It's been one of my dreams to produce an erotic literature event where authors can entertain a loving, accepting audience and now....it's happening!!!
I had been fantasizing about coming home from work and diving into some writing, or start a new drawing. It was all I could think about while I went about the mundane activities of retail waiting for the clock to strike the magic time where I was free to go.
“Why did you do it? How could you let him finger you? And Paul* too?” My mother’s shrill voice pierced my eardrums.
I was on the couch, mute. My body faced forward with my head craned to the right, giving her the eye contact she demanded. My father, silent and expressionless was in my peripheral vision. I felt like a prisoner being interrogated.
She falls in love at the most inconvenient times. When she’s got her shit together and feeling solid in who she is and she’s blissfully content being alone, that’s when the Universe wants to play games.
He pushed me against the wall in my living room and kissed me with more passion than I had experienced in my twenty six years. I returned his intensity with eagerness, my arms wrapped around his neck, his hands all over me.
As a teenager, I learned that my display of affection was “too much”, and that I loved “too hard”. I was told that the fondness I bestowed on my first love made people “uncomfortable”. I didn’t know who these “people” were, or if it was the messenger herself who felt this, but what I heard was “You’re expression is wrong.”
You open up and tell him the things, matters most people are not privy to. It rushes out of you. You haven’t so much as thought about these incidents in quite some time, but here they are, knocking around in your head and you want to share them.
He’s lying on his back, his eyes focused on the ceiling while he tells me about his day. My hand is on his leg, the texture of his jeans against my fingers feels gritty, the muscles supple and strong.
We’re sitting on his front porch, discussing afternoon plans. The air is chilly, the sky gray and heavy with clouds. I’m staring out at the leafless trees across the street, my head resting on his chest, my arm across his belly. His head is on mine, his arm around my shoulders. I want him to come over later.
I was spacing out with some coffee in a café when I overheard some girls talking about one of their mutual friends one afternoon. An open notebook and a ballpoint pen accompanied me, waiting for my next sentence to arrive when one of them said, “Do you know that Stephanie has never been heartbroken? She’s been with the same guy since high school and has never experienced heartbreak before. She’s so lucky.”