#notreallylonging

Nevertheless, the song and dance began that moonlit evening.

She observes him, as he fumbles to advance and lead— “Where will his hands go? What parts of me would he desire? How does he feel?” The anticipation shouting in her head.

“Should I lead?,” she asks noticing his lack of direction. To which he replied with tentative approval. In retrospect, she should have noted the passivity then.

She began to undress and position herself on top of him, asserting dominance symbolically, because in truth, although she had experience, she was never in the position to backlead. It required too much of her energy and a social acumen she didn’t possess. Nevertheless, she proceeded to service with feigned confidence and foolish courage.

Her mind rushed with doubt to provide an enjoyable experience, for it was his first time. The inner critic reprimanding her choices on top of questioning her reality—“Why does your hand do this? Is this where your tongue should go? Shouldn’t you check in? Did you lotion today? Does your breath smell good? Is he even enjoying? Are you capable of satisfying your dear friend?”

She was surprised with the result of her advances. Usually sensations are heightened for her when drunk off Mary Jane, but the proceedings of this interaction were lukewarm. Like tepid water that has been left out—slightly off, but hydrates in the end. The exchange felt stagnant and monotonous.

They continued going through the motions to the point of disingenuous performance. She explored his body and allowed him to explore hers, continuously hoping for an allegro, would settle for an adagio, but really yearning for a union of both that would never come.

She devolved herself to a tool, one in which he could use in accordance to his motives, and stripped of a voice. An inanimate approach to body flight.

The arbitrary contact of their lips, the slushing sounds of their body, and the eyes that never meet were all too agonizingly sobering when juxtaposed to her expectations.

It turns out, he wasn’t interested in her. The ritualistic escalation, an almost gynecological exploration, and the clumsy glibness that would never pass as expressions of genuine desire made it clear to her that they were both out of sync. Threads of a skein that would seemingly never meet.

This unyielding fact broke her spirit. She found herself envious of the imaginary fortunate that held his affection. Why couldn’t she be enough? What was the marsh missing in her garden? Her envy turned to lonliness, which she forced into dissociation in order lick the burgeoning wounds in her pride.