East Oakland, Part ii

A Musing On Her Desire for Intimacy.

It begins again.

I lay in his arms,

my room lit by soft vanilla candlelight.

Watching the flickering of light against the walls ,

shadows of my tiny San Francisco studio apartment;

I foggily reminisced

the four hours

prior to this very moment.

The puckering

of my anus felt like pins and needles

with each involuntary squeeze,

and there was wet lubrication

smeared onto the backside of my thighs.

My neck was still warm,

and my weave now felt dry and lifeless from the sweat,

and the yanks

and gropes

throughout the night.

Yet, and still,

this felt like

intimacy.

I could feel his tense warm arm wrapped across my rib cage, and his surprisingly soft fingertips gently gripping the underside of my waist.

His warm bated breath through his nostrils hummed against the lowest part of my neck-

steady and vibrating breaths

almost like a metronome

at the second interval collapse

of his lungs.

His clear and soft inhales perked my watchful ears.

I gently readjusted my leg from his knee grip so as not to disturb him- the heel of my foot grazing his shin slightly.

With the creak of the futon mattress, I anchored myself out of his grip and out of bed cautiously.

The bed creaked louder with him turning in his sleep,

as he scratched his groin through his red basketball shorts and

released an audible decrescendo yawn.

“Come back to bed”, he grumbled, as he scratched again and lay his head deeper into my pillows.

I stared at this scene with an observational intensity like that of a landscape painter.

I stood quietly in the doorway of my bathroom- looking back into the studio.

It was a bit awkward in a way- it’d been so long since I’d had a man stay the entire night that I didn’t really know how to sleep with a guest.

I suppose I have always been this way, with my hyper vigilant nature impeding my sleep so as to always be the sleeping beauty.

As I stood there, I inhaled his presence in my life and savoring this very moment.

This moment was so rare- I had to lock it away

in my treasure chest of memories

forever.

Here he was,

asleep in my bed- his Adonis - like body almost glistening in the candlelight.

The smell of his fresh fade and line up reminded of

Kleenex and alcohol,

and blue magic hair grease.

His natural scent was that of baby oil and kush- with a tinge of old spice.

He lay there waiting with anticipation for my return back into his arms.

My ego proudly assumed it was the comfort of my nearly expired, all day Chanel scent that would fill his nostrils and calm him back into a deep sleep.

I glanced out of my studio apartment window towards the lights of City Hall and Civic Center,

and the city skyline,

prayed this moment would never end.

I prayed that I would have the comfort of my back cradled into his chest and that I would feel both liberated,

somewhat vulnerable, and trapped in his love;

and in this love affair.

I prayed that there would be many more nights where I would tip toe to the bathroom only to hear a half growl and grunting demand for my return to his protective arms;

that he would whisper my “Aria” into my ear

as we lay in the harmonies of breaths

until we reached rem sleep.

I prayed that these moments would linger

because none of the previous moments ever lingered long enough.

They escaped me.

Evaporating expediently

the moment I grew too expectant of this new normal-

or was it the promise of forever?

I prayed that this moment would last even after

the fervent vibration and backlight of a cell phone at 2:15am,

held captive in tangled sheets.

I groaned in prayer that the desperate phone calls and “where are you” text messages from a possible girlfriend or wife wouldn’t interrupt or disturb our current embrace- eliminating that awkward feeling when someone holds you and ambushes the embrace; abruptly pulling away.

I prayed that the self-inflicted reminder of my number on his priority list wouldn’t surface to the forefront of my mind.

I prayed that the next moment didn’t have to involve condom wrappers scattered across my living room floor or lube stains on my satin sheets.

I prayed that the cigar fillings of the blunt wraps would make it to the real trash can and not my reusable grocery bags next time,

and that the numerous empty bottles of Patron and pineapple juice cans scattered across the counter

would be optional accouterments, next time.

I prayed that my sexual obedience

and lack of inhibitions

didn’t have to be an obligatory contractual agreement for the exchange of this very moment.

That even if disappointed,

he would still lovingly hug me when I would say, “No babes, not tonight”, without waning interest.

I prayed that the hum of his breath would continue to vibrate within the hollows of my room and

sound like a gently strung bass- harmonizing with the jazzscapes in my mind with the

murmurs of the city

whooshing through the cracks of my window pane.

I prayed that his presence would be more frequent than times past,

or maybe permanent,

because I was unquestionably obedient and provided penetration exclusivity to him and only him;

that that would be the ink equivalent signature to ensuring that he embrace me- whilst my longest pillow is nestled in between his legs and knees against my thighs.

I’ll always remember his breath against my neck.

It was warm like melted wax burners

or warm cider

in the kind of cold where your breath turns to fog.

I’ll remember

because just like that,

in a blink of an eye and

a second too soon,

it all went away.

All I’m left with is the memory of that landscape and echoing of prayers;

the phantom jolt of his instant release of my frame

as the sound of a vibrating cellphone filled my ears.

The piercing sting of that cell phone backlight pierces my half open eyes.

The sound

of a belt jostling across the floor

paired with the crack of air when jeans are shaken out.

I hear the rippling of the t-shirt

cascading across stern shoulders and

arms thrusting through the armholes

with the sound like the backfire of an old car.

Seconds later,

the sound of hustled steps across the room

towards my side of the bed.

The familiar faint scent of Sauvage by Dior and kush and baby oil immediately enter my nostrils

and the sharp chill of a silver neck chain awkwardly glides across my chin as he places a

hesitant

parting kiss on my cheekbone.

The room becomes flooded with murmurs and movement,

as he mumbles, “A’ight then babe, I’ll hit you up”

and “yo, don’t change your number on me”.

The startling sound of my deadbolt door creaking open

and then being forcefully slammed closed,

reminds me to open my eyes.

Silence.

Deafening silence.

The kind that eerily exacerbates loneliness and heartbreak.

As I lay in bed alone,

my bed suddenly cold and awkwardly indented with the impression of another soul,

my breathe hazy with audible gulping breaths,

my throat begins to tense- closing in on itself.

I held myself to sleep,

crying, forcefully hushed sobs

as my eyes surveyed the new reality of

alone.

I have repeatedly memorized this landscape whilst having relived this entire scenario

over

and

over

and over

and over

and over and over and over and over

and over again.

In the many remakes of this moment of my life,

there’s always a different leading male cast mate.

As I kiss him whilst being thrust against the back side of the front door, and brown fingertips quickly unbutton my black lace lingerie uniform-

my previous prayers

echo

in the forefront of my mind.

As I usher him in a choreographed descent into the bed,

I have a moment where I’m slightly paralyzed;

gazing into their eyes

in between playful kisses.

The intruding thought comes again, a familiar friend.

always my hope and prayers again and again, that the better portions of this moment- the possibility of forever, the unfulfilled need for intimacy and vulnerability and eroticism,

will be ever mine

for eternity.

Somewhere in my mind,

I know that the ancestors in heaven

have cursed me

to remain in this loop of

yearning.

The price I pay,

for authenticity.

Exceptionalism is a cruel drug to the fool in search of gold.

“Stay with me”, I whisper,

as I hastily undo his belt buckle.

He pins me

deeper into the mattress.

It begins again.

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Writer’s Note:

This piece, originally published to my very ancient blog, Trans Sex In The City, was lovingly edited and republished by noted writer/editor Tobi Hill-Meyer for Nerve Endings: Trans Erotica Anthology.

It garnered numerous accolades, including nomination for Lamba Literary Awards in 2018.

I wrote this piece when I was 22, and it still haunts me to this day.

Ever so often I shudder, that I released this piece out into the world.

My most vulnerable moments.

I’m surprised I felt emboldened enough to allow it to be published, but I wanted women to know that despite whatever vantage point we see each other- we all are navigating the deep desire to be seen, for us, as we are.

This isn’t a normal musing for this platform- as I dedicate most of my musings to ambient musings on fashion, luxury, life and home. But for some strange reason, I’ve been browsing the archives of my work and felt it should be reshared once again.

While this was written at 3am many many years ago, I imagine the experience is just the same. A cycle of lovers.

This was my own personal version of hell.

The promise and possibility of love and intimacy, within grasp, yet it becomes fleeting, like smoke, vanishing eventually in thin air

only to come back,

and it’s the same scenario, yet a different male interest,

all over again.

Until next time.

ARIA.

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