I come away from the kiss panting slightly. Lisa comes away just fine. She smiles at me, the regular smirk transformed into something more gentle, but it isn't reaching her eyes. I push on her slightly, backing her up until her knees hit the bed and she slowly collapses backwards, letting out a small huff as her back impacts the sheets. I fall down after her, my hands impacting either side of her head, going in for another kiss. She kisses back, her lips pressing against mine, and I can feel/hear the quiet moan that she lets out as one of my hands comes to rest on her chest.
It's so fake.
I back off, pulling away from the kiss. The hand on her breast comes down to capture the hand she's using to unzip my pants. She blinks her eyes open, looking at me once more. I stare back down, just meeting her eyes. The smile starts to drop, just the tiniest bit. I sigh heavily and roll off of my position over her, falling to the bed myself. I stare up at the ceiling, feeling the burn in my stomach and the passion just... Die. Lisa moves over, a hand coming across my chest to pull herself up against me. I instinctively raise an arm for her to scoot under and rest her head on my chest, while that arm comes down around her shoulders.
There's a minute of quiet. I'm just... Tired. Disappointed. I had known, going into this, just what it would entail, but there's always that little spark of hope that maybe I just haven't found the right way. Or that maybe she's wrong about herself, and if I just do it well enough...
"I'm sorry." The two words break the quiet, and my first instinct is to correct her. She doesn't have anything to be sorry about; I was the one who made the advances, the one who had been told, who said yes anyway. Despite that, some part of me feels that she should be sorry, because damn it I have needs too! And even just thinking that makes me disgusted with myself, because while I may want it she absolutely hates it. And here I am, practically forcing it on her because she won't say no.
I glance down at the blonde head just resting on my chest. After a moment Lisa moves her head as well, tilting it back to to look up at me. I can barely meet her eyes for a second before I have to look away.
It's been a month, now. A month since Lisa had confessed to me. A month.
When she'd admitted to me that she knew of my crush, on that night in the dark of my office, I had been... So happy. Having the person you like, like you back... I was almost gleeful. The moment had been perfect, the situation the best possible, and she had just told me that she liked me. I honestly wasn't going to get a better chance. So I moved to kiss her.
...she kissed back. She really did. The stars, the fireworks that books had described were all there, the twisting feeling in my gut sending shivers down my spine and making me tremble. I had to pull back for air eventually, flushed, gasping for breath.
Lisa just smiled at me, looking almost serene. There wasn't any sign of my own excitement, no heavy breathing, no red cheeks. I wasn't thinking clearly, at the moment, because all I could think was did I do it wrong? Lisa must have noticed my worry, the concern. With her power, there was no way she couldn't. The second kiss came from her. She leaned forward, bringing her mouth to mine. But without the heady feeling of a first kiss, the distraction was much less, and the feeling of the entire thing just being... Ever so slightly wrong more apparent. She pulled away, and I asked her what I was doing wrong. Lisa looked ever so slightly stunned, for a moment. Then she laughed a small, sad little laugh and admitted that she probably couldn't have kept it to herself forever.
Lisa is an asexual. The word wasn't exactly unfamiliar, but the details weren't as clear. I learned a lot that night. Just because asexuals weren't interested in sex didn't mean that they couldn't want relationships. Sex wasn't the be-all end-all of love, after all. She liked me, she wanted to be my girlfriend as badly as I wanted to be hers, but... She wasn't very interested in the more intimate part of the relationship.
Riding the the high of the moment, I had fallen over myself to reassure her, to let her know that I didn't care, that sex wasn't that important, that I could give it up. She had just.. Smiled at me. In retrospect, it was clear that she didn't believe me. She knew what was coming. We fell asleep together that night, cuddled up together on my bed. My arms tight around her.
I wasn't prepared for the reality of the situation. What it really meant. I had done research of my own, of course. Asexuals came in many different kinds. The ones who could have sex, and enjoy it, which seemed almost backwards. The ones who, well, just didn't care. It was an activity like running, to them. And then there were the ones who didn't like it. Who were actively repelled by sexual contact, who find it disgusting. Lisa had tried to tell me she was the second type, the kind that didn't necessarily mind doing it, the kind that didn't really find it an attractive idea but weren't really against it.
I even believed her, for a while. It culminated in the first and last time we ever had sex. I orgasmed, and she most certainly didn't. In fact, she couldn't disguise her distaste well enough to hide it from me.
I had felt... Horrible. It felt almost like rape. I had forced her into something she hated because I wanted it, because of my own hormones. I had apologized, I had begged her forgiveness, I had promised never to do it again.
It was barely a week before I had gone for another kiss. Lisa enjoyed them, usually. Light pecks on the cheek or lips, small tokens of affection. It's when I deepen it, let her catch a glimpse of exactly what her body makes me want to do to her that it becomes repulsive. She never says a word, but I can tell when it happens, when the delight on her end turns to tolerance. I pulled away, apologizing, and she forgave me easily.
...I was- still am- a foolish teenager, really. Power changes the nature of person, to be sure, but even with supernatural ability beyond the understanding of science, I was still a girl who hadn't even hit twenty. Restraint is hard. If it wasn't, crime wouldn't be a problem. Passion clouds judgement, and there are so many small things about my girlfriend that arouse it in me. The way she giggles when she's tickled, the pout that appears whenever she's reminded of the fact that she can't cook, the way she always finds the smallest excuse to be touching me. The times she doesn't even bother with an excuse and plops herself down on my lap to demand attention. It builds up, even as I remind myself that she doesn't want it, that I should be happy with what I have. Fingers and toys take the edge off, delay it, help keep it manageable.
But it it can't make it go away entirely. I am not a monk, I don't have superhuman control over my own mind and desire. It breaks through, and I kiss her in the way she dislikes, even as my own desire rises. Sometimes, I convince myself that she doesn't dislike it that much, that it's only a small annoyance on her part, that a moment longer won't be too bad. If I just cook her favorite dinner, it'll make up for this. Or maybe if I'm careful, or if I change how I act, or if, or maybe, if only I. The justifications go on and on.
It doesn't help that Lisa is so damn passive about it. She accepts it without a word of complaint. She even reciprocates, making it so much harder to pull away. Even when I go too far, as I just did, carrying her off to bed, she responds, kissing back, urging me forward.
Because she loves me, and she wants me to be happy. And there's no time that I feel worse than after those moments. When I force her into doing something she hates because I can't control myself. My greatest fear is that some day she'll get better at hiding her distaste, at pretending she likes it, and I won't know any better because I'm such an idiot. That some day I'll convince myself that her moans are real, that she really did like the way I touched her, because I want it to be true so badly. I want to show her how much I love her, how much I want her to be happy, and all my life I've been taught that sex is how that happens. I feel so much closer to her when I'm kissing her, I want her to feel that too, and she doesn't. She can't.
Lisa shuffles a little at my side. I raise my arm, and she slips out from my grasp, making her way out of the room.
I stare at the ceiling, still a little hot, wanting to follow her and touch her, and hating myself for it.
-
I pad into the kitchen. Taylor stays behind, laying on the bed. I can't just stay there, getting little hints of her self-loathing and desire while I take pleasure in simply touching her, the feeling of someone else being so close.
I regret a lot of things. I regret not seeing the clues at home, not being there for my brother, for making so many mistakes as a rookie villain, for being stupid enough to be caught by a cruel, vicious man who cared for me about as much as I cared about my dishwasher for being convenient, I regret lying to Taylor about the Travelers, I regret Noelle's death. I have a list.
And I really, truly wish I could regret telling Taylor that I love her. That I want to be with her. But I can't, because I'm selfish and I wouldn't give up lazy Sunday afternoons on the couch with Taylor for the world. I enjoy eating breakfast with her. I like teasing her over her habit of watching the news to stay up-to-date on cape news around the world. I get all tingly inside when I can actually get her to laugh; she always acts so startled whenever she does it, as though she's surprised by her own laughter. It's adorable. Most of all, I love being able to sit in her lap on the couch or cuddle with her in bed at night or even just being able to walk up to her and hug her whenever I feel like it. Just being close to her makes me happy.
But it isn't enough for Taylor.
She tries so hard to make that be enough, I know. She knows I don't like sex. I tried to hide it from her, at first. What was a good relationship without sex? I'd only really experimented with one boy before I realized how much I hated it. Even if the thought of doing it with a girl wasn't any better, when I actually tried it with Taylor it'd be different. It had to be, because I loved her. That made all the difference in the world.
It wasn't different. I still hated it. I don't like the 'sexy' touches, the deep kissing, any of it. Even with Taylor. I tried anyway, told myself that it wasn't so bad if it was her, that I could put up with it for Taylor. She caught on anyway.
I had- well, not quiet lied when I asked her to be my girlfriend, but I hadn't told the entire truth either. A lie of omission was still a lie, after all. Even if she caught me less than ten minutes after we became official. Then the lie of omission became an actual lie.
We had a lot of conversations, after that. About what I was, and what it meant. I told her I didn't mind sex, when I most certainly did. I told her that I wasn't exactly eager about it, when in reality it disgusted me. I told her that we could have sex and it wouldn't bother me. I thought I could fake it.
I couldn't. I tried, so very hard. I don't know how or when it slipped through, but Taylor caught it. I expected yelling, blame, and maybe an ended relationship. I was ready to take all of it- I deserved it, really, for the lie. I could take it.
What I couldn't take was Taylor blaming herself. She acted as though she was the one in the wrong, as if she was the one to blame. She apologized out loud, asked for my forgiveness when I was the one who had screwed everything up. It made me sick, to think that my own failures were making Taylor feel bad about herself.
We worked it out. Mostly. We both apologized, even though she didn't need to, and we moved on. But then Taylor continued.
Intellectually, I know it isn't her fault. She's a teenager, her hormones are running rampant, and I could even view it as a compliment that she can't control herself with me. Emotionally, I love her, and I want to make her happy, so I reciprocate. I kiss her back. But physically? I hate it. And somewhere in the dark corners of my mind, I can't help but blame her every time she advances on me, when she knows that I hate it and she does it anyway.
I beat it down. She really, actually can't entirely control herself when it comes to this, and I know that the way I touch back and fake it doesn't help her. I'm the one to blame. Even so, it still occasionally bubbles to the surface, and I feel so horribly guilty about it. About not being able to love Taylor back properly. About even thinking of blaming her for my own problems. For leading her on, pulling her into a relationship where she can't be satisfied.
A whispered 'I'm sorry' will never be enough to make up for that.
The coffee I make is bitter.