Here it is: You have been touched so many times that a hand on your back doesn’t make you flinch anymore. Your legs spread effortlessly, your lips bloom, your hands turn to waterfalls.
We were seated across from each other, having a conversation about the weather, when his hand slipped under the table. Your eyes widened for a second and then you went right back to spitting up thunderstorms and floods.
I wonder the last time you were touched and felt something; when you didn’t just close your eyes, lie back, and hope it’d be over soon. You’ve told me story after story about the bedrooms you’ve seen. Boys who lived with their mothers. Men with shiny, modern lofts overlooking screaming cities. Women who decorated with candles and stacks of books. I wonder when you last brought someone into your bedroom and let them see something besides the smooth insides of your thighs. When they saw your journals, your dog-eared books, your photographs, your thoughts.
You are better at the language of sex than love. I get it. Sex is simple. The game of “grab your clothes and go” always plays out the same. There are rules and restrictions in it: don’t ask them to breakfast first, don’t leave anything behind, don’t text back, don’t get attached. Sex, when it’s just sex, is easy. It’s nothing. And that’s fine. But being wanted is one thing and being loved is another, and I wonder now if you say “I love you” with a shut mouth, shut eyes, and open thighs.