Inside the mind of a kind of quirky, pretty stubborn, way too opinionated, twenty-something, heteroflexible Black female newly employed up-and-moved-to-DC Princeton GRADUATE who's just trying to sort out her life. An uninhibited celebration of all that is me, this blog is an exercise in self-discovery and live-with-your-heart-wide-open-ness. Though I make respect a habit, I will not always be politically correct, and I believe in the power of making audiences uncomfortable to inspire change.
I’m totally and completely full of shit. I try to play the jaded sex-is-just-sex card, which is pretty funny for a virgin with first-time standards, but inside I’m probably one of those people for whom even a kiss will never be just a kiss.
In absolutely no way was I expecting that night to end up like that. But I guess that’s why they say Life is what happens when you’re busy making your excuses.
As he was leaning in, it was kind of like watching a movie of my life happening in front of me, but I was only passive for the first 30 seconds or so.
I opened my eyes once while we were kissing and saw that his eyes were closed too. I wondered who he was pretending I was, then if that meant I was imagining he was someone else.
I wanted to tell him that it was okay to be rough, but I instantly wondered what that would make him think of me, and remained silent. Then I got angry at myself for falling into gender roles, and actively worked to take more sexual control over our situation after that.
What the inside of his mouth tastes like, what the muscles on his stomach feel like, and that he snores.
When I woke him up to say goodnight, I almost called him baby.
I used to have a pretty big crush on him last summer/at the beginning of the year. But then I woke up and realized that it didn’t have an ice cube’s chance in hell of actually working, and moved on. He hadn’t even been on my romantic radar anymore. …Now I’m wondering if someone ever really leaves your romantic radar.
Since this happened, I a) have not gone one whole day without thinking about him, and b) still cannot figure out if it was just a hookup or something more, or which I really want it to be.
I am torn between feeling like I need to talk to him about it and feeling like the social rules of Princeton dictate that these things just happen and are not talked about. I feel like that can’t be healthy.
I’m scared of how he feels. I’m scared of how I feel, and of how I’ll feel in relation to how he feels. I’m scared I’ll never find out how he feels. I’m scared of whether we could have a future, and also of the idea that twenty years from now I’ll look back and wonder what we could have been.
I hope he doesn’t think I do this kind of thing often. I almost want to tell him that it had been slightly more than 22 months since the last time I’d kissed a boy.
Waking up with his arm around me was one of the most incredible things I’ve ever experienced, and if his roommates hadn’t been sleeping in their respective bedrooms, I would have closed my eyes and gone back to sleep, feeling utterly safe and protected. Here in this big city where I’m utterly alone, and even lonelier than usual, I’d give anything to feel that again.
