Pre-Sex Then:
We stand in the kitchen with a cup of coffee between us and the air steams with a heat all our own.
I see it in her eyes. We look at each other with a spark so potent it could burn the house down. She tries desperately to swallow the coffee faster, but it’s too hot. My hands go to her arms, her waist, curl into the hem of her shirt. I want.
I know without a word that we are on the same page, that desperation has burst both our seams. The feeling arrived in a flash; One moment, we sat on the couch, tears on our cheeks and heavy words in the air. The next, we stood electric in the kitchen
She drinks me in and, with pure certainty, I know I am wanted. Our bodies feel magnetized. I itch with the urge to rush forward in time to our sweat-strewn bed.
She finishes the coffee, sets down the mug, and grabs me. The kiss is wild and desperate. I can’t get close enough. I want to crawl inside her skin until we are one. I am pure feral energy—brain off, body alive and in motion.
We stumble together towards the bedroom and she throws me down on the mattress. My pants come off, then hers. A drawer opens. My breath fills the room and suddenly, she’s inside.
Pre-Sex Now:
I think of sex and feel heat stir between my legs. I look at my partner, on the couch beside me, and try to find signs she might be in the mood. I sidle closer. Kiss her cheek. Kiss her on the lips when she turns her head. She smiles at me and looks back at the TV.
I try again. I give her a bigger kiss, linger longer, attempt to get my tongue involved and fail. She smiles but her eyes stay on the TV, focus barely fractured by my advances. I determine she does not want to have sex tonight and settle back on the couch. I nurse the small wound of disappointment, but stay safe in my silence.
Later, when we go to bed, she removes her top to reveal a lacy black bodysuit beneath her clothes. She looks at me from underneath thick black lashes, coy but never shy, and tells me she needs help to take off her clothes.
Physically, I smile and kiss her again. I let her desire take me where she wants to go.
Mentally, I recalibrate the night I wanted with the night I had versus the night I now have, which is the one I wanted. I reach for the desire I felt earlier and find it already shut down, tempered, processed in stoic silence. My heart aches from a rejection that never happened.
She leads me to the bed and lays me down. Our bodies rub against each other and the pleasure sparks.
I try to relax into it. I try, I try, I try. My brain adjusts the puzzle pieces at a million miles an hour. I want more time. I want slower foreplay, a makeout session on the couch, a sign she is into me long before we reach the bed. I try to relax.
She has made the effort to dress up and, for once, she is in the mood. I don’t want to waste the opportunity so I let my brain run while my body moves.
Sex is good, I remind myself.
Sex is good.
Sex Then:
The headboard hits the wall again, again, again. With every thrust, a sound leaves my mouth—a moan, a cry, a name, a prayer, a pattern that repeats. My body shifts against the sheets which are wet with my sweat. I grip onto my partner’s arms and dig my nails in, bite my lip, try to think of the people upstairs and not scream.
It’s a futile goal, a pipe dream. My body feels hot and tingly; pleasure roars through me like the rumble of a truck on the side of the highway. It is only a matter of time before the orgasm crests and my mouth falls open and I beg, plead, yell. Sometimes her name. Sometimes God’s. What’s the difference, really?
I am wracked by it, consumed by it, fully animal in the moment. My legs lock onto her hips and pull her deeper inside me and I want more, harder, faster, deeper, more. I am an electrical storm and a forest fire and a woman connected to every centimetre of her body for the first time. If I could harness this feeling in another moment, I would be able to name each of my individual skin cells.
I take each thrust like it is me and not the headboard that hits the wall. But each one is pure ecstasy, proof I am strong and sexy, like the girls in the movies. I can take it and not feel pain; I burst like a sunflower blooms. I feel powerful as the bed shakes. In control and irresistible.
The orgasm comes in like the climax of a movie—inevitable and surprising. Everything has built to this moment. Together we created the perfect twist, and now we reveal it with jaw-dropping certainty. The satisfaction and the shock. The rolling thunder of a battlefield inside my heart.
When the screams subside and she pulls out, the sobs start. She wipes herself off, pulls me in tight, squeezes until I am small.
I feel so small.
Sex Now:
I keep my eyes open to think about my partner.
I close them as she touches my folds and the image of a guy I work with pops into my head.
I breathe. Shoo him away. Construct a fantasy of my girlfriend in my office.
She rubs my clit and I groan. My eyelids flutter open to see her smile and I let my lips twist upwards. My body feels like a foreign machine, like I have stepped inside someone else’s car. I know how to make it go but I don’t know how to turn on their stereo or the windshield wipers. I don’t know how well the brakes work or which side the odometer is on. I look in all the wrong places.
My eyes shut and I pretend my girlfriend is a rich woman who pays me to go to parties with her. She has followed me into the bathroom to stand behind me and tell me I am pretty. She touches the hem of my dress and then lifts it, inch by inch. The power play thrills me. I settle into my partner’s touch. I hit play on the fantasy of dim lights, glamorous dresses, and voyeuristic delight.
Still I feel resistance in my body. I fight to keep my mind on track, on the fantasy, on her in the room with her black lace and wild red hair. I think about a client at work who is mad at me because my coworker didn’t send their money on time. I breathe. I shoo the thought away and think of my girlfriend’s eyes. I count the freckles on her nose.
We are having sex. I need to be having sex right now.
Her fingers wander further down and push at my entrance. I feel sore and bruised. I know the discomfort will only grow but I do not tell her to stop because my body thrills at the movement downwards. My body remembers what it feels like to be filled and aches for it, begs for it, lights up from tip to toe. So I ignore the purple in my vision and let her slip a finger inside.
It’s fine. It feels fine.
She asks if I want a vibrator and I take it. The buzz and the new pleasure distract me from the discomfort. That is, until she slips another finger in and everything lights up hot white. I wince. The pain is a sharp zip that shoots up my body. It moves with her and against her and against me.
I hold my tongue and try to ignore it, because my body built up so much excitement for the act. I beg myself to calm down, to loosen up, to let her in. I take a deep breath.
On the next thrust, the pain is worse. I grab her wrist. She asks if it is too much, and I nod.
I want to cry.
Instead, she kisses me and moves her hand to press down on the vibrator. The renewed strength makes my body buck and I gasp. She kisses me harder, holds down my hips, and then bites my breasts. In a sudden flash, I am in ecstasy and out the other side, like a hill on a roller coaster.
I turn off the vibrator and pant. She kisses me again, more, until my desire stirs and the cycle starts anew.
Post-Sex Then:
We walk down the street, hand in hand. The grey clouds in the sky permeate our mood, like we have taken the drizzle as a personal offense. We discuss what we want to do with a sense of urgency that does not match the day—it’s a Sunday. Nothing needs to be done. We have the time to spend by ourselves and yet, we both want an escape. A mood boost. A plan.
There are movies we could go see, but I hate to emerge from a theatre into the dark of night. There are movies she has promised to see with her roommate that I want to see too. I don’t ask if she loves me more than she used to love her.
I suggest a walk downtown and a poke through clothing shops. She loves this activity but it brings her no joy now. She says yes with a shrug and a level of dejection I find shattering. I want her to hold me, tug me close, kiss me, tell me I am loved. I want to beg to be loved.
Instead, I stand a foot away from her and start to walk downtown. I know silence fits the mood but I try to find the words to fill it. Without words, I will spiral into darkness. My skin crawls with the lack of closeness. Less than an hour ago, she was inside me. Now, she looks through me.
I ask questions about bikes and cars, try to get her mechanical brain kicked into gear. She gives one word answers. I decide not to pull more words from her, not to string out our conversation like laundry. The heavy silence slumps our shoulders. I want to ask her if we are still in love here on the street like we were in my bed.
I keep my mouth shut. I try to breathe into my spine and not reach outwards as much, but she is outwards. I want to lasso her with a rope and pull her closer. I want to ask her to squeeze me back into my spine with a hug.
We wander downtown and I fake my cheer to try to bolster her mood. There is a smile or two, but her depression does not lift. We go until my feet hurt. Tiredness crawls into my bones, changes my thoughts, and makes me want to cry.
We sit down to eat in a restaurant and order too much food. It does not do what it should. The calories offer no energy and the walk home still feels far too hard; I find myself upset that we did not leave an hour ago. I find myself upset that I gave up my whole day to cheer her up and it did not work. I did something I knew did not fill my cup when I already felt like shit.
The grey days always come in the hours after. Both of us know it is wrong and yet, we can’t put a finger on what it is. There is the sharp pop of energy, the animal act, and then the lull like a small death. We mourn every time.
Post-Sex Now:
My body is warm in our bed and I smile so hard that I want to laugh. She pulls purple sheets up over our naked bodies and yanks me into her. Heat radiates off her skin, yet she claims to be cold. I kiss the crook of her neck, her earlobe, her cheek and she grins.
When she looks over at me with her sea-blue eyes, my heart swells in my chest. I can feel the way my eyes must shine—like she is the whole world and everything I need is in this small pocket of calm.
We curl together like puzzle pieces. My ear fits into the dip of her shoulder. My belly into her waist. My shoulder and her armpit snuggle together. No words need to be said; there is a kiss, a goodnight, a sound played from a phone as we close our eyes.
We trust the pleasure, the connection, to stay. We’re safe in our bed, asleep again.
-Ingrid Simson
Ingrid Simson wants to live in a world where whimsy is a renewable resource and you don’t have to go into work when the weather is nice. When she’s not toiling away in an office, you can find her running by the water, laughing on her podcast, or watching Bake Off with her girlfriend.
Pre-Sex Then:
We stand in the kitchen with a cup of coffee between us and the air steams with a heat all our own.
I see it in her eyes. We look at each other with a spark so potent it could burn the house down. She tries desperately to swallow the coffee faster, but it’s too hot. My hands go to her arms, her waist, curl into the hem of her shirt. I want.