Thursday, February 24, 2011


I am not on the pill.

I used to be. My periods came like clockwork every three weeks, only on weekdays, and for five days at a time. My mood was even. My libido wasn't dormant, but sex was a thing that I did to scratch other people's itches. I learned to take pleasure and find pride in other people's enjoyment of my body. This lasted eight years, and then I switched to a copper IUD.

Now I live inside my flesh. My body changes with my cycles: the skin on my stomach is tighter and looser; my breasts sometimes fuller and sometimes more supple. There was a space between my self and my surface that is now occupied by a humming desire whose frequency oscillates in a sine wave between noticeable and insatiable. When I ovulate my wave is at its peak; my angle is pi divided by my two legs.

At this peak, even walking is thrilling. My hips are dancing while the rest of me meanders. I have figured out how to control my bouncing breasts: at my peak I pop them with every step and my nipples assert themselves through my shirt. A breeze, a flutter of my scarf, the tickle of a hem, and the rub of my jeans across my thighs all feel faintly of a caress. My eyes flash at men and women, and I am almost concerned, but mostly excited, that they can smell that I am half-aroused by staring while walking.

I have a lover, though he is not always available when I need him to be. At my peak, my pussy is always slightly wet and reddened, and waiting for my lover is an impossible chore. I shower before he comes to see me, and I shave every hair from my legs and vulva and knead lotion into my newly smooth skin. I put on my robe and sit on my bed and as I wait for him my hands squeeze the insides of my thighs and creep up to my labia. My physiology is heightened and my response is quick: I am slick to my own touch as my clitoris hardens under my fingers.

I consider waiting. I decide against it. I open my robe and open my body.

My right middle finger massages my clitoris as my left hand cups the whole of my smooth sex. It heats my hand and I slip two fingers inside as my hips thrust up to consume them. I find the rough patch behind my pubis and stroke it in time with my right hand's action. My breathing is labored and my thighs flex against my hips. I pant, hold my breath, and finally moan and arch. I am calm for a moment and I pull my hand out of my body. I smell of sweat and want.

It is at this moment that my lover opens my bedroom door. He does not turn away from my disheveled state, but instead kisses my lips, licks my fingers and opens my robe further as he presses his body into mine.

1 comment:

  1. Margot,

    You have a way of sticking with me. I read this back in March and thought, again you make me wish I were a girl. Being male seems dull and unvarying in comparison. No ebb and flow of desire, or self-awareness, or anything else. My only consolation is being attuned to, and appreciating, River’s cycle. It’s quite a thing to share with her.