Free Best of Best Women's Erotica by Marcy Sheiner

it down for me, girl,” he whispered—the great melting, the great expansion inside a woman like another mind taking over—and when I started to come he made a face of Oh, no you don’t mixed with I told you so, and just like that he stopped, and pushed himself inside, and then it hit me that I would never feel this beautiful giant hard warm smooth intuitive penis ever again, the way he filled me, the way his hair smelled when it dragged over my mouth, the way he bored his eyes into mine—almost never let me close my eyes. “Hey, you,” he’d say, “don’t you fall away from me.” My fingers to his chest, the white scar.
    Afterward, his full weight on me, his sweaty collarbone against my nose, he spoke my name three times, and murmured disbelief at how good it could be, about the greatness of my “pussy,” as was his preferred nomenclature (I’m a “cunt” girl, myself), and I thought about how this would never happen again, which was fine, but I’d become accustomed to thrice-daily scenes like this on Sundays and Wednesdays (as our schedules worked out) and it seemed a pity, it seemed unfair, it seemed a loss not only to ourselves but to the United States of America that this should stop.
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    I’d met Trevor during a weird chapter in my life when I went almost three years without sex. When I was twenty-seven, I decided to wait. I wanted Eros, not noncommittal fixer-uppers
insulting me with lines like, “I tried to call you….” (How do you try to call? You aim for the keypad and miss? You can’t, in this telecommunicative country, find a fucking phone?) No more wasting time on boring guys who kissed nicely, or interesting men with whom sex was a hopeless fumble. No more flings that ultimately left me feeling more alienated from my body than the emptiness of unwanted celibacy.
    When I dropped to some friends that I was waiting for someone real, they looked at me like I was crazy—worse, like I was naïve. Before I knew it I was waist-deep in rants on sexual politics, on the “myth of gender difference,” on sexual openness—as if casual sex were a sign of maturity, on all kinds of topics that I didn’t think belonged on the menu. Meanwhile I was left to defend what I thought was a time-honored notion: that sex is related to, like, super-special intimate feelings. “Of course,” Cate agreed, “but there’s nothing wrong with a little sport-fucking. It’s how I met my husband.”
    â€œGreat. But I can’t do that anymore. I’m different. ”
    â€œWhat do you mean you can’t do that? What’s to do? Just go have fun!”
    But random sex was the opposite of fun for me. Why have sex with someone only once if it’s so fun?
    â€œI’m different than you,” I repeated, emphasizing the word different to try and trip her P.C. valve. San Francisco is all about tolerating difference—unless of course your difference is that you want something vaguely normal. Then it’s a tough town. I told Cate about a man I made out with on a second date but didn’t sleep with. “Why not?” she asked in a tone bordering on reprimand. “Because I wasn’t ready to,” I said.
    â€œHuh. If I’m ready to kiss a guy, I’m ready to sleep with him. You’re not sixteen.”

    Truth was, I enjoyed not sleeping with Jeremy, my last boyfriend. It prolonged the good ache.
    It can be a drag living in a place where your private life is so relentlessly politicized. We’re full of revolutionaries fighting to smash the repressive normalcy of missionary sex—which is fine, until the fight becomes an alternative repression, until “normal” becomes the straw man people flagellate to prove how open-minded they are. Read the Bay Guardian sex polls: I bet far fewer people are masturbating their pets and having ménages à trois in the office