Because an orgasm is rarely cute and contained. There are the wilting Victorian climaxes, and they can be lovely, but many more are loud, proud, and kind of awkward-looking.
Our friends say that you’re into me, that you’re too shy, that you don’t know how to make the first move. They say I should just “go for it.”
I have to admit that I was pretty scared when I first caught you out of the corner of my eye. My whole body was overtaken with this incredible, terrible nervousness and I wondered how I could possibly open a conversation.
You spend several hours extra getting ready — possibly even buying new clothes — when you know that there is a chance you might see them tonight.
There is also the familiarity. It becomes like a kind of drug, something you can’t take big enough hits of when you are looking for something, anything, to make sense to you.
I am standing in the bathroom, brushing my hair, completely naked. You walk up behind me and tell me that I look good like that, that I should go naked more often, that the light is particularly flattering on my back side.
You show that you have not been beaten into a patriarchal pulp by all of these ridiculous expectations that you don’t show how you actually feel.
And we are afraid to be open with this need, with this passion, because we don’t want to lose you. That is really the crux of it.
I would follow you home. You would open the door, and I would have to stop myself from leaping for joy. I would have to pretend to be less excited than I was, pretend that I don’t need you the way I have needed you for so long now.
Know the day where the speech is coming. Feel it in your bones when they call you and ask you to meet them somewhere — somewhere public enough that you won’t make a scene.