A. called me today. I haven’t heard from him since he said, “I’ll talk to you tomorrow!” about a month ago.
But details like calling when a person said they would meant nothing, really, for A. and me–it was always a relationship built on passion rather than details.
I suppose I should explain why a relationship built solely on phenomenal sex was a really good thing for me. I spent a decade in a sexual drought, married to a man who initiated sex with me once every six months, and whose idea of foreplay during those bi-annual seductions was saying, “Uh, so, how do you want to do this tonight” before climbing on top of me for an unpleasant five minutes, maybe, then rolling over to sleep.
For a decade I longed for him to, just once, throw me over his shoulder and drag me off into the bedroom. To fuck me on the kitchen counter because I looked so incredibly delicious as I made breakfast (or got scones out of a bag–that’s more accurate). Hell, to even just once realize that when I put on a pair of crotchless panties that I was sending a definite “come hither” message to him.
When the man you share a home with is oblivous to your sensuality and beauty, you kind of start to doubt whether you have them at all. When I looked in the mirror, I no longer saw the desirable woman with the bedroom eyes and size 2 waist and generously-sized breasts . . . in fact, when I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see me at all. It was almost as if I was looking through myself.
And then, at the end of that chapter, there was A.
He saw me as sexy and desirable and wanted to drink ALL of me in. He brought out the flirtatious, daring parts of me, and–omigod–the sex. I felt like Sam I Am, someone who had pushed away something that didn’t seem to be so appetizing only to take a taste of it and find it so abso-fucking-delicious that she couldn’t stop herself from devouring it:
“And I will fuck him in the rain.
And in the dark. And on a train.
And in a car. And in a tree.
Sex is so good, so good, you see!
And I will fuck him here and there.
Say! I will fuck him ANYWHERE!”
LOL, it was just deliciousness. Sure, he said it was love . . . but I think he’s too self-motivated of a person to really love anyone. But I never faulted him for his selfishness–I appreciated the honesty of it and took him for who he was. And took the shallowness of us for what it was.
I had fun with the persona I wore with him–so free, so daring, so wild. She pushed the envelope, all the time, and loved it.
So different from the persona a wear with Mr. Nico . . .
The other day he said I was “wicked smart and waaaaaaaaaaay hot.” The first thing I always am with him is smart. Witty. Funny in a brilliant way. And then the second thing I am is hot
But I haven’t been sexy yet, not really. He says flirtatious things and my gut reaction is to flirt back even harder, with that forceful, reckless, I’ll-top-you sort of combative sexual energy I had with A.
I hold back though, in part, I’ll admit, because I think through the rhetorical situation and find that it would play better for me if I hold back for now. But it’s also because I love the me he sees–smart (and hot). With A. I was a more daring, adventurous me; with Mr. Nico I’m just simply a BETTER me.
So A. called me today. And when I saw his name flash onto my cell phone screen, I knew exactly what do to . . . I hit “reject” and didn’t doubt my choice, not for a moment.