The Sting

We met five months ago. We’ve dabbled in butt play, but I’m still too scared to go anywhere near your asshole. I know your friends, some of the high school ones too, and we’ve made it through a rainy and PMS fueled eight-hour-turned-seventeen-hour road trip (thank you busted heater hose). The fucking is great, fantastic even, but I still can’t tell if it’s the slight downward curve of your dick or the slightly familiar tinge of love that makes me come so much. I guess my vagina doesn’t really care as long as she’s happy and wet and tended to.

You’re lying next me on the airstream trailer’s twin size bed. The Southwestern style comforter mimics the dishtowel that mimics the painting that mimics the pillowcase. The air conditioner buzzes methodically above our feet as I put my 6th — nope — 7th beer of the day on the bedside table — a marathon of drinking at the ranch for my best friend’s birthday. It’s late in the night now, and most people have fallen asleep in the house a few yards away. We start kissing. I sigh, and stop you. We’ve been here before.

My crippling doubt and anxiety of our relationship always seems to bubble to the surface right before we fuck. Not always, but I’ve been mustering up the courage to talk to you about my concerns for a couple of weeks now. Sorry boner, you can wait. I think some of it may stem from my sexual past’s insecurities — u fuck me, but y u no wanna date me? The thing is, though, we are dating, and have been for the past few months. There is no question that I am your girlfriend, but because I get so little from you emotionally, I become frantic. I realize that I don’t know how you feel about me. You are quiet, more reserved than my past lovers, and I don’t know how to navigate your headspace, so I end up guessing and worrying and resenting and stressing.

Historically, I overanalyze. I have my whole life. I find comfort in words and conversations, something tangible that I can grab onto. My fears and concerns tumble out of me like a kindergarten gymnastics class — clumsy as fuck. You patiently listen as I spill that I think I’m falling for you, that I need more from you, and that I’m sorry it took me this long to tell you. I try to keep it together, but the whiskey shot I had earlier makes my eyes leak a little. You let me curl up in your chest nook and give a tiny peak into your psyche. I haven’t been in a relationship for a long time, so sometimes I forget how to do this. I care for you very much. I will try to communicate more. Thank you. You don’t have to spill the beans all at once, but throw your girl a black-eyed pea every now and then. I forget that not everyone is as emotional as me — I cry at gum commercials for fuck’s sake — but still, I won’t ever dismiss my feelings as mere female overreaction.

The tight balloon in my chest quickly deflates. This feels better. Snuggling becomes rubbing becomes kissing again. I fling my black romper off and fumble with your short’s button. Naked now, you heave my body forward. I sit on your face (because you always insist) and my concerns two-step out of the airstream into the hazy hill country night. I bend down, start sucking your cock and remember that I’m a terrible multitasker, but I try anyway. Here comes that tinge of love again, except it’s more of a prick this time. Fuck, it’s like two pricks, one on each butt cheek, followed by immense pain and discomfort. I whirl the upper half of my body around to see what just happened to my ass, and see the king of all wasps buzzing about the crumpled comforter. Great.

It got you, too — twice in the forearm. Mere female overreaction escalates into full-blown sobs. I can’t tell whether it’s the ridiculousness of the situation, recent emotional revelations, or the fact that I still have half a stinger lodged in the inside of my butt cheek, but I start to laugh. You kill the wasp and look for anything around the trailer that could potentially ease the pain of my ailing ass. Without skipping a beat, you grab a cold, unopened Coors Light from the table and gallantly shove it between my crack. True romance.

While not exactly the kind of butt play I was expecting or hoping for, I’m glad it happened. Sometimes it takes a lot for people to open up and become emotionally vulnerable, and we each have our own pace in doing that. Of course, my pace is back down, knees up, cheeks spread, crying while my asshole stares deep into my lover’s eyes, but others need time to wrap their head around feelings and expectations and desires. So, I will verbalize my affection and pose questions, and you will demonstrate and respond with action. And that will have to be enough for now.