I Kept His Socks

Intimacy Versus Sex

Intimacy and sex are not synonymous, yet not mutually exclusive either. I didn’t anticipate that my sexually liberated episodes would cement within me a state of confusion regarding what true intimacy can be. As a trans woman, sexually desired, yet emotionally/mentally disdained by the majority of men, I came to default to a loveless state of being, one where I accepted breadcrumbs. If all I could receive from a man was a good fuck to affirm me as a woman, then so be it. Point-period. Part of womanhood, I thought. As a result I was wrapped up in situations that led me to unsafe circumstances and other bleak, emotionally charged others. One day, I had enough. I deleted dating apps on my phone, cut the roster of men by the neck, and let it bleed. However, there was a straggler.

From the beginning I said to this man (whom I will address as Placid for the sake of privacy), “All I’m looking for is friends,” and for once I meant it. We went on walks. Talked casually. Two humans on earth, a man and a woman, spending time without sex. It was a company that filled the void of the loneliness of moving to a new city with, at the time, no true community (and relating to men in a non-sexual way). He invites me into his apartment. No shoes allowed beyond the door. “I don’t wear socks,” says I, autistic doll number one, and he brings me a pair of his. From this point on, imagine a domestic scene: he’s folding clean clothes to make space on his couch for us, I help because that’s what a good friend would do. We finish, he stands by the bathroom door, says he’s gonna shower, asks: do you want to shower with me. I say yes.

It’s raining. He walks me to his car after the fuck. Tells me to send him my number on the app where we met. I text him I’m home and that I had a great time. He replies “Don’t go catching feelings or nothing, I’m not tryna lead you on.” Boy bye, I think. We stop talking for two weeks cus get-the-fuck-off-your-high-horse. He hits me up talking bout, let’s hang out. I check in with myself and surely enough, I’m down. I slip into his socks (newly washed) and drive down to his pad through the rain.

I would be lying if the sex wasn’t good. It was real good. I felt empowered as a woman to decide I wanted this, even if it betrayed my assertion to not get wrapped up in these kind of entanglements. To my justification, this wasn’t an entanglement because I genuinely did not like him beyond a friend-with-benefits (whom I never had before). Placid is a good guy, I thought. What could happen. After the fuck I grabbed my shit and left, unlike the first when we spent all day together. I felt powerful, in control of my sex and pleasure. I got what I wanted and now byeeeeee. Yet the void filled by intimacy alone wasn’t adding up. His hugs and occasional moments of attentiveness couldn’t compete with his coldness and standoffishness, perpetually warning me that he didn’t want lead me on and that he “knew” I was falling for him. Mega eye roll. But I stayed quiet and simply observed.

I stopped texting him. He messaged me for a quickie. In the interim time between the last fuck and this text I forbade me from sex. A spiritual and energetic cleanse, I called it. Besides engaging with sex with others, I also withheld from self-pleasure. Too many parts of my spirit had been scattered with the men I interacted with during the summer, so I had to make it back home into my body with truer intimacy. I was becoming energetically thin, lost, and desperate, the kind of desperation you don’t project out onto others but that swallows you whole, silently and viciously. “I’m down to be friends,” I said, “no sex.” “Awe,” Placid replies, “Why? Did all the other men ruin it for me? I’m not like them.” No, I thought, You ruined it for yourself. He agrees to hang out only as friends. I slip into his socks (newly washed) and head over.

I took some fried fish and sweet potatoes I cooked that evening. He heats it and serves our plates. We share a nice meal together (as friends). Anime blasting from his flat screen tv from which we transitioned to playing a fighting Demon Slayer game. I whoop his ass the first round. He wasn’t anticipating me a good gamer (he knows nothing about me). He beats me every other round until I tell him to fight against online players because I was tired. I’m on his bed. He’s at the foot of the bed sitting on a foldable chair. His arms are all out, muscles bulging, glistening with the blue light of the screen. I’m horny. I leave.

From my Jeep I text him, “I wish you would’ve hugged me and cuddled me more.” Placid replies, “You said you just wanted to be friends.” I reply something along the lines of, Yes all I want is to be friends, but we can still be intimate without sex. It flies over his head. He ghosts me. Maybe I’m the confused one. I hit him up a couple of days later, ask if he wants to go for a hike (I wasn’t tryna be holed up in his apartment again). He agrees. Mid hike, post laughing and catching up, he shuts me up. “Stop talking!” He whispers affirmatively, “I don’t want to talk about this, there’s people, there’s children here.” I was mid sentence about intimacy and my no sex policy. I was livid for being interrupted. But okay? I can respect a boundary? I drive us to his pad. He invites me in, even though he knows I’m upset. I’m not wearing socks because I anticipated this would happen. “Fine,” I pout, “But I’m not wearing socks,” I say to him without looking at him. He makes me oatmeal, while I wash my dirt marked feet in his shower. “Do you want to shower with me?” I ask. (Girlllll, get it together!)

We don’t have sex. We experience the intimacy of showering together. Period. We watch Scary Movie 2, lying down together, semi holding arms, awkwardly? We separate. Ok, maybe the memo did sink in about intimacy without the need for sex, but we both don’t know how to do it. He says he has evening plans with family so he has to go soon. I say, “Damn, and I was about to say we should fuck.” “Maybe another time, I’m short on time.” He hugs me hugs me before I leave. Once. Then again. tenderly lovingly. Holds me so long I rest my head on his shoulder, softening the stiffness of my defensiveness with him. Maybe intimacy is possible here? Regardless, God stepped in to remind me that sex with this man is not it. I leave. I speak to my medicine woman elder about the situation. I vent how angry I am that people, men, don’t know the difference between intimacy and sex! I crave intimacy! I yelp, Why does it have to be so hard?! She spews her biting refrain: everyone is a reflection of you.

The following week I ask Placid if he wants to have dinner together, “I’m making Kung Pao Chicken,” I say. “What time,” he asks. “I’m flexible,” I say. “5:30,” he replies. “Cool,” I say to which he replies “I know you’re falling for me and I don’t want to lead you on. I don’t want to hurt you,” he says. As if I had to make a motherfuckin’ U-turn on a non U-turn street my life yanks in every direction to get on the lane I’m tryna be at. I call him cocky for thinking he can tell me about me! He’s offended and says I don’t know him—if I did, he says, I would know he’s not being cocky. Boy fucken bye. “I’m not gonna go back and forth with you,” he says, “Come if you want.” I reply something along the lines of: I’m grateful for the good, but that I won’t be going to his pad no more so he doesn’t think I’m falling for him. The end. No reply from him.

Last week I was pushing folded clothes into my over stuffed drawers. I need to get rid of shit, I thought. His socks appear amidst the entangled unpaired socks slithering in my top drawer. Weeks after the Kung Pao incident I was able to reflect that I too, didn’t know the difference between sex and intimacy. The closeness I sought with him was non-romantic, but by default became sexual. I was judging him for something I was embodying. We attracted each other for this precise reflection on intimacy. I take with me the last hugs he gave me. They were the best. I decide to keep his socks as a reminder of intimacy: this man taught me so much about me by being true to himself. And also, like, who gives anyone their socks! I’ve never given anyone my socks! In other words, there were many moments of intimacy that did transpire between us, but I was blinded by sex and relationship status or whatever the fuck else that consumes people in the trespasses of “daring” (whatever that means).

These days I’ve been out to poetry readings, D&D gatherings, writing retreats, and connecting with more folks online. Kudos to me for ending things with Placid. It was the start of finding intimacy with every breathing moment, therefore Life itself. My interactions with folks have changed, there’s less defensiveness and less mental complexity when it comes to the give and take of existing on a planet for a brief moment in time. Sex and pleasure are mine to share when I want. But I know now that intimacy is how I’ll get to sex and pleasure with others, if it ever were to happen/ align with heart. I don’t want casual anythings. Although I’m still actively deleting men from my Instagram from years past, who I filter out by their stories popping up on my feed, I stumbled into a handsome 2 Spirit man. He matches my energy, is sweet, and loving. Intimacy. Even through text. Even at a distance. It’s easy. I couldn’t be happier. I have officially let go of the teacher that teaches through violence, hardship, coldness, and chaos. The teacher that has arrived now is love and it is tender with me (and the only way I choose to learn moving forward). No more breadcrumbs, just full willingness to exist in true presence and intimacy.