Photo by Courtney Top (@alwaysjudging)
I love you and I love sex with you. Everything about those feelings terrifies me because the last time I felt this way, really felt this way, I was on the corner of a street in San Francisco calling the suicide hot line. I don't think it was love that did this to me then, but it was that it was a love so strong that I lost myself in the grass of Alamo Square and love was all I had left, and it wasn't enough. There was no me alone it was only me and someone else.
So after that I dated people that for the most part I knew I couldn't fall too hard for. This way I could keep my distance, and more importantly, my sense of self.
But with you it's all different. Last night we went and got ramen together. You told me you were gonna be away on business for Valentine's Day, and I got upset. You told me you felt really awful and were nervous to tell me and even though you hate Valentine's Day you would have done something if you were here, just for me. I got mad but couldn't stay mad because you are so damn genuine and honest. And in an age where it's so easy to lie, people like you are rarities.
This was my outfit:
We ate our noodles and touched knees under the table and left to get a drink at a nearby cafe. We were all over each other. We wanted to go home and have sex, but we let the tension build. You demonstrated the concept of trust to me using two empty wine glasses and some candles. It was a metaphor, to help me, because trust doesn't come easy to me.
When we got to your apartment I put on "Yayo" by Lana Del Rey. Let me put on a show for you daddy. I have always wanted to strip to this song. I put it on, and started taking off my jeans. Then my blouse. Then you pulled me on top of you. Kissed me, licked me.
Then you handcuffed me.
You said "You're under arrest." And from there, we role played that you were a cop and I was a prostitute you were arresting. You flipped me around and ripped off my panties. You searched me, making sure to check my pussy. But you said "This is all part of the job." "I have a wife." "I am not turned on by this." Once you checked my whole body with your big beautiful french hands, you said "I need to taste you just to be sure you aren't hiding anything." This led to incredible sex with the handcuffs still on.
It was perfect because I feel so safe with him, so we can role-play something like this where I felt like I couldn't move, where you were dominating me, because I know in fact you want nothing more than to respect and pleasure me.
After this, which I think was one of my favourite sex sessions ever, you gave me a foot massage. A long one. I had worked 9 to 5 in le Marais and you felt bad that my feet hurt so much. We watched a scary movie and you rubbed my feet. We had sex again later and with me on top you whispered You are so sexy, do you know that? And not in a porn star way, in a love making way, that I felt in every part of my being. We fell asleep in each other's arms and woke to, again, more sex.
He went to work and I slept another hour or so in his room. When I left his apartment, Paris was shining. It was so sunny today, it felt like summer, with cold air. I walked all the way to the Champs Élysees. And then to Saint Lazare. Looking around, taking in the golden statues and lost tourists and random monuments. I have this feeling that I know myself, that at 22, I feel put together. The moment will pass, stress will come, but right now I can't believe where I am; That four years ago I was a freshman at the University of San Francisco, having mediocre sex with a stupid college boy. And now I am in Paris, thousands of miles away from anything I have ever done, or anyone I have ever been.
And sometimes I just feel like In the land of Gods & Monsters, I was an angel, looking to get fucked hard (Lana del Rey) by life, by Pierre, by everything. Because, pourqoui pas?