I don’t feel satisfied by anything right now; so somewhere, somehow, I’ve decided to rectify this through a cyclical spiritual journey of looking for dick.
Cisgender boys are ardent disciples of this journey. They advocate for it by espousing the joys of dating apps and the horrors of commitment. Your thirst is easily rectified for the price of your dignity, or the implication in someone’s version of no fats/no femmes/no folx of color, or the rare chance on someone that could be good for you in another world.
Satisfying your thirst is about creating a compromise of self so that your drained, dried-up body feels relief in the arms of someone who may or may not look like their profile says they do. It’s a roulette of what sorts of feelings you’ll encounter when in his arms. To thirst is to accept that, once you meet in person, your feelings are volatile and impossible to come to fruition.
My most recent attempt at addressing this thirst was with a boy from Grindr.
His profile name was leaf emoji, falling leaves emoji, which clearly denoted him as an artistic personality, or as a weed connoisseur.
We chatted off and on over the course of a week.
“We should sleep together sometime,” he typed. “Not sex. Sleeping next to each other.”
“What makes you want to sleep next to me?”
“You have a friendly smile.”
He opened up about his painful past at two in the morning. An ex-boyfriend, torrential emotional phantom pains and regrets of cheating. The emotional outbursts would occur between spurts of “hi” and “what’s up” in the waking hours, when he was shedding his McDonald’s uniform and I was grooming my feelings of numbness to avoid sleep.
I messaged him several days later on Grindr. He couldn’t sleep; it was past three and the silence of fretful slumber had cast itself over my apartment. “It’s too bad I can’t cuddle you to sleep,” I told him.
It was an invitation to satisfy that thirst. “You want me to come over that badly?” he asked.
“I’m not going to die if you decide to go back to sleep alone. But it’s always nice to cuddle with someone.”
I had no fucking idea what I was getting into.
We kissed; he asked me to bite his earlobe hard, harder, harder until he moaned in ecstasy. He nipped and tugged at my body with his teeth in mildly sadistic foreplay. When I told him I wasn’t a big fan of pain, he said, “Pain is good. The more the better,” and his desire to relive his breakup shape-shifted before me.
The quiet human that just wanted to sleep next to me then proceed to rim me while I kept his dick in my mouth for the better part of fifteen minutes. It went so long my knees gave way, the rough aftermath of his scruff tingling against my skin. My knees were so stiff they refused to straighten out; I felt like the carcass of a dead stink-bug on my bed.
We both quickly fell into a fitful sleep only to wake up a few hours later and finish the job. After trying to convince me to take him without lube and practice, telling me the pain would be pleasure, he came on my face and I felt strangely relieved.
After he left that morning, I opened up Grindr again. I wasn’t satisfied.