I prefer complicated positions in cramped spaces for sex. Sudden attempts at eye contact make face-to-face fucks uncomfortable given the fleetingness of efforts connecting feelings to specific nerve endings. Which synapse gets fired. I don’t wonder what he’s thinking unless he shoves his eyes into mine, intrusive as a couples selfies. A man’s gaze is rarely more gentle than his member. He wants something substantial with those fries.
Would I prefer a rear-facing position every time? Generalization is insufficient. A formula comforts, but comfort is the petri dish of boredom. The quantity of comfortable bored folks is clinical. Statistics reveal clusters of comfort coincide with stadiumfuls of unhappy, screaming Americans. The price of comfort is watching a game we’re too comfortable to play. Ask me a better question. Ask me why spooning sucks given my aversion to eye contact. I’ll tell you there’s nothing as exhilarating as staring long, hard, and deep into his eyes after the thrashing about ceases. I can almost count micrograms of blood rushing back into his biceps and legs, the blood leaving his face, the tender prom-portrait flush, the things he would say if he weren’t such a verbally-diminished creature. Ask me why he gets nervous if I get up to go into the kitchen. Ask me why he likes to have his eyebrows kissed, the hair on his back scratched and tumbled like pizza. Ask me why he looks up from between my legs like a little-leaguer who wants you to clap whether he hits the ball or misses. It’s not about the ball. Please admit this corruption. It has never been about the balls or the bases or team rankings—only crowds of tired adults rising in metal bleachers to cheer our boy for whatever he’s done. Or not done. Same difference. Our boy peers up from my thighs and he believes the applause is coming sure as shooting stars and men on the moon and theatre popcorn. He has earned the roar. Needless to mention his entitlement to the performance of my organs. The pat on the back. He is, after all, the best boy ever. World’s greatest grinner. Daddy’s little buddy. Mommy’s sugar, the cream inside a local bakery’s fresh-baked puff.