He Forgets

An inquisition into hetero sex

He forgets to love me as I am.

The liquid sliding silk of my body slips past his hands because he forgets its delicacy. He forgets to pause in it.

He comes to me like a man, always wanting to drink of my well, dip his bucket, be nourished, be felt, be held . . . he wants me.

And I don't want him to stop wanting me. It's that hard wanting, an arrow toward its target, a word into a silence, a something to wrap around, a something to crave. Me all around him, enveloping his need in my warmth.

But he does not meet me where I am, in my skin; he does not wander over it inquisitively like the afternoon light while I dance; and he does not see me dancing, he does not let me dance because he's holding my limbs.

He likes to hold my arms and legs, open, down, over, around. He likes to hold my body and push into it, hard, over and over.

And I do like that, too.

But my body is more slippery than that, and so is my heart. He forgets to see the minute, the tiny hairs rising on my neck, the little slivers of inside elbow that awaken slowly. He moves too quickly past my tenderness into the dense meat of me.

The meat of me is soft and wet, edible. He can hold me, eat me, taste me, have me. That's what he wants - to consume me.

But I want to be unwrapped - shredded, torn, ripped, unpacked, unravelled, peeled, so slowly that I fall unconscious and unaware of what's happening. He should give me what I want - not to get what he wants but so that I can have what I want. Ladies first and all.

That's how he can remember to love me as I am.

But most of the time, he forgets.