I had a revelation this week about intimacy, false intimacy, specifically.
All these years I have struggled with how I am treated because I felt like there were connections, real things occurring between me and the men in my life. And they were happening, I just called them the wrong things.
I called them trust and respect and intimacy. I should have been calling them hunting, playing, and gorging.
We did the dance of lust and curiosity, girated and slobbered on one another. Pulled hair and smacked flanks and spent hours cultivating a persona with 26 characters and a few vegetable emojis until our fingers were exhausted and our bellies full of pursuit. Until we were over as quickly as we started.
I’m wondering how I could have been so wrong for so long, to expect so much of the right answer from the wrong equation.
First of all, how can anyone get to know me if all we do is text then drink in a dimly lit room bathed in each other’s pheromones?
Secondly, they haven’t done anything to earn my trust so why am I so surprised when they’ve broken it? I hand it out like candy in Halloweeen night like the daddy-hungry little girl that I am.
I have expected something from nothing, for a rose to bloom out of granite.
So now I’m on my way to meet a man I hardly know and I don’t care about. He’s from a neighboring city and used the word “laconic” to describe himself. He’s 5’7″, good looking, charming as a Labrador and he will suffice for tonight because the truth is… I think I’m ok with nothing right now.
The rose can come later when it makes sense to grow. Right now, all I want is to feel the honesty of cold, hard rock.