unfumbling

"She wondered as she watched him sleep safe in his own place far from her why she thought only of hurt. When she was near him, why did she cry. His lovemaking was good. Solid and certain. Unfumbling. Free, somehow clean. Like his neat apartment. Like his clean food. It was good. But though her body responded to him, he was very far from her, from any place she usually lived. His eyes, open or closed in sleep did not touch her, and while he fucked he said so little, nothing at all really addressed to her, just the formula utterances he’d learned by rote to say as he was getting off. And when he was through he turned and slept, and waking took her home. Politely. Smoothly. And she cried. She didn’t know what to make of this. Of his confidence. His desire. His isolate sureness. Like Stephen he refused to make her real."
-paula gunn allen, 'the woman who owned the shadows', p 81-82

I am fascinated by this quote. I think that the sexual dynamics that we create, perpetuate, and participate in are so telling when it comes to understanding our selves, our wounds, and ways we are healed. There is so much in this paragraph that I can't really begin to unpack it. But I wanted to share it.

peace,
becca