As I straddled her, distangling her brassiere, I thought, "this must be how a man feels."
This. This sense of power, of domination as I ran my hands over her soft breasts; larger than mine, nipples paler than mine. I squeeze, full-palmed, to feel their solid, yet slippery weight.
This sense of domination as I trail down her abdomen, the contoured planes of skin over bone (she's beautiful), disguising my intent with fluttery kisses and tongue. I reach the top button of her jeans with only my own desire in mind. My desire to eat her, taste her. My selfish desire to have my way with her.
It wasn't just the sangria that I've imbibed, or the surreal early morning light causing me to behave this way. My lecherous actions were seated in how I knew this girl, and how she reminded me of myself in many ways. We shared many conversations together, innocently unfolding our secrets and psyche. We enjoy each other's friendship. She trusts me.
And yet now, I'm doing to her what so many men have done to me. Relishing domination, grafting myself on her skin. Sex should not be a violent act, a power struggle. I know this intellectually, but ... but still... I flinch at the disturbing results of this experiment carried too far.
Hours later, spilling myself back onto the sun-drenched streets, I am sick with regret. Regret at possibly ruining a wonderful friendship, compromising my own values, and rebirthing past traumas in a fresh body. Regret and wonder at how, in so many ways, I've fucked myself at first opportunity.
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