I’ve never been one to go looking for casual sex. It’s not something I think about, not something I’m actively trying to pursue. And it’s not that I have some hard stance on it (not pro or anti), but on the few occasions I’ve rolled around with someone who didn’t give me heart flutters, it always ended the same way.
I felt weird.
Not weird because I regretted it or felt ashamed. Weird because I felt…nothing. Like this carnal act we’d just done, this thing that is as close as two human beings can possibly get, felt as ordinary as brushing my teeth.
I don’t like that feeling.
The men never notice. I can’t really blame them. Who wouldn’t confuse loudness for enthusiasm? Trust me, I can kiss you like you’re the most important person I’ve ever kissed. And every time, you’ll think no one has made me moan like you so effortlessly did. Every time, you’ll marvel at how our bodies became one and never once will it cross your mind that, maybe, I’m just a good actress.
In kindergarten, after a rousing performance as the Grandmother in our school’s production of Little Red Riding Hood, people rushed to crowd my mother and gush over my raw talent. There I was, a tiny tot, and totally nailed the part of an elderly woman.
Make no mistake, if I want to convince you of something, I can.
But that’s not what I think when I look at you.
I’m not as naive as I let some people believe. I can spot intentions a mile away, and yours are just as dirty as mine. You’re everything I say I don’t want, but when it’s 1 am and you text me, I can feel all my blood pulsing.
I don’t think this is the beginning of a romance we will tell our future children.
I don’t think this is the kind of thing I’ll bring home to my mother for Thanksgiving. But when you’re there and looking at me with those hungry eyes (Eric Carmen reference too out-dated?), I’m dying to learn every inch of your body.
You aren’t “man I marry.” But right now, you’re something so much better. You’re electricity and the baby hairs at the nape of my neck standing at attention. You’re too much wine in my stomach and messages that turn my cheeks the color of the cab I’ve been drinking.
Is this what you do? Do women hand themselves to you on a silver platter, hungry and begging for more? Are you a witchcraft I wasn’t prepared to be so spellbound by?
I can’t put it into words. And as a writer, I fucking hate that. But whenever you talk to me, I want to taste your entire life. I want to forget I ever said, “I’m not a casual sex kind of girl.”