A PanAfricanist Queer Womanist Collective
By ‘A lover of women’
I had always found women intriguing. I did not necessarily see it as a sexual , more like a sense of admiration for everything they were. I was drawn in to how strong they were, how soft at the same time. They were beautiful, wise whilst still sometimes being so hopeful to the point of naiveté. How vulnerable they could be whilst being guarded at the same time. All of this fused together within one entity coming together to form something that is both awe inspiring in its confusion. The sexual component of my esteem of women was never apparent, but clearly it was omnipresent. The eventual revelation that I was attracted to women should have come as no surprise. I guess it was easier to conceptualise a mental connection rather than physical desirability. But the attraction was there and once it came to light it bloomed. Grew, into something as beautiful and ripe as the women who were the objects of it.
When it came through it was strong. And it was new. And with anything new it was exciting. Especially the sex. It was hot, wet, novel and uninhibited. With no road made on how to be with another woman it was all unchartered territory that was being explored. Questions and curitosities were answered by experiences that only led to more queries and mysteries. Always going deeper, further submerged. The cycle was exhilarating. Everything was fair game, everyone a potential playmate.
Including the numerous straight women I encountered. I did not particularly care at the time what drew them to me.
The ‘courtship’ was the most addictive part. The conversations that skirted around the real issue. The chase in the guise of friendly interaction. The sexual nuances hiding behind platonic gestures. The constant question that hung in the air. It always started with the talk of a boyfriend, a crush or some other male who was the object of amour. Knowing the nature of my sexual attractions they would be careful to set up defences with these tales, convinced that at any given moment they would become the focus of seduction. They would lay the foundations for a wall, built to keep me out. To keep whatever could potentially happen at bay. What always amused me was the fact that these defences were not so much to keep me out, but to keep themselves in. at no point had I given a hint that an attack on their neatly constructed existence was pending yet they wall was built, sometimes with great haste and fortification. I would back and engage with the woman, watching the wall rise higher, thinking how much effort it would be for her to later have to tear it down, brick by brick, layer of clothing by layer of clothing.
The war dance would continue, she would build up her defences and I would sit on the outskirts amused and seemingly unarmed. Their words spoke to convince me that under no circumstances would I ever have them, but their bodies said the opposite. As the interaction went on I would become funnier, smarter, more engaging. An outsider would say that I would draw them in but this isn’t necessarily true. They drew themselves in if such a thing is even possible. There is no ‘magic’ on my part. No magnetism. Their curiosity and wants is the gravity that draws them into my atmosphere.
The conversation turns. As it always does with these women. The questions begin to pour out and the curiosity begins to show and with it the first crack in the wall appears. And that was the part that always made me smile. The war dance was over and the terms of surrender would now be discussed. Questions such as ‘what is it like to be with a woman?’ and ‘who is the man in bed?’ begin to set the basis for future peaceful relations. I answer knowing where the conversation is going, where the line of inquiry leads. I must play the game because it is important to them. They cannot simply jump in and ask for what they want. There must be a negotiation, the dance must change from one of war to something else. But it is important there must be a dance. They are not allowed to wonder what I can do in bed, let alone voice it. The man they see over there, they may wonder and possibly speak of it, but not me. So I patiently play the game. Good things are always worth waiting for. I know the curiosity will eventually overpower all other fears and emotions. If questioned why they want to know you will always get the standard ‘I was curious’ but something else simmers below that answers and it is that that propels them forward into the unknown. They want it as much as they want to know about it. There is an adorable element to it all which is underlined by something a little more raw, caged. As part of my quest for excitement I wanted to unleash that, or at the very least see what it was.
On my side all I wanted was that one night. One night in which I would try and tame whatever wild animal lay hibernating beneath the surface. It was callous. It was selfish. It was extremely indulgent. I knew as much as she did it would be one night. Possibly two. For her it was an experience for me it was pure unadulterated sexual pleasure. Feeding that need for that power that stemmed from giving a woman an orgasm and possibly getting one in return. From how I saw it, everyone won.
The dance could be demanding but eventually it all fell away, everything that came before discarded as the music ended. They would eventually offer themselves to me. On my bed they lay bare. On the kitchen floor they expose it all. In the shower all their inhibitions are washed away. Against the wall they sigh out all internal prejudices. All that is left is carnal want that is barely contained within its naked vessel.
I would get my one night. They would come and cloak my reality with their fantasy. I would cover their reality with an air of mystery. I did not have their days but I had their nights. I did not have their midday conversations but I had their midnight moans. There were a lot of things I did not have but I had their secrets, and their bodies. And other than that, I did not care. When I would touch them, they were wet. If I cupped a breast their nipples responded. When I went down on them they gripped my hair and arched their backs. When I pleasured them, they came. And when the dawn came they went.
The left leaving their scent on the pillows, their mark on the sheets. The aroma mixed with the must of sex lingering into the afternoon. The memory of them was always, literally, at my fingertips. I was glad that we did not have to have the awkward conversations about when it was appropriate to leave (right now,) or if anyone should call (no). I was grateful I did not have to spend a fortune on breakfasts. Their fear and confusion as to the intensity of what had just happen would propel them out of the door I so kindly held open for them. Granted some came back, some more than once. It is hard to give up a good thing, if I do say so myself. But even those who did not come back it did not matter, the flow never ran dry (excuse the pun).
As some people say ‘I got mine.’ So at the time I did not care. Now, a little older and wiser, I hope that I left them with something more than a fond memory and tingling between their legs every time they thought about good sex. Reminiscing also got me to thinking about how I wasn’t the only one who continuously swam in the flowing waters of heterosexual curiosity. There were some out there who made me look like an amateur managing to hone it to a fine art that could take them to the Olympics. What I did was only made possible by the fact that this was far more of a natural phenomenon than women (or men for that matter) care to think about. The hot springs of sexual fluidity burst forth from somewhere deep within society wetting the surrounding area.
I chose to bathe in it.
Originally posted in Adventures