I could fully relax with you. During the long beautiful hug, my body, mind, and soul were doing the same thing. That’s so rare for me–like ritual. Usually I’m fragmented. My soul was called up from where it hides, to fully inhabit my body and be near you.
I was showing up for love. But for you, it was service the whole time. That’s the mistake part.
I could fully relax because you were ok with that. I thought from the response my body had as you held me, it was obvious. Hormones pumped through my body–it felt like hot honey. A deep warmth spread from my cunt, and I would hold on as long as you let me. I often made a small sound of blissed comfort, animal and wordless.
I thought you understood that sound as an expression of desire. If not sexual desire, some other significant longing. I thought my desire for you was ok with you. So then I could relax because I didn’t need to hide anything.
I felt safe because I could be my whole self, nothing held back. Well, I held back my behavior, never slipping my hands under your shirt, kissing your collarbone, or begging you to hurt me. But I didn’t need to hold back my feelings. I thought you were ok with however I felt. So I could feel all the way.
All other persons besides my spouse, I’m so careful to moderate, to stay appropriate. I have no fucking clue how to moderate. My feelings are never the right amount. I have never in my life felt the right amount about anything.
But I thought with you, I could feel whatever I felt. You don’t mind me wanting you, but it’s not a shared joyful experience. The creepy dropped feeling after physical contact with you is because you were doing a whole other thing.
It’s another way not to be met halfway. Other people will do intimacy with me emotionally but not physically. You would give me a hug sometimes, but I’m still alone.
I can cherish moments I remember, like one time on the porch, when you opened your robe for the hug and let me in close. I felt special that day, as you unhooked the carabiner and parted the soft cloth to me.
Or the time in the kitchen you held me in a long hug. My spouse burst into the kitchen, glad to find me. You gently taunted my spouse, “I have her for a few more seconds.” I was silent in your arms, overjoyed beyond language. I thought I mattered to you. Yes, I wanted you to have me for longer than a few more seconds.
That much loss is fucking exhausting. In one way, I’m perfectly fine. Your rejection is the most normal thing in the world. I’ve been rejected so many times, it’s the norm. I give, extend, dream, long for, offer, and just about everyone has a reason to say no. Whatever trauma, lack of emotional capacity, incompatible worldview or values, distance, logistics… Real reasons and fake ones. I’ve received so much no.
I understand now that it’s almost never about me. Few people are engaging others at all. Most people have their own head so far up their own ass, they can only see their own rectum. They only pay attention to the most basic of their own desires. Let alone to the unique miracle of another person.
You can do one person besides yourself, which is better than most. I hope you can maintain the rich love you find, and when they leave, not turn into a seething with anger, self-centered, misanthropic, resentful monster. I hope that for you, but for all of us.
Single sourcing is ridiculous. But your lack of curiosity is something I checked in about. I felt it, and you tell me it’s real. Wow. If someone tells me they’ve seen it all before, I tend to think they haven’t actually seen anything.
You are a free person who never promised me anything. Your words made no promises, but I wish your body had promised something. I wish I could stay close there, nurtured by something real. I’m supposed to pretend a hug is nothing, but it felt like the safety I was looking for.