In the beginning, I decided, more than anything, I wanted to sit on his face. My Oatcake. Oatmeal, like I called him. I received a lot of pleasure in doing so.
It didn't matter how grotesquely vulgar it sounded because no one would ever know this was what I thought about him.
My friends pretended he didn't exist, that he wasn't pretty and quiet, and I decided this was what I would think, too. Pretty men like him were only meant to pass through in your life.
I sometimes wondered what the skin beneath his Springbok shirt looked like.
I couldn't decide what aroused me more: the desire of wanting to know or the satisfaction of finding out. I needed to understand what it was about him that I wanted so badly.
He was quiet. I hated and loved this about him. It was endearing, but, also, frustrating and made me want to throw something.
This meant he would never be the kind of man to initiate. I would never receive unsolicited nude pictures from him. He always said good morning like the good boy he was, even though I never said it back. He had been the first to tell me that he liked my hairstyle when I hated wearing my natural hair down.
I was desperate enough to consider begging because I couldn't remember what it felt like to be kissed anymore. It had been so long.
I was frustrated, touch starved. I think about herself when I was still a virgin, that I didn't know what it meant to be touched and, therefore, never understood what it was I was missing out on by not having any sex.
Men aren't shit; women said all the time. But I couldn't decide whether my celibacy was the solution to the issue anymore. That this was all so stupid: men should do better, be gentler lovers. It wasn't my responsibility as a woman to fix them.
Men, more often than not, weren't worth my time but, along with my dissipating resolve, I found it difficult to resist the worst of them when I felt like this.
I could never bring myself to do it, but I would allow myself to indulge in the idea. However, as much as it satisfied me to think about it, it disgusted me, too.
I felt that if only Oatmeal was devoted to me, I wouldn't fantasize about sleeping with strangers. I was ravenous for him and wanted only for him to reciprocate my desire to be with him.
For the first time, the man I wanted wasn't interested in me. The men who wanted to be with me were all perverts who only wanted to talk about sex and, probably, finger me while we watched Netflix shows. He wasn't like any of them. I almost wished he was.
I salivated over the choreographed sex scenes in Saltburn when my friends took me to the cinema in town to see it for my birthday. I thought then: Look. Look at what you have done to me. I am like a thirsty dog who can't tell the difference between drain water and tap water.
My celibacy now all felt embarrassing to me, farthest away from an achievement. When now all I wanted was for him to put his hand beneath my skirt and finger me until I was sopping wet, put his mouth on my clitoris. I wanted him to kiss me. Desperately. In this moment, I was frothing with sexual starvation. That even just him looking at me felt too much at the time.
I'm reminded of the first time I was kissed: Her kneading my thigh through my flannel pajama pants. Me holding myself back from putting my mouth on hers. I said yes when she asked me if she could kiss me. I had only kissed her out of curiosity. Now I understand how she felt. Then I had known something would happen between the two of us. This time, I knew nothing would happen between Oatmeal and me. He wasn't that sort of person.
I had this overwhelming desire of wanting him closer to me and, at the same time, far away from me because I couldn't stand having him around me when I felt this desperate for him. I had meant for it all to be nonchalant, in the same manner, you can admire something pretty but not want it for yourself. But I had already made the mistake of worshipping him.
He confused me with the staring.
He would turn away from me. I wanted fight him, and I wanted it to be aggressive and meaningless. That I wanted to push him around and grab at him, even if it was only because I wanted to touch him and have him push me up against the wall and restrain me and say something like, "Calm down, Dammit!"
I wanted him to tell me that he was willing to listen to what I had to say if I would give him the opportunity. That I wanted him to kiss me then, get off on it. Come in his Levi jeans.
He made me weak. I needed him to be at least ten times my size, and he was. Baggy Springbok t-shirt and Levi jeans. Nike Airs. Silver chain. Silver bracelet. Dark curls, that I often thought of as gorgeous.
I thought about riding him while he wore his Springbok t-shirt, his face in my neck, my hands in his dark curls. The bedroom lights low and catching off of the tangled silver chain around his throat. Blood Orange playing quietly on his vintage Pakeiro turntable. One of our favourite musicians. The sound of wet, desperate people making love.
I'm all over him, scratching and biting, his hand on my waist, on my bottom. My hands underneath his Springbok shirt, his fingers on my clitoris.
That he will try not to be too loud, the bed making the sound of us, the headboard touching the wall. I wonder whether I'll ejaculate over him. Whether I would have the confidence to do so. I had worshipped him for so long and didn't want to embarrass him. I understood how simple I was for thinking that.
I wanted the sex to be hot and wet, like the feeling of my finger when I pushed it inside of myself. My most desperate moments were when I knew where to caress to make myself orgasm.
That he would scream-moan, lose all of his resolve and I'd think: Now you know how I feel when I am around you. This is how you make me feel. You bastard.
He turned our bodies, put me on my back and ground into me until I came on him, in the same way, I so often did on my finger when I was alone in my room. Thinking about him.
Until he comes, hair all over, dull nails digging crescent moons into the hollow of my hips. That he would collapse into me, our satiated bodies trembling into each other, not knowing how to return to controlling ourselves.
His pretty mouth going down on me, lips caressing my clitoris. Fingers in his dark curls, hollowed hips arching off the damp mattress and grinding into his kiss. My shivering leg over his massive shoulder.