Chad* was having a Halloween party at his house. Black and orange helium balloons grazed the ceiling and the place was decked out with string lights, dry ice mist flooding the living room floor. It was my first time at his place and I was impressed by the effort he’d put into hosting when most guys I knew would’ve grabbed a pack of beer, thrown on “Monster Mash” and called it a day. Walking down the hallway past the pumpkin-carving contest and guests in elaborate costumes, I passed Chad’s bedroom. Pausing briefly at the doorway, I appreciated that the bed was made and the room was tidy—not yet knowing I’d be spending the night there.
He had caught my attention a couple weeks prior. We had mutual friends and ended up getting lunch together. Chatting one-on-one over sandwiches on a Sunday afternoon, I felt drawn to him…and he seemed to feel the same—a suspicion he quietly confirmed when I walked into the party that night and felt his eyes rest on me, taking me in. It was a gaze with intent, one that wrapped around me from the crown of my head to the tips of my toes and captured a picture of me in this moment, just for him.
By the end of the night, it was just the two of us on the back porch, chatting in the still-warm Atlanta night. Sitting side-by-side in white plastic chairs, black candles flickered around us and crickets chirped as the neighborhood slept and we stayed up talking. His voice felt like something physical in my ear, the sound waves of his laugh rippling through my ribcage.
And suddenly, he kissed me—with lips that were full, soft, and supple…and surprisingly forceful in a way I hadn’t experienced prior. In time, I’d come to ache for their strength.
Caught off-guard but ecstatic, I decamped to the restroom to put myself back together. I splashed my face with water and leaned back against the cool, green tile. Outside the bathroom window, I could hear Chad on the deck, whistling a tune into the woods. Somehow, whistling was sexy now—as if I could feel his strong, warm mouth on my body with every note he sent ringing out in the late-night air.
I bent over and ran chill water over the nape of my neck. When I opened the door, Chad was in the hallway and an eager impatience hung in the air. Without a word, he took my hand and led me to his bedroom. I stood in the middle of the room, remembering the moment earlier in the evening when I’d first peered into this intimate space.
Chad gently closed the door and turned back to me, walking over slowly. He slid his palms around my hips then threw me sideways on the bed. Somehow, I already knew, things were going to be different with Chad.
I lay underneath him as he knelt on his hands and knees, one hand gently gripping my throat. With the other, he laced his fingers hard through mine and pressed my hand into the bed. His eyes ran over me—face, freckles, throat, chest, a long black cotton dress resting on the horizons of my form.
Chad watched my ribs and abdomen rise and fall, seeing the breath come and go. The blood in my throat pumped against the pressure of his palm and broad fingertips. He dropped his mouth close to my ear. “Are you okay?” he whispered. I pressed my forehead into his cheek and nodded yes. I didn’t feel restricted by his grasp; I felt placed on a pedestal. My center was warm and blood pumped through my bones.
He sat up at the foot of the bed, slowly and firmly grabbed both my ankles, then pulled down hard. My dress slid up to my knees. He kissed the corners of my ankles and ran his hands up my calves, his fingertips skimming the backs of my knees and the exterior of my thighs.
And then…I bolted upright and scrambled backward. I stood up, left the room, went to the kitchen, and gulped down a glass of water. There was a moment of silence, just my labored breathing, then creaks from the hallway. Chad appeared in the doorway, slightly puzzled, slightly worried. “Are you okay?”
Like many (if not all) women who have sex with men, I’d had unpleasant sexual experiences where a partner prioritized his own pleasure. Or he’d assume he had permission to do something I hadn’t explicitly consented to. I’d be enjoying the intimacy, and then find myself annoyed at having to swat away multiple attempts to do whatever he wanted to do. Sometimes it felt like frustration; on a few occasions, it felt like fear.
So by the time I started to date Chad shortly after that first fateful night (he was surprisingly understanding, holding me while I tried to explain what I couldn’t yet explain to anyone), I could be...skittish. If I felt he was about to cross a line or had just crossed one, or if, for whatever reason, I suddenly became afraid, I’d bolt out of the bed and get dressed. Then I’d need to go to the other room or even leave the house altogether. It was disorienting for both of us. One moment, we’d be immersed in the world of physical touch, tapping into something primal and ancient within us. The next, we’d be snapped out of that experience. But it was a mechanism I’d come up with, unconsciously, to make sure I could protect myself.
Chad was patient and tried to be mindful of my boundaries and triggers. But even I wasn’t sure where the lines were.
One afternoon we were at my house, in my bed. “I’ve got something for you,” Chad said, pulling out a box of Crayola markers.
I didn’t get it.
He sat up and asked where I felt my limits were that day. Lying flat on the bed in my bra and underwear, I placed my palms on my thighs and traced a line with my fingers. He took the purple marker and followed the line around the circumference of my thigh.
“I am not going to go past this line,” he said. I nodded and felt assured. No one had ever done something like this for me—asking me about my boundaries, let alone helping me find a way to express them.
With the lines (literally) drawn, Chad grabbed my ankles and pulled me so that my hips were at the end of the bed. I could feel his erection pushing against his pants as he held my legs against his torso, resting in the gap just below my knees. He held us both there for a moment, just letting the feelings soak in. I loved that he was obviously aroused but in no rush—actively holding himself back and going at my pace. His restraint made me want him all the more.
Slowly, Chad knelt on the floor and kissed the backs of my knees. With his left hand, he held my ankles together, up in the air above his head. He licked the fingers of his right hand and slid them between my thighs, never passing the purple line. Kissing up the backs of my legs, he slid his tongue and fingers into the crevice between them.
I laid back, breathing hard, tears seeping from my eyes, completely overwhelmed with how romantic, loving, intense, and comforting it all was. I loved his dedication—how eager he was to please me and respect my boundaries. This was a partner who deeply understood the concept of consent—who showed me what sensuality and physical connection can be like with someone who prioritizes how their partner feels sexually, mentally and emotionally. This was a rare breed of man.
After dating for about a year, Chad and I went our separate ways. He moved abroad for work, and eventually I did too. Admittedly, although I’ve gone on to have more boyfriends and sexual partners, I have not had another experience like what Chad and I shared. Sure, I’ve had partners who were eager to give—but mostly in ways they wanted to. They only cared to give pleasure as long as it was also arousing for them or boosted their ego.
As I mentally sift through a period of semi-self-imposed celibacy, I’ve been reflecting a lot on what Chad brought to my bedroom and how I can seek out more sex like that—where respect, comfort and restraint are paramount. The next time I choose to be intimate with someone, I’m bringing a box of markers.
*Name has been changed.
