When I was young I had a teacher who gave me butterflies in my stomach. Scratch that – not butterflies, and this wasn’t a teenage crush. Neither of these things comes close to describing the way this teacher made me feel. Sick and excited and aching with desire. I didn’t fancy him, I wasn’t ‘keen’ on him: I lusted him. Hot and angry and sweating and desperate.
I never imagined him kissing me, or telling me I was beautiful – I’d think about him grabbing me, putting his hand on the back of my neck and squeezing me up against him. Lifting my skirt roughly and giving a sarcastic smile as he pushed his coarse hands up against my arse.
Nothing about this was delicate, or twee, or romantic. It was fetid and disgusting and urgent, like the last desperate wank of the night that you have because you need to sleep and can’t make your brain stop twitching.
What desire means to me
So when I tell you that I fancy a guy, or some guys, please understand that this is not a casual thing. It is not a calm, considered action that I have selected when I have taken into account everything I know about them. It’s not done because I’m calculating, or cruel, or because this particular guy isn’t enough for me.
Fancying guys is something my body does – something it spits out at me regardless of whether it’s the right moment. I don’t window-shop when I’m single, weigh up any pros and cons, then live happily-ever-after with the best. I twitch and lust and ache – oh Christ I ache – for new men, old men, interesting men, on an almost daily basis.
Monogamy and desire
It’s normal to fancy other people when you’re going out with someone. No one needs to be told that – it’s healthy and normal and natural and even if it wasn’t we’d have to get used to it because it happens anyway. But God – does it have to hurt so much?
Does it hurt this much for everyone? The dull wrench inside you when you stand next to someone you want but can’t have? The need to have them grab you, fuck you, take a handful of the hair on the back of your neck and push your face into their crotch? Because it does for me. It hits me like a chemical craving – a trembling, physical pain. Every. Single. Time.
I try not to worry about it. I tell myself that I am a stupid stupid horny fuckwit and it’ll pass in time. But then I go for a drink with a particularly devastating ex, or meet a new person at a party who has exactly the same sarcastic smile as my old teacher, or a particularly sexy accent, and I bite my lip and sit on my hands so I don’t try to reach out and touch them. As I say, I’m sure this interest is normal. But I’m never sure whether, for me, it’s genuinely hypothetical.
Am I OK with just looking and imagining? I want to do more. I want to play with them, feel them shove rough hands up my skirt or pour filthy words into my ear. I want to shout “HOLY FUCK YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL” and sneak them into a back room for a dirty up-against-the-wall fuck. I want to grip the base of their dick and feel them straining and pulsing in my closed fist.
I want to be bad.
There’s nothing wrong with this, as long as I’m good. As long as I remember that badness is wrong and I’m not wrong and oh God I want new hands all over me and angry bitemarks on my neck and a beating that takes me just to the point of screaming. Being good but tempted is a normal thing, it just doesn’t feel like a happy thing right now.