by Alexandru Ciobanu
I hesitated. My reaction time is usually rather slow, and that is due to an uncertainty engendered by my severe lack of drive. Decisions are not made on the spur of the moment, since I constantly reassess where my interest in something lies. Needless to say, it is usually meager. Why should I go downstairs with him? Where does that fall within my parameters of desire? Why did he have to signal me to follow instead of saying something, anything? Probably because that would have ruined the sensual atmosphere that he thought us kissing and rubbing up against each other had created. Also, it was rather authoritative. Without figuring out where my interest lied, I got up and followed. Yet while he was going down the stairs, he turned his head briefly. Where’s your authoritative confidence now?
We entered the bedroom and then he pushed me on the bed. His piercing eyes and playfully mischievous smile made me disgusted. I remembered that look from other very nice guys I went to bed with. On two separate occasions I felt like a prey, when nothing from their prior behavior signaled that any such thing would occur.
I was lying on my back, then on top of him; we were making out. This went on for a bit. I was already growing tired of it. He took off my jumper and I felt compelled to take off his. He took off my pants and threw them away on the floor. I felt that was an unnecessary display of passion. I suppose I wasn’t feeling quite comfortable. Then as he pulled my hair hard and slapped me on the ass, all I could think of was, “Oh, ’cause you’re short…” Meaning he was releasing his frustrations about his height and exerting dominance over me. Eventually, I realized where my interest lied. And I told him, “I don’t think I want to go any further.” He suddenly changed back to his warm-hearted nature, reassuring me that he understands perfectly. That everything is alright.
Maybe that’s why I don’t like nice people. And when I make that statement to others, they’re always so perplexed, or think that I believe the niceness is fake. But that’s not the case. This guy was so very nice, and so kind. But seeing him in this “intimate” light, all I could think of was, how are you the same person? Is that what intimacy is, performing a dynamic which you’re not able to in your day-to-day life, e.g. dominance over the prey, which is also coincidentally taller than you?
I’m proud of myself that I’m the same with everyone. A misanthrope, a cynic, an amateur psychologist… But does that mean I can’t be intimate with someone? Because I can’t shut off and be less of what I am in that moment? A friend said to me: “When we fuck, we fuck. And when we’re being psychologists, we’re being psychologists.” Maybe truer words were never spoken.
I worry that my entire life will be a struggle to get rid of my sexual inhibitions. London feels like the wrong place to succeed at that. It seems like nobody has time to wait to build something with another person. And I don’t think I’ll get anything out of being a whore, since I’m not a very sexual person.
But, I masturbate. So, yeah. Such logic.