By: Eric Kossina
There are special moments, usually after spending all night walking along a starry roadside talking—finding back trails to blow each other and kiss, caress, to forget everything else—where sex can potentially ruin everything, and desperate people do not take risks.
“Stop,” I told him, “I don’t wanna have sex.” He stood up and grabbed me noirishly, a blind man examining my face, itself a combination between a mowed over shag carpet and the dry cracks of a toasted marshmallow. I swerved left and he pressed me against the tree. “Maybe there’s something here,” I pushed the pine from my mouth, “I wanna take this thing seriously.”
“And sloppy first date sex means we wouldn’t ever see each other again.”
“True,” he sighed.
I pushed him away and zipped. Being that it was my first real date, at 22, I was walking a fine line of caring about my image; old enough not to care and young enough to still be enraptured at the idea of someone being my potential life partner, forever.
We met at a Pride Student Union meeting. We both hated it, but kept pulling at the other to go out afterward.
“Everyone’s going to Friday’s. You should come.”
We were the only ones at Friday’s. Naturally, I never went to one of those meetings again. Fate was telling me that this was my husband. Simple enough to have a classic movie screen meet-up, our combined aura would’ve made any psychic reevaluate their life choices—classic gurl meets gurl. This was meant to happen. This was the first time two gay men on earth found each other so mutually interesting, real live and in person mind you, that this was the distinct moment the millennial generation decided to overcome its fear of people and grow up. It was the first time I met anybody as interesting as I was. So when we met again almost a week later, where my story began, I brought my chastity belt.
“Just come home and cuddle,” he pleaded.
“I told you, no.”
“I’m not gonna try anything. We can just hold each other as we fall asleep.”
I’m not sure that’s how gay works. We are more trustworthy, as people, but when sex gets involved I start drawing blanks. So, I went home with him and got almost naked.
I was really trying to sleep but he kept asking me questions, what was my favorite show, what do I like to do, things you really shouldn’t ask someone who is trying to sleep, not that there are any good questions to ask someone when they’re trying to sleep, and in a way that would’ve made Vivian Leigh shiver he looked up at the ceiling and told me, “you could at least tease me.”
I didn’t know dating was going to be this difficult, like. Yes ma’am, I’ll get right on it! Is there some kind of social contract that I’m missing? Was there a dating etiquette class I could’ve signed up for? I didn’t know there were so many regulations I was missing. I know that if someone asks for sex, you don’t have to give it to them, the girls told me that, but I’ve never cuddled before. Boy is too hot for me to hold all night. And my arm gets tired from being under him, he’s heavy. Is there a moment I can turn away and sleep normally? Are we supposed to be kissing, or should I be stroking something, too? I only learned one thing from this experience, call a man a cocktease, and you can get anything you want.
I started out slow because he hit a bullseye on my heart. I lazily pulled back whenever I could, I wanted him to know I wasn’t feeling all right with this, but I was unaware of the emotions that bubble up with arousal. He was sucking the energy out of me through some backward siphon and all I had to latch onto was fear, pity, and a shameful sense of regret.
Soon enough he was on top of me, manipulating up and down, back and forth, like I’m the console for his imaginings, he’s the glorious jockey of his onscreen dream and I the stampeded stable hand. I suddenly was being driven into rainy mud, submerged and breathless, my lips peaking out for air only to be drowned and stepped upon.
Although a new experience for me, although this was the first time I felt so completely overwhelmed with emotion and textures and situations I was not used to, I did not feel like drowning tonight.
“Whoa, whoa, wait. Am I inside you?
“…I think so,” he replied.
“I thought we decided not to?”
“I mean. We did. But…” he cut off, his slow passionate gliding too much for words.
“Do you have any condoms?”
“Shouldn’t you get off?”
“Doesn’t it feel better? For you?”
I guess? I’m not sure how to respond but we essentially have to fuck at this point.
If he has anything, I’ve got it by now. I’m not sure what kind of process there is around these things, or if there’s a timeline or what everything entails but, I’m sure people get it instantly. There’s no use fighting anymore. We’re already having sex. If we aren’t going to talk afterward, if this ruins things, then it’s already been done, there’s no going back. The gun’s been fired, I have to rise up, take him off his high horse and finish on my own. It’s my race to control, and if he doesn’t like it, I don’t give a damn. He will pay for making me feel this, I want to get across my anger and pain, but all can he understand is pleasure.
Am I being violent toward him? Has this gone too far? Is this what rape feels like, or did he do it to me? There should be some kind of assault or aggression but instead I have a calm sense of uncertainty. I don’t understand how two people could do this to each other, implying aggression and remorse to manipulate, counteract, and express ourselves.
He didn’t notice my small quiver, the sea of guilt and shame parting long enough for my confusion to pass through.
I can’t decide if I like sex, I thought, just before the crashing tide carried both of us away and he physically understood everything I felt inside, bonding through the sticky feeling of being covered in semen.
Eric Kossina is a retail manager from Orlando, Florida. He is a wannabe music critic and contributor to Nothing Sounds Better. He also ponders queer life outside the city. Follow Eric @greenringer987 on twitter.