I pause because I can already hear what Loncey thinks of this in their voice. “No.”
“That’s a lot of trauma to hold inside your body all on your own,” they say.
“Trauma? It wasn’t trauma,” I say but my voice shrinks and so do the defences I built years ago when this happened.
“Maeve, he violated your trust. He hurt your body. He abused you.”
I want to snort. I want to laugh. I want to bat their words away, but I can’t. Instead I start to slowly, silently cry.
“You know, I have always wondered if this is why I don’t like sex. Like, am I asexual for real? Or is it all just because I had bad experiences?”
The sheets rustle and I watch Loncey wriggle a little closer but still they give me space, don’t reach for me or touch me.
“You mean, there were other things that happened?”
I sniff. “Not as bad. But the first few times I had sex, I didn’t really want it. I was forcing myself to do it, to see if it changed anything in me. The first time was with this other influencer who made me laugh and I really did like hanging out with him, and he was sweet enough, waiting until I told him I was ready. But the sex was… honestly, unbearable. And he picked up on it. He broke up with me not long after. The second time was after I’d just hired Aisling, my agent in Dublin and he was a model also signed with her. No word of a lie, he’s the prettiest-looking fella you’d ever be likely to meet so I figured it had to be better with him. I would have to feel something. But I didn’t. We did the deed but the next day I texted him to say I was too busy for a relationship. There were a few others I tried to see if it was me or them, butI’ve pretty much kept to that party line ever since. And that’s the extent of my sad and sorry sexual escapades.”
“Maeve,” Loncey says but then falls silent.
“Please don’t feel sorry for me,” I say, wondering if that’s the awkwardness I can feel now in the room. I don’t want their pity.
“I don’t feel sorry for you. I feel angry for you.”
“Well, I don’t think I want that either. I’m not broken, alright. Even if the reason I don’t want to have sex is because some feckless shithead stuck his fingers inside me without asking first, that doesn’t mean I’m broken.” I hear the desperation in my voice, desperation for what I’m saying to be the whole and irrefutable truth.
“I know you’re not broken. You are one of the most whole and put-together people I know.”
I pause, steadying my voice before speaking again. “Then what are you thinking?”
“I think you’re very brave for navigating that all on your own, when you were so much younger too. I think you’re beautiful to still want to get close to somebody after being hurt. I think you’re incredibly strong, even though I wish you didn’t have to be. And I also think I want to hold you, but only if it would make you feel good.”
I wipe my face with my hand. “Yes. Please.”
Loncey’s arms waste no time reaching for me and I’m pulled into their embrace. I bury my face into their shoulder, and I tuck one of my legs between theirs. I wrap my arm around their body and stroke the smooth silk of their nightie as they start to leave a constant rhythm of kisses on my forehead.
“I’m sorry, Loncey,” I say, and I hope they hear the depth and sincerity with which I say it.
“Why, Maeve, why are you sorry?”
“Because I may never want that. I may never want you inside me.”
They push me away and grip hold of my upper arm. In the light, I’d be able to see their face but right now it’s too dark. However, as soon as they start to talk, I can easily imagine what their expression is.
“Do not apologise for that. Never ever, Maeve. You can apologise for being grumpy, or more sarcastic than is necessary, and for making me eat crappy food when I’d rather have a perfectly decent chicken kale salad, but you must never, ever apologise for that.”
“Okay,” I say quietly, and I make an effort to lodge this little speech somewhere inside me where it will grow and claim all the self-doubt and fear and shame I still have even though I have tried so long to rid myself of it all.
“What do you need now?” they ask. “To feel better. Tell me what you need?”
“I know I need sleep,” I answer honestly, feeling the weight of my exhaustion settle in my bones.
“Shall I keep holding you, or do you need space?”
“I need.” I pause, unsure of what I need but it doesn’t take much thought for me to realise. “I need to feel close to you.”
“How would you like to feel close to me?”
“Can we… can I do what I did before? In Vegas? But with you holding me?”
