“Do you think we can, y’know–”
These are quiet whispers, because it’s taboo. Immoral. It’s a universally-tolerated act, and yet it’s also so universally-scorned. Perhaps it is because we’re not following the commandments of the lord; or perhaps it is because it is morally reprehensible to engage in this, religious affiliation aside.
And yet it is here when I feel my most confident.
Nothing separates me from the evening air but a slick of sweat and, if I’m lucky, another warm body on top of me. I am left exposed, and I am under scrutiny. Eyes betray, in these circumstances, so hands wander. Fingers caress. The touches are sometimes hesitant but always exploratory. In the darkness, appearance matters less: I am less concerned with the inches around my waist or the way my skin would fold in on itself when I bend, and more concerned with how this current body is a gateway towards short-term fulfillment (because ultimately, that’s what orgasms are, aren’t they?).
My hair is scattered against the pillow, smooth cotton or silk against coarse and curly and wild. My skin, hardly the epitome of purity, is pitted against clean and white and cold. In the heat of the moment (and forgive me for the triteness of my language; any talk about sex is subject to cliché), eyes are squeezed shut and sensations overtake all senses.
But I open my eyes and see his own, flitting up then down then they look straight at mine. Fingers pinch the pockets of fat I’ve always felt shy and insecure about. He smiles, then I do, then he holds my hand.
Perhaps it is unhealthy to find confidence wearing nothing but sweat and sheets but, until I find some source inside of me that says I’m beautiful (which, to this moment, I do not possess), I rely on the approval of another’s body telling me that at the very least, they find some sort of pleasure in this body.
(Post title from a song of the same name (Sweater Weather) by The Neighbourhood. Currently my jam, so lemme just embed it below:)