Peter made love to me last night.
I guess I probably shouldn't say that publically. I'm probably going to get like, ten people emailing me to say, "stupid cunt; what're you still sleeping with him for?" Peter himself will probably be a little pissed because he's a "private person," as he says every 20 minutes. And then there are the people who will just give me That Look. You know who you are. And you know That Look. It travels through cyberspace, you know. I can feel it already.
But whatever. It's MY life, and I'm painfully sick of justifying and explaining when half the time I don't KNOW why I do what I do, or why I LIKE the things I like, or want what I want... I don't know. If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.
That said...
Peter made love to me last night. In my kitchen. Up against one of my bright yellow walls. We'd been cooking dinner and teasing each other, which probably wasn't the safest thing in the world, not to mention that hot grease on semi-bare skin doesn't do much for one's sex appeal. I'd been standing behind him and running my hands all over him, and he'd been making steak with one hand and feeling me up with the other, and as soon as dinner was ready, we made love right there in the kitchen.
And when it was over, we caught our breath and kind of looked at each other in astonishment. "My teeth are kind of tingling," I said.
Sex constantly amazes me. There is absolutely nothing else like it; there are a thousand comparisons, but none that come close to describing the intensity of good sex.
I have heard the expression (either from Peter or my mom) that sex is like pizza -- even when it's bad, it's good. Or maybe pizza is like sex. Whatever. I don't think I really like that expression. It's stupid! Did you ever have a spiritual experience with a pizza? (And if you've ever seen the Virgin Mary in your pizza, don't answer that; you're probably insane and shouldn't be getting any further ideas from my journal anyway.) Oh, I'm not sure last night quite qualified as a spiritual experience; it was more of a must-be-fucked-now, mad, passionate, can't-wait-5-seconds-to-walk-to-the-bedroom, push-me-up-against-a-wall-and-hurt-me, desperate, somewhat-psychotic, I'm-melting-I'm-melting-my-beautiful-wickedness, stick-it-in-goddammit encounter. Anyway, pizza has never impressed me QUITE that much, spiritual experience or not. Not even pepperoni pizza. Not even homemade pepperoni and mushroom pizza.
So Peter cleaned up, and I collapsed in a chair with a carton of juice. He found me leaning against the wall, sprawled all over the chair, drinking out of the carton, and he laughed. I think we both blushed a little.
We ate dinner nude. We toasted with sparkling cider to my mom's wedding night. And to meat. It was a joke.
And then, we watched a little TV -- some David Spade stand-up thing on a fuzzy network station that Peter managed to pick up even after I'd given up hope of ever having more than one station ever again.
And then we went to sleep. I barely remember going to bed. I barely remember anything until Peter sat bolt upright in bed and yelled, "what was THAT? What HAPPENED? DON'T!" I guess it was a nightmare. Still mostly asleep, and conscious of nothing but Peter yelling in his sleep,and my still-happily-sore insides, I told him to lie back down and go to sleep, because nothing had happened and he was safe. So he laid back down and shut up. And then I told him to hold me, which he did. And I was struck then, as I was 90% asleep, by the tenderness I feel for Peter. I am not, by nature, a tender person, at least not outwardly. I am sort of harsh; I curse and I walk like I've got someplace to go and no intention of talking to anybody. I'm either playing the elitist bitch; or the lonely, solitary martyr, both of which sort of suit me. I don't touch people, and I don't say "I love you." Sometimes I'm way too good for everybody, and other times I'm convinced that nobody in the world wants anything to do with me anyway, so it doesn't matter. Tenderness comes rarely, but in abundance, and I was startled.
I kissed his hand and let him hold me. I petted his arm. And I sort of woke up a little; just enough to wonder whether tenderness is enough. I don't suppose Peter and I really belong together. Sometimes I don't suppose we should have anything to do with each other, much less be friends, and even less than that, lovers. I love him. He is one of very, very, VERY few people I've ever felt a desire to hold; it's really not a feeling you can fake. Anybody can fuck. Hell, just about anybody could fuck me in my kitchen. But not everybody's somebody I want to wake up entwined with.
I lay there thinking, half-asleep, that I don't suppose I belong with Peter; probably not even in the same town as Peter... And probably soon, probably within a year or two, one or both of us will disappear from Binghamton, at least for awhile. But for the moment, for that moment, with my friend and lover holding me after a good lay and a good dinner, I didn't bother thinking about disappearances and who belongs where. All I felt was warmth. And tenderness.
In the morning, we woke in each other's arms. And we got up and went our separate ways. I can still feel him touching me. I'm never going to walk through my kitchen the same way again. Now, there's more doubt, more wondering, more thoughts to get in the way; I'm not sure about my relationship with Peter, whatever it may be. It's easier not to think about it when you're snuggled up against somebody...
I have to get going. I'm sorry if I pissed you off, and I may be sorry I posted this at all. But thank you for listening.
Love,
~H.T.*
"What do you want, Carebear?"
"Meat."
"What kind?"
"Yours."
--Peter and I, cooking...