Embodied Dating Discourse

My ass was bleeding. The legacy of going home for Christmas: the interminable hours in the car, the food my body doesn’t process anymore, the translucent sandpaper they always stock in hotels. It gave me a hemmy. Like, a whopper of one, too. So began my 2018, the year I “chose love”.

[Michael Jackson: Blood on the Dance Floor]

Human bodies are weird. We all live in them, though, so these things happen, these things we never talk about, making sure we’re not only trapped in our bodies, but isolated by them, too. I think a frank discussion of all the stupid things happening to us, physically, makes a killer first date. Honestly, I really do. Talk about all your scars, your missing organs, the weird smells you don’t perfume over… it’s a great way to be vulnerable without being emotional. Also, my ass is off the menu tonight, and they might as well know why.

[Frasier, TV Theme: Tossed Salad and Scrambled Eggs]

Me, as he pulls at my shirt: So, I don’t wear deodorant and I smell like a skunk sometimes. Sorry if that’s a turnoff.
Him, between kisses: Cool; I have a scar on my stomach that I’m super anxious about. I’ll get weird if you touch it.
Me, dodging a kiss so I can belch: Sorry, I’m pretty gassy when I’ve been drinking.
Him, throwing our shirts to the floor: yeah, you really do smell— wait, don’t kiss me there, my psoriasis had a flare up yesterday.
Me, pulling him on top of me: Mine, too, and my acne.
Him, kissing down my chest as he undoes my belt: Do you like nipple play? I’m super self-conscious about mine.
Me, under the weight of his thighs as he rides my pants down: So much, but wait til later or I’ll just be thinking about you thinking about the size of my moobs.
Him, going down: Cool, I’m the same with my love-handles— Oh, I just noticed you have a scar, too.
Me, tugging at his hair: Oh, yeah. I was in a car wreck when I was a kid. It’s no biggie anymore, but it did give me IBS for most of my 20s.
Him, his breath on my iliac crest: Cool, I have a really heinous skin tag where my appendectomy scar is. Please don’t suck on it.
Me: Suck on it?
Him: okay…
Me: unnh…
Him: ssslllluurpppp, unng unng unng
Me: ahhhhwwowowo
Him, exploring: Is this okay?
Me, deflecting: Yes, but not right now— I have a hemmy!

[Whitney Houston: I Wanna Dance With Somebody]

If I could have one wish for 2018, one selfish wish where I’m not asking for world peace or the end of structural violence, it would be to have a long night of sex— with sex again in the morning— without ever feeling like I needed to rip a huge fart. It’s the beer, I know it’s the beer, of course it’s the beer. You don’t have to tell me about the beer. But the beer is good for getting to know someone, and getting to know someone is good for getting to bed with someone, and getting to bed with someone is good for sleeping together, so let’s talk about our apnea and snoring and morning breath and a nose full of hardened red boogers because the air is so fucking dry right now, or because they have a cat, or a dog, or maybe it’s the cedar. (It’s always probably the cedar.)

[TLC: If I Was Your Girlfriend]

And these are only the personal parts. This is just what your body does *to you*. We haven’t even gotten to what it might do *to another person*. And I mean, I’m talking about gay stuff, so, y’know… sometimes shit gets on the dick, y’all. Shit. Gets. On. The. Dick. Most people I know are fine talking about it, nonchalant in accepting it as a possibility—just wipe it off and move on, make sure you didn’t get it in your beard, shower if you need to, etc etc etc— it’s a sign of a healthy attitude toward anal sex. We’re okay talking about that, but skitch around like a nervous cat when we have to talk about our height, our weight, our teeth

[Taylor Dayne: Tell It To My Heart]

I don’t know what it’s like for y’all, but for me, sexual attraction is bodily attraction, for whatever body you’re in. Not that I have a scars-and-farts fetish or anything, but sex is connection, and if I’m going to be connected to you, I’m going to be connected to *you*— crooked teeth and lightning bolts, birthmarks and bent dicks, whatever you’ve got, I’m okay with it. And I need you to be okay with me, because most of the things that I don’t like about my prison of flesh aren’t my fault. They can’t be changed and they’re only getting stranger with my advancing age and I am stuck with myself inside a body that feels it all… Camus would be proud.

[John Mayer: Your Body Is A Wonderland]

Just remember to wash your ass before going out. There isn’t enough breakfast beer in Texas to deal with that.

[Belinda Carlisle: Heaven Is A Place On Earth]




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