Practice breathing for pleasure
Their anatomy will only ever be an accessory to your breath
No one can rush you anymore
Everything you have learned since crawling, walking, standing, you have learned relative to the other adults around you but now you are an adult and you can dictate your own body’s strengths
Don’t them rush you
Intimacy is not about Them
Incredibly horny, for lack of birthday sex, I am lying in bed.
Eddie, a dark haired 31-year-old with moody photographs messages me, “sweaty intimacy is good intimacy.”
He is referencing my bio where I state that I am “Into: laughing, dogs, alcohol, bad movies and sweaty exercises in human intimacy. I can cook.”
I tell him, “yeah it’s the best”
In the single week that I have been 30, I have become addicted to slowing everything down.
Slow. Slow slow as if we never knew what time was or as if freezing cold harshness took over our impulses and all we can, all we have ever known to do is stop Stop all things, slow slow slow as if we learn from every instance and we lack in the ability to think beyond momentum.
“Do you have a favourite intimate moment?”
That’s what he asks me.
The tremendously awkward, gentle and simplistic, vulnerable question: “Do you have a favourite intimate moment,” reveals that he is not from our city, a city that can’t think in Moments anymore, a city that swallows Moments, takes too many Moments at a time, doesn’t articulate one Moment from the next.
It is clear, it is so clear, so slowly and stunningly clear that he doesn’t even speak English properly because if he did he would know that a “Moment” isn’t practiced. I may have had a favourite intimate moment. There may be a favourite intimate moment looming from my past, looking back at me and suggesting that I may never have a better intimate moment or better intimate moments but to suggest that I am constantly and consciously conjuring a favourite intimate moment, one for the future, saving it as if it were a favourite intimate position or exercise or even a style, as though moments are those things that we design and wait for as opposed to those things that we are confronted by against our will, he asks, “Do you have a favourite intimate moment?”
I stare at the question with a slow uneasiness and with a slow terror and with a slow acknowledgement of his foreign behaviour, foreign because it isn’t the men I have known, the men who disregard my moments, who disregard my time entirely, who really can’t help but distance intimacy from momentum, I slowly note the decency of his suggestion, that I am in control of what will happen because I make moments, moments I desire.
“I like when someone is here,” I tell him.
I don’t want to be specific too quickly.
I want to be specific only ultimately.
“In my home.”
“In your bed?”
I take until the next day and I tell him, “I am in the kitchen.”
I am naked, wearing a towel, dripping from the shower and sitting on the floor, with my dog, watching a trapeze couple on America’s Got Talent prove themselves.
“Two Truths and a Lie?” He asks me, the message should be blinking because it has the energy of a drunk 11-year- old who might never remember the evening, who knows that he will never remember the evening and so he soaks in the cute little nervous waste of his childhood and asks ridiculous questions of the people around him.
I like it. I take an hour to write three distinct messages:
“I write musicals.
I almost failed tenth grade.
I have a stalker.”
He takes a minute.
“You did fine in tenth grade.”
He’s wrong. I was a little shit in tenth grade.
Honestly, though, all of my suggestions are, at least partly, lies. I am a terrible liar but I am also terrible at telling the truth and so this game doesn’t even suit me and this guy is already all wrong for my life because I do not have enough lies or truths to even play this game. I have never succeeded at the arithmetic necessary for human companionship. I do not have the required honesty or falsity. I am just a writer and I like collecting sentences into suggestions sometimes.
Or, is it possible, that this game just isn’t slow enough for me?
It takes me years to indulge companions with real truths and real lies. This game is just too quick for me.
“I don’t have a stalker,” I confess to him.
And then he comes with immediacy: “Are you sure?”
“I am standing in the kitchen.”
Eddie loves a dirty kitchen.
“Is there food everywhere?” He asks.
I take ten minutes.
“I’ve floured the counters.”
“Are you sweating in the flour?”
“Sweaty flour on your buttocks.”
If we were to count the intimate moments in this conversation so far, and there have been many, I would say that this one is my favourite so far: The one where Eddie decides that we’re naked.
I love the moment the buttocks appears and all regard for clothing is gone and the people become maniacs and the maniacs are all of a sudden sweaty and covered in flour.
“All I am doing is hands on your buttocks. And your breathing and your body, I like in the flour.” His English breaks and it will keep breaking, faster and faster.
“I want to be on the counter with you,” I tell him, this time with no time at all, this time in the moment with him, this is the intimate moment and when a moment becomes intimate only speed can retain the heat of the intimacy: Quick to the counter, quick to the cunt, quick quick before we remember that flour becomes glue when it’s wet and wet flour in a vagina is probably absolutely infectious but still: Still. In the flour. We forget momentarily.
“I breathe your collarbone.” He types.
How does he know that I love collarbones?
“I breathe your collarbone and your neck sweats and I put lips to sweat.”
His English is cranky. It’s not working. It’s disastrous. It’s cheap. It’s having sex with me.
I am having sex with his broken English and I am so relieved because suddenly I am just a body being taken by the lips of a sweaty cheap English speaking invisible man in a moment of complete disregard for reality or even a complete disregard for charm.
This man is a dream.
Why aren’t I dreaming in perfect English?
Because it takes too much fucking time.
“Alright go ahead and lie to me,” I want him to lie to me. I want to see if he can lie to me. Can it be done? When he doesn’t even know me? Can he tell a perfect lie?
“Your game. Two truths and a lie.”
Twenty minutes go by and I receive the elongated message: “I once had sex in a bathroom with a couple and the guy just watched his girlfriend and I fuck and it was weird. I recently ate out the ass of a Tinder date. I haven’t come in two weeks.”
I feel an uncomfortable disgust. It could have been an intimate moment. But, in this quick case of Him and His Moments, intimacy is a lie.
“You come all the time. The third one is a lie.”
My dog rolls on his side. I abandon the phone. I rub the stomach of a friend I will never forget to love.
I’m using a vibrator but I’m holding everything in.
After many years of practising yoga, I recently learned how to hold everything in, gathering the torso for strength, gathering in the ribs, tucking in the stomach, containing the lungs, the heart, the centre of the human.
I have learned to be inside and it feels strong, intense, beautiful. I feel beautiful. I feel goddess-like, almost, because my rib cage is contained, my heart is contained, my desires are gathered and all I have to do is walk down the street.
I am using a vibrator but I am containing the ending as Mexican Eddie fucks me on a flour-covered counter in my kitchen through the use of broken English on a gross and usually unforgivable app.
At times we aren’t even describing the same gesture. At times, he’s typing about his head between my thighs and I’m writing about straddling him while I reach for his toes. Our language isn’t always in sync but our moments are forgiven because they keep up with one another, our moments are the best intimate moments because they are agreeing with each other, staining each other, wet and glued together and probably unhygienic but who gives a fuck, Eddie’s dick becomes vivid to me, without him mentioning it or sending me a picture or asking me to do anything to it, with only the description of our bodies and our spines and our heart beats and our favourite ways to be intimate, I can sense his entire cock and then: I let everything out.
I tell Eddie, “It’s over, we’re just puddles. I finished.”
It may have been his English or it may have been his erection but Eddie keeps going, “I eat your sweaty pulse.”
“Ok,” I say, completely exhausted and not really able to form the same intensity of fantasy that we just had, in the kitchen, on the counter, covered in flour. “I think we go to bed now.” I tell him, wondering if he’ll hear the ending.
“Do you want to keep going or are you tired now?”
“I think I have to go to bed.”
“Ok, thank you for the fantasy.”
“I’d like maybe to try in person.”
I don’t know if he means with me or just, in general, that he would like to fuck someone in a kitchen, covered in flour.
I tell him,
“Yeah maybe one day.”
“haha perhaps perhaps”
“Where are you from?”
“Ah, awesome. Ok. I knew it. Toronto guys are insecure about fantasy, or just shitty at it, anyways. Goodnight.”
Two days later, I haven’t said a thing and he asks how I am doing.
Three days later I still am a slow suggestion of devastation for him because I haven’t responded. I do not know if I want to respond.
My body feels good.
I was waiting for someone to fuck me. I was waiting for the last guy who came and went to come back and fuck me. I was waiting to feel fulfilled by someone else again. That’s what I was lying in bed waiting for: Intimacy.
Forget everything you know about intimacy. Forget the suggestion that someone else needs to be here, that another body needs to contribute to the intimate moments that make up every little bit of our own time with our own bodies. Touch a part of yourself right now, engage with a small piece of yourself right now and believe, can you just believe for the moment that this is an intimacy.
He asks “so is our speaking done now?”
I never respond.