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This first bit is going to be a sexy little tease of a journal entry.
You've been
warned. Last night Corn came over to David's place, where I was cooking dinner for him. After a successful dinner of salad, bread and snowpea/green bean penne (I have that recipe down, now, which is gratifying) I began what is beginning to be my new habit - running around, making sure we have everything set perfectly for sex. I'm not very good at this yet, so it still involves me dashing around or jumping up to fidget with something that isn't perfect - turn out that light that's shining rudely in our eyes, or go grab a towel for later or fill the water glasses. Finally I had done all but one thing - put on some music to confuse the sounds reaching David's neighbors. I just turned on the stereo (David had had a date recently and I decided whatever he had put in would suffice). As I walked back into the living room where Corn watched me from the couch I began moving to the music (Herbie Hancock's "Watermelon Man" off the album "Takin' Off" - rather appropriate). I was wearing a sarong that had been tied above my breasts but had fallen to my waist long before. Now, as I wiggled my hips and danced for Corn, it began a slow journey down the curve of my hips. I started the dance moving my shoulders in time with the music, swinging my body along with the swells of the horns. I kept time with my hips and legs (thrust one hip out, pull it in - wiggle wiggle- pop the other hip on the downbeat and repeat) while I let my torso, head and arms explore the melody. Occasionally I would walk this movement away from him, turning so I could peek over my shoulder at him. When I "walked" like this, I would inevitably step on the end of the sarong, pulling it farther down my hips. Corn watched this all with amusement and delight, keeping his eyes on me with only an occasional raised eyebrow glance at the status of my slipping sarong. I kept it up, moving freely, enjoying myself immensely. He was such an attentive, appreciative audience that I soon lost the shy, coy part of the dance (i.e. peeking over my shoulder at him and blushing) and was now moving with full confidence in my skills as a dancer, seductress, woman. I didn't think too much about what I was doing, just assumed that I was moving exquisitely and gracefully. The final phrase of the song slipped by me - and as the music faded out I stepped on the edge of the sarong one last time and let it glide down over hips, past thigh, to crumple in a little pile around my feet which I daintily stepped out of and I slid onto the futon next to Corn. "Wow. Dinner, dessert AND a dance! What have I done to deserve all this?" he wondered, pulling me close to him. "It's not what you've done, but what you're going to do....." I answered him with a grin, adding, "Just let me catch my breath first." And, oh, did he deserve it. I will note, however, that around midnight, when we were finally dozing in each other's arms on the couch, that I woke up and asked him to leave. I dunno why, really, I just knew I'd sleep better alone and Saturday morning is one of the few times I can sleep in. To be sure, I've been lonely this morning, but I slept well last night. It's one of those things I'm proud of myself for: not only asking for what I want but being able to KNOW what I want. Almost always before I would have either been too shy (or afraid of hurting his feelings) or too wrapped up in "what we're supposed to do now" to ask for him to go home. ("Him" is generic, now). It's what you're supposed to do, right? Sleep in the arms of your lover after a tryst, no matter what. Earlier yesterday at work we were sorta talking about all of this. Carl was asking why most women would wake up after a one-night stand (or any sex, really) and immediately "fall in love" with the person they had just had sex with. Why do most women do this, but not men? he asked with something close to disgust. My answer, though not eloquent or thought-out, was something that made sense to everyone sitting there: As women, we're trained (conditioned) to think of sex as something "special". Not only that, but if we DO have a one-night stand or an affair that isn't "going anywhere" (i.e. leading towards the institution of marriage), we are conditioned to think of ourselves as sluts, and we are taught to judge other women according to these rules. Sex is ok as long as it has meaning. So, a woman wakes up slightly hungover next to a man her inebriated, care-free self felt it was ok to have sex with the night before. Instead of allowing herself to own the experience of casual sex (thus risking the (probably self-inflicted) label of "slut") she attaches herself to this man, telling herself she must have been falling in "love" with him if she slept with him. It justifies the act, intensifies it and adds meaning where there was none before. And, if he's bewildered...hey, I thought this was casual, we're just having fun, right?...then he's taken advantage of her.... I know. This is a dangerous assertion. I'm not saying this happens like this ALL the time, but I do think it happens. And I think that's part of the reason why guys think women always fall in love when they have sex. Not all of us do, of course, but we're practically told to do it by society. Hm. I don't want you to think I'm just blase about Corn, either. He's my friend, my lover, and I do love him, in a way. But I don't have illusions about this relationship: I'm very happy with the fact that there's no chance of this going further; I'm relieved he and I will never speak of marriage (between the two of us, I mean - we can talk about the concept of marriage and his marriage to Rebecca, of course). I take pride in the fact that I can handle this, and have lots of fun with it. I'm trying to live "free" of society's constrictions, but in order to do that I have to recognize them - and pat myself on the back when I've skirted the edge of one. It's all a part of not only knowing myself, but changing myself into what I want to be. If I can take my little bits of society and do the same thing - make it what I want it to be among small groups of my kind of people - then I hope to achieve happiness. Or at least contentment. Isn't that the greatest goal? Satifsfaction with self? With life? To recognize that the world isn't perfect, but build your utopia anyway? I mean, I have to start small. And it isn't delusional if I can see the sides of my own love-bubble, if I know the way out. | ||
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