Twenty-six

Twenty-six. The words sounded foreign and shameful coming out of my mouth. I breathed them into his ear while Drake throbbed in the background. Wood on the bar sticky as I awkwardly tapped my palm against it. I waited for his lips to pull back in a gesture of surprise or discontent, nothing came. He kept staring into my eyes. It’s funny how much I don’t remember looking into his eyes tonight. He was staring the whole time, I managed to dance and speak around his eyes. Laughed into his shoulder, flirted with my hips. Disconnect. No matter how hard I try I can’t dance with  someone. I can dance for them, around them, by myself, but I can never tell my hips to move with theirs. Like some kind of sacrilege being asked of them. He grabbed them, moved them his way. I resist this all the way down into my genetic code. The way I fight when they push my head down in the middle of a blow job. That’s usually when I take their hands and tie them behind their head. I don’t like the loss of control. Bending to someone else’s will. Especially when it’s with someone who by virtue of their cock has more status and power in our society than I do. All this said and done and felt and we end the night with numbers. Twenty-six. I feel novice. Robbed of my power. I have only my sexuality left, the only thing to bring him to his knees now. He has status, education, age on me. Doctor. Life mapped out. Planned to a T. So carefully he can club alone and makes plans to retire to Florida one day. Smart in movement and word and action. None of the awkward start-stop that men my age have. No faltering when asking for my number. He’s unencumbered by common male anxieties. He responds to every smooth word out of my mouth with his own – silk, seductive. I haven’t given someone so much of my time at a club or bar, or so many of my words in such a setting in a very, very long time. Typically I’m there to get things done, that is all. It’s clear we both have that goal in mind but have no issues bringing wit into the picture either. He tells me he finds little time for relationships of any sort in his profession, and I find this fits in perfectly with the opening I have in my bed. No strings. No sticky sweetness of committed relationships. No sad loss of self. The perks of strong arms and sharp wit without cold shoulders or biting sarcasm. This experience a strange and beautiful creature in a sea of almost’s and discontent’s and not-quite-it’s. The other men I’ve met since last spring… a series of uncomfortable experiences. Either they wanted more or I did. I haven’t been mentally right for fuck buddying. It’s been nine months since I’ve been free of Anthony. My tortured soul and real parts of me finally starting to grow back I can begin to see others and my fit with them. Previously it was a sea of non-fit. No symbiosis, no matter where or how hard I looked. I felt placeless. I’ve now realized I don’t need this fantastical, sparkly truth of fit. Fit is rough around the edges. Fit is a matter of finding which pieces intertwine and which don’t matter, which are too strong to ever dull down, round out. It is not a tragedy when things don’t fit. It’s life. I have a much deeper sense of peace with myself and my twenty-six years and all that does and does not mean. Hot doctor should be so lucky. And he probably will 😉