Not unlike a miserably small man maintaining a Napoleon complex to counter his stunted stature, I, a small Asian girl, have always harbored a tendency to offset the likely impression of myself as quietly obedient and accommodating with behavior indicating the total opposite.
Seeing a partner lay nude before you like a Thanksgiving meal is a heavenly sight — especially if there is actually a Thanksgiving meal smothered across their body. In my case, it was a generous layer of honey, whipped cream and peanut butter. Synesthesia ran rampant as the sensations of sustenance and sensuous touch were blurred. With every kiss came a taste of sweetness and when we’d roll around it was like two pieces of bread being slapped together to make a slippery sandwich. When I slouched I felt like that vine of the peanut butter baby and my sheets looked like Willy Wonka and all his Oompa Loompas collectively combusted, but it was somehow still hot, like a sriracha-drenched jalapeño popper.
In February, my roommate and I found two boys who were also roommates. We lived in the same dorm, so it was easy to sneak into their room for smoke sessions and late-night conversations when the weekends came. Little did I know that the cute relationship we had would get fucked because of one person who pushed things a little too far. At the time, we were a strong group of four, and between all of us the sexual tension was manageable. But one night, only one of the guys, LG, came over to our room to chill.
My birthday is two and a half months away. I’m going to pass the final stage of adulthood, and involuntarily enter my twenty-first year. I’ve accomplished so much, and yet I still haven’t had sex. Everybody around me tells me “HLG, honey, your time will come,” or “They’re out there … waiting for you too.” And that’s the best thing you can tell someone like me, because literally nobody can verify it. It’s vague-ass comments like these that you hate receiving, but exhale with relief when those same comments save you from the panic that mounts as you desperately search for advice for someone else.
“You’re so fun at parties because you always have the best stories,” Austin joked. “Tell them what you told me.”
Austin and I had been friends since high school, and I was standing among a group of his friends at a party back home over Thanksgiving break. He was asking me to share the story of what happened during sex with my summer fling. I tend to be pretty open about sex, so I didn’t mind talking about my experiences, though this one elicited a bit of shame. “Well,” I started, blushing, “you have to understand he was a teenager and loved the fact that I was a few years older than him. I’d never been with a younger guy.” Austin was already giggling.
“She came first, ‘cause I got it like that,” he whispered in my ear as we shuffled through the aisles in Jansen’s. I looked back at him with a faint smile. How does this work? Am I supposed to pretend to be interested in his little sex story? Because I don’t want to hear it.
“Hope you like bad boys because I’m bad at everything!”
Ugh … I don’t know why I go on Tinder. The pickup lines are so corny that rolling my eyes becomes an involuntary response. Plus, I’m not really interested in hookups, and it seems like everyone on Tinder has a strong “hit it and quit it” mentality. And yet, I keep scrolling … maybe because I wishfully think that one day I may blindly swipe and stumble across someone who shares my intimate vision of a life-long commitment.
“You’re not pregnant, are you?” was the first question my parents asked when I sat them down and told them we had something we needed to talk about. The question seemed laughable to me, considering my long-term boyfriend had just broken up with me and what I was about to tell them. “I’m … not straight,” I told them haltingly, and braced myself for their response. While I love my parents, acceptance of the LGTBQ+ community has never been their strong suit.