You know, your (ex) friend is right: I’m too good for you. It’s not easy for me to say that; after all, as one who practices the art of spirituality, I (perhaps naively) like to think that we are all beautiful souls. Looks like I might be wrong about that.
The first time we met, my gut told me to go far away and never come back for more. You slouched in your chair, with a pout on your face, as if you were five years old. I’m really not into pedophilia and even though you kept telling me, “If you don’t want to see me again, just block me on the site; really, it’s okay, I won’t mind” I didn’t want to play that game. Maybe I should have blocked you, then. Maybe I should have listened to your words and my gut, at the time.
You called me again, several times, actually, before I decided to answer. We went out to dinner and you surprised me with your sense of humor. You made me laugh.
We courted, then kissed; your kisses wooed me, like you actually knew what you were doing. After we would kiss you said to me, “Don’t look at me with that goofy look in your eyes!…” You didn’t want me to like you. Why did you continue to call? Your self-esteem was truly in the toilet.
Then we were hanging out at my house and your fingers went somewhere I didn’t expect. They felt good being there and I let go, the feeling washing over me: a guy who knows how to touch. There was something in your hands, your fingers, your touch that got to me.
I was easily led into your bed; after all, I wanted more of that touch. We made love at least two times and then you lost it, over the phone. We were innocently talking, as we did, for a length of time. I said something, nothing crucial, in fact extremely inconsequential; you said, under your breath, “Idiot.” I was a bit flabbergasted; did I hear you right? Exactly what were you angry about?
When I asked you to repeat what you had just said, it was obvious you had said it because you didn’t repeat it. So I told you I had to go (too many conversations, lovemaking later?) and hung up. Your word and tone made me feel a little saddened; I knew I did nothing to provoke you and wondered why I was being treated that way. As Rodney Dangerfield would say, “I don’t get no respect.”
I like being a peacemaker when I am able and when I read something that reminded me of you and our situation and what you just might be experiencing, I forwarded it to you, with a short, sweet note. It flew back into my face, with: “Take me off your email list.” Ever so wanting to reconnect (god only knows why) I wrote something back and your reply was simple: “Take me off your email list.”
So I got the message. I easssily forgot about you, the shenanigans and all; the drama that seemed to accompany the laughter. I deleted your name and number from my phone list. I wasn’t sorry, I felt relieved, actually. Read: RELIEVED.
Then, out of the blue, I got a message from you, something about how my facebook account popped up on your email. You emailed me to let me know. I deleted your email—poof! gone!—and it felt good. I thought how much nerve you seemed to have, thinking that I want to be friends with someone who is verbally abusive. (Abusive: according to you, the “buzzword,” the one that easily riles you, makes your chest hair stand up as you beat your chest with your fists and explode, your neck veins popping out along with your eyes.) Let me tell you this: I am not responsible for your anger. Feel it. Know it. Acknowledge it. It is all yours and yours alone. Own it. No one else will. Not even me—surprise.
Soon after, you called me, yet I didn’t realize it was you, since you were off my phone list. I was surprised to hear your voice and didn’t quite know what to make of it. You were soft-spoken, sweet, disarming. You apologized to me and asked me for forgiveness. It moved me, what you said. Your words, so innocent, your heart, so open. I forgave you because I realize how important it is to forgive (first of all, ourselves); the absolute power and strength of forgiving.
Then you asked me, if I want to see you, again. My mind wasn’t sure, my heart was tempted (actually I think it was just my sex organs) so I gave in. “Sure,” I told you.
You wanted to see me right away and my schedule was too busy; each time we talked, you asked if I am coming over to your place. The telephone sexual tension was high and we flirted, teased and got excited with our energy and our words each time we talked. And we talked every day.
On the first date, sitting in the car was just too much for me; I wanted to touch you. I suppose we started out on a “bad” foot, as pretty soon the car was steamy and the windows were all fogged-up and you were moaning. I left the car before it got way too serious and you didn’t bother walking me to my front door.
We made a dinner plan for the following week; we both looked forward to it. You called me early in the day, saying you would call me after you finished work. When you called, you were shopping at Target and asked me if there was anything there that I wanted. I don’t associate Target with anything food-related—at least not anything appetizing—and was a bit perplexed about us having dinner. Did you intend to make something at your place? Were we just snacking instead of a full dinner, because of the day’s heat? What was your intention, anyway? Apparently, my confusion confused you and it certainly made you feel angry. I haven’t the slightest idea why, I just wanted to clarify and that seemed to make you crazy. You said you had to go and we hung up. An hour later, when I didn’t hear from you, I called you, apologizing for any hurtful thing I may have said. I know that in your past you were accused of being abusive with legal ramifications and you are sensitive to that word. As soon as I jokingly had said you were being abusive, I regretted it. Yet you denied any hurt from our conversation. You assured me that you are not an angry guy; in fact you are a very happy guy (aside from the 4-minute ranting you had done, earlier). My gut had a hard time believing you.
You cancelled our date. A part of me felt disappointed; I had really looked forward to spending time with you, laughing, being silly and maybe more. We hung up and I felt saddened, again, by what had ensued. I realized I could have handled it better and so I called you back, an hour later.
I apologized again, hoping you would really hear it with your heart, this time. You must have, because you invited me over—to spend the night with you.
I eagerly drove to your place, yet not rushing; another friend wanted my time and attention and I sat in the car, after I had arrived at your place, finishing our conversation. I felt confident, relaxed, assured as I climbed the stairs to your apartment.
You opened the door—and made a face, because I had brought my dog, as I had mentioned on the phone. Then you baby-talked her, the next moment. I wondered why you had asked me to come, when you didn’t even appear glad to see me and didn’t offer me a hug or even a smile. Later, when I mentioned that, you said that you hadn’t yet showered and was filthy from your long, hot work-day. I accepted that, maybe too easily. You knew I was coming—why hadn’t you showered earlier, before I came? “I never said I was a good time manager,” you excused yourself.
We hung out on your bed, because it was the coolest room in your apartment. You said you just wanted to “do nothing” and you assured me that you didn’t invite me over just to have sex, that you wanted my company and that was first and foremost. Soon, we were touching one another. You told me, as you have before, that you are glad that I like touching you in every kind of place. And especially one certain place. You call me the “Cock Whisperer.” And it appeared obvious that I turn you on, as you had said. In fact, you remained excited the entire couple of hours that we lay there. My own excitement was building to a crescendo from mostly the anticipation.
The way we spoke the sacred, sensual language of touch, without words. The way I whispered in your ear, “I like talking like this.” It was turning out to be a mystical, magical evening. Our heads touched, our faces rubbed against one another’s, you ran your fingers across my cheek and lips and I sucked on and kissed your fingers. For some moments, it felt like the most beautiful, awe-inspiring connection and I was moved. I believe you were touched, also: I felt it in your caring touch. Even for those short moments, the sweetness, the tenderness and the love that permeated through each of our hands to the other’s body was unforgettable.
We ended up falling to sleep, instead of making love. All during the night we touched back to back or front to back or front to front. I felt that maybe our relationship had a chance.
It can be so tricky, this chemistry stuff. It’s tough for me to put a finger on why I am so attracted to you—your physical makeup, your energy, your sense of humor. And when I shared with you that I am attracted to “macho” and that you are macho, you laughed. Yet there is most definitely something rough and raw about you, that I crave. It does make you sexy and I appreciate it. Are you not used to that?
In the morning, the alarm woke me up. While napping for a few minutes afterward, I had a couple of powerful dreams. In one, I was with a guy who looked into my eyes and told me (he was a new lover who I was excited about), “You are lamore.” I knew he meant love. The other dream was so fleeting that all I caught was the message: spirit wants you to move on.
You left the bed, first. You didn’t say good morning; you asked me if I wanted coffee. When I asked you if you had creamer, you became exasperated, waving your arms like a large bird about to take off into the blue sky and demanding in an upset whining tone of voice, “Do you want coffee?!?” God I hate whining. I said no, quietly. You went to take a shower and while you were in the shower, I left. Didn’t say goodbye, didn’t leave you a note. I’ve never done that, before. Yet it felt like the only intelligent thing to do—just walk away. You’ve asked me many times, why I like you. I guess I like you for what I feel I see, in your eyes: the true spirit you are, only made of love. Then again, I won’t tolerate your rudeness, your cold, effacing manner and your anger. The anger that you have told me in a finger-pointing way, over and over again, you distinctly don’t own. Really now.
That same day, you call me, leaving two messages, saying that I must really be mad at you because I didn’t answer your calls; that’s not the case, though, I’m busy with my life. I don’t get home until late and was too tired to talk with anyone, even you. You comment, “You know you can call me at any time and especially since we just spent the night, together.” Wow—did I just hear that right? A guy who wants to be called, after sleeping together? How sweet.
Still, your anger is paramount and you put the blame on me, saying, “You’re an angry person.” Ahhh, well. You’ll get it, someday. Or maybe you won’t. Don’t bother calling me, though. I’m already off to better and brighter moments.