Pea by Benjamin Law (affectionately re-named 'Pee' by Krissy Kneen)

She suffered from the bone deformity Osteogenesis Imperfecta, and was fresh from healing a broken pelvis. Her prince was coming up the stairs for her now. She was scared. He had already broken her spine (twice) in the throes of his love, and her neck (once) from when he had taken her from behind. It had nearly paralysed her. She never understood why he had decided upon her, after the Night Of The Mattresses. But she was poor then, and foolish. She should have been grateful. A wonderful night’s sleep, she should have said. But that pea. That fucking pea.

nostalgia

Something so sweet about that new sex, that awkward fumbling, that unskilled vague reaching in the general direction. Something exciting about the near misses, wondering if he will find your clitorus eventually, wondering if she will ever put her finger right inside you, wondering if, at the end you will spit or swallow. The nervous laughter, the embarassment of incompetence. I will look at this young kind of sex with nostalgic fondness. I will long for it because I will never again be in this position. This safe sure sexuality. This workmanlike satisfaction, sure orgasms, this lack of insecurity, this easy abandon.

I look at photos of them, all the baby love, new sex, blossoming bodies in terror of each other and I long to go back there, to the beginning of it all. Like reading The Virgin Suicides for the first time, coming to it fresh and green and full of wonder.

back back back

They are all back. They are all bodies, variously beautiful and different. They are all people who have touched me and run, a game of tag, a hide and seek with me still counting. They are back and we regroup, slowly, and with great effort. I have found something in their absense and I will not let this go, but it will change. It will become less urgent. It will find it's natural place and I will settle into the idea of chastity. They are back and perhaps this takes the pressure off. I am distracted by the flailing of other swimmers. Still I hold your han in the churn of the wider ocean and we remain afloat, together. We remain together. This is my hope for it. This is what I need from it. Together but sparate and without the need for all this sleep-destroying angst.

Back

You are back and there is no conversation about it yet. It is unimportant now. I have moved on and on again. I feel so tired that it seems possible that I have changed my ways. Certainly I have no energy for random anger and sex is a thought I cannot finish. Strangely I have the energy to care, a warm love, and a gentle sense of regret. The ones I love. This small handful of nice things, little birds warm in my palm. I love you. I say it and I know it is true. I love you and we share history and that firey torment of my erratic sexuality has been paused. You will be glad to know this. I am in sleep mode. I am a slow winking light like that little glow at the front of my laptop, a closed shell, but with a heart still beating.

hiding behind the tree

some girls, she says are just so pretty and sweet and shy that they do not threaten men. They just stand there and boys chase them. They are to be chased. She says that if she and I were to stand behind a tree waiting to be chased, we would still be standing there when we were 60. Girls like us who know what we want and ask for it. Girls who seem to frighten men. She nods to me as a fellow frightener but I am not so certain that this is true. I am too easily coerced.

No will power

We do not change. We are born with what we will have throughout our lives. When I was a child I would struggle to maintain my rage. I would be excluded from a game or would remain on the sidelines when team sports were played, and yet, if the same sporty girls needed help with an assignment I would be there for them, grudgingly, but there.

I am not really into you, they say, while they are inside me. Some kind of post-coital confession, and I feel sad. The sex was always fine, good, excellent at times. I would think, that is it. No more. I will never put myself in this position again. I would practice the word "no" and then, when the time came, I would be unable to utter it. Another chance. I will always give them another chance. I will not learn from the mistakes of the past. I will bound towards the foot that has just kicked me. I'm sorry, I will say, I didn't mean to protect my ego at the expense of yours. This is my fundamental nature.

small concerns.

All done with love. How did this happen so suddenly. How is it that I sat within touching distance of you and was not overwhelmed by your scent. This thing gone stale perhaps, the scent of unwashed sheets and a general emotional listing towards decay. Still I love you in a different way. Always this love that is less fierce, this care for you. I care for you. But the sex was not there the last time we met and there is no longer the same kind of urgent longing. I am not wet when my knee touches yours on the bus. I do not want to bury my head in your neck. I look at your lap, your morning-glory buried beneath the taught sheet and I do not want to press myself against you. I want nothing but to make you coffee and hug you when you are sad and to chat, often, and honestly. How did this happen so quickly and will it last. Will I be sad if it lasts. Will I be lost and lonely alone with my small world and it's ever so small concerns?