Too Close To the Sun
While captive on the island of Crete by King Minos, Daedalus devised a plan to escape with his son Icarus by soaring above the island on wings affixed with wax. As the hot wax poured onto their flesh with feathers attached, they flew away. Daedalus warned Icarus to not fly too close to the sun. While the myth goes that Icarus does it anyway. Drip by drip the wax melts, and he meets his tragic end. He experiences a moment of ecstasy where his soaring met the sunshine: all-consuming and orgasmic. This story is about fucking around and finding out and of course, dying well.
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I like P but I can only trust my brother with that information. I've had a slew of crushes — probably too many in fact; but isn’t that what life’s about? I dressed as a slutty Hex girl (a bit of a double entendre since they are a Sapphic awakening) for P’s Halloween party. Everyone felt us orbiting each other and our synergy as a gravitational pull. I’d wait until he went to the bathroom upstairs to excuse myself to get in line only to push him into his room afterwards and make out on his bed. He gnawed at my black lace corset. We had barely done anything below the belt and this encounter was tempting but surprisingly, it didn’t happen yet. After cleaning up the party at his house, we were both too tired and awaited morning while the momentum built in our dreams, cuddling skin to skin.
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After one particular wine night with the crew, we slept next to each other and I got to witness him in the morning. He had on a cute aqua striped terry cloth robe and his thick framed glasses. He looked like he hopped out of a ‘50s ads for swimwear. I became aware of our closeness from sleeping beside each other. His gaze drank me in lustfully and I found myself on top, kissing him and saying how cute he looked. I felt how hard he was on my hip. “Can I see it?” I asked, which led to “Can I touch it?” which led to “Can I put my mouth on it?” I was pleasantly surprised how challenging fellatio was as my small mouth and jaw expanded to accommodate his member. He has such a beautiful and girthy cock. I’m a glutton for it. He tasted how I imagine caviar would—like exclusivity and power. I liked how when I gave blow jobs, I was the driver of things. How I could make a strong man with a chiseled Greek statue bod relax into soft contours.
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And believe it or not we still hadn’t had P in the V yet. The build up was so beautiful and intoxicating, my smut book was born! I had to confess my inner thoughts somewhere. Having grown up with “Mean Girls” and their burn book, I decided to collage a Catholic high school notebook and make it my smut book. It felt very much like the blasphemous vibe of the movie “Cruel Intentions”. Inscribed in it was a thank you note to the uncouthness of my aunt who said that I “should be a lesbian.” It is rhetorical of course because it’s for my eyes only but I still wanted it to feel like a book with a dedication and exposition. And when my aunt replied that after asking if I had a boyfriend, it gave me permission to live my most queerest loving life. P is the start of that chapter if not ever before.
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Fast forward to a fancy restaurant where we had course after course, it’s the type of place that has a wine manager. We both ordered a sexy cocktail in an oblong glass called Too Close to the Sun (rum, amaro, pineapple, and lime). As someone who worked outside in the elements and always looked sunkissed, his nickname Solar Powered P felt relevant to the title of the drink. Perhaps it was the buzz of the cocktail, but I felt more and more like Icarus. The closer I fly to infatuation, it could dangerously consume me or burn me as my direct nature has been seen as overbearing—as if loving and healthy are undesirable in dating contexts. I’ve been reflecting on how orgasmic it must’ve felt to nearly touch the sun and fall. A celestial edging.
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Finally, after what felt like an eternity of teasing each other, it happened. He needed to shower and I followed him in. His caresses, kisses, and flicks of my nipples felt like the warmth of sunbathing topless. When everything on a molecular level hums in gratitude. By the time we got out, I barely dried off in the towel when he began kissing my thighs and making his way towards my throbbing pussy…it felt like the lift of inertia. He took his sweet time savoring me. I felt on the precipice, almost entering ecstasy.
I held his long hair and twisted the ponytail like a ribbon around my wrist. I needed him now. We dislodged my headboard with his thrusts meeting my twerks in doggy style, then I flowed onto my stomach with him still behind, my legs making every entry felt fully. I began floating among the clouds and forgot how many times I came. He could feel the condensation on my back as he hit my g-spot over and over again.
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Everything went so fast—flying. We saw each other at least two to three times a week and fawned over each other. However, cruising at a too-high altitude ensured a crash landing. But I enjoyed the fall like jolts on a rollercoaster. Four weeks after these amazing dates and intimate moments, he came to my place. I had sent spicy texts the day of imagining some things I wanted to see though later. By that, I meant that I troubleshooted how to not make my headboard such a nuisance during sex. Each thrust could’ve been heard by the family living underneath my apartment (at the very least.) Instead, I wanted to try something I never did before with anyone: carry my mattress in front of my full length mirror and fuck him while looking at us both. I imagined squirting at the sight of myself and him intertwined, how beautifully seductive we’d be.
But when he came to my place, dressed in his work uniform that showed the musculature of his arms while I was in a mumu with nothing underneath to make the shea butter and satin of the dress cling to my body to arouse his imagination and offer easy access, he said he had to talk to me about something. I shrugged it off thinking he wanted to vent about his day. “Everything okay?” I asked. “Well, sort of, not really. This is hard for me to talk about.” A moment of vulnerability, I thought.
“I’ve been talking to my sibling O and they said it’s unfair for me to keep dating you like this. I think you like me more than I like you and I want to end things.”
My speech and processing were thrown into a blender. I was in disbelief. How could such magical, mutual moments turn out this way? I found myself brushing away tears. I remember asking him if I could give a rebuttal. He said sure but when I said that he may be scared of falling in love, we have so much time we could take, and while I wanted to date him, I did not make up my mind to marry him or something. Then he said something extremely hurtful and that’s when I knew—I was falling, falling, falling. The night of dreamed debauchery turned into devastation.
I cried so much that my eyes puffed up, my throat contracted, and I felt the acidic sludge come to my mouth. I ran to the bathroom and wretched.
~~~
Afterward, I remembered that I am my truest love. Consistent. Passionate. And my medulla is the start and end of sexy encounters. My mind has always concocted thoughts: buying edible glitter for cakes and decorating myself like a goddess in a Renaissance painting or wearing shirts with built in nipple piercings. Perhaps, I existed in fantasy the whole time, ensnared by the labyrinth of desire. I embrace my fallen angelness, being swallowed by the depths of the sea; effectively drowning in my own water. I could cruise like this until my wings melted and I began to fall—a risk worth taking.