sugar

Morning after Sex and Summit


When I was little, my mom kept telling me that the expression of feelings is the privilege of white trash.  And I was growing up gradually absorbing the societally undisputed truth that being serious, impartial, and frozen is right, is cool, is comme il faut. It took years to learn to scratch my shoulder-blade or eat with my hands licking sauce off my fingers in restaurants without focusing on others.
But gradually, I got the understanding that others simply do not care. No one watches anyone. The idea that someone constantly judges me for placing my elbows on the table or kissing Greg in public is only in my mind. People are too busy with their own fears, insecurities, and complexes to pay close attention to the 90-pound Vixen. This insight was the first step to my recovery from being a zombie, and I started allowing myself to feel and not to be scared of my feelings.
The privilege of being alive is to have feelings, to sense that I am human, to accept that I am neither better nor worse than anyone else, and to learn to love my little vegan self with all my fears, insecurities, selfishness, and the painful desire to see and fuck Greg.
Greg- the source of euphoria, the reason for the sparkle in my eyes, and electric sensations in my body.
Greg showed up earlier, prior the final day of the summit. I was up all night, and felt light-headed and alien at the 8 o’clock seminar. Meaningless faces, overweight bodies, and blah-blah-blah combined with numbers and annual reports. Two things livened up the pretense of care, concern, and involvement: the warming comfort of Ritz and Greg’s morning text: baby, I am going to fuck you again, I must see you tonight.
Fluffy carpets, yummy water melon, and lovely pictures in the conference room poorly matched boring reports on abuse and neglect in Florida.
–          Can you introduce yourself?   – got me back from thinking about last night, great fuck against the wall, and Greg’s short and sweet, “bye luv” at 6 am. I looked up and saw a pregnant black lady. I felt her slight smell of sweater and mouth freshener as she was holding out to me her microphone and gave her a broad smile, which entirely shocked her. My sensuous openness was not appropriate for this morning, they were discussing strategies to tackle child abuse, while I was still fantasizing about Greg’s dick.   
My sphere of interest implies … – my voice sounded very different through the microphone, I wanted to be far away from this place, from the fat and sweaty pregnant reporter, and stinky smells of bacon and coffee.
I finished my speech, the combination of smart words and little meaning, stood up and left. My mom taught me to be respectful, tough, and competitive. Thanks God, real life gave me the better lesson – I can be whatever I want without hiding, faking, and pretending. I can take any path I like since the result will still be the same, I am mortal like everybody else.

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