I’ve been thinking about messy emotions and how they’re often the ones that get me in the most trouble.
Is there a word for someone who gets turned on by feelings? My friend Heart called me (and herself) an intimacy junkie once, and I related to it but still felt like there was something missing. Because while I often crave connection and love and even require them on occasion for sex, other forms of emotional tension also turn me on.
And they’re often the ones I don’t want to admit, let alone write down.
What does it say about me as a person that I got turned on kissing her sister mainly because I had also kissed her a few months before? Or how about the time I fingered a girl in a sleeping bag largely because we had a teacher sleeping next to us in the tent, and the thought of getting caught was too hot to avoid?
Of course, there’s also the time I slept with a girl because I hated her boyfriend.
It’s not a good excuse, although it didn’t feel like an excuse at the time. It was the motivation for sure. Inspiration, possibly. It was undoubtedly spite and desire, and my god, was it beautiful.
So was she, for that matter.
But the thing is, there was nothing wrong with her boyfriend. He was a charming guy, although not especially interesting. He didn’t treat her poorly, and he occasionally made me laugh. And yet, there was something about his face, his laugh, and the way he asked her too many questions that drove me into a rage.
I had to listen to them fuck one night, which I’m sure didn’t help.
Actually, fuck isn’t the right word; hell, I’m not sure what to call it. I was “sleeping” on the couch as the party was winding down, and they were on the pullout sofa next to me. There was still music playing, and a few guests lingered, drinking and smoking into the night, but just as I closed my eyes, I heard him speak.
“Is it okay if I kiss your neck?”
She said yes, and he kept ongoing. Could he unbutton her shirt? Could he touch her breast? Could he bite her gently? And on and on as they slowly moved from kissing to groping to undressing to what sounded like some form of penetration, although I refused to open my eyes.
But while she responded to him in the affirmative each time, his thoughtful and considered consent annoyed me to no end. Maybe it was childish, but for some fucking reason, the way he droned on and on as if he were inspecting a user manual made me want to push him off the balcony when he stepped outside for a cigarette at four in the morning.
That would have been ridiculous, though.
So, instead, I tried to forget about it and let it go and remind myself that they were sweet and everyone should be so lucky to have a partner that asks permission.
And then I saw them again at another party.
She hugged me when they walked in, I shook his hand, and I was finished. Not only did I find myself angry with him, but I also found myself desperately wanting her. And as the night wore on, the combination of the two grew hand in hand until I could barely stand it.
It was two in the morning when I found myself next to her on the couch. He had gone out to smoke a joint with some of our mutual friends, and I could feel her warmth against me as we slowly sipped the last of the beer. She brushed her leg against mine, and when I placed my hand on her thigh, she smiled and pulled a light blanket over our bodies.
“It’s really good to see you again,” I whispered as I moved closer to her. She clenched her thighs playfully around my hand before nodding.
“It’s good to see you too. Thanks for keeping me company while he gets stoned; it’s not my thing.”
“I’d much rather be here,” I said, pressing my fingers into her skin. She bit her bottom lip and sighed before slipping her leg over mine. As I moved my hand higher, she squeezed my arm gently and didn’t let go. When I reached the hem of her shorts, she leaned back, allowing the fabric to loosen. I felt her breath close to my ear as we pretended innocence, and I briefly wondered if there was a reason to stop.
“It is nicer here,” she whispered. “It’s getting chilly out there, and besides, the company here is more fun.”
She traced her fingers down my arm until she reached the hand between her legs. Ever so slowly, she pressed against me until I slipped two fingers beneath the fabric to find her warm and wet. As I brushed her lips, she sighed and closed her eyes, moving her leg over my lap until she could feel me hard and ready.
“The company here is perfect,” I said as we moved closer to one another.
I pulled my hand up and slid it back down along her stomach as she lowered herself on the couch so I could reach all of her. I began to tease her clit in between slipping fingers inside her, and she managed to release my cock from my jeans. When she licked her hand and reached beneath the blanket to slowly jerk me off, I knew it was going to happen.
“Will he be back soon?” I asked, growing more frantic with every touch and every passing second.
“I don’t know. Is the bathroom empty?”
“No, but there is a closet.”
It was far easier for her to stand up without raising suspicion, and I quickly found myself zipping up my pants as I jumped to catch up. As she slipped into the dark closet, the coats soft and welcoming, I gave one last glance out the window and caught a glimpse of his hair.
“I’m going to fuck your girlfriend,” I whispered to myself, all of my anger percolating beneath the surface.
I shut the door and kissed her frantically.
She said nothing as she undid my jeans, and I didn’t ask when I raised her shirt so I could kiss her breasts. I sighed as she wrapped her hand around me, and she laughed as she wiggled her shorts down and put my hand back between her legs. When I slipped to the floor and pushed my mouth against her soft cunt, she gripped my hair and held me there for exactly thirty-five seconds without muttering a fucking word.
And then she pulled me up, took me in hand, and moaned into my ear. I turned her around, pressed her into the dark wall of coats, bent her forward, and pressed against her wet entrance with the head of my cock while she parted her lips with two fingers. She pushed back when we lined up, and then I was inside her, fucking her in the dark away from prying eyes and pesky feelings of guilt or regret.
When kissing over the shoulder became too much, we slid to the floor, her on top of me, as she took me inside her again and pressed her lips against mine. I held her tightly as we fucked, frantically, eagerly, dangerously, and perfectly.
“I’ve wanted to fuck you for so long,” I moaned into her mouth.
“At the last party, I pretended it was you when he was inside me.”
“Fuck,” was all I could manage as we kissed again. I gripped her ass tightly as I thrust up into her, and it was over far too quickly. She arched her back, clenched around me, and I started to come. It was an orgasm born from lust and petty anger, and it filled every inch of me as I filled her.
She bit my lips and bruised my shoulder, and I felt her tighten around me as we pressed our mouths together to keep silent.
As she sat up once more and the hormones left my body in a mad retreat, I felt other emotions begin to creep back in. I slapped them away as best I could, replacing them with one thought only. The only thought that mattered.
“That was fucking hot,” she said, finally standing and pulling on her clothes in the dark.
I nodded as I got dressed, but before I could say anything else, she was out the door. I waited for ten heartbeats before going out into the light.
He was sitting on the couch, his eyes red and his body limp and content.
“Hey, where’s your girlfriend?” I asked as I found a seat next to him.
“She’s in the ladies’ room,” he said ever so slowly.
“Cool,” I said. “She’s awesome, you know. You’re a lucky guy.”
He nodded but didn’t say another word until he pulled her onto his lap a few minutes later. She whispered into his ear; I made an excuse to leave and kissed her on the cheek.
I grabbed my coat, said goodbye to our host, and was out the door and onto the subway five minutes later.
When I got home, I had a single text.
“I can still feel you inside me.”
We fucked a few times again, always in similar situations, and somehow they never broke up. I knew it wasn’t love, and she genuinely seemed happy where she was, but years later, I realized I had never asked her to either. I never begged her to leave, be with me, or make something new and different.
And even now, when I picture her face, I think of him too, and that anger returns mixed in with my remaining lust. And in those moments, as I crawl into bed and make myself come from memory, I know that I can’t separate the two emotions.
I wanted her, and I hated him.
And neither one could survive without the other.