Don’t Tell Anyone

How to Melt Stone

how to melt stoneIGNORE THE GAY BOY cologne, the shower of excessive scent that hides neither her bound breasts nor her insecurity about your men. Be tough if she is wearing a variant of Calvin Klein or Armani, but be kind if she is still stuck with Drakkar Noir. Write a mental note to a buy the latter a new scent at the soonest possibility. Even better, mention to both that au naturel turns you on.

Let her pick you up in her father’s or brother’s car. Allow her to rave about the great speakers, even tapping your fingers to the bum-bump of the shaky bass. Watch her soft, small hand wrap around the stick when she changes gears. Resist the urge to put your hand on her lap on the very first date. At least wait for a good enough song.

Or find her waiting for you after class, by the gate where nannies convene to pick up kids who go to your Catholic school. She’ll be looking at the ground in her loose shirt and jeans, wiping her face on a hanky. If she’s connected, she’ll be waiting with her posse at the café across the street, the one where you saw two girls kissing. Meet her there, feeling a little scared that they all know what’s going on.

Or just meet her. Catch her eye across the length of the train as you laugh at the Women Only restriction of your MRT car. Find her, holding a cigarette she uses “for props,” outside your building. See her holding the purse of an overdressed girl at an “exclusive” event, and strike up a conversation at the bar.

Call her by the name she wants, the androgynous variant of a long feminine name, like Joey for Johanna, Nic for Nicole. Call her by her random dyke name that has nothing to do with her three-part Christian name, like Chip, Skip, or Ice. Let her give her own girly name when your mother asks her who she is on the phone. Mouth all such permutations when you think of her at night. Whisper the butch name into your pillow, but feel the long name being written on your belly by an imaginary tongue.

Be stunned by her lashes and her pink and shiny mouth, but don’t mention how beautiful you think she is. Use gender-neutral adjectives like “cute” even if you think it’s inadequate and overused. Instead of words, rub your fingers on the newly clipped back of her head before you bury your face in her barber-cut hair, feeling the softness warm your chest and crawl down your belly where it lingers, then lower as it drips down.

Put up with the manliness and admit the well-rehearsed swagger draws you in. Find comfort in the strange reaction you have to submit and be dominated by this smallish, gentle and hairless man. Resist the temptation to tell her about your new obsessions—her lips that feel soft and hesitant, her breasts that rub against yours the more she tries to keep them away. She’s hidden them under a tight sports bra, then an undershirt and a loose plaid polo. As she touches yours, picture her n****e in your mouth, even if it will be a while until she lets you in that close. Enjoy your pursuit and her undivided attention. If she moves quickly, take note of how skillfully she eats your snatch. If you’ve never done it before, get used to the idea. Find that its elusiveness actually turns you on.

Spare her the lesbian feminist discourse, the lecture on how you are two girls in love. If she’s been groomed in Catholic school dykeness, she’ll insist on being the boy. Let her. On a good day, tell her you aren’t that kind of femme, and that you’re definitely not bi. Tell her you don’t need her to be a boy. She might flip and decide that your being gay makes her less of a guy. Try not to laugh in your confusion, especially if she deems the two of you incompatible for that reason alone. Leave if this is the case. If there is any doubt, go on.

Offer your neck to her to kiss, clearing it of hair and doubt. Want her. Attempt to undo a button or two on her shirt. Let your hands crawl underneath it and watch her slightly pull away. Don’t feel rejected. Instead, pull her towards the bed and on top of you. Let her rub her denim bulge on your crotch. Kiss her back, as hard as her face is soft, rough enough to notice the absence of stubble rubbing on your skin. Feel your n*****s harden when she takes off your top. Feel wet when you arch your back in the shimmy of getting your panties pulled down. Press her against you, grabbing her ass with both hands. She won’t resist this, so grind against her and pretend not to mind that her pants are still on. Enjoy the friction and let out a desperate, wanting sigh as you unbuckle her belt and unbutton her fly. Do not reach between her legs, not yet, no matter how certain you are that her boxers are soaked with the same kind of desire. Rock her. Let the rush and heat give her the license to undress. Allow her the false modesty of keeping her underwear on, still resisting the urge to use your hands, except on her ass. Focus on it and use it as an anchor, on which you shall make it known that you need her body in order to pleasure your own.

Learn how to take it. Watch her face change according to the textures and tastes of your mound. Let her f**k you the way you want her to and let yourself go. Hold her when you’re coming, pull her tightly against you to convince her you’re not letting go. At your peak, touch her. Reach in between her legs with a certainty that won’t allow her to pull away. Rub her wet and slippery mess as you breathe your longing into her ear. Scream into the chunk of shoulder you have in between your teeth. Feel her quiver and move against your hand. Let her know without speaking how much her p***y turns you on.

Taste her. With your mouth, explore parts of her she never knew were her own. She might fear your brazenness, and your desire for that which nobody seems to have ever touched. At one point, she might push you away. Let her, knowing there will be a next time. Lying spent next to you, she will know that you don’t want her to change anything, other than what’s already been changed, by your hands on her, finally being desired for her body alone.