Janessa Alexis

H,

You were my first. That’s the honest truth. You might not think this to be true, but I swear to you that it is. It is. I’ve misled you over the years, making you believe that I have more experience than I actually do. It’s a bad habit of mine, you’ll come to read. Wanting to appear cooler and older than I actually am, thinking that if I couldn’t present myself as someone who was desirable to others, then I couldn’t possibly be truly desirable to those who mattered. To you, for example.

I think about that now, how silly it is to lie about myself, how that’ll somehow make me more attractive to my peers. But I suppose that’s what you do when you’re young and desperate for love. You just can’t help giving whatever it takes to be desired.

I remember with almost perfect clarity losing my virginity to you. We’d spent months toeing that line, teasing each other with the possibility of more, but both a bit too fearful of crossing to the other side. I can’t lie though; I was unprepared, that first time. There was a part of me that expected to wait until the perfect moment arose. Not in a romantic sense. In the sense that I assumed my body would just know when it was supposed to happen, that I’d have a bodily revelation about welcoming you into my embrace. Instead, as we’d kissed on your bed, you’d pulled back and simply asked, “should we?” And in the haze, I’d said yes. So we did.

It wasn’t painful. There was a lot of pressure, though. A foreign sensation. But it was a pleasant discomfort, something I knew I’d come to enjoy. I’ve always been a sexual person, and knew that this would just be the beginning of a long, complicated journey between myself and my sexuality.

I’m just thankful that I shared this experience with you. I’m grateful for the years that I grew into my sexuality with you. I’m thankful that, to this day, though we no longer hold the roles in each other’s lives that we used to, I know I can still lean on you for support in my times of need.

Thank you, H.

Truly.

–

A,

Well, weren’t you unexpected.

I would’ve never guessed that taking an online course would lead to meeting you online, and then in person, and then fucking you in the Airbnb my ex-boyfriend and I were renting at the time.

Though this may sound cruel, I initially didn’t even find you particularly attractive. I only knew what I’d seen on a screen; that you seemed quiet and calm and sweet. Planning that trip with my ex, I’d wanted to show him that I knew people, that I had connections. And the timing was superb; our course was ending, and everyone was still fresh off the high of going through the experience together, wanting to stay in touch, stay connected. So when I sent that first message, saying that I’d love to meet you in person upon my arrival, you were warm and welcoming. As a friend, I’d thought.

I was shocked when you’d shared details of your romantic endeavors, your open relationship. Your sexual escapades. I was intrigued. Maybe a little revolted. So curious. I took this information with me, buried it deep within, debated sharing it with my ex. I wasn’t sure what the implications of this new information would bear on the relationship I was in, how it would change our dynamic.

See, I’d always wondered what it would be like, to be more open with my relationships. It wasn’t that I didn’t still feel jealous or insecure; it was more-so that I understood myself better, and I wanted to test out the limits and boundaries I’d previously set for myself. I’d just never before had the courage to take that leap.

Yet.

We were so nervous– I was so nervous. I knew you weren’t cruel, nor malicious. At worst, I thought, you’d just turn us down. But the drinks helped. So did the low lighting. I’d undressed in the bedroom alone, my fingers shaking, wondering what it feels like, for you, to be allowed to touch someone else’s partner. My heart sped up at the thought.

It was a lot of hands, everywhere. Mostly not knowing where to go. It was a lot of teeth. It was a lot.

We don’t talk anymore. I don’t know that we ever will again. But just know that I’m grateful to you. You’re a part of the reason why I got to experience some of the following encounters.

–

A,

I’m conflicted about you. A part of me doesn’t want to discuss what transpired between us, let alone acknowledge that anything ever happened in the first place. But I think it would be a disservice to us both if I didn’t. We’ll both live with this secret for the rest of our lives, a whisper of something shared forever on the tip of the tongue. And I like to think that I’ve been through enough that I deserve to tell someone that, yes, something did happen between us. Even though we should’ve known better.

The first time it happened, it was delirium; so many gasps and pants and awe. I couldn’t believe it. And in the aftermath, you couldn’t either. So where you would’ve grown distant from me, pushed me away, I had to reassure you that it was okay, that whatever had happened between us didn’t need to become something larger than what we could make it; it could be whatever we wanted. You softened. You gave in.

Time changed our dynamic. Distance cleared my head.

When we’d had our next encounter, things were almost entirely changed between us. I’d grown weary and hurt; I wasn’t the same person you’d known me to be. Yet you acted as if I were. It made me uncomfortable– ashamed, even. Mostly, it made me angry. I was angry at myself for not being the girl you wanted me to be, and I was angry at you for not allowing me to be the person I’d become.

Whatever moments we shared in those weeks we spent together, just know this: I wasn’t ready for them. I don’t blame you. I can’t. But I also just wish you’d listened to me more, focused less on my legs and more on my face. Because while my legs may have parted for you, my face expressed my actual distress.

I hope, wherever you are, whomever you’ve become, that you’re well. Genuinely. I don’t wish you ill. You were there for me during a difficult period in my life, and have been there for me during some of my best. I’m happy to have shared portions of my life with you, truly. I don’t want the poor ending of our relationship to overshadow the actual beauty of the period of time we got to spend in each other’s lives.

Take care of yourself. Please.

–

B,

When I think back on the kind of people I’ve taken to bed, you’re the one that surprises me the most. You have the kind of genuinely adventurous spirit that I sometimes pretend to possess. You’re attractive in an obvious way, sexy and beautiful. Sometimes a bit basic, but mostly in a tasteful manner.

I clocked you the second I saw you, knowing that you were out of my league, but helpless not to attempt something.

Though I’ve always looked down on people who rely on alcohol to be the most honest version of themselves, I admit to having relied upon it in some of my lowest moments. My most needy. It’s a dangerous substance to experiment with, especially for a person like me, who doesn’t seem to have any limits or boundaries when given the opportunity to place the blame and responsibility on something– or someone– else. It’s not a good combination, me and alcohol and little-to-no supervision.

It did, however, allow me the opportunity to talk to you. Flirt with you. Eventually go home with you.

You were hesitant at first. You’d never done something like this before. And as I’ve previously revealed, I hadn’t either. Not really. Thankfully the frenzy of just being in the same bed as you was enough to fuel me. I gave you pleasure. And received pleasure in return, just from knowing that I was the one to please you. I can’t remember the last time I’d felt so triumphant in bed.

And if you weren’t able to make eye contact with me the next morning? And if you avoided seeing me in the next couple of group outings? That was okay. I knew that things would eventually be all right between us, because we would both come to appreciate that evening for what it was: an opportunity taken, an experience lived.

Conversations between us happened less and less, but became more insightful, more profound. We settled, calmed. And were even able to side eye each other, smile, and move on.

–

K,

I denied it, did you know that? When people asked me if I thought I’d end up in bed with you.

In my defence, in those first few days, I really didn’t believe anything was going to happen between us. I didn’t imagine that a person like you would be interested in a person like me. But I’m also not stupid. In the kind of environment we were in, the circumstances we were under, the tension I’d felt between us… no, I can’t play stupid. Maybe coy, but the truth of the matter is that, as soon as we entered that house party, I knew I’d eventually end up in your bed.

Initially I tried to take you to mine. It wasn’t an empty room, though; there were at least three other bodies in there, all able to hear, maybe even see. There were shared giggles and exasperated huffs between us before we sheepishly stumbled back to your room. The halls were a little fuzzy, my head spinning, my belly filled with alcohol. Maybe this isn’t a good idea. But I forgot about all of these things when you climbed on top of me.

I still maintain that you’re the only guy I’ve ever been with that’s ever made me feel inadequate in bed. Don’t misunderstand me: it was nothing you said. And nothing you did, not explicitly. It was more in the manner in which you moved your body, maneuvered me. Your experience was evident in your hands, your hips, your demands. I think you also expected more of me, expected me to have more experience than I did. When you were on top, behind, above, I just couldn’t help but feel a little useless, a little too far out of my league.

I remember returning home the next day, shocked. Numb. A little used. I justified it to myself that, really, we’d used each other, and that no one was really harmed in this interaction, this exchange. I still believe this to be true, sort of. But I now also recognize myself to not be the kind of person who can have sex with someone without at least caring for them a little bit.

Objectively, it was some of the best sex I’ve ever had. But it was also the most disconnected I’ve ever felt with someone. I’m still grateful for what I learned from this encounter. I don’t know that I’d ever want to see you again, though.

–

F,

What’s crazy is that I don’t even really remember having sex with you. In fact, there’s the distinct possibility that we didn’t have sex together. Especially given the fact that I thought I’d end up in bed with your mate, and not with you.

I spent the majority of the evening with O. Getting drinks with him, kissing him, smoking with him. Admittedly, a lot of alcohol was involved. It makes the night hazy to me. But this is what I remember:

I remember you were funny. You felt very warm to me. We got along well. It seems to me, though, that in the blink of an eye, I’d gone from laughing with you at the bar, my arm around O, and then I was in the bathroom, my legs around your waist, your pants on the ground, us braced against the toilet. I remember giggling and leaning over, pushing forward, falling backward. I vaguely remember you helping me redress. I then remember sitting on the sidewalk, O holding back my hair as I threw up on the pavement, the three of us waiting for an Uber to take us back. And then, somehow, impossibly, there were three of you, a blond added to the mix, and you all helped me back into my bunk, where I kissed you all goodnight, thankful you’d all helped me back to bed.

The next morning brought about a pounding headache and a lost phone. A lot of bruises, a few scratches. Blanks in my memory. Knocking on your door, you gave me my phone back and filled me in on some of the details of the previous evening’s shenanigans. And when I’d asked you if something had happened between us, you’d only smirked and said that it’d been an eventful night.

As we continued texting after that night, my interest in you didn’t wane, though it did change. I still had so many questions. Did I sleep with you? Had it been any good? Had I been any good? There’d even been the potential of us reuniting, just to sate my curiosity. But I decided against it. And I’m glad I did. Because while I wonder about us having sex together, I don’t think that opening up my personal space to you would’ve been the best decision. I instead like to keep you in my back pocket as a funny story with a fun person.

Let’s leave it at that, yes?

–

E,

I think that out of all my one-off encounters I’ve had so far, you’re the one I would’ve really liked to have sex with again. Just once more.

I don’t know that I’ve ever had as much confidence as I did that night. I’d just gotten my hair done. I was dressed up. It was one of my last nights in the city. And I was under no supervision. I just wanted to go out, have an adventure, forget about it the next day. The prospect of meeting someone was high, and I took pains to ensure it happened right. So while I might’ve appeared casual to you, the reality is that– a lot of what happened that evening? I personally helped engineer. The bar, the car, the sex? It was almost all me.

You were of course so fucking charming. Great at compliments, at making me feel beautiful and confident. Great at having a good time and putting people at ease. I really admire these qualities of yours. Not everyone is able to pull them off sincerely. But you do. And you do it well.

Now. Did I anticipate fucking in your car? No. Maybe I didn’t truly have a hand in engineering that one. Honestly, I’d always wanted to avoid car sex. I still maintain, even now, after having experienced both car sex and sex in bed, that the best type of sex happens when you’re both comfortable. Having sex in a cramped car doesn’t equal comfortable in my mind.

Oh well. It was still kind of hot. Just the novelty of it. Driving around recklessly, trying to find a secluded area. Giving up and parking in suburbia, families able to see the car rocking from their window. Worse, maybe, if they could actually see us through your windows, my body pressed to yours, my hands braced against the car as I braced you against me.

I wish I’d taken you up on your offer to meet again the next night. It was just poor timing.

Know that I think fondly of you, though. And I appreciate the odd texts you send me.

Stay charming.

–

A,

I don’t know what I expected when I agreed to go home with you. Honestly– and I have to be honest here, because I don’t know that I’ll ever again have the chance to be this honest– you’re a bit boring. I don’t say this as an insult. I say it in more of a factual way; you’re not the type that likes excitement or change or adventure. You’re very set in stone, very practical, serious. And while all of these qualities would’ve endeared me to you in the past, this current version of myself didn’t find you particularly enticing.

So your invitation to go back to your place seemed innocent. Mostly. While I had an idea in mind that you might propose something, I didn’t think I’d accept. I was just kind of curious to see what kind of moves you’d try to pull on me.

Talking about books didn’t do anything for me, though. Neither did turning on the music. But it definitely left an impression, you taking me back to your room, where you’d set up your studio lights. I was overwhelmed at the possibility of exposing so much of myself to someone that I didn’t even particularly like, let alone trusted. Your adamance at being able to see my body, see how you manipulated it, was intense, and too intimate for me, and almost put me off from moving forward with this little experiment.

But I thought, “I’m basically naked. Let’s make the most of things.”

Turning down the lights didn’t lessen the enormity of the moment. And it’s crazy: the person you are in bed is absolutely not the person you portray in your every-day life. You’re passionate and sensual and focused. Seeing the switch in you was almost alarming. And when you were taking me from behind, I swear, to this day, that I’ve never been louder with anyone else. Maybe it was the unexpectedness of it all. But let’s just say that I’m glad your brother wasn’t at home that evening, and that I never have to go back to your place and potentially run into the neighbours who had the unfortunate pleasure of hearing me through the walls that evening.

Though I don’t plan on bedding you anytime soon, I admit to a certain curiosity about what other encounters you’ll experience. I wonder what others would write about you. And I hope that you sometimes think of me.

–

A,

You’ve become one of my favourite anecdotes to share with others.

You’re probably the singular encounter that’s impacted me the most. You were such an unexpected pleasure. And I still to this day have some feelings for you. I don’t know how to describe these feelings, and can’t even begin to explain why they’re still here. But just know that they are. And even when they’ll fade, just know that a part of me will always carry this experience within me.

It started with a hike, then good food, lots of drinks, some dancing. It ended on a rock. This might all seem uninteresting and unremarkable to anyone else, but seeing these words, reading them strung together in this order, does something to me. It allows me to remember a good time in my life, a day in which I was able to be my most uninhibited self.

Listen: yes, I was trying to impress you that day. I was trying to annoy you. I was trying to get and maintain your attention. I couldn’t help it. Almost everything I did in your presence was to get you to notice me. And it worked, I guess, because we ended up on that rock at two in the morning. And didn’t end up going home until around eight.

The sex itself was good, of course. But not entirely “amazing.” I mean this in the sense that our encounter really shouldn’t have been anything significant. But– I don’t know. The whole day with you was intense. Everything I felt was intense. I couldn’t get it out of my mind, this feeling of being grateful to be alive, grateful to have spent the day, those few moments, with you. Grateful to have met you, to have you become a part of the fabric of my person (however big, however small).

I’m even more grateful that you’ve become what I consider to be a good friend. I don’t know that this will last, that this type of relationship is sustainable. But I appreciate our efforts. I enjoy having you in my current life.

And I wish you the best. I want you to succeed.

–

D,

Our arrangement is supposed to be easy. Straight-forward. Yet I find myself constantly having conflicting thoughts and feelings about you, about us.

Part of what makes writing about you so difficult is the fact that we’re still involved with each other; the end of this chapter of my life is still unclear to me. There’s a kind of relief in that, it’s true; if things haven’t yet ended between us, then there’s the possibility that the ending will be sweet. But let’s be honest: there are just so many possible endings, and none are ever guaranteed to be happy. Or healthy.

I wonder about your interest in me. Really. When I’m feeling low and vulnerable, I wonder what about me seems to capture you. I haven’t a clue.

So I’ll say what holds my interest in you. You’re genuine. For better or worse. You refuse to lie to me, sometimes even dodging the most mundane of questions, things that don’t seem big to me, but to you seem to mean the world. It frustrates me. It also humbles me. I feel I could learn a lot about the way you’re currently conducting your life. You’re caring and funny and infuriating, sometimes. I respect your discipline, your commitment to school, work, family. Even if it sometimes comes at the cost of my personal sense of self-worth. That’s on me.

I do like you, D. I don’t know that I could ever see myself in a committed, romantic relationship with you. I don’t know if that could ever happen, or if that’s even something you’ve thought about. But I do know that I am committed to you, in the sense that I’m not currently interested in pursuing anything with anyone else. And maybe I sometimes confuse these two things. Maybe I sometimes wonder about having that “girlfriend” title again, being that for someone, and I conflate that with our current relationship. I just have to be honest, though: I don’t think I’m ever going to be that person for you. I don’t think you’d ever allow it.

What we have right now is good. It works for us both. It warms my heart when I feel lonely, and grounds me when I think of leaving. I hope, wherever we end up, whomever we end up with, that we’re still able to think back on this period of our lives fondly. With admiration. And with grace.