a woman for f*cking on the first or second date?
Hasn’t met a man this unique and oughta leave her opinion in the streets.
But I was a good Jewish girl.
I didn’t curtsy or twirl but left my inner temple undisturbed from the outside world.
An unwavering desire walked away with me that night. It followed me home and entered my bed, and when I dreamt, I was wet.
We can’t stifle our tendencies, dependencies, sexual fantasies.
We can’t deny early love, genuine connection, even when our heart is in protection.
Even if we’re afraid of rejection.
F*ck the popular opinions election, on the definition and intersection of what it means to be a lady.
On the gender projection that women ought to do—anything.
That men are any way for wanting it.
That only men want it.
F*ck doing this cute little dance. I respect it.
But I’m moving on.
From any notion that I have to conform to dating norms.
I am ready to receive and be pleased by a man who wears his heart on his sleeves.
Not wait till society tells me it’s okay to take off my khakis.