“Can you turn here and drive back toward that gas station?” I asked my spouse.  He turned right and did as I asked.  “I saw someone homeless who looked like ______,” I said.

“That person?” my spouse asked, pointing to a stranger.

“No, that person,” I said.  Same tall, thin frame, pale skin, long blond hair, and same motion of how he would push back the hair on the top of his head, in thought or exasperation.  He was wearing brightly pattered pants, and shorts over the pants.  A mask, and it was hard to be sure, with the mask.

“Ok, no, I don’t think that’s him,” I said.  “You can keep going.”  The homeless person’s eyes didn’t seem quite right, but the other characteristics seemed uncanny, in their likeness.

“The guy carrying the cooler?” my spouse asked.

“Yeah,” I said.  “I don’t think it was him.”  But I was haunted by the feeling that it might have been him.

what if

“What would you do, if it was him?” my spouse asked.

“Good question!” I said.  It was a pain to ponder, so ouch.  This person I loved more than almost anything a few years ago, living on the streets.  Would I try to help him, save him?

“I’ve wondered where he went, when he left the place he was living.  What if he became homeless?  And he had that thing with his dad, letting him be homeless…”

“Right,” my spouse said.  My ex had complained that his dad had “let him be homeless,” like he lost his housing, and his mom wanted to take him in, but his dad was a tough love asshole.


The idea of him as homeless had been on my mind for a long time.  Yes, he was beautiful and very bright, but he also had a horrible violent streak, deep bitterness, and a weird sense of entitlement, like the world owed him everything.

He could twist any situation to make himself the victim, and he could blame almost anyone for anything, justifying any bad behavior he did by pointing fingers at the other person.  In our arguments he was cruel, hating on me.  I didn’t understand for a long time that he was playing with a whole other set of rules.  I’d believed he was real, kind, and compassionate, but I learned over the year and a half we were close that he was a cold-hearted, nasty user.

In an argument, I’d try to convince him of some truth he was missing, but it didn’t matter what I said.  We’d reach a point where he just turned to poison.  He’s spit venom at me, no matter how caring and careful I was.  He was always 100% right, and I was always 100% wrong.

It was confusing, as I’d never encountered that.  Now I would just say, “He’s a sociopath,” and move on.

his body

But I loved his body.  I spent hours and hours holding hands with him, cuddling with him, cooking food together, and eating.  Sometimes he fed me bites of his ice cream.  He’d hand me segments of his citrus fruit during a meeting, silently passing me sweet delicious nutrition, a bonding cue I ate up.

His body was so dear to me.  Almost like his body was another person, a good person who was compassionate and caring.

True he bruised me, just about every time he massaged me.  The next day I would see greenish splotches on my body.  But feeling him slip his hands beneath my shirt to get my shoulder muscles better was a deep thrill.  My cunt hummed with joy, to be anywhere near him.  When we soaked at the hot springs together, naked in the hot water, I was overjoyed.


“Sounds horrible to say this, but maybe homeless would be the best place for him,” I said.  “If he could have less power, and harm fewer people..?”

Yes, sounded terrible to say that.  It was an idea I was trying out.  Some homeless people live in camps, with a partner, in a small group, or very alone.  Who knows what’s best, really.  I can’t play God.  My opinion doesn’t matter.

But part of me did want to find him, feed him, protect him, and give him everything, like I sort of did before, when he was part of our family.  Rationally I know he’s evil, and I want nothing to do with him.  But my body might still love his body, in some way.  If we hugged each other again for a long time, my heart could melt.

Oxytocin is a powerful bonding hormone and my drug of choice.  It’s almost killed me a few times, in a round about way, like when this ex was driving my car with road rage as I sat in the passenger seat.

I’m not going to look for him again, online or carrying a cooler at a gas station.  I want to say my body is a very smart lady, but in some ways, she really needs to shut up and let my mind be the boss sometimes.  My body is an addict, and I love her much.  But I can’t give her what she’s begging for.

By Nest

Curious, disabled Earth Goddess, telling the truth.

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