I was supposed to like it.
The way it feels when a hand
slowly goes down my hips
in ways my head fantasized it. 

Even as a teen, 
|the wonders of sexuality 
flied innocent in me.
I failed to understand,
of course back then.

I like to think, if I ever fall in love
It’ll be “the moment" to not feel so lost.
Because I happen to know, every 
time I’ve touched a second body,
is only the fake feeling of yearning 
running through my body.

Wanting to feel loved, 
Wanting to care and be cared for.
A relationship outside of the regular norms.
Where the amount of sex doesn’t say
how much commitment we got.

Maybe I like to be touched.
I think I rather just be touched.
A kiss here and there, what’s wrong
with only affection?

I can’t honestly tell.

I was okay.
I thought I had it figured out.
I convinced my pelvis to not feel bad
for not reacting at all.

I was fine until the day
I heard them say:
"because we are sexual beings",
I'm supposed to relentlessly want it.

But what if I say, that me as I am,
feel no interest in what goes down my hips?
Could it be, possibly, that oh broken me,
it's only afraid to admit, that
I don't feel what your gasping loudly moans
are dying to transmit? 

Nica Vega,
July 12, 2021