I think about him sometimes, in the middle of August. On a streetcar. On my way to nowhere in particular. Or on my home home from someone else’s bedroom. And it always starts small, like when you turn your heat on for the first time sometime in November. I can hear the furnace click, click, clicking in the basement; I’m seeing the way he laughed at his own jokes, am only half remembering the direction the hair on his arms grew; it’s still distant though, somewhere off in some faraway basement. It comes with that weird first-heat-of-the-season-smell. But as I start to recall the particular deodorant he used, the way his lips looked when he said my name, the way his hand looked in my lap, slipping down between my legs, I hear the furnace whooosh and roar to life. I’m suddenly too hot; too full of him. I feel like I have a fever. He’s staring at me while I drink too many vodkas. He’s watching me as I admire the shower in his hotel room. He’s touching me while I undo my pants but forget to untie my shoes and stand there awkwardly unsure if I should fix this problem or just go with it. He’s got his fingers in my mouth as I try to tell him about my day. He’s pulling my shirt over my head as I’m trying to determine what he looks like when he lies. He’s burning tongue in my mouth and scorching hands in my hair. He’s all warm thighs and hot cock. He’s all over me and I’m over-heating. I need to breathe, I can’t breathe, I’m rushing, tripping, falling, calling him.
“Oh. I uh, hey. I meant to call my parents, your numbers are almost the same. Weird, eh?” That’s not true at all. I told him I’d never lie to him, but does that even matter anymore? I feel myself vigorously nodding yes, but I ignore me.
"Yeah, really weird. Long time no talk. How are you?” He puts the emphasis on the word “are” and it sounds too genuine, exactly like the ladies at work who want to know about my weekends; “Tell us everything,” because they genuinely want to remember what it was like to be a pretty, young thing. He’s asking for the same reason Phyllis and Gladys ask: completely for their own benefit.
"Me? Oh, I am so great,” I look around the nearly empty streetcar, realize all I want in this moment is to let him know he didn’t break me as much as he believes and for him to somehow hear how hard I’m smiling. So I grin as wide as I can, show too much teeth, make my cheeks hurt, “But I have to go do this thing now, it’s really important and time-sensitive. You know how that is.”
He does know because he would always have deadlines to meet; always end our conversations too soon; always have to leave so early, before I was even out of bed; always got confused with the meaning of words like “forever” and “tomorrow”; as in I’ll call you tomorrow, I’ll love you forever. Time was something he understood, but at the same time had no concept of.
"Oh. Okay. Well it was great talking to you. Great to hear your voice. Talk to you soon, yeah?" He hangs up without waiting for me to respond, for me to say something that would embarrass us both, to start to cry, to mumble why did you leave me? to mention my sex life, to mention his cock, to mention my mouth around his cock. He knows me too well.
Or maybe he just heard how happy I was without him?
I had to go outside today because my recycling bin was blowing onto the road. It was absolutely pouring rain, so I put on a bathing suit and shorts. I was outside for about 35 seconds before a passing car slowed down to catcall and honk at me. I gave them the finger and shouted, “FUCK OFF, THIS IS A SITUATION THAT MAKES COMPLETE SENSE, ASSHOLES. LET ME LIVE MY LIIIIIIFE!!!!!!” And then I chased them down and when they were stopped at the light at the top of my street, I threw the recycling bin at their car using my strong female muscles, and then jumped on the hood, dropped my shorts, and took a shit all over their misogynistic Toyota Camry.
I thought maybe I should do a Hello and Welcome post since there are a lot of new people here. Arranged for most efficient readability.
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
"Rock Forever 21 but just turned thirty" - The Other West
Mother fucking school teacher (college, school of business, opinions are my own!)
Yes, my friends, family, and employers know I’m naked on the internet
I like all sex and all bodies and I don’t want to hear any body policing or slut-shaming
I like Patrick Stewart. Perhaps too much. BUT PERHAPS NOT.
I am very quiet, but it doesn’t mean I don’t like you. Well. It might.
Thanks for being here!
If you end up liking what I do (which is take pictures of myself, take pictures of my friends, and love my cats a lot) consider becoming a patron over at Patreon. A dollar a month is all it takes! And then I feel like this about you: <3<3<3<3<3<3
I was talking with Matt the other day about how he has this amazing ability to talk to anyone he meets very easily and naturally. He said it was because he can determine very quickly what it is a person cares about. I asked him what I care about. He said I mostly care about myself. And being able to do whatever I want. This is the most accurate answer and the one I was expecting. But he also said that it means I don’t want anyone to infringe on my ability to do whatever I want and I want other people to have the same ability, which means by extension I care about anything that affects that. Which I’d never really thought of. I just always thought of myself as selfish.
I hope to keep doing whatever I want. I hope you keep doing whatever you want. And I hope together we work to make it easier and safer to be able to do whatever we want.