On Being Held
Reflections on the Muscles in Your Arms, the Expanse of Your Chest.
Last night, a woman offered
to hold me. She is big and strong.
She held me
to her chest and just let me put my entire weight on her.
Today, my old friend and mentor, David, held me
with his presence and his words.
In therapy this evening, I started talking about the sensation
of being held and I wept. My therapist noted that this seems to be
a big breakthrough for me.
That’s it.
It might be the whole thing,
even. Being held. Being held without expectation
and pressure. Being held not because I had to earn it,
but because I need it. I deserve it.
I’m tall. Six foot one.
But, I have always wished I was teeny tiny. A little woman.
Someone to be scooped up and held. Someone to be protected and looked
after. It’s what I’ve always longed for. When I was a bit younger,
I would have actual dreams of
Dwayne Johnson offering to hold me in his
giant arms against his massive chest.
And I would wake up with tears on
my pillow.
It’s not really ever been about sex. I look at Dwayne Johnson
and Jason Momoa and I cry,
not because I want them to wreck me in bed (although that’s not the worst idea I’ve had)
but because I want them to hold me.
This.
It is this that speaks volumes to me. It is this that feels like
ointment on a wounded heart. To be held.
To be treated like me, the real me. Not the tall, strong girl with the smoky
voice who holds people when they weep, but the one who needs held. Who gets held.
The damsel. The delicate rose. The little girl begging daddy to pick her up.
Once, I went to a man’s house to have sex with him. He was bigger than me.
He asked me if I wanted something to drink
and I said, “Just pick me up.”
He didn’t understand.
“Just pick me up in your arms,” I said.
He obliged and looked absolutely baffled by my request.
“Why am I doing this?” he asked.
“Don’t let go,” I said with a voice I didn’t recognize. I didn’t recognize it, because it was my own voice. Feminine, sweet, scared, hungry.
When I was in college, I had a crush on Z.
Z was a soccer player. He was handsome and muscular.
I wrote poems about his arms and his chest and hid them under my mattress.
One time, Z came to my dormitory room and I
put his penis in my mouth.
We did this a lot. He was straight. Had a girlfriend. He liked how my mouth felt.
One day, I walked to Z’s dormitory room and he asked, “What’s up, Armstrong?”
“Will you hold me?” I asked him, crying a little.
“What?” he asked with disdain in his eyes.
“Will you hold me against you?”
“No! Shit!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you wanna fuck?” he asked with a smirk.
“Why won’t you hold me?” I pleaded.
“You’re being a faggot. What’s wrong with you?”
“I don’t know,” I trailed off.
I don’t have the nerve to say it,
but one day,
my dad will hug me and I will say, “Don’t let go, daddy” and it won’t be weird and I won’t feel shame and I will be his teeny, tiny little girl and I won’t be afraid any more.
