Girls Can Tell

‘You need to listen to this,’ Stockholm says, getting a disc out of her car when you return home from the restaurant.

‘What do you know about the things I need?’ you ask, grinning, holding the kitchen door open for her, and kissing her neck as she walks past you.

You pour two glasses from the remains of an open bottle of 2001 Muscat de Rivesaltes by Château de Jau, adjust the lighting in the house and start the disc.

‘Hit track eleven,’ she says, slipping behind you.

‘It goes all the way to eleven?’ you find yourself saying before you can hide your geekiness. She ignores the comment.

You begin to listen, your back to both her and your bed.

She slides her left hand along your waist and under your shirt. You turn the music up and your body to the right; her hand holds its place and runs along your left lower ribcage as you turn.

You place your left hand on her upper sacrum and apply a constant, gentle pressure. You kiss her neck to distract her from the pressure for a slow thirty seconds. You hold your lower lip over her carotid artery, feeling the pulse at first quicken, then slow as the sacral pressure causes a parasympathetic release.

With your right thumb you hit the replay button on the remote. Then, with the same thumb, press firmly against her sternal notch, remote still in hand.

You run the knuckles of your left hand up her spine, opening and turning your hand at the top of her scapula to support her neck. You lean into her and—just before she looses her balance—you throw yourself onto the bed, turning as you fall, pulling her on top of you…


The first time you saw a woman have an orgasm, you were frightened by it. The way her face contorted and the wounded rabbit-like noises convinced you that she was having a seizure. You were halfway to the kitchen to get a spoon for her to bite by the time you figured out what was going on. You now know that the fear of swallowing one’s tongue is a myth, and you are no longer afraid of orgasms.


‘Want some cake?’ you ask her afterwards, getting up to serve some cake.

She puts on an oversized tee from your drawer. You hand her the plate of chocolate and walk out into the porch. The two of you sit, enjoying the night air. She eats some and feeds you some. When the cake is gone, she lights a cigarette.

‘So,’ she says. ‘Really, what’s your story?’

And between the wine, the sex, the chocolate, the night air, and the exhaustion of the day, you tell her your story. You tell her things you wouldn’t tell the internet, tell the world, that you wouldn’t tell—perhaps—even your friends and family.

‘Okay,’ she says, pausing, when you’re finished, ‘just don’t break my heart.’

You take her hand and lead her back to your bed. You close your eyes and kiss her forehead. She nuzzles against your chest as you both prepare for sleep.

‘I feel like this day has lasted eight weeks,’ you mumble as you fall into sleep.