It doesn’t take me long, you’re speaking soothing words of wonderment, hands wandering my body. Both of us naked in bed. This relationship is only just beginning, full of possibility and excitement. Your hands traverse across my scars, you call them brave and beautiful. You make me roll my eyes with your words, giggle along with me. When I orgasm the shuddering force induces me to convulse for a second or two, enough to make you smile. I start breathing heavy and realise this has tired me out, faster than I could have ever imagined. You smile at me and guide my hand towards you. I swallow when I realise you want something in return. The chronic pain I feel has returned in my lower back, my eyes are dropping from tiredness, but you insist on continuing. I’m too tired to explain how exhausted I am, you only know of my condition from my scars, what you think are markers of the past tense. I start working slowly on you, your penis grows, but I am silent. You ask for dirty talk but I cannot give it to you. My ability to stay awake is slipping away and soon I drift into tepid sleep.
When I wake, I can sense you’re angry and soon you depart – me tired and in tears.
Pubic Hair and OCD
My group of friends sit in a circle, all women, all talking. They are trading stories of how patriarchy keeps them down, feeling tired and shit from the drudgery of their daily lives. One cackles with excitement at her release from torturous beauty standards as she lifts her shirt, displaying the small tuft of hair on her underarm. Another friend explains she restricts herself, she has decided her pubic hair should not be gone, but her underarms are another issue… They expectantly look at you and I, hoping we agree with their sentiments. We nod our heads and go back to our food.
When we are alone, I see you look upset. I ask what is wrong and you explain how you have to continue to shave. You explain that in a desperate attempt to keep this new man you adhere to a strict beauty regime, anything to keep the illusion of normality. You wax lyrical about waxing pubic hair, and how such procedures help with your OCD. Not only do you outwardly you appear to be a functional woman, but internally your distress is calmed. It’s easier to keep in line the annoying habits of external genitalia. You don’t fear menstruation anymore, the dirtiest aspects don’t fill you with dread. The removal of hair makes you feel normal, but I know you wish it didn’t have to be this way.
Take Me From Behind
I’m always tired. That’s the first thing I explain to him. I explain to him everything, my life, my history and my conditions. He is initially supportive. He holds me through my pain, my crying, my moments of dismay.
It’s late evening. After talking about it all day we decide to reach another level of intimacy. It doesn’t take us as long to undress. I never expected us to reach this stage so quickly. I stop us for a second, scramble up to the headboard of the bed. The look on your face is one of concern. You ask if I want to continue, I nod, I ask you to give me a minute. You ask what will make me comfortable, placing pillows under my body, or under the middle of my back? I shake my head and explain it’s not what I want. You ask me what it is, what is wrong? I swallow my pride. I explain that I know it’s the first time we’ve done this together, I want it to be special and you want it to be special, but I want you to take me from behind. The request confuses him, his eyes light up for one second. I can see all the thoughts filtering through your brain – combined experiences, porn and fantasies. I anticipated this reaction. I am not surprised. You sit me down, brush the hair from my face, and tell me it is not going to happen, that you respect me too much. I try explaining to you why I want to do it, how doing so is comfortable for me. When men are on top of me, it hurts, when I’m on top of men, it hurts. You question me about this, you who have been so supportive of all my disorders thus far. I explain to you how I like to lean on the rails, how I don’t have to work myself to exhaustion, how it makes it easier for my joints, and limits the soreness of my body. But you won’t listen. I kick you out, wishing I never had to deal with this again.