Chibimagic's Weblog

Archive for January 2012

Posted on: January 31, 2012

A mania grips me. Casual browsing has brought me to this point. Almost by accident, I came upon a short story in The New Yorker. Typical and melodramatic in its utter femininity, but it was literature. After being mired in the parched desert of work emails and tech blog posts, it was a tall glass of cool refreshment.

This isn’t the first time I’ve forgotten how amazing words can be – The last time, too, after light heartbreak. I want to fill my head with their spun sugar and let it dissolve against my brain. I want to press each individual letterform into my skin, feel their lightness and weight in my bones. My heart aches and screams at the years I’ve spent not reading. What other pleasures have I forgotten? A yawning void of time opens up before me: I want to fill it with words.

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もうすぎおわった?ちょっとみじかい、ね?

ごめん。ちょっとこいがあった。だれでもないのせきにんだ。ぜひあんたのではない。たぶんあたしのだ。さいごわかったでも、いっしょにそんなことした。

これでもちょっとドラマすぎる。そんなかなしくない。あたしのほうはちょっとむずかしいけど、あなたたちのしあわせいっしょけんめいにほしい。ほんとうだ。

さあ、ありがとう。たのしかった。よかった。

Push notifications of a flirty exchange on Path. A quip on Twitter from the awkward man I didn’t unfollow. Unprompted, a message on Facebook that I was in the dreams of a guy 5 boyfriends ago – Last year a photo of his new baby showed up in my News Feed. Trying to meet up with friends, I discover via Find My Friends that another ex is driving on the same highway, 1 mile ahead. Two autocomplete results as I type my URL in Safari: one is a sappy monograph on kissing me from the eager boy that followed me around like an imprinted duckling. An email from the roommate I didn’t date, inquiring about my well being and new car. A phone call on my birthday from a man I haven’t spoken to in 4 years, our last exchange being him threatening to track me down after I have kids, and to take them away from me if I’m “still an evil person.” An online invitation to the San Francisco housewarming of a guy I dated for a month, hosted by him and his new girlfriend. Texts from a friend of a friend I slept with twice, ambiguous enough to be a booty call. IMs and camping plans with my first and his wife.

We’re lying on his couch, spooning, a blanket tossed casually over us. Helvetica is on. It’s been a long day. I drift in and out of sleep, safe in his arms.

I’m poking at his arm hair. I remark on how it’s a completely different color than his chest hair. He says something about his leg hair, and I throw off the covers to inspect. My face is inches away from his leg.

We’re lying in his bed, facing each other. Both his arms are wrapped around me. My face is buried in the crook of his neck as he holds me tight.

I poke at his Adam’s Apple. He asks me if I’m hungry. I lean in to nibble at it, making silly munching sounds and causing him to squirm away, guffawing.

He asks me a question. The world spins in and out of focus. Everything lurches as I lie still. It’s probably because I skipped dinner last night and didn’t eat a proper lunch, but I like to think that it’s him.

It’s my first time. He’s had years of experience. I sit nervously as he describes what’s about to happen. “It’s all about learning the feel. Starting out is the hardest part, you need to take it slowly and gently. Everything after that easy.” He shows me, slowly, describing each motion as he goes. I watch quietly, trying to take it all in. It’s so new and different and foreign to me, but so natural for him. He shows me again. I rest my head on his shoulder as he explains. Finally, he asks, “Think you got it?”

I bite my lip. “Mmrnph,” I mumble.

“Ready to give it a try?” he asks. I nod, and we switch positions.

Clutch. Brake. Emergency brake. Neutral. First gear. I take my foot off the brake and glacially ease my foot off the clutch. Slowly, slowly. Nothing happens. I keep going. An eternity later, or maybe only 5 seconds, my new car lurches into forward motion. I’ve shifted into first gear.

Later, we lie in bed, our limbs tangled, skin touching. It’s late. We’re tired, stuffed with food, and covered in a lingering blanket of cigar smoke. I sniff my hair and his. It’s my hair. There’s no trace of cigar in his hair or rum on his breath. It rolls right off him, leaving him untouched. He grazes the back of my neck with his fingertips, triggering a twinge in my groin. I am overwhelmed, feeling simultaneously vulnerable and protected. I want him to bite me there. Hold me down and do things to me. Teach me skills no one else knows. I want to forget the rest of the world and everything outside my bed.

His chest hair is fuzzy against my cheek. I draw in closer and nuzzle at its softness. His leg hair carresses my bare leg from both sides. His arm rests comfortingly against my back as the edges of his arm hair graze around my spine. He runs his fingers through my hair, making my scalp tingle. The tingle seeps through my neck to the rest of my body, making each individual strand stand up and dance in its follicle. His stubble scratches my forehead and presses incrementally harder against me with every step he takes toward sleep. Every movement is hair on skin. I concentrate on the sensations, willing myself to memorize every indentation he leaves on me.

His scent. I think I smelled him long before we first spoke. He is the third person I’ve been with that smells fucking amazing. It emanates from him in waves when we dance, and I have to fight to keep my hands from exploring every inch of his skin.

He places a protective hand on my head when we sleep. I haven’t slept properly in a week, but I’m wide awake. As comforting as it is to be in his arms, I want to stay up just a little longer to breathe him in. When I turn, he turns with me and envelops me in his arms. We shift, I catch a whiff, and the whole world snaps into over-sharp focus. It’s a moment of existential exultation. Clean and masculine and subtle, it arouses something primal and visceral in me. He radiates it through his clothes and I whimper inside. Millenia of evolution make my body ache to mate with his, to produce progeny with a superior immune system.

The next morning, it lingers in my sheets. My favorite part of someone new: appreciating all the little things you forgot you missed. I’m dizzy drunk delighted at life’s possibilities. And happy.