Found on my computer tonight, written to myself in August, 2005:
“pulled back into so easily the places my memories rest, waiting, like dogs tied to trees ears standing searching for signs of attention.”
Thinking, lately. Remembering.
I started writing about sex when I started fucking girls, about ten years ago. Nothing I wrote then ventured beyond the margins of my notebooks, as I tried to pay attention in class. “I want to run my fingers through more than the memory of your hair” and, I know I used words like soft and deep a lot but, I cannot remember more lines right now, bound in books at the top of my closet, they wait while I drink my tea.
My first girlfriend had long hair and I don’t think I ever really pulled it because that’s not what I was supposed to do, somehow. When we broke up she was surprised and I was not, because I remembered her standing by the bed, naked, the day after her birthday, crying. “I just want you to want me! I want you to fuck me!” I wrote to her with more feeling than I touched her. My words were a better lay than my body.
The first time I slept with a butch girl I expected something I did not get. A friend asked about it the next day, smiling, curious. “I don’t know,” I said, “I just, I mean, I totally thought she’d be more aggressive.” Later that year, a high soft femme with dark hair and red lips wouldn’t let me put my mouth where I wanted to, but she watched me dress in the morning, admiring my black boots and black lace bra. “I love that you’re so femme and so not,” she told me.
“I want you to bite through my wrists,” to the train wreck of a girl I let choke me for too long.
To the long ago girl friend with a girlfriend:
“and then what do we expect to gain from what we give.
(pouring myself into what i want to hold me
giving in wanting to be allowed
to give. knowing i’m being
received. fully).
worthy. worth holding and holding
onto.
pushed open from the inside.
fingers finding names that need
to be said and said
again chanting in my body
with the help of yours finding
forming the words within and
echoes vibrating against
all that others have left empty.”
At the bar she asked me if I wanted to go home with her. First girlfriend, post breakup, time passed. She’s still hot. At first I said no, I should get home, it’s late. Then I called her cell from my car and asked for directions to her apartment. And in her room, I used what I had learned. From the boys in high school: how to move my body against another, deep breaths and arching back and ass up curl hips down again. From the patient girls when I was drunk: how to kiss, how to call a tongue into your mouth with a curl of your own, how slow hands show confidence. From my mistakes: saying stop for fear of pleasure is counterproductive. From my successes: relaxing muscles let more in.
At the end of the night, getting caught up in memories of what I’ve done, who I’ve been, and what I told myself (what I wrote to myself, wrote to all the Yous with names that were never written), I drift away, when in the shower, waiting for me, is the girl who is so deeply, truly, and fully worthy of now.
I filled this space so randomly tonight. For that I apologize.
But only a little.
goodnight.
jameson.
