Adventuring out again on this path for sexual companionship, every once in a while something happens and I find myself unable to cope. It’s like a piece of wiring gone wrong, or a short circuiting.
I’d been out on several dates with a guy who is possibly the nicest guy I’ve been out with yet. He opens my door, consistently insisting on it, without complaint and without that air of “see I’m opening your door”. He listens when I talk. The kind of listening where he mentions it the next day to inquire more about it. He’s open, honest to the point where I googled him and found everything he said to be the absolute truth. In public, he’s fantastic. Putting his arm around me with pride, but not possessive, reassuring but not limiting, caressing sensually but not perverted.
So one night, after a perfect evening. Well the evening was rather boring, but he’d behaved perfectly and despite the pitfalls of our plans I had never been so happy. I could no longer resist taking him to bed.
It was this action that set off all sorts of crazy in me. The acts themselves were fabulous, orgasmic… in that hot “I gotta have you” way mixed with “I really care about you” kindness. It was this mixture that set off the short circuit.
I’d had my post-divorce “I gotta have you” sex. It was fine. There wasn’t a whole lot of caring, just a whole lot of lust. Both parties knew it, and we were ok with it.
It was the “I really care about you” kindness that got me. It had been so long since anything had come close to that that I hadn’t noticed just how hard of a shell around my heart I’d built. That night, the shell broke. Shards hitting every nerve, every button, any insecurity.
Did he enjoy it? Does he like me? Is this just a one time thing? Will he call tomorrow? Did he do all this just to get in my pants? Does he think I’m too fat? Does he want me to stay? Should I go and act all casual? Should I snuggle him close and not let go? What do I do?
I had told him that it’d been the best night in a very long time. When I asked how it was for him, he mumbled something along the lines of “good”. Not very glowing, so I got scared. I waited. Looked for clues. But nothing came, and the fear built.
Did he hate it? Did I do something wrong? Is he just tired? Should I ask again? If I ask again, will he tell me the truth or will he lie to soothe my feelings?
I chickened out and didn’t ask. Instead I sat on the fear, and waited. He took me home. He was nice, polite, pleasant (sleepy), and he kissed me good night. The fear was still there.
I sat with the fear. I couldn’t sleep because of it. I stayed up all night googling him, trying to find some lie, some fault for which I could hate him. If I could hate him, then if he fucked me over it wouldn’t be so bad. But everything I found just made it worse. He was exactly the kind of guy that he’d claimed to be.
The next day, after finally collapsing for a few hours of sleep, I decided to txt him a polite “hope things are going well today” message. His first reply was “We need to talk about what we each like sexually”.
My heart hit the floor. No “I’m well. I hope you’re doing ok” or even a “How are you?”.. just simply a “we need to talk”.
I should have taken hope from his reply that at least he was still thinking about sex with me. So I couldn’t have been horrid. But instead, all I saw was indifference, uncaring, and selfishness. It hurt. It hurt bad.
My heart tried to piece back together the shell that used to hold it, but no glue would hold. I tried to txt him back that we’d talk about it later.. hoping he’d switch the subject and at least ask how I was or something. He instead went on to tell me one of his fetishes.
I went into full blown psychosis. He was out of town so phone and txt was all we had. He was to call me when he got back. I tried to be patient. But the thoughts of how he was with me before sex, and how he was communicating afterwards were painting two conflicting pictures in my head and I couldn’t resolve it. I needed to talk to him. I needed to know which picture was the right one. I needed him to know just how much I hurt.
I didn’t sleep that night either. I lingered the entire night on the verge of a panic attack. To say that I’m messed up, would be a severe understatement. I was a school girl waiting for a phone call, trying with all her might not to show just how psycho she was.
The call never came. I txt’d him. He replied. I asked if he was back in town, he said he just got back. I waited. No call.
The rest of the day until the next, was a series of missed txt’s and absence of calls. I couldn’t even sleep that night. I was pretty sure it was over.
Finally I called him. It had been nearly 3 days now of little sleep and being an emotional wreck, that when he finally called me back I told him everything. Even as I said it on the phone, I knew just how psycho it sounded. I could tell from his voice that he never realized that I would take anything wrong or that I had. He didn’t realize the urgency of which I needed communication. He said he needed to think. To process what I’d told him.
I hung up the phone and all the stress melted away. The silliness of my overreaction made me laugh. I even pictured his face as I told him about my lunacy, and I laughed at myself. Soon the weight of exhaustion fell on me, and I slept.
When I woke, I woke happy. I didn’t care if he called again (who could really blame him for running), and if he did, that was fine too. I’d gotten my clarification, communication, and peace.. and thats all that truly mattered.