Weightless

I liked that he was small. A sense of overwhelm had soured past encounters—I am sensitive and too often find myself faced with too much too hard and too fast. Past partners were looming and eager to swallow me. I needed a lover who understood nuance and I was curious to experience someone who more literally moved through the world at my level.

We had seen each other a handful of times, including a trip to the pool that concluded with my nipples in his mouth. He spoke energetically, unselfconscious in how he detailed his adolescence in San Francisco, his bad drug trips, his evolving political views. He had a brightness about him that was undeniably enticing. That and a DIY haircut that was infuriating in its perfect imperfection. I had been dating all summer, sharing beer flights and bar nuts with thoughtful, politically-compatible people who I had no desire to fuck. Until he strolled in, thoughtful, politically-compatible, and rakishly hot.

Now, we’re waiting for his STI test results to come back, a precautionary but necessary measure. Beyond that, it's not yet clear where things are headed, but I know that the timing is right. A string of mental health crises had made it impossible for me to date through most of my twenties. As I approach thirty, this finally occurs to me as a blessing: all I've missed is a bunch of mediocre sex and underdeveloped communication skills. Dating as a fully formed adult, I feel powerful. My sense of possibility is fully intact and brighter than ever. Initial concerns about him being too young for me increasingly seem arbitrary. He’s fun. Fun is good for me. I am interested to find out how good.

Until then, I am aching for his body. Grinding my clit against his underwear-clad cock had been pure delicious torture and my want overwhelms me. He had handled me beautifully, dragging his nails up and down my back, running his hands over my ass and thighs to rock me, and spending long stretches cupping my breasts in his hands, lifting his gorgeous mouth to my nipples and gazing into my eyes as he sucked me into a state of total bliss. I’m also reluctant. I’d seen it before—partners would ravish me during the buildup, but once they stuck it in, their dick eclipsed everything else. This one seems promising. I pray it will last.

Another workday of minor victories and insults is behind me. I spent a minimum of time answering emails and joining half-hearted video calls and an embarrassingly greater proportion trying to release my pent up sexual energy, squeezing my legs together, feeling my nipples over my shirt, and absently opening and closing various dating apps. Now, I am home, horny, and desirous of his attention. I text him.

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