She went down on me and I surprised myself by asking for her finger inside me and yes, coming that way, too. And afterward I fell apart, choking on tears that tasted like chlorine and old, old pain. Maybe there’s a reason we’d never tried that?
I kept it up, the crying, most of the weekend. (Quite a lesson in aftercare for her; she was a brilliant success.) The pain, a lot of it, came from: how I hated being the girl I was required to be, inoffensive, acquiescent. The desolating dawning realization in childhood that the stakes of my success were staggeringly high (love, for starters). She touched the place in me I held safe behind barbed wire and alarm sirens while the girl (me) was doing what she had to do.
My brother wrote back. Not a good reply. By the time I got it, though, I had nothing left but a wave of anger followed by certainty: I am so done with this. His palpable discomfort and displeasure, his wanting me to be something else or at least shut the hell up, is an external fact now, not a climatic condition in my soul.
I did some online shopping and as of today I’m the proud owner of a brand-spanking-new strap-on. And truly gravity has shifted in me: while I was waiting at the post office to pick up my (ahem) package, I looked at the men with me in line, and pitied their not knowing the sweetness of this anticipation.