Laying back in the bathtub, having my hair washed and conditioned, strong fingers massaging my scalp while I close my eyes and think of others.
I see myself as an indelible mark on those I’ve loved, stronger and deeper probably, than what is really there because my imagining is borne out of arrogance and ego, and yet I think it’s true, even while I admonish myself.
The first boy who loved me did so at 16, resentfully in the end when I didn’t do what he wanted, a want that I didn’t even realise he had, and which ruined him for the next 12 months. A year during which he studiously avoiding talking to me after trying, and failing, to find solace in an awkward talk during morning swim training before school.
He read my journal. In it I said our sex was terrible, like some ‘Dear Cosmo’ story of bad sex. I laughed when he told me in anger in a later argument, confronted me with it as if *I* should feel guilty. I remember thinking, “Well, that served you right, didn’t it?”
Ten years after we’d had our few dates, he rang me out of the blue.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” he asked when it was clear I was struggling to place the name.
I did: the steel artist who looked like Johnny Depp and who couldn’t submit in the way I wanted, refusing to do even small things that I asked, but he bottomed like a champ, kissed like a demon, and was so very pretty.
“I remember,” I said. “You weren’t really into it.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I wish I had done it differently…” He trailed off.
I nodded into the phone. He asked if I was single. I wasn’t.
“Oh,” he said.
I regret not taking his number, I was single soon after that and could have used a Johnny Depp lookalike to kiss.
I tell him I compared all men to him for a long time after we split up, and they all came up short. He blushes, sweetened and grateful for this truth that I have said to others, but probably never said to him.
“I often think about sex with you. I hang on to it. I get pleasure from recalling as much detail as possible,” he says in return.
It makes me laugh with delight.
He was the first man I ever loved, the first with whom I felt the freedom to exercise the force of my sexuality.
Along with everything else, I’m so grateful that he gave me that, and so happy that he felt it the way I did.
I saw him at an event after we had met up once to see if we were compatible. We weren’t. I knew he was hopeful as a potential submissive, and I had not contacted him afterwards to say ‘no’ explicitly. I felt guilty when I saw him there. He approached me, and he graciously and generously wished me well.
I am angry with myself, so many years later, and embarrassed about my lack of consideration.
I’m sorry, you deserved better.
It was hot, so very hot. Still, I took us out onto the outdoor roof terrace, sucked on ice to take the sharp edges off, slipped some into my pussy and got you to fuck me slowly. The freezing cold of the ice, the feeling of your cock inside me, the sun beating down on us.
“Can you still feel it?” I’d ask soon after your cock thrust home.
“No, it’s gone.” It melted so quickly from the heat.
I sucked the sharp edges off some more before we went again.