“Thanks.”
“So beautiful,” he repeats, mashing and squishing them between his
fingers like a kid with a ball of Play-Doh. “Your whole body is …”
“Thanks,” I say again, hesitantly. Maybe it is beautiful, my body. I
wouldn’t know, since in the two years that I’ve had this new version of it,
I’ve been much more consumed with dealing with it than appreciating it.
Shaving it or scraping it or strapping it in or exfoliating it or lathering it or
shoving a coarse cotton plug into it. Always doing something to stop my
body from doing what it wants to do. Oozing or bursting or bleeding,
making too much hair in the wrong places and not enough in the right ones.
I’m not used to this new body yet, with these new curves and stretch
marks and this unrecognizable silhouette. It’s like my smaller-framed,
flatter-chested body could no longer contain all that was inside it, so it
expanded to make room. Now my body’s ahead of my mind and my mind
needs to catch up. Needs to realize this thing isn’t an Airbnb. This is home
now. Even if it doesn’t feel like it yet.
“You ready?” Randy asks, eyes narrowing with a weird intensity. I want
to remind him this isn’t Apollo 13. It’s a couple kids about to fuck on a
twin-sized bed.
“Yeah,” I say in a wispy sex voice that I feel like I’m supposed to use.
Randy pumps into me with a staccato pump, pump, pump. Same as they
all do. Or at the least the three boys I’ve fucked, all of them with their
boners and their closed comedones and their way of touching my body like
they’re fumbling for their car keys. No passion, no bond. Just sweat and
bumping and genitals. Body parts in body parts.
It’s not for lack of trying. They’re trying. I’m trying too. But no matter
how much spit or cum, how much dry-humping or making out, going down
or eating out, petting or edging, sex always falls short. Feels clunky and
perfunctory. Clumsy and performative. A blatant reminder of the misshapen
puzzle pieces that are private parts.
And afterward, they re-buckle their pants and I re-clasp my bra and
accept in the awkward silence the itchy fact that I settled for pleasure when
I wanted connection, an itchy fact that I refuse to scratch by saying it out
loud, so instead we go and get ice cream.
Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’m the problem. My mom called me hard to love
when I was seven and the phrase always stuck with me even though she