Want Me by Tracy Clark-Flory

Author:Tracy Clark-Flory [Clark-Flory, Tracy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2021-02-16T00:00:00+00:00

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“I have an idea,” I told Tim sometime after the orgasmic meditation retreat. We were lying in his bed, which sat on the floor of a former walk-in closet of his Tenderloin studio apartment, having just finished watching a movie on his iPhone. The entire time, he had held up the tiny screen, alternating arms as they fell asleep in turn. “I want to try, as an experiment, to delay orgasm,” I continued, raising my head from the sweaty nook of his armpit. “I think it’ll be even more intense that way.”

What I meant was: I’ve been faking it this whole time and now I want to stop faking it. Instead of saying that, though, I constructed my own version of the orgasmic meditation ritual: a self-imposed restriction on what he believed to be my hair-trigger orgasm. The OMing retreat and Slow Sex were a perfect excuse. I was trying to buy myself the time in our sexual encounters to experience an orgasm without having to admit that I had never actually orgasmed with him.

Tim sat up and ran his fingers through his man bangs. “Okay, babe,” he said, nodding gamely. “Sounds like some tantra shit. I’m down.”

Things were not supposed to have gotten serious with Tim, but now Facebook statuses had been changed. He was a thirty-five-year-old artist with an apartment overtaken by canvases stacked in in random, haphazard towers. The art on the canvases was just as erratic: collages of bus transfers, paintings of toasters, a series depicting busty women in space helmets. An easel and paint-flecked drop cloth sat where a couch might be in someone else’s apartment. He didn’t bother with a couch. There was just his closet bed, across which he’d tossed a thrift store find: a fuzzy blanket featuring an image of a majestic, roaring tiger.

He occasionally worked at a pot farm and sold weed to make ends meet. Tim kept bricks of rubber-banded cash in his freezer. “Yeah, I don’t know why I put it in there,” he said, shrugging, when I asked about the frozen money. “I should probably hide it somewhere else.” Sometimes he would get administrative temp jobs, where he spent his downtime staging photo shoots for Instagram: mostly of him lurking incongruously behind potted plants in fluorescent-lit cubicle mazes. He belonged behind those plants just as much as he belonged in that nine-to-five world.

Eventually, I learned that Tim believed humans were genetically programmed by aliens. He had read some theories about space creatures scientifically engineering and then mating with people. They had built the pyramids, he said. The United States government had undertaken a mass cover-up. There was this amazing documentary series I should see called Ancient Aliens. The Illuminati, Sumerian texts, lizard people, the whole shebang. No one could have designed a more perfect deal breaker for me, not even ancient aliens themselves.

But then I found that this man with a tiger blanket, freezer savings, and alien conspiracies was a genuine sweetheart. He would softly pet my shoulder, kiss me on the forehead, and endearingly call me “Miss Tracy.

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