Metaphorically speaking I’m covered in jizz. I’ve exposed my heart and pushed the game into sudden-death overtime. Or at least that’s what it feels like.
When I told him I loved him after Christmas last year I shared it in that selfish way the guilty do when they confess: it was eating me up inside to not tell him. What if something happened to one of us and I’d never let those words fall on his ears? I couldn’t live with myself. I can keep a [very] modestly popular blog about our sex life secret, but not my feelings. Even I have my limits.
What I didn’t expect, truly, was how it would catapult us into a different relationship, a new color. We are openly loving and growing more so every day. My thinking is different somehow, softer. But he knew, which is why he deliberately kept his feelings from me.
When I pressed him for answers — incredulous that he had known since the moment I broke up with him days before our awful 4 am girl debacle that he was in love with me — about how he could live with himself if something had happened to me and I’d died without truly knowing his feelings he’d said he would have hated himself, yes, but he’d have lived.
The literalness of his thinking knows no bounds, Internet Boyfriend. Of course he’d have survived, but would there have been regret? The answer, thankfully, was yes.
So imagine my surprise to be on this fast track to full-blooded relationship just because we’ve admitted our love to one another. I thought his reluctance would pretty much keep us in a holding pattern forever and while it’s definitely still there, it’s also vastly reduced to the point which I am wondering if this is all a good idea, is it really sustainable? Are we real if he’s not resisting?
My move away will be the test. We will have to make an effort to see one another, overnights will become a necessity not a treat, he will have to be flexible when now he’s as stiff as a board. Will we manage it?
I want to say yes because we love each other, but I know better than most that love doesn’t conquer all. Granted, The Neighbor and I seem to have a pretty solid base, but there’s still things I worry about: his lack of friends or desire for them, his reclusiveness, the fact that he’d have been “ok” letting me die having never known he loved me. What the ever loving fuck.
And this is all related to having had a sexless marriage. He’s similar to my exhusband in all the ways I just listed. Apparently, I have a “type.” The definition of a sexless marriage is generally agreed upon by experts to be having sex 10 or less times in a year. If I remember correctly, I managed to get my ex to fuck me roughly every 6 weeks. Sometimes every 4, if I was lucky. For basically 6 years.
I never want that to happen to me again because it is a dark and ugly place to be and the closer I become to TN the more afraid I am of us morphing into something I don’t recognize like what happened to me before. I made one bad decision after another when I met my ex 10 years ago. Am I still making them?
I go through the list: TN and I match up in so many ways in which my exhusband and I didn’t. He’s always kind to me, he accepts me the way I am, he appreciates my looks, my body, and my sex drive, and he’s not once been overwhelmed by my exuberance for life, friends, family and the world like my ex was continually. He is, quite literally, the freshest breath of air I’ve had in years.
All this to say in a backwards, convoluted way: I feel loved, y’all.
Fucking loved and seen and wanted and loved again. I feel things with TN I’ve never felt before and I am like a heroine addict. It must never end or I may die in an explosion of cocks and balls and salty tears on strange pillows. I have never dared to love like this before and now I get to experience [an almost] constant fear of loss. It’s not unlike being a parent and feeling instantly bereft at the thought of something happening to your baby, yet knowing you have utterly no control over their fate or yours. I am an exposed nerve.
So, there you have it. I’m covered in jizz. I’m all over the place. I’m filled to the brim with gooey love and terrified of a future that either mirrors what I left or one that doesn’t exist at all.
I wish I had a jizz picture for you. That’d be so much better.
[Ed. Note: What’s really interesting about this post is that the “I’ve blown my wad” title was going to refer to me showing you my LOOSE Boobday picture two days earlier because I couldn’t wait to share it. Funny how the brain works.]