When she curls against me, all that I can do is arch my body into hers, wanting to be her smaller spoon, and happy that she is my bigger one, no question. We lay this way for hours, sometimes in silence, sometimes our hips begin to move, the friction of skin and sheets against pores and leg hairs and clothes, detaching, forms a too hot barrier that we spend the next hour
She asked me what dyke mode was, and I told her it was the reason her friends are waiting for her to return.
What I didn’t say is that dykemode is the kind of heaven that every lesbian lives for, and only a select few can arrange into a normal, everyday type of life. Some dykes take years to be coupled before they can incorporate their other lesbian friends, their exes, their future lovers, into their lives without offending their partner.
She is in her thirties. Even post-dykemode, we can stand in a room together, and feel the presence of the other, forgetting that anyone else is around. We plan trips and visit other parts of the earth together. There is something resolving about dating a woman old enough to decide that she wants you. Pero, not too old, where her societal status, political upbringing, and life experience of many lovers deem her too advanced for the likes of a woman in her 1st Saturn. But early thirties. Not mid-late. The difference is that she isn’t demanding you give her babies right now; she can still play, and cuddle, and construct possibilities, without the deep burn, or the youthful newness of a recently out twenty-three year old, still tasting life for the first time; she is your equal.
I am in my twenties. Which means I am likely an exception to some rule made years ago, or for the fourth time, on New Years perhaps, that women my age are a waste of time. My Saturn, I think, is saving me. Hand in hand, we, Saturn and I, walk into new connections, and burrow there, unabashedly.
Here I am. (waving) A woman entering her Saturn, wanting to get past this moment of ineffective connections, those that have been in the past, fleeting; those intensities layered thick with a plaque of passion and possibility,
with the looming threat of cavities, burdening the bone, or simply being brushed away, if a previous daily ritual is formed, like brushing, like rinsing, like personal space and hygiene…I think I’ve carried this metaphor far enough.
I remember the woman who kissed me on the Christopher Street pier, back when it was still a dark alley of bent fences and scurried rats. Our sex became her insanity, her fleeing New York, her hurting herself.
There was also the woman whose golden locs called me to her college campus. A bus trip and hotel rental later, I found that our sex became her tears.
Or the woman who showed me what it meant to be from the streets. Our sex became my bloodied body, hiding, a restraining order.
I could go on, and describe my many unstable dyke modes, but instead of listing, I’ll admit that the dynamics have all been the same.
I have been dating a perpetual woman: her name is not of a common tongue, pronounced nenewafa, spelled Nnwf.
She is the woman who:
- needs so much for me to want her,
- needs for me to see her as whole
- wants me to make her as profoundly awesome as I am
- fails, and becomes angry at my refusal to save her, or to be the woman she thought I was, that woman of her dreams.
Once I became her. I claimed the name Nnwf when I dated a woman as I entered my 27th year and entered my Saturn. It took me a year to identify her. Now I see her, not in my reflection, but in the women I meet. And I repel the urge to give birth to her in my connections.
Because there is something to be said for someone who can drop everything, and alter her entire life, to bend in the direction of another.
Sometimes, we each wonder, what would you be doing, right now, if you weren’t with me?
The letting go, the deep recurring feeling, the structure of going back, returning, again, again, right there, let’s do this, and the halt, the point of connection. How good it is. Until it’s done.
My last relationship (that lasted long enough for me to claim) began with a dyke mode so powerful that only now, years later, do I fully feel the tension of our ripping.
As I think about this final break-up from Nnwf, this dream-like disconnected past, I wake, freely lain against another person, ruffled in sheets, cemented there as if by design, feeling no restraint but overwhelmed in the unity of our individuation, aware that this freedom is natural, felt, and potently hovering within and above us, redolent of love.
Separating an ex from my life is like stripping flesh from muscle, except, I am the active participant, she being the emotionless layer of skin, already dead, not realizing its own disregard.