A Thumbs Width Away

Dykes are always talking about their fists. About the ecstasy of being pushed open. But the first time a lover put all that inside me I cried for hours. Had to leave, put myself on a bus and watch late night tv until I numbed out enough to crawl into a bed again. But it wasn't that it was too much to take. It was my amazement that I could.

I could let hir slip in, inch by inch. I could feel stretch and pain. I could give so much access, allow hir so much privilege. I could be healed. It was the possibility of having sex that was no longer defined by the blood on those sheets years ago, that instead was blessed by a different kind of swelling. But for the most part, I still don't want that pinch of reminder. Because even in freedom it still pulls at the past. But I want to want it. Want to crave connection that creeps in bit by bit, burrows and grows.

I feel it slipping in with you. That almost there. A thumbs width away from being fully inside me. But that last slide is always the hardest, requires the most grace. And you have that. And already I can hardly live without your hand inside me. Without it's pushing and probing into spaces nobody ever cared to notice before. You fill me without that unmanageable ache. Without that too far too fast, but yes sometimes that. Because with just a breath more, a tug in the right place, on my part, you'll have all of me.