We can talk about love, and we can talk about sex, and those two things can have nothing to do with each other. Or everything.
He wanted me to love him. I could tell by the way he looked at me. He wanted to possess me, not in that way that is dangerous, but in a way where he could call me mine, and that would be okay.
I would have let him, too. He was good enough, and there were things about him that were worthy of love. It would have worked, and I wouldn’t have stopped him. I would have nourished it, too.
I thought that he knew me when he first started calling me. I thought that he understood. This game of love is played on every level, simultaneously, all the time. It is a game that we do not play as foes, but as allies. I don’t think he ever understood that I wasn’t playing against him. I was playing with him, but that is also a hard pill to swallow.
The sex of it all is what he underestimated. He suffered from the same problem that most men suffer from: their sexuality is inherently tied to their masculinity. I have noticed over time that this isn’t conducive to a functional, fulfilling sexuality. There are so many aspects of masculinity that are easily shattered.
The best sex that I have ever had has been with men whose sexuality is inherently tied to vulnerability. Being naked on the stage of the bedroom isn’t a masculine thing to do – it’s vulnerable. To do it well, you must be vulnerable. You must communicate. The facade of masculinity must come tumbling down. Strength and sexuality intermingle because in nakedness there is strength (if you can find it). Most people get that confused – they think that sexuality and nakedness intermingle because there is strength in nakedness. But that’s wrong. Most people are only strong with their clothes on. Take the clothes off, and the weaknesses rise to the top.
He didn’t understand his own sex, so how could he understand himself. If he didn’t understand himself, how could he ever be close to me?
Or maybe it’s that he never understood what I already knew about sex. I have lived for years in the dark, uninhabited corners of sex. I have been alone here in my orgasms with other men. I have said yes to everything and been abandoned by other people’s sexual fears. Until he can come find me in the dark recesses of sex and sit with me here forever, we will never be together.
I thought that he knew where to find me: halfway between broken and beautiful and on my back. I thought there was a tacit understanding that the mundane would no longer suffice. I thought he knew that to love me was to fuck me, and to fuck me was nothing short of erotic physical destruction. He didn’t understand how much he would have to make my body endure the pain of pleasure before my mind could go along, too.
To not fuck me well and to expect love from me – that is not what great relationships are built on. That’s just friendship.