You tuck my hair behind my ear like they do in the films. But there’s no phantom gospel choir in the background, belting out hymns.
It’s just you and I and for the first time in my life I’m not thinking of the stretch marks that run tracks along my thighs.
You stroke them as they mark a trajectory, mapping the way to the holy place... But you’re no hack in confession I won’t allow you to repent and leave without a trace.
You don’t put on Marvin Gaye; or some other Motown cliche. After months of celibacy, I question What even is a sexual healing? It’s certainly akin to this feeling as you’re suddenly kneeling and I’m unexpectedly squealing my body is unreeling the petals of this flower protracting revealing.
Your lips trace the lines of my being, those bits I’d obsessively wished to change, usually disembodied but now you’re really seeing how freeing the woman behind these parts, her brain, her smile, her heart, rearranged.
Rather than invading, you seem to be waiting for me to also reach the top of the mountain, for us to conquer, together, in this crusade and as my mind wanders to my wobbly bits and I’m just about to fall... your hand reaches over the precipice, and I need no further persuading that sex should not be degrading.
As you come up (for air) I no longer care that my stomach feels bloated or an unruly nest has replaced my hair. You settle my head between your hands, more than a suggestion, less than a command. You look into my eyes not at my breasts or my bottom and so much to my surprise, you gingerly peel back the disguise, of a prim and proper and preened and polished and perfect Woman.
