Untamed

I have to admit that I did not have the courage to talk about our “relationship” with him when he walked in the door several minutes after I woke up, this morning. I couldn’t think of where to begin, how to start talking about it – what would I say? I figured that a shower would buy me some time, where I could spend a few minutes to myself to come up with a way to ease into the conversation; five minutes passed and then ten, with me still struggling to think of how to put it. By the time I had gotten out, dried off and put some clothes on, he had left and I stood there, annoyed at myself for not jumping to the opportunity earlier.

I knew what it was that I wanted to say, by then and I had planned to make him angry. Now that I think about it, I wasn’t even sure what his anger would have achieved, but I just wanted to vent at him, get what I needed to say out into the open. I couldn’t understand his reasoning, his intentions with me – where did he want this all to go in the end? I wasn’t allowed to call him at home, yet it was perfectly fine for him to stroll into my home whenever he saw fit, it seemed. Perhaps I shouldn’t have given him a key, or told him that I usually leave the back door unlocked when I’m home.

There is no way for me to figure him out, to read him even when we have sex. I want to make deal about how he never makes any sound or any movement but I don’t want to confess that I enjoy it. I know that it feels good, when he tells me later, but some part of me would appreciate a bit of noise, a bit of breath to help me figure it out. It baffles me that he can say how much he wants to be with me, to be ‘in my pants’, only to close his eyes for the entire time that he finds himself exactly where he claims he wants to be. Every night that he closes his eyes feels like another night that I’ve been shut out, another night that I’m being used because he can’t find what I give elsewhere.

It only makes me question myself.

Lance and I are just friends, and nothing more; well, friends who had casual sex with each other and nothing more. So why am I so interested in making this discussion with him? I thought about this for longer than I should have while I ate my breakfast; I figured that if anyone would know best about this, it would be my ex. My ex saw more of him than I ever did, and we have all been friends for more years than I can remember, more years than I can count on my two hands. I started this entire ‘casual sex as friends’ with him whilst we were all living together and when my ex was spending several years in prison for grand theft auto.

I found out today, in my visit, that he had thought Lance and I were having sex together when we all were living together. I wondered what made Lance so easily detectable yet the other men that I had over remained completely unknown to him. Lance has heard it too, so if he was going to find out anything it would have been by his mouth. I would get teased later, every time that Lance had overheard the sounds of me and some other man fucking in the next room. He always acted disgusted, whenever he’d talk about it, but I could see by the twinkle in his eye that he liked listening. I could tell that he made an effort to be around to hear it, without letting on that he was interested. Sometimes I think I put a bit of extra effort in the sounds I made, into the performance he heard, just for him.

I took a guy to a hotel one night and fucked him repeatedly, but it just wasn’t the same without Lance listening to it all in the next room, or outside the door. Sex felt like nothing more than a cigarette for me, but one we shared together that was a little messier and more enjoyable. Despite our connection, I didn’t get why I could feel so emotionally detached from Lance, from our nights of sex, even when they were amazingly good. I yearned for a friend, someone who would listen and make no judgements when I poured my heart and soul to them. Perhaps if I sniffled, someone would hand me a tissue, and someone would be my friend.

Most people don’t see the part of me who wants a hug, who wants to be loved and held. Instead, they see a woman of twenty-nine who seemingly makes sex her entire life. Yet there is a part of me who wants to find someone to invite over to stay forever, someone who is comfortable to cuddle after sex. So I lay here tonight and decide to stop whatever I have going with Lance; he isn’t the one who makes me feel any of these things, and it weighs on my soul. The constant meaningless sex makes me feel worthless, and yet it is all because I allow it to happen, all because I do it to myself.

No amount of masturbation can replace the sex, though and that fact alone makes me feel ugly both inside and out.