my thighs in the process. The ache in my vagina is ridding me of my subtlety. “I haven’t had sex in months. Sitting alone at home waiting for David when he wasn’t waiting for shit.” I drop my head into my hands with a frustrated sigh.
“Damn. That sigh sounded horny too.”
“It was.” True to my lack of tact, I ask, “When was the last time you had sex?”
“The night before Natalie moved here.” He avoids my eyes with embarrassment. Sweet baby. “I should have known she wasn’t happy with me.”
“It wasn’t good?”
“It, um. She didn’t . . .” He doesn’t need to finish his sentence for me to know Natalie didn’t finish either.
“Oh no.”
“I’m better than that. It was mortifying.”
He’s mortified because he couldn’t get her there? That means he always had before. I am too horny for him to put ideas like that in my head. “And you don’t want to erase that by having a better time with someone else?”
“No. I mean, in theory, I do. But I can’t.”
I stroke his back with my fingertips. “You’re not over her.”
“It’s not that I’m still hoping we’ll get back together, it’s . . .”
“What?”
His cheeks gain a rosy tint. “Natalie is the only person I’ve had sex with. Like, intercourse.”
Who says inter— I sit up straight, eyes wide while waiting for him to reveal a joke. He doesn’t. “Wait. You’re serious? No wonder this has been so hard on you.”
“The idea of a next is . . . difficult.”
Being so deeply connected with someone, having the most intimate experiences with them and only them—everything that comes next can be as monumental as the first time. “The first after your first is a big deal.”
He looks at me with a puppy-like expression. “Can I be completely real with you?”
“Always.”
“I’ve never told anyone this, but . . . I’ve never had the urge to have sex with people. Random people. I get aroused, and I enjoy sex, like, alot, but the thought of sleeping with someone doesn’t enter my mind for a long time. I’d be fine not having sex with another person if I never fall in love again.”
I understand what he means, the same way I understand why he said “person” not “woman.” Everything about him starts to make sense. He shakes his head at himself. “Everything with Natalie has made me wonder. If I can’t have sex without feeling connected to someone, did I convince myself that having sex with her meant she loved me?”
Turning his body to face me, he looks for a real answer, not reassurance. He trusts me enough to be open with me. That’s an amazing feeling—being someone’s safe space. ButamI safe for him?
Is not telling him what Natalie said helping him or hurting him? Does fantasizing about being with him mean I’m fantasizing about causing the same damage she did?
“You were together for a long time. People don’t usually stay with someone for years if they don’t love them in some way. But not all love is romantic love,” I tell him. “From what she said to me, shedidlove you, but she wasn’tin lovewith you. Blurring that line is very easy to do if you don’t communicate openly.”
“Like we do?”
That catches me off guard. “I guess so.”
“Natalie and I definitely didn’t do that.” His eyes drop from mine. “In hindsight, I see where I got it twisted. We couldn’t be open about our relationship, or whatever it was, when it started, and I got used to that. But when she . . . We went through a rough time that bonded us together. Maybe our definition of ‘together’ was different.”
“I feel you.” I couldn’t have been more open with David about my commitment to him and what I wanted from our future; meanwhile, he was nodding his head in agreement and lying through his teeth.
“Do you think I should?” he asks.
“Should what?”
