tOUCH
Hovering over my phone in a weird almost-laying-on-my-stomach position, she began to trace my body with her nail. I was tense because my ex had walked in the house a day earlier than anticipated and we were fucking with my bedroom door open. The door now closed, I hovered and scrolled through my phone anxiously waiting for my ex to leave the house so her and I could continue. Just a few minutes after my ex left, I gingerly collapsed onto the bed, facing away from her. She had been continually tracing me the whole time.
"That feels...nice" I stammered
"Are you okay?" she asked
" Yea, yea" more stammering
" It's just you're not used to it?"
" Right, but it's really nice." I confirmed
" It's my pleasure." she urged
Memorizing each raised hair as she traced my body, I tried to remember the last time I was touched like that. Fuck Coléa, when was the last time the body has been appreciated like this?! I was alarmed. I couldn't think of the last time someone had casually, and honestly enjoyed my body. I tried to be present with each centimeter covered, but my head was trying to explain these forgotten sensations. My head wouldn't shut up. My head wouldn't shut up. My head wouldn't shut up freaking out about this incalculable sensation. I.felt.seen&understood&appreciated&lovely&sexy...and sad. This delightful moment was tainted by sadness and humiliation at how long it had been since I felt such admiration for my body.
Pathetic. I thought to myself. How have you let yourself go that long without being touched knowing damn well you need it like you need water? Like you need the sun. Like you need air. I tried to snap myself out of this self-deprecating spiral. But, Coléa, you tried, remember?! You told and asked and showed and at times pleaded and bargained. But trying to teach someone how I need to be loved doesn't guarantee reciprocity. I felt better. I felt less pathetic. One cannot force another to love them how and when they need it.
From that moment, I made a self-declaration that I would relearn how to receive and bask in the touches I had been starved from for the past couple years. I would relearn to be treated kindly. I would accept nothing less than what I deserve. Because living otherwise is unsustainable.
"That feels...nice" I stammered
"Are you okay?" she asked
" Yea, yea" more stammering
" It's just you're not used to it?"
" Right, but it's really nice." I confirmed
" It's my pleasure." she urged
Memorizing each raised hair as she traced my body, I tried to remember the last time I was touched like that. Fuck Coléa, when was the last time the body has been appreciated like this?! I was alarmed. I couldn't think of the last time someone had casually, and honestly enjoyed my body. I tried to be present with each centimeter covered, but my head was trying to explain these forgotten sensations. My head wouldn't shut up. My head wouldn't shut up. My head wouldn't shut up freaking out about this incalculable sensation. I.felt.seen&understood&appreciated&lovely&sexy...and sad. This delightful moment was tainted by sadness and humiliation at how long it had been since I felt such admiration for my body.
Pathetic. I thought to myself. How have you let yourself go that long without being touched knowing damn well you need it like you need water? Like you need the sun. Like you need air. I tried to snap myself out of this self-deprecating spiral. But, Coléa, you tried, remember?! You told and asked and showed and at times pleaded and bargained. But trying to teach someone how I need to be loved doesn't guarantee reciprocity. I felt better. I felt less pathetic. One cannot force another to love them how and when they need it.
From that moment, I made a self-declaration that I would relearn how to receive and bask in the touches I had been starved from for the past couple years. I would relearn to be treated kindly. I would accept nothing less than what I deserve. Because living otherwise is unsustainable.
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