These repeated rejections do more than sting. They hurt me enough to wash away my crush on him, when he’s not in the room. When I can’t touch his warm body, taste his skin, breathe in the scent of his cologne mixed in with the scent of his skin and that touch of manly ruggedness… I’m left with a feeling of low-self-esteem-induced irritation and indignation… and despair over my inadequacy. And brief moments of wistfulness for what might have been…
What might have been? Intimacy between two people for whom intimacy is never casual though sex often is. Trust between two wanderers who’ve lost their faith in trust. Mind-blowing sex. Oh-my-god, the mind-blowing sex! And maybe something else.
Instead, he keeps me at a distance for as long as he can, and then he comes to me and for a few otherworldly moments while he’s kissing at my neck, for the glimmerings of immarcescible eternities while he’s inside of me, for those sparkling spells where he makes me lie back, close my eyes and rejoice in euphoria as he tips the velvet, or even more so when I’m doing all those things that I do best, I find my place in this indifferent universe. When his blue eyes meet mine, in the glow of ecstasy, I feel whole. With his hands on my body, his mouth on mine, I feel whole. I feel at peace, I’m in the moment, and I trust myself as I’m intimate with him. And I love; myself, him, the universe we’re in, the one we would create.
In those moments, I see him. And I trust the rare intimacy in his eyes. And I see myself and the beauty of the world, in his eyes and through them. And it’s the only key I have to that secret garden, where I can be known, where I can be loved, where I find and understand my place in this indifferent universe.