Scattered thoughts. I’m avoiding thinking of the act of sex, but rather only moments leading to it. Different circumstances trigger different emotions that lead to sex, but those moments often get overlooked for the act to come itself. I imagine the eye contact that draws you closer, sometimes so intimate that sex actually gets in the way of this connection. In these moments, some part of me is falling in love. It might be atom-sized love or the full package, but I don’t see it as important anymore to know how great or little (imagine saying “I’m microscopically in love with you.”) I guess these moments are defined by gaining trust, which sometimes feels violated while having sex, letting someone dive into your vulnerable state, only to be met back with cold, lost and shutdown eyes. Makes you wish you could go back and just stay in that moment preceding sex and learn to appreciate it more. Love fades in and fades out just as quick sometimes. I don’t necessarily mean this as a bad thing, more in a way that you can see it in front of you, but then goes dormant and returns again. No one can remain attached to someone 24/7 with their love stuck to each other. Being in love is what you have for yourself that just happens to co-exist and come into contact with others’ love for themselves. Never are you permanently one, never is the idea of falling in love or being in love always running at maximum power. Teenagers spending sixteen hours a day scribbling someone’s name in their composition journals beg to differ (do they still do that?) Life is incapable of attaining some sort of supreme control over, so I think I’ll stop concerning myself with what the perfect idea of falling or being in love is and take it in any sized doses that it comes.
There ain’t a clever way to say it. The body hurts. The mind stays clear. I go for the temporary fix by washing away the immediate clutter built up, but a stain unaddressed days after the coffee spilled is not so easily washed away with a rag and warm water. It always starts with pornography and always ends with an unavoidable memory.
Again the mind stays clear of the debris. But the body can only remember the perfection. My body aligned squarely with yours. Every flawless curve you happened to be born with. The way your body clenches in all the right spots. The way everything fit so well.
None of this is fair, attempting to find responsibility for an act beyond the one physically in front of me. Mentally, the moment hadn’t come yet. My body had, though, effectively.
by ty miller