You know what they don't tell you about being a "good girl"? It's supposed to extend to the bedroom.
Or, in our case, the glowing five-inch screen in the palm of my hand.
I've always been... intense. I have a big imagination. I read the kind of books that make your ears turn red, and usually, I'm the one with the high drive. I like the heat. I like the tension. But with James, every time things turn "that way," I feel like I'm watching a car crash in slow motion.
It started at 11:30 PM. I was lying in the dark, still feeling the left over feeling of my "I'll be better" prayer. I wanted to be the girl he worshipped. I wanted to be "all his."
James: I can't stop thinking about that video we watched together. You looked so pretty today... I wish you were here in my bed.
My stomach did a little flip, but not the good kind. It was like the feeling you get right before you have to give a presentation you haven't prepared for.
Me: Yeah? What would you do if I was there?
I typed it with a grimace. I was playing the part. I was being the "passionate" girl he thought I was.
James: I'd just hold you so tight. And then I'd kiss you everywhere and tell you how much I love you. I'd make you feel like a goddess, babe. You're so sexy when you're shy, babe.
And there it was. The Cringe.
It's a physical thing. It's not just in my head, it's a shiver that starts at the base of my skull and ends in my toes. It's the word "babe" used in a sexual sentence. It's the "queen" comment. It's the fact that even when he's trying to be dirty, he's still being nice. He's still being a golden retriever.
I'm a horny person. I really am. But when James talks about sex, it sounds like he's reading a script from a "How to Respect Women" manual. There's no edge. No teeth. It's all soft words and "I love you"s and "are you okay?"
I felt this wave of actual disgust, which made the guilt come back twice as hard. Why couldn't I just enjoy it? Why did I want him to be a little bit more of a man and a little less of a saint?
Me: That sounds sweet, Jamie.
James: Sweet? I want it to be more than sweet. ;) I want to make you breathless. I'm getting so worked up just thinking about your body. Can you send me a picture? Just for me?
I sat up and leaned against my headboard. I felt like I was being asked to perform an oil change. I didn't want to do it, but it felt like a chore I owed him because he's so "perfect."
I took the photo. I posed. I made sure my hair covered the parts of my face that looked bored. I sent it.
James: OH MY GOD. Elara. You're literally a goddess. I'm actually shaking. I'm going to have to go take care of this now... I love you so much. You're the only girl I've ever felt this way about.
I put the phone face down on the mattress. I felt oily.
This is the struggle, right? If I play along, I'm a liar. I'm a girl who loves sex, but I'm a girl who hates sex with him. It makes me feel like my own body is betraying me. It makes me feel like a "bad woman" because I can't find the sweet boy erotic.
He's "taking care of it" thinking about me, feeling like the luckiest guy in the world. And I'm sitting here wondering if Maya has to deal with these kinds of texts. Does he send her "polite" dirty messages? Or is she the one he actually has chemistry with?
I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. I looked at myself in the mirror, red eyes, fake smile, hollow chest.
I'd prayed to God to make me love him. I'd promised to be better. But sitting there in the dark, all I could think was that I'd rather be alone in a cold room than "adored" by a man who made me feel like I was made of a tissue box.
I went back to bed, but I didn't check the phone again. I just let the screen stay dark.