Timing

You’re on his couch, some movie playing, and he’s turning toward you slowly with that look. This is it—the thing you’ve been waiting for. His face is coming close and you’re about to finally kiss him and your stomach decides right then to do something unholy. Not now. Not when you’re supposed to be desirable and present and transcendent. Your body’s got no interest in romance narrative—it’s just physics and biology and the worst possible timing.

It’s the thing nobody tells you about desire: you’re always also just a sack of functions trying not to betray itself. He’s probably thinking about how he looks, whether he’s doing it right. You’re thinking about not being disgusting. That’s the real moment—not the kiss, but the second before, where you’re both human enough to be anxious about being human.

I don’t think you ever get over that anxiety. You just get better at laughing at it, at remembering that the other person is equally mortified by their own body. Everyone’s standing there hoping they don’t fart. That’s the actual intimacy.