I wonder what a woman sees on my face after I go down on her. When I lift myself up on my arms, look into her eyes.
A look of self-satisfaction, maybe. Or a glint of ownership, shining out of heavy-lidded eyes and a smile wide enough to show blunt canines. Maybe the fat, sweaty glow a successful buyer at an auction has, but instead of dollar signs in my eyes, there’s bright red love hearts. Equally valuable, equally immaterial. One of the few places where victory means ownership, the hand-over of something precious.
I win.
I don’t think love is transactional. I think it’s a guaranteed thing - something you receive by virtue of being alive, being yourself. I don’t think I need to be changed to receive love, not in any way that matters. I think it is the easiest thing in the world. Love is not rare and it is in every room. I really do believe that, with the easy optimism of someone that hasn’t been hurt enough. I bring up the glint, the flash, the idea of some silly oratory conquest because I do feel it happen, sometimes. And it’s messy. Like something I could be critiqued for, even if it is all in my head.
I wonder if she can see it.
That’s a very funny, very flattering example of a flaw. It’s like a peace offering to the staunchest of radical feminists, admitting to a Sweet Thing that betrays a possible Deeper Dehumanising - like paying for dinner, or fixing something she didn’t want fixed. Because everyone wants a guy who goes down on you, and pays for dinner, and fixes things you want fixed. But what does he want? Not what does he want - what does he want? Why is he doing these things? What is he taking, winning?
I get messages from strangers, online. It comes in waves. If I’ve written something really romantic, really empathetic - it tends to happen. Most of the time it’s women, but there’s a decent number of men. Praising, fawning, sometimes outright declaring love, in message requests and comment sections. It’s always flattering. It’s always nice. It’s my own fault.
Fault, fault, fault. Means to assert blame, identify a flaw. To identify it. To see it! I’m taking something because I need it!
I wonder if she sees it!
Sometimes they do. Those comments don’t get very many likes. They’re too mean and too jaded, too righteous. There’s an anger that comes with being empathised with, an anger that comes with being wielded, with being attended to. An anger at being unsheathed, and seeing the victory in someone’s eyes. When the affectionate words are a forehead kiss, an unprompted whip, and I’m kicked out from between her legs, between her lines - a refusal of further tongue-lashings.
A mistrust.
They always draw your attention, the contentious comments, the angry messages, the girl that hates you. Maybe I just think the adoration is something to be won. Love is contest, and all competitions have winners and losers, winners and lovers. Gaining everyone’s love is possible, feasible, doable. It’s a worthy enterprise, not pathetic! Not sad!
If the feeling of love had to be gendered, I imagine it would be female. Mother’s love, my first girlfriend, Aphrodite, my favourite librarian, Katara. The fact I feel a lot of it wouldn’t change my answer. But that assessment is as biased as it is untrustworthy. And love is trust, in both prerequisite and result.
I can’t really reconcile men, boys, manhood with trust. And that means I can’t reconcile manhood with love. I don’t say that bitterly – it’s fun, in a melodramatic way. The kind of fun that’s divorced from risk, born of insensitivity. Oh, you enjoy the novelty of being mistrusted? How blessed you are, how manly you are! How dare you! How childish! The correct response. There’s a feeling of wide-eyed idiocy I get sometimes whenever the subject of trust and risk comes up, especially with regards to women. I forget, because empathy atrophies faster than complacency. Yes, a woman’s mistrust is gender-affirming in the same way that shit stinks - both its cause and effect are offensive.
It leans towards self-flagellation. Some people say oral sex is like that - self-harm for someone else’s pleasure. Can I enjoy the confession booth? Can I walk on my knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting?
You’ll say I can.
Then I should.
- azeez
There's unrivaled value in expressing yourself - in expressing the depth of your reflection and the effort that expression requires. It's like a magnet to people who understand the effort expended - and strangely, even more strongly from a certain brand of of reader who has not done that work themselves.
I’m genuinely in awe of your writing, the way you use words is so clever! also I love the mary oliver reference hehe