When I Knew, Deep Down

We were on the bed, and Asher was 3 seconds away from dozing off when I realized this night marked the end of a full year of not having seen Chance. My last encounter with him happened late-April ’14 in the parking lot of the Lenox shopping mall at 10pm—not difficult to fill in the tawdry blanks. Since then, I had cut off contact with him for good and struggled for the rest of the year to not think of him every day as my emotional interior mended itself bit by bit. An entire year without setbacks or reneging. I didn’t text him, call him, or try to contact him in the obscenely numerous ways I could have through social media. I didn’t look him up to see the latest updates in his life either. All I had to myself were a very mixed bag of memories.

Half of them were filthy and exhilarating; the other half was one long lesson in manipulation and neglect. When I wasn’t over-the-moon happy, I was miserable, waiting for him to reply to my messages and photos, pretending to hate him, vowing to end things and not, arguing with him and feeling the sting when he’d ignore me afterward for days, beating myself over what I’d *maybe* said or done to upset him. It was a miserable year with a wretched human being for whom I had very strong feelings. The ordeal was over though. I would never have to make feeble excuses for his toxic behavior again, never put myself through the wringer for someone who couldn’t give half a shit about me, never look at him and wonder what went on inside that abusive mind. It was all fucking over.

The finality of it hit me then.

I silently cried while staring up at the ceiling as the tears slid down the sides of my face and onto the sheets.

Asher heard me sniff too loudly, and at seeing my face, a deep line appeared between his brows. He didn't look shocked. “What’s wrong?” He was already half-asleep.

I sighed. “It’s been a whole year since I ended it with Chance.”

He only nodded and rubbed a tear off my cheek. I leaned into his hand, closing my eyes. Maybe this entire set-up—talking about an ex like you still miss him while in bed with your current partner—would have felt wrong with anyone else. The next words slipped out without warning.

“Do you like me the same way I like you?” The question hung in the air. I cringed at the neediness in my voice. Was it so bad, craving a bit of certainty with the people you care about?

“I do,” he rasped softly.

“The exact same way?”

“Exact same way,” he repeated.

I blinked back more tears. My “okay” came out like a sigh. 

The night was late by then, and the moment briskly segued into dressing ourselves and me getting in my car for the hour-drive home. I didn’t think much of that night at the time, figured we had an intense moment and that would be that. Thinking back on this months later though, I think this is when something in our relationship shifted—a subtle deepening of how we relate to each other, laying the groundwork for what I told him at the end of the summer.

This is probably when I knew, deep down, that I love him. 

Reminders

I don't listen to certain songs.

I don't drive by certain places.

I don't wear certain clothes.

I don't look at certain things.

I haven't in months. It's annoying.

I am so tired of crying about you when I drive at night.

What He Got Away With

1. I text him. He replies two days later. I text him. He forgets to reply. 

2. He goes down for five minutes, fucks me until he comes, and watches while I finish myself off. Repeat. 

3. I am upset with him over something. I don’t bring it up because the last time I did that, he ignored me for a week. 

4. We schedule a meetup. I hold my breath until five minutes before the appointed hour because I never know if he’ll cancel at the last possible moment. 

5. I cry. He insists we’re “just talking.”

6. He has the sweetest mouth and says the most careless things. 

7. I try not to care. He actually doesn’t care.

8. He doesn’t touch me in public. 

9. I let my walls down. He torched and salted the earth beyond it. 

10. He saw me cry.

This was us

“

I once knew a man who came on very strong at the beginning of relationships, but couldn’t seem to help closing his heart as soon as a woman had opened hers. I have heard that kind of behavior referred to as an “addiction to the attraction phase” in relationships. This man did not maliciously go around hurting women. He sincerely wanted to be in a genuine, committed relationship. What he lacked were the spiritual skills that would enable him to settle down in one place long enough to build anything solid with an equal partner. As soon as he saw human faults and weaknesses in a woman, he would run. The narcissistic personality is looking for perfection, which is a way to make sure that love NEVER has a chance to blossom. The initial high can be so heady, so tantalizing, that the real work of growth which needs to follow the initial attraction phase can seem too dull, too hard to commit to. As soon as the other person is seen to be a real human being, the ego is repelled and wants to find somewhere else to play.

At the end of a relationship with someone like this, we feel as though we’ve taken cocaine. We had a fast and exciting ride, and it felt at the time like something meaningful was happening. Then we crashed and realized that nothing meaningful had happened at all. It was all made up. Now all we have is a headache, and we can see that this kind of thing isn’t good, isn’t healthy, and we don’t want to do it again.

But there’s a reason why we’re attracted to relationships such as this. We were drawn to the illusion of meaning. Sometimes someone who has nothing to offer in a real relationship can come on like they’re offering the world. They are so dissociated from their OWN feelings that they have become highly skilled performers, unconsciously playing whatever part our fantasies prescribe. But the responsibility for our pain still remains OUR own. If we hadn’t been looking for a cheap thrill, we wouldn’t have been vulnerable to the lie.

How could we have been so stupid? That’s the question we always ask ourselves at the end of these experiences. But once we’d had enough of them, we admit to ourselves that we weren’t really stupid AT ALL. We suspected this was a drug. The problem was, we wanted it. We saw exactly what the game was with this person, usually within the first fifteen minutes, yet we were so attracted to the high, we were willing to PRETEND we didn’t see it, for just a night, or a week, or however long it lasted. The fact that someone said to us, “You are so fabulous. You’re such a wonderful woman. This is such a great date. How lucky a guy is to get to date you,” when he’s only known you for an hour, is a blinking red light to any thinking woman. The problem is, the depth of our wounds can be so great—we can be SO hungry to hear those words, because deep down we suspect that they’re untrue—that hearing them can cause us to put aside all rational consideration. When we’re starved, we’re desperate.

”

—	Marianne Williamson

A Year to the Day

This was the week I started talking to him last year.

All through May, I was really happy. I was surprised by how happy I was, actually, at meeting someone who wanted to know me more and wanted to scale the walls I've raised over the years. I was so happy that I didn't even recognize the emotion for what it was until he vanished for two months. And when he came back, hat in hand, apology email in my inbox, I waited two weeks before resuming communication. The sexual undercurrent soon returned as well. Again, I fell into that happy, swooning period in August where I knew something had to give.

Labor Day Weekend was exactly what I wished for. The subsequent weeks were not. Looking back, I should have permanently cut my losses over our phone call in the beginning of October. I gave him an ultimatum that I reneged on after barely another month of silence, his absence a thrumming presence in my head while mine must have hardly registered in his. By then, he had already moved on from whatever he may have felt in the initial time of knowing me, but I was only just sinking into my obsessive, hopeless mire. Everyone called it but me.

The slip-slide into sin occurred in the first two weeks of November, which I pretended to be shocked by when I knew perfectly well that he would be willing to keep me around as an easy, reliable sex friend and nothing else. I held on to our friends-with-benefits arrangement through December and January (all the while juggling multiple personal/familial crises) because I couldn't bear to have him leave (again). That's but the foremost reason. The rest of my excuses are too numerous and shameful to name just yet. I could only watch myself make false promises to stop doing what I was doing. 

I wasn't strong enough to break things off. He took the decision from my hands by accepting a job offer in another state and moved at the end of February, but not before meeting me one last time (or so I pretended.) We spent an evening in a hotel room--which sounds better than what the room looked like--and were each other's firsts. I committed his every groan and lip-bite to memory, filed away the filthy things he murmured, savored the kisses he dropped on my cheeks, forehead, and hair the way one would savor a tender whip-lash on their back. I cried when the hours ran out; he did not.

That ought to have been our goodbye. I had the chance to fade out gracefully, but persisted in texting, IMing, emailing--longing for somebody who had long stopped wanting me. The meeting I instigated a week ago was my wake-up call.

-----

A lot about ending this hurts. The emptiness. The loss of something familiar. The knowledge that I tried to build a connection with someone that went beyond sex, and failed in a spectacular fashion. The fear that I'll take a very long time to replicate what and how I felt with him. The regret of realizing what could have been if I'd only said or done a thing differently at such and such point in time. The hard lump I have to swallow when reminiscing about last may and acknowledging that for a little while, I was very happy in a way that I haven't been with anyone else thus far. 

Somewhere in the middle of those slow, wretched months, I was in love, and he did not feel the same. 

That's why I am moving on and taking time to love myself before making any further moves.

Judging by how often I find myself in compromising positions with men in my car, I should probably sterilize the interior.

I found out he was back in town the day of, which is say yesterday afternoon. What did I think would happen after grabbing a seemingly innocent drink?

I had my fun though--and so did he. Pretty sure I was going to crash while I was driving back to the car deck, but he swatted me away every time I tried to pull his hand out of my pants.

I made him pay for that later.

Every time I think about sitting down to write about him my chest gets too tight, and I put off the slow process of drawing out the poison for another day.

I suppose you did break my heart.

Playlist

1. Like a Star - Corinne Bailey Rae
2. Glory Box - Portishead
3. Do I Wanna Know - Arctic Monkeys
4. Weathered - Jane Weaver
5. Pink Matter (feat. Andre 3000) - Frank Ocean
6. Daisy - Brand New
7. Fantasy Man - The Swell Season
8. Volcano - Damien Rice
9. Night Diving - Thrice
10. One For the Road - Arctic Monkeys

Bonus: Fin - Pavement

Sigh

I'm going to spend the next 4 weeks oscillating between being okay with him moving away and not being okay with him moving away.

-----

In the end we're just too incompatible. My temperament's pretty much the opposite of his. But I knew it. I knew he felt something. You don't have that kind of intense sex with someone without feelings on both sides.

-----

Let this go. Let this go. Fucking let this go and be a healthy person dammit.

The Talk

"There are several reasons why we could not work out as a couple:

 

1) you live quite far away, and meeting you regularly would be a big challenge.

2) You are in a completely different place in your life. You have a lot that you seem to want to change, which is great for you. But I can't see myself dating someone who doesn't take control of her life to make necessary changes.

3) This entire dialogue has been one of the biggest reasons I don't think we'd work. You overthink things in my opinion, and I tend to be a lot more relaxed as a rule. I feel on edge when I talk to you, because I never know if I might say something that you'll bring up in a conversation 6 months down the road that bothered you or made you think X, Y or Z.

 

In general, what I need in a partner is someone who has her shit figured out, and someone who can make me feel calm and relaxed. I don't know that these things would exist with the two of us.

 

You are extremely smart, capable, and self-aware. Much moreso than I was at your age to be sure. And I admire all of those things. I also find you extremely attractive, as you know.

 

But those things would only go so far in a relationship."

 

-----

 

I can't say I vehemently disagree with any of those things. 

A Text Message

He got the job in Tennessee. I suppose all that's left is to wait for him to tell me he's moving. Then we'll drop off contact, and can forget all about each other.

Yes. This should be what I want.

Listening to: Night Diving by Thrice

I wish I could tell you all the things I've had to keep to myself. Last night I was with you again, the second time in a month, and after we had our fill of each other, we twisted the sheets haphazardly over us while our legs got even more hopelessly entangled, and I could have soundly fallen asleep in your bed (in your arms) as the music softly played from your desktop.

I didn't though. Of course I didn't. I'm always leaving you, always a temporary guest in your room and if I hope for something more permanent than a few snatched hours, I don't even whisper the words aloud to myself on every lonely drive back home, with my knuckles pale on the steering wheel and my mouth pursed tight from the ache in my chest. I never present anything but a casual, level-headed front to you when all I've ever been since May is a young woman burning up with too much want and unspoken passions.

Were I a braver person (to either face my own desires or your decidedly cooler attitude towards me, I can't say), not a single meeting would pass without you knowing the full scope of my longing: the fever your touch instills, the desperate way I claw your back as if to claim what isn't mine, the breaths I hold as my fingers trace the line of your jaw and commit the shape of your eyes to memory. I wouldn't be afraid of the strength of my feelings, and you wouldn't be afraid of the intensity of this side I've tempered for years.

But who could see this nature, my true nature, and not shy away for fear of being consumed by it? Who could--who would--want someone like me, once they learn the truth? Would you? Dare I entertain the thought? I don't. I won't. At the very least I can be honest here.

Monday Night

He was waiting on the porch when I got out of the car, watching me make my way up the stairs. As soon as I reached the top step, we smirked at each other and exchanged two lines about my driving before he grabbed my bag strap and pulled me to him. His beard scratched my cheeks, but I hung on tight anyway and breathed deep so I'd remember his aftershave for later, when the need to recall him (and the moment) would become too unbearable to put off any longer. I pressed harder against him as I felt his hands slip past my coat to grip my hips, and eventually dipping beneath the waistband of my pants to cup my ass. Despite the temperature, the air felt less chilly then, and I shivered for an entirely different reason.

-----

Once we’re in his room, he takes to exploring me with reckless abandon. For that single, precious hour, I let myself succumb to his touch and ban every anxious thought from my mind because with him, I never know when we meet will be the last time we meet. My nails trace new pathways down his back. His hot breath dampens my collarbone. The brutal dexterity of his fingers, wickedly curled as they slide in and out of me, steals any attempts at coherent speech. Sweat beads on the small of my back, makes the hair stick to my forehead, cements us to his dark gray sheets. 

The liquid heat between my legs spread warm over my thighs, and when he looks up, my knees hooked over his shoulders, he wants to see me staring. And I do. I’m entranced. But the intense expression in his eyes causes me to glance away. After that, I keep my eyes shut and open my other senses to accommodate the fullness of what I’m experiencing. When he finally replaces his tongue with his length, it is not pain, but the sweetest of aches that coax the ragged moans from my lips. As for the rest of what occurs, some details are too visceral to record even here. 

During the drive home, I swear I can still taste him in my mouth.  

-----

I burn and burn and burn whenever I’m with him. How long until the fire reverts to ashes again from yet another disappointment that seems an inevitable part of our up-down cycle?

Snippets

I looked into his eyes a few times. I've always liked his eyes. They're brown and heavy-lidded and so expressive.

-----

With no one around, he was very loud. I heard every wrung-out, guttural word in my ear as he came. I clawed his thigh as he cradled my head.

-----

I should have held him more. I should have kissed him more. I should have told him more things. I should have I should have I should have--

There was a moment afterwards. We were standing outside my car with the door open so the space (and us) could air out when I stepped forward and linked my arms around you, burying my head in the crook of your neck. You leaned in too, and the momentum caused me to rock slightly back and forth on my heels, a motion I maintained as your hands spread (and wandered) across my back, my waist, my ass, and back up again. For a minute or two, I didn't say anything. Even though the air was brisk and cold, I pretended that my body heat was enough to warm you--that I was enough for you. And then I pulled away so we could climb back into the car.

That Last Time

The last time I saw you was after a brief gig your band played in the basement of your friend's house. I had thought the night would end with me driving home from there, not from your room again after unexpectedly leaving the event early. All pleasantries were promptly skipped as soon as we were inside.

You grabbed my hips and pulled me to you; the clothes came off quickly because I only had an hour before I had to drive back home. Despite the initial brusqueness of our encounter, the moment slowed deliciously as you peeled off my underwear. The dark-eyed look on your face floored me, as did the way you dove between my legs, my period having at last ended for that week. You tongued as deeply as you dared, one hand cupping my breast, and my knees could have buckled from when you turned me over to slip two fingers inside while your lips kissed my other entrance. To throw me off balance even more, you landed several stinging slaps on my ass, a hit to accompany every subsequent moan from my mouth.

No surprise then, that you slid in embarrassingly easy as I propped my legs on your shoulders, your flushed face framed between my ankles--an image I'd revisit often once I returned to my own home. The harder you pushed, the tighter I clenched, my fingers gripping the bedsheets to the point of tearing. At one point you bent down to kiss me with both my legs fully trapped between your flesh and mine. Before the pressure became too much for me, I felt completely...covered, if that's the right word. Held down, the way I was to the bed and by you. You and that glazed expression and parted mouth. I felt like I didn't belong anywhere else but there.

Like I was yours.

Over the past few weeks, I reflected on how we ended our last phone call. I realize I threw down that ultimatum out of anger and misplaced pride. I needed the distance in order to pull back and think more clearly. Now I’m done and in a better headspace. What I would like is to start over and resume talking to you again. I probably never emphasized this enough (certainly much less than you have with me), but I liked our discussions—on everything. I enjoyed hearing your perspective on various issues despite my disgruntled, wary wall you kept running into when the topic turned sensitive.

There’s value in our conversations, the lack of which I’ve felt keenly. I want to drill that point home.

I remember what I told you that night. “I’m done putting myself out there.” Apparently not so, because I believe that it’s worth having you around in my life. I’ve missed being friends with you.

The risk I’m running is that you might not feel the same way, but I wanted to open the floor for any possibility of a redo. Perhaps that makes me foolish for daring to try. The only reason I would even bother attempting, however, is because I see something good in it. All I ask is for you to let me know that you’ve received and read this message.

Thanks.

A Rundown

1. His summer girlfriend breakup did not go well.

2. He's never been friends with any of his exes--it's an established pattern.

-----

I told him he's the common denominator then, by disengaging with the problems that need to be resolved head-on (and sometimes messily) and letting them fester until his past romances blew up at him.

In short, I dodged a big fucking bullet, and in the end, I didn't buy his bullshit attempts to seduce me into feeling sorry for him and compromising my own interpersonal principles to make him feel better. The onus is on him to continue a friendship with me. If he wants to, he'll resume contact again. If more than a month passes, I told him not to bother at all.

I'm stronger than what I want(ed).

And I'm less fucked in the head than he is.

Hah, a 22 year old girl is more mentally adjusted than a 27 year old man. What does that say about him?

What does it say about me?

In the future, I'll give myself more credit. I did, after all, avoid repeating the destructive pattern in high school.