You Want Me So Bad It Scares You (Yay!)

something from two valentines days ago when i had socially liberal fiscally conservative sex and made someone veer off their path toward directorial stardom

pussy so good it made him go ascetic and renounce sex indefinitely.

im standing in the stairwell of someone who just fucked me and we will never see each other again. last night he fucked me so hard he cramped and we had to pause. pussy so good it gave him contractions.

im standing in the stairwell of someone who could never be a monk. we fuck this morning and he cums and says, “don’t take this personally… it’s not because of you… but i don’t think i’m gonna have sex for a really long time.”

“oh,” i say. i catch myself about to appear vulnerable so i switch up and go, “aye don’t worry dawg are u good?” i am genuinely concerned about him, but asking him if he’s ok also makes me appear less wounded. masculine indifference is always good protection. the same can be said about magnum condoms.

“yeah,” he says. this is the least masculine i’ve seen him because he’s pausing to choose his words carefully. “it was really good... but that’s why i can’t do it again… it was too indulgent... i think i gotta go monk mode… i feel like i crossed a boundary with myself.”

he wants to make films. or win a nobel prize. so he can’t be distracted. but it’s nice to know someone wanted me to the point of distraction. it’s nice to know someone wanted bad enough to fear veering off the path to directorial stardom. i grew up ugly and would get asked out as a joke, so it’s nice to know i’m something to be indulged in. maybe we can even say addictive whenever i need an ego boost. i don’t need to be girlfriend material if i can be jerk-off material. monk mode.

he was a mediocre fuck who i wouldn’t have been friends with. but for some reason i want to comfort him. i tell him about my english teacher who failed monk recruitment. back in his college days, he had talked to a monk about joining the monastery. the monk pushed back, arguing that “he might not want to do this.” my teacher relented. the monk told him that was the first test and he failed. sometimes fact checking your desire is the perfect way to make sure you’ll never get it.

desire is still desire even if it goes unrealized. just knowing someone wants me is enough. i want to be loved so much it scares them into not loving me. i want to be loved like a cautionary tale or a bad omen.

“it’s not your fault…” he says. “i just thought, fuck it let’s do it, you know? but i think i just figured some stuff out about myself just now… i think im realizing that sex isn’t really good unless i love the person... you know?”

yeah. i know. he says this last part like he’s diffusing a bomb. like he’s scared to tell me he isn’t in love with me, as if we didn’t meet less than 12 hours ago. i think i figured we weren’t gonna see each other again the minute we met. i had been out at a bar and on my phone because i wasn’t having any fun. sex with strangers is sometimes fun. i went on some app and scrolled through my unmessaged matches. this guy comes up and i message him, he takes a car over to the bar and we meet each other in the backseat like spies or drug dealers. i compliment his fur hat and he says, “thanks it’s because i’m a communist.”

i don’t catch his sardonic tone. “i don’t blame you,” i say.

“why?” he asks me, slightly incredulously but with enough of a joking lilt that, should he decide he still wants to sleep with me, he can pretend like our differing political views don’t disgust him. men still get in bed with disgust anyways.

i want to get laid tonight. i don’t want to radicalize him out of wanting to sleep with me. i need explain why i’m sympathetic to communist ideations in a way that was objective enough to not scare him off, but true enough to not betray myself. the best i can come up with is, “because capitalism sucks.”

he gives me a look. in that moment we both resolve to fuck and run. but again, i still want to get laid. so i try to explain that i’m not some shitty tiktok commie and make some use of my undergrad lectures — “capitalism in its late-stage racialized american form hasn’t been good for most of us.”

“i guess,” he says, still suspicious but less so than before. nailed it. if there’s one thing i can do, it’s pander my way into some ‘social liberal fiscally conservative’ fuck. we go home and pretend not to be annoyed with each other.

but in the morning after we finish, we don’t cuddle. i’m not sweaty. i don’t even think we kiss. i should be annoyed or disgusted or angry but the softness with which he tells me we won’t have sex again makes me want to protect him.

“well hey, thanks for telling me,” i say. “i hope you don’t feel too bad. sorry i made you cross that boundary you didn’t know you had. but don’t beat yourself up. every good director says they made a film or did something because they were following an impulse so... consider this part of your directorial journey.” i impress myself with my naked poise. i wish i was this understanding with my own mistakes.

not a hair out of place, makeup still tastefully smeared from the bar from last night. i don’t get anything for valentines day — no flowers, no orgasm. i hit a cafe and get a latte to cover my morning breath before my 9am lecture. i put on all my clothes and leave the way i came. i’d say “pun intended” but i didn’t come… so.