paradoxical

living vicariously through the sex scenes i (like to) write

"Weeks of pent-up tension and frustration erupted as their lips finally connected in a battle for dominance. It felt like everything had fallen into place after waiting for years." I read.

I remember a sloppy clash of lips and teeth. Hands grabbing at nothing, heads tilted at uncomfortable angles. No tension release, no dominance battle, no eruption. Nothing falling into place.

"Once her shirt was off, he unclipped her bra, and stopped to marvel at the sight, letting out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding in in the first place. She couldn't fight the urge to cover her completely nude self, but he quickly batted her hands away as he told her how she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. She wondered how he managed to make her believe that after years of her trying to convince herself of the same thing, to no avail." I read.

I remember he asked me to take my shirt off and struggled for about 30 seconds to unclip my bra. I offered to help, but he refused, saying how he wanted to figure out how to do it himself. I obliged, and after 30 seconds of awkward fumbling, he got it off. He threw it somewhere on the ground.

"Before she could do anything, he grabbed her hands, silently making it clear that her pleasure came first. He told her that the night was all about her, as he kissed his way down her stomach. She didn't tell him that she didn't need words to believe him. He had made it clear all night." I read.

I remember how eager he seemed. Within minutes, we were both naked. I remember he reached for a condom in the nightstand, and how all I could think about was how there was no way this was going to work, because I wasn't turned on in the slightest. I remember waiting for him to get ready as my thoughts dwindled, thinking maybe if I attempted to romanticize this a little more in my head, my delusions would convince me that this night was also all about me.

"As they made love, she knew there was no feeling that would ever surpass this high. Something she found so vulgar before, had now become so intimate and passionate, and she had never been more thankful that it was with him. She felt that despite her cynical atheist mentality, there had to have been a higher power that orchestrated this experience and this man for her. She didn't believe in God. But she believed in divinity as she watched him above her." I read.

I remember my previous predictions being correct. His frustration was palpable, as he made subtle digs towards the fact that he was unsatisfied. I drowned out his vocal dissatisfaction, as I was too busy thinking about what it would be like to find a man who could fuck the atheism out of me. I found myself giving him an insincere apology for my lack of arousal, knowing that his ego couldn't handle the hard truth and that the mystery that is female pleasure couldn't make it through his thick skull anyways.

"After running her a bath, he told her to come back to bed and stay over. He held her hands as he reassured her over the fact that this meant as much to him as it did to her. She fell asleep in his arms and had the best sleep she'd had in months." I read.

I remember going to the bathroom once done. I had decided to fix my appearance and give myself a once-over before going back out. Once satisfied, I walked back out of the room, only to find it empty. My clothes still scattered across the floor in the dark room. After getting dressed, I went downstairs to see him sink the last ball in the red solo cup, with sounds of cheers and slaps on the back filling my ears.

I remember wanting a fairytale. I remember being twelve, seeing rose petals scattered on red bedspreads in hotel rooms irradiated by flickering candles. I remember romantic music ballads in the background. I remember it happening after they went on a date that rivaled all other imaginary dates I had conjured up in my head. I remember saying I wanted that and nothing less.

I remember a friend from school. I remember being sixteen, seeing dirty clothes scattered on ugly navy-blue bedspreads in a wealthy suburban neighborhood illuminated by a hallway light seeping in through the semi-closed door. I remember the romantic sounds of obnoxious trap music blasting through party speakers in the basement and cheers for the cup pong tournament taking place a few floors beneath us. I remember there being no date. I remember saying "sure" because he had called me "beautiful" beforehand, thinking he meant something by it.

I remember her

I remember it

I remember it all

So much remembering, Not enough forgetting

Only the forgetting of ever getting the chance to experience the fairytale I had always wished for

Only the forgetting of the pathetic hope that I'd find some semblance of religion amidst it all

Only the forgetting of the belief that there was a god at all

because I knew there was no universe in which she deserved that at sixteen.

No universe in which she deserved that at all.