New on Sexis…old memories at my fingertips.

The new thing at my freelance writing gig is for us to be assigned “themes” around which we have to base our columns. Sometimes I’m left baffled, and this week wasn’t any better. “Hands” was the assignment, and I’d entirely forgotten about pretty much everything in the wake of the passing of my friend and former boyfriend.

I finally remembered I was way past my deadline, so yesterday after going into the studio to record for the NPR radio show “Snap Judgement” and after performing my show “Good Goods” and after hauling my shit to another friend’s home where I’m catsitting for a bit, I sat crying into my laptop as I remembered the first time The Pizza Guy put his hands on me, and how it changed my life. That and more memories, some bittersweet, all rushed to the fore to fill in the blanks on the page so that I could finish this article.

From the article…

It was at the hands of a lover where I first learned appreciation for parts of me that I had previously rejected. In the throes of a passionate encounter, I found myself repeatedly removing the hands of this guy I was just trying to fuck, goddammit, from my belly. The moment I had pried his grasping fingers away from the excess avoirdupois of my abdomen, he went straight for the fat on my upper thighs.

I was, at first, confused, then embarrassed, then annoyed. I was not sure how much more clearly I could non-verbally communicate “Do NOT touch me there!” than repeatedly pulling his acquisitive, amorous hands from these parts of me I pretended I didn’t care about, but towards which I secretly felt shame and distaste. And here was this guy, grabbing me, grabbing my fat like that was acceptable!

As things heated up, and we were fucking, he turned me over so that he could fuck me from behind and to my absolute horror he grabbed onto my belly with both hands, leveraging his gorgeous cock even further inside me, and while this felt really good physically? It also felt pretty awful emotionally and I finally spoke up, twisting myself up and around while attempting to pull his hands from their persistent manipulations of my gut.

“Will…you. Stop…grabbing…my fat?!?” I hissed, surprised at how angry and shaky my voice was to my own ears.

You can read the rest here, if you’d like.

It ached to write about Steve, even as I am so fortunate and so blessed to have taken a big leap forward at loving myself at his hands.

And if you wanna hear me tell the whole story, you can listen to my fist performance at Bawdy Storytelling, which was all about him.