I met him at a party of another friend.
He's genuine, has a sense of humor, and thinks I'm funny. He's easy on the eyes and athletic. He fits my outline of what I was looking for. (Yes I have an outline. It makes it easier to find what I want!)
I feared that once I started a relationship (and this is not there yet), that every time my knee was caressed by a non-Art hand, I would find it uncomfortable, painful...something that I would have to "get used to."
I anticipated feeling like I was cheating. I thought I would compare... He does that. Art used to do this.
And I am surprised at how wrong I am.
I don't remember Art's hands. I mean if I really, really, really focus on them, I remember how it hurt when we intertwined our fingers, his large fingers making the spaces in-between my fingers stretch to discomfort.
I laugh at the memory of his "gentle" touch and how he mastered it after years and years of trying.
I remember the weight of him and how if he ever had a heart attack when we made love in a certain position I might actually suffocate beneath him.
I remember kissing him. I don't remember how he kissed, but I remember loving kissing him.
But I have to concentrate to remember. It's not a physical memory. It's an emotional one.
I miss the feel of a man. I miss the connection of having a familiar hand pat my backside or encircle my waist. I miss feeling that strong male energy. I miss having my body touched, sometimes gentle, sometimes not.
I remember in the beginning, just needing a man in the house. Didn't have to do or say anything, I just needed to sense the testosterone.
I remember month 3 or 4, the crazy, wild, do-anything physical longing that took over large moments, driving me to consider picking up a beautiful and willing young man just to feel what it was like to be touched.
Around month 6, I remember the craving, anger and resentment a hug from a friend's husband erupted in me. "I don't want to remember what I'm missing!"
And then the cravings died out, the hugs lost their power and my need to be touched both sexual and emotionally seemed to dry up.
Now, with this guy, I feel like an addict who's slipped; having worked a 12 Step program for affection. I had forgotten I needed it. We find ourselves in close proximity and all I want to do is crawl up in him and immerse myself. The smell of him that close, the touch of his rough face, hands on my thighs, on the small of my back.
And as I pulled away, I wanted to stay. I wanted to listen to the deep reverberations as he talked with my head on his chest. I wanted to remember what it is like to have my legs intertwined with another man's. I wanted to just smell his unfamiliar man smell. I wanted to bask in the rediscovered sun. I wanted to sing .... I love this! I love this!
Only I couldn't figure out how much of this drive was about him and how much of it was about feeling like those dandelion flowers you blow on, you give a short burst and the seeds scatter wildly.
Instead of reveling in my craving. I said good night.
And tonight, I remember that I'm lonely. I miss the knowledge that after I finish writing this post, there will be a man, in my bed waiting for me, keeping my side warm.
I miss being loved.
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