Sex or the Permanent Detestation of It

I don’t think I could ever be with a man again. Sex isn’t just lying there and spreading your legs and moaning on cue. What I liked about sex with Bakura above all else was the feeling of closeness. I mean sure, there were the days (and it was most days) when I was up for doing it in his car parked by the side of the road in Maitama or in the bathroom at the British Council, or in his pool in the middle of the night, but there were also the days when I needed the intimacy of being that close to him and feeling his weight on top of me and kissing his forehead and his neck and everywhere I could reach.

I don’t think I could do that with someone else. Thinking about it makes me feel physically ill. I don’t want to be touched by anyone else and the idea of it makes my skin crawl. I don’t know if this feeling will ever go away, but right now I can’t deal with men or boys or guys. I just can’t.

All this week, every time a guy complimented me, I’ve wanted to cry. I can’t wait for the weekend. I’ll just curl up in bed with my duvet and watch Avatar until I fall asleep. At least I’m no longer bawling twenty-four seven.




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