Read part 1 here.
Now obviously, I couldn’t get pregnant just by looking at him. For the most part, this is hyperbole, but it still does remain a kind of reality for me. In the innocent, less plagued by darkness parts of mind, I believe this irrational conviction. Sometime last year, I was binge-watching The Daily Show. Trevor Noah was doing a bit about the #metoo movement and I don’t remember what it is he said exactly but there was something about him being funny and not sexist(because comedy can be problematic; sexist) that made my abdomen flutter. I remember looking at him and clutching at my abdomen, thinking, “my ovaries!” For a second, I felt a force deep inside of me, a gentle but profound upturning and readying of my barely existent maternal instincts; a hoarse whisper in my year; a nagging at my skull assuring me of my ability to carry and raise his children. This is kind of what I felt when I saw Paul. Except with Paul the action was in my head, not in my abdomen.
The fidgeting was replaced with intense hunger as soon as I was sure Paul as out of reach. I remember watching his outline recede and disappear around a corner and all I could think about was, “I need to go get French fries.” I don’t like French fries. I only ever eat them when I have no option and I only ever crave them when I can’t get what I really want. This would explain why I hardly touched my plate of French fries. What I did do was stalk Paul on Instagram. So much so, that maybe the universe conspired to have him follow me. My entire life, I’d never followed anyone back so quickly. And then began the extensive period where I liked all his posts and reflected on the captions like some sort of gospel. That guy is deep, I’ll give him that.
“I just want to know if he fucks the way he talks.”
I was twenty when my roommate made this declaration. I unlike her, was just happy to listen to Paul talk. Granted, all our conversions took place on Instagram’s comment section. He’d say something, I’d shriek, my roommate would speculate and I’d reply. Four years imagining conversations with him and when it finally happened, I wasn’t even remotely interested in how he fucked. It took me close to another two years to want to know if people fucked the way they talked.
Okay guys, I can’t do this. I’m sorry.
When I did the first post, I thought I had a sequel in mind. But then I trusted my brain too much and didn’t note the concept down. I couldn’t remember a thing when I got home. So it’s nearly eight months later and I think I’ve finally accepted that this isn’t happening. As you can see, I tried to write something. But the way it was going, I was going to write about the process of discovering and exploring my sexuality but I’m not ready to do that here. Oh you bet I’ll write about it and other stories but just not right now.
So instead, I want to ask you to please comment or send me an email on what the journey of your sexuality has been like for you. To put it crassly, when is the first time you wanted to know if someone fucked the way they talked?
Don’t hold back, I’m really excited to hear your stories.
My email remains firstname.lastname@example.org.