I fell so hard and breathtakingly fast that nothing could have saved me. There was no question in my mind — not a one. All I knew was that he loved me, he loved my body, and with each phone call, each message, each meeting my stomach went all to knots while my heart and my clit swelled nigh onto bursting. Every time. Every time until they didn’t.
Four-and-a-quarter years later and a couple months into a different relationship it troubles me very much that there has been no fall. Don’t get me wrong: Being with T. is lovely. Talking to him is stimulating and comfortable. The sex is just as mind-blowing as ever you please, and the thing that once worried me about going to bed with him1 has turned into quite a serious source of pleasure. Not to mention that he is really, really smart. And kind. And scienc-y. And who could argue with spankings? But nothing yet has tipped me over into unabashed adoration.
It seems like … [Here once lived a paragraph that demonstrates my character in a way I'm not ready to have seen by anyone. An ugly voice whispers ugly thoughts in my head but they are not my thoughts. I don't believe those things yet my mind still thinks them.]
It’s like a piece of pasta, I whined to my friend. Cooked in poisoned water. By itself it’s not dangerous, but after being immersed in it of course it’s going to pick up the poison.
“Well then,” she briskly answered. “It’s a good thing you’re not a noodle.”
She’s right. But still. I admitted some of this to him not long ago on a night, stressed-out and fidgety, before a trip to the parental homestead. My family’s really conservative. It was the world’s most euphemistic turn of phrase. They’re pretty much only fans of beige people who are straight and middle-class. And Christian.
“Really,” he said. “What have they thought in the past when you’ve dated someone Black?”
I admitted I hadn’t. “I think I’d like to meet them,” he said.
The proverbial feather could have proverbially bowled me over. Whatever for? I wondered. I would never put you through that.
“No, it would be fun.”
Fun, I thought. Fun for whom?
“You could introduce me as your pagan ebony gay thug lover,” he said, and I had to admit: That did sound like fun.
So it could be that I am not falling out of fear that poison long denied and even longer simmering will hurt him. Or it could be that some openness in my heart has at some point in the past four-and-a-quarter years slammed shut. It could be that I am too old, too old and dusty and hard to let go to the degree necessary.
A horrible human specimen or slammed shut beyond reopening. These are the possible reason for why I’m yet unfallen. Neither is appealing.
- Would I or would I not be able to manage an intact cock without making a fool of myself or sending him the hospital. [↩]
