The line for sign-ups disappeared but we stayed talking on the grass. Eventually Meghan jumped up to catch the bus into town. She had to get her mom a birthday present.
I lay next to Maya, looking up at the sky. It was hot. The quad cleared out. She looked seriously alternative but in a welcoming way.
“Where are you staying?” she asked, snapping a stick between her fingers.
“Fourth floor.”
“Third. Who’s your roommate?”
“I don’t have one.”
“Really?” She looked surprised.
“Yeah, I didn’t know other people did.”
She looked over at me. “Can I see yours?”
We wiped the grass off our backs and climbed the stairs to my floor. I unlocked the door with the key around my neck. Maya flopped down on my bed and I shut the door, putting the key on the table. The room was air-conditioned and dim. The walls were bare. It didn’t look much different from when I moved in. I sat at my desk chair and watched her curl over on the narrow bed to look at me.
She really was a poet. As we talked more, Maya’s speech took on a startling cadence and structure.
“It’s like how, paws fast, words bash like a lion,” she explained.
It was exciting and discordant. She was gorgeous and, in contrast to my emergent butchness, assertively feminine. At fifteen, she looked like an older woman, the kind I didn’t think I’d get to hang out with. Hours passed. At one point she got quiet.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“No, tell me,” I pleaded.
“I’m thinking something I shouldn’t . . . I want to kiss you.”
My chest tightened. I couldn’t believe this was happening.
“No, that’s good,” I said in a rush, afraid she’d change her mind. “I mean . . . me too.”
I smiled blankly, uncertain what came next. I’d never kissed anyone before. “Um . . . I’m not really looking for a girlfriend,” I said, worried that this lion poet might be more than I could handle.
“Yeah, yeah, of course.” She waved my protest away with one hand like dating was for other people.
I walked over to the bed, trying to mask my self-consciousness by playing it up. I tensed my shoulders, lumbered over to her, and plopped awkwardly onto the bed. I rolled my eyes as if to say, “Isn’t this awkward? Kisses are the worst.”
Then she kissed me.
Maya swiftly slipped her tongue inside my mouth and caressed mine in waves. Forget about playing it cool. I was beside myself. My clit leapt into awareness, jolted with feeling. I could feel wetness seeping into my underwear. Maya’s mouth felt mind-bogglingly appealing. Her whole body was warm and familiar.
Sitting upright, our bodies twisted to meet each other, I was astonished by my arousal. It was like I’d discovered there was a second clit in my mouth, the way each swipe of her tongue deepened my excitement. Before, I’d sometimes worried that I wouldn’t be able to orgasm with someone else touching me or that I would take too long and they’d get bored. I realized that if Maya were to touch me now, I’d come almost immediately.
I experimented with a firmer kiss, proud that I seemed to have gotten the hang of what to do with my mouth so quickly. Maya ran her soft fingers over my neck and up into my hair, pulling me closer. I felt lightheaded, hungry and satisfied at the same time. In the back of my mind I felt a shudder of pleasure as I thought, “Wow, I really am gay.”
We made out a lot over the next few days. During breaks between workshops we’d head up to my room. At night we’d walk through the distant parts of campus holding hands while Maya made up poems about the trees. Once we passed the director who had explained the hands in pants rule and we separated quickly. But we hadn’t actually gotten into each other’s pants yet. I had no idea how that might happen.
One evening, the whole retreat was gathering to listen to a local author. I arrived early to a half-empty lecture hall. Scott, my old companion, slipped into a seat beside me.
“Hey, I haven’t seen you in forever,” I said, happy to see him. I’d missed his solid, rumpled self.
“I need to talk to you,” Scott said. He looked nervous. “Can we talk in the hall?”
I followed him into the art gallery beside the lobby. Because it was summer, the white walls were empty except for scattered hooks and nails. Large, billowing, silver sculptures occupied the center of the room. I followed him behind one.
“Fuck it,” he said dramatically and closed his eyes. He kissed me full on the mouth, bending over because he was so tall. As he squeezed my shoulders firmly, he continued to press his mouth against mine. I stared at him shocked, paralyzed, and deeply uncomfortable. Still, there was something undeniably appealing about being desired so much in one week. Who knew sexual connections were so readily available?
His thick tongue filled my mouth, gluing me in place. I tried to figure out how I felt about all this: his stubble against my skin, that he felt so much older, that he wasn’t a woman. It didn’t take long to realize I wasn’t into it.
Scott’s face was scrunched up in a blissed-out grimace. He breathed heavily into my mouth, pulling me closer. I automatically followed his movements, kissing back, wrapping my arm around him. I couldn’t think of what else to do. I didn’t want to ruin his moment or disappoint him. Then I heard the voices of people nearby and cringed. This was too much. I pushed Scott away.
“Okay,” I said, attempting to sound friendly.
“I’ve wanted you so much.”
I led him back to the lecture hall. “They’ll be pissed if we miss the beginning.”
The next night I told Maya about it while we lounged on my bed.
“Doesn’t he know you’re gay?”
“I don’t know. I don’t get it,” I said, slightly relishing my newfound predicament.
She gripped my messy hair and tugged on the collar of my boy’s polo shirt. “You look super gay,” she said.
I was giddy when she nipped at my mouth and wrapped an arm around my waist, but in the middle of everything there was a knock on the door.
“You there?” It was Scott’s deep voice.
Maya and I froze, wide-eyed, gripping each other. We stayed silent until he went away and then broke into giggles. I snorted into her neck, ashamed to be dissing Scott but thrilled to be in alliance with this cool girl.
We stayed in bed talking past curfew. Maya and I had never been in my room together so late at night and it felt different. I couldn’t fully see her in the dark, and when we started kissing, it felt more deliberate and grown-up. Our whole bodies were touching. There was a lot of movement. Who’s on top? Flipping. Sliding together. Our legs interlocked, and when my thigh pressed between her legs, she sighed. Then, by accident, I touched her breast. It hadn’t occurred to me yet to do it on purpose.
“You want something?” she asked teasingly, glancing down at her chest.
I didn’t know what to say. I’d barely considered the fact that she had breasts, let alone what I’d do if I could touch them, but Maya took her shirt off and so did I. Then we took our pants off and our underwear, and we were naked.
“I’ve never done this before,” she whispered.
“Me either.”
“Oh, come on,” she said, rolling her eyes.
“No,” I said seriously. “Not at all.”
I tried stroking her stomach, thighs, nipples, hip, following the path of my hands with soft kisses. It was all lovely but it felt like nothing was really happening. Flustered, I pushed to get on my back. Maya boldly took a plunge and kissed her way down my body until she was on my clit, kissing and licking.
Jesus.
I gasped. My clit felt almost too sensitive like there was more sensation than I could bear. I rocked helplessly, lost in the feeling and aware of nothing but how amazing it felt.
When she stopped and sat up, Maya chuckled uncomfortably. “Easy, girl,” she said.
Shame flooded my throat and my face grew hot. In the dark, I cou
ldn’t decipher her meaning. Was she angry at me? Had I been too loud? Was it not supposed to feel good? Why had she laughed? I’d let my guard down for a minute, and it seemed like something had gone wrong, but I couldn’t figure out what.
Rattled, I moved to get back into a more familiar position. I kissed her neck and mouth, running my hands once again over her body. She leaned into me, apparently happy. She was so beautiful. She was smaller than me, which made some part of me feel unaccountably strong.
Maybe this is okay, I thought.
I really like her, I thought.
But, unlike a few minutes ago, I felt very separate. I felt like the pleasure I’d just experienced was alien and incomprehensible. Did Maya masturbate? Probably not—she was a girl; I was an anomaly. The stickiness between my legs felt excessive and inappropriate. I wished I could get rid of it. Did Maya really want to be here? Was I like Scott, intrusive and burdensome? My desire felt gross.
Maya was now flat on her back and her vulva looked very adult to me, even though we were the same age. Her pubic hair was different than mine, dark and thick and wild. I didn’t know what to make of it, and I felt myself tumbling further into anxiety and isolation. I moved in a few times with my mouth, but I felt scared, unable to connect with this part of her body.
The room was dark and I felt alone. I felt like I did when I was a little kid and left overnight with an unsafe adult or when my mom screamed at me and chased me around the house. I stroked Maya’s labia with my fingers, trying to do what I’d like on my body, trying to be one of the skillful queer women in all the erotica I’d read. But I was reaching my breaking point. There was this wonderful person in my bed who I was so into a few minutes ago but who now felt like a stranger, threatening and unreliable.
My desire for Maya had evoked a whole constellation of entwined memories and emotions, experiences from my past that I did not yet know how to make sense of. I didn’t know then how to ask for the reassurance I needed. I couldn’t ask Do you want me the way I want you?
“Is it okay if we take a break?” I asked, sounding more confident than I felt.
Maya agreed, and we curled up together.
Maya fell asleep, but I stayed awake, feeling lost and scared. Eventually I woke her up and asked if she’d go back to her room. I couldn’t explain why I needed her to, and I felt guilty about kicking her out of my bed, especially when she looked so startled by my request.
The next morning I saw one of her earrings on my nightstand. It was sea green and dangly; my spirits rose as I held it. When I handed it to Maya in the cereal line at breakfast, it seemed like an outrageously adult transaction, passing this sexualized token between us. But as she put the earring in her pocket, I could tell she was hurt. When I tried to kiss her later, she ducked her head to avoid me.
I wish I’d known then about how sex involves all aspects of who we are, not just the sexy parts, and how, weirdly, that’s a good thing. Talking about difficult feelings with a lover is the surest route I’ve found to incredible sex. There’s nothing better than saying I feel ashamed and being met with the full reality of someone else’s desire.
But that summer, talking with Maya about the sex between us didn’t feel like an option. “I want . . . ,” I’d begin, too embarrassed to tell her outright that I wanted to have sex.
We hung out a few more times but never regained that special connection. I remember the last night of the program. I watched Maya read in front of everyone. She was electric, slamming each and every word. All of us in the audience were silenced by the rocketing voice coming out of her.
So much of sex is about communication and what’s remarkable is where that communication can take you. Sometimes I still wonder what would have happened if I had been able to talk with Maya—my lion poet.
In the previous story, Laurel struggled to find the words to tell Maya what she wanted and needed. It’s not easy to talk about sex, especially when you’re naked next to someone else. The words—vulva, cock, nipple, tongue—stick in our throats. We’re not always sure what we have the right to ask for. We assume, perhaps, that bodies just know what to do when they get together.
In spite of all the movies, music, books, and magazines depicting and discussing sex, it’s still overhyped and underexplained. Sex education curriculum in the United States is minimal and often downright terrifying. Parents struggle to talk with teens. The words don’t come easy for them either. It’s embarrassing and awkward and kind of weird.
This leaves many of us—like Sarah in the next story—to venture forth into the world of sex without a map.
8
Who Needs a Map?
Sarah Mirk
When I graduated from high school, all I wanted to do was get as far away as possible from everyone I knew. My parents were great but I had grown up in a small town in Southern California, the kind of place where you develop excellent skills at hiding from people in the grocery store. After years of being seen as the clean-cut smart kid I longed to kick everything familiar to the curb. I wanted to go to a place where I could make myself into whoever I wanted to be. When I told my parents I had been hired as a field organizer for some sort of “campaign to save the environment” in Portland, Oregon, and that I wanted to move up there for the three months between high school and college, I think they agreed to the plan mostly because I was supremely confident. I didn’t know much but I felt good about myself and my body. I was a pretty fearless seventeen-year-old girl.
My mom helped me find a dorm room to rent for the summer on the city’s west side. When I showed up to my first day of work, far from home, I quickly learned that “field organizer” meant “canvasser” and “saving the environment” meant “fundraising.” Each week, the organization brought in a crop of fourteen new idealistic individuals—people who cared about the world and desperately needed a paying job. There was a Let’s go, team! summer-camp feel to the office, with an undercurrent of the uncomfortable reality that we needed to keep our spirits high because fundraising is soul-crushing work.
We were given a few hours of training on current environmental talking points and handed a clipboard with a hundred addresses. I spent the long, hot days wandering around the suburbs of Portland knocking on doors and asking strangers for money.
No one was happy to see me.
Ever.
I was immediately in awe of the veteran canvassers who ran the office. Everyone who survived as a canvasser for more than a few months was confident, tough, and absolutely gorgeous. Susanna was a tanned, earthy ceramicist who wore a knife on her belt. Josh had a lean swagger, a mop of hair, and John Lennon glasses. Cheyenne was a tough, industrious hippie with short hair, a golden smile, and the best laugh in the city. David had a movie-star jawline and a rough-cut face. Jeff had curly hair and seemed like the kind of guy who excelled at Frisbee.
“Whose streets?!” they shouted. “Our streets!” we shouted back.
If you missed your quota—eighty-six dollars—for two nights in a row, it didn’t matter how cool or peppy or experienced you were, you would be automatically fired. Tension ran through the office like a rubber band. We were a peppy, tight-knit crew always on the verge of snapping.
I’m not sure if the humiliation of asking strangers for money was worse than the rejection of being turned down ninety-five times out of one hundred, but either way, I spent at least a few hours of each shift sitting alone on the sidewalk. I would stare at the sky. I would stare at the ground. I would stare at my hands. I would stare at anything other than my list of doors and savor the few moments I had to myself.
After two weeks, I was the only person left from the group hired on my day. I was a professional, a survivor.
During those weeks, I discovered that you were supposed to be eighteen to work as a full-time canvasser. In the craziness of hiring and firing dozens of people a week, the office had forgotten to check my ID. Oops.
As we counted our money into piles at the end of the night, I responded to the older
canvassers’ questions about my life by spinning a fantasy identity, imagining where I’d be in a year when I really would be eighteen. I told them I had just finished my first year of college. I waxed on about my school’s environmental group and about my dorm full of eccentric friends. I told great stories about the radio show I hosted on the campus station. I definitely wasn’t a virgin—hell no! I divulged some choice details about my imaginary boyfriend. We’d had great sex but he’d been a jerk and I’d dumped him.
Each night after we’d wrapped up the financial paperwork, the veteran crowd would go out. They started to invite me out to bars and house parties. After a few weeks of working and partying together, we became real friends. Except that everything I told them was sort of a lie. I told myself that my identity wasn’t so much a fabrication as not-yet-true but the fake stories kept a convenient wall between me and all the people who I thought were infinitely cooler than me.
I started to think about sex all the time. I’d walk into a house party full of twenty-three and twenty-four-year-olds (ancient!) and think about how I was the only virgin in the room.
I never liked the language around virginity. I hated the concept of losing part of myself, especially when it involved a guy taking it away. In high school, I’d seen a couple of close friends fall into relationships with guys whom they described as sweet and I described as greasy. These friends told me stories about going farther than they wanted to, about sweaty hands under their bras.
People built up virginity to be such a special, powerful thing, and I never wanted some man to have that much power over me. What if we shared some special thing and then he told his gross friends all about it? I felt like I could never trust a guy enough to give him my body.
But now I was very aware of being a virgin. The word ran through my head as I hung out on the edge of each house party.
Virgin, virgin, virgin.
I didn’t want to walk around with the word hanging around my neck as my friends downed cheap beer, but I was too nervous to get close enough to anyone to have sex either.
The V-Word Page 5