Today I just vent… not eloquent with edit. I’m too rattled and have no energy for it. Being a full time student again has zapped my time for creativity. Time management will cure that inconvenience and I’m beyond thrilled by this new adventure, but this post is not about my wonderful new path as a Community Worker. That will come on a happier day…when I wake up next to enlightenment instead of disillusionment. Better be soon, damn it!
P has accused me of being afraid of domesticity. She thinks that I think it will kill our relationship. She thinks my lack of enthusiasm for it, prior to moving in together, was because at the end of my 16 year live-in relationship with my eX I had grown bored and complacent. At least, that’s her interpretation of my circumstance.
Truth is, there had never been any real passion between my eX and I. We fornicated, but we never really made love. We hugged and kissed, but there was no “zing”. We touched each other, but there was no sensual exploration of the senses. It was a mutually satisfying arrangement that worked for many years, and in many real ways we were very happy, but it wasn’t my idea of a passionate relationship.
Sex was simply sex and a means of orgasmic release. It was perfunctory. It seemed to be all that was necessary. For him. No offense guys, but you really are much simpler and easier to please. Don’t get me wrong. I love my eX madly. He has been my savior in more ways then I can count, my best friend in times of desperate need and in so many ways, my hero. But, he has never truly been my lover.
And I wanted…still want, a lover.
Domesticity didn’t kill our relationship, boredom did. For me anyhow. Lack of spontaneity and sense of sexual adventure. We got bogged down by the ebb and flow of responsibility. Raising a daughter. Paying the bills. Making sure there was enough for life. The continual compromising to co-exist, to meet the ‘norms’ of his family, to compete with the Joneses. He was and still is, a socially competitive man who wants all the trinkets and toys of success. I’m a lot less materialistic. I’m more the spiritual, tree-hugging-hippy-kinda-chick who gets off on sensual exploration and kisses that melt my bones, not the number of zeros on my bank statement.
I value money by recognizing its importance, but I don’t govern my life by its influence. So, yes, we were different. And ultimately, those differences became more then our similarities – (although I am happy to report he connects more and more with his spiritual side and has improved mental health because of it and he seems happier for it. smile) But, we drifted apart emotionally. Sexually. Or at least, I drifted.
I needed more then the white picket fence and 2.5 children. It’s for many. Just not for me. I get it. But, I always thought, that even with all that, (monetary success) you should still be able to find balance, find joy, find pleasure in each other and to my way of thinking, there is no reason why you can’t still have hot, steamy, sweaty sex more often then not. Once I realized that was not going to be the case, I allowed other filters to unblock – hence my ‘coming out’ – and out of fairness to both of us, I chose to leave. I wanted to leave while he and I were still friends. I saw the red flags and cared enough to not overstay my welcome.
When I met P, sexually I thought I had found ‘my lover”. And in many ways I had. She was a woman whose priorities were all about pleasure and spontaneity. In short, a true lesbian. And I was in heaven. Passion was high high high on her list. She excited me from morning till nite with her innuendo, her blatant, sometimes shocking, open sexuality. I was never in doubt that she wanted me. Ever. It was in that knowledge, my own sexual confidence grew and I started understanding the true power of my sexuality.
The sexual energy between us was insane. So intense. She made love to my mind long before she made love to my body and I was hooked. The wanting palpable. The need beyond hunger. I had never known such panty-wetting, melting desire before and I was consumed by her. I woke thinking of her. I fell asleep wanting her. I was obsessed and I didn’t care. I fell deeply, madly, irrevocably in love. In lust. She was everything to me. I would have done anything for her, and often did. My entire universe revolved around her. The P experience was everything I had imagined…and so much more.
I saw them, but chose to ignore them. Those fucking red flags! It’s true what they say about love being blind. Passion making you weak. I was floating so far above reality, I didn’t think I would ever come down. Who wants to be bothered by “Warning Will Robinson” alerts when you’re in the throes of the most exquisite orgasms of your life? I sure as hell didn’t!
But, fall I did. With a crash. Painfully, brutally and without cushion. And the disappointment soon took the place of those exquisite orgasms. And much too quickly, at least much to soon for my liking, my sexy, passionate lover became a mean, verbally abusive, complaining woman never satisfied with anything or anyone in her life. Especially me. And I bore the brunt of her anger and frustration. It hurt. A lot. And I shriveled up inside. The bubble no longer glistened, the dream began to crack and break into sharp, tiny fragments I could no longer piece together with my tears. Our ‘honeymoon” was a short, beautiful powerful burst of fireworks. And then, just like fireworks, ‘poof’ it was gone.
And, for four years I have been holding on, am still holding on, to the tattered remnants of that beautiful dream…
P says you can’t maintain that kind of intensity. Another lesbian recently told me the same thing. It confuses me. I say, why the fuck put it out there in the first place then? Do they have any idea what a devastating blow that loss is physically, mentally and emotionally? How difficult it is to adjust to a fishbowl when the full richness of the ocean was your learning playground?
When did it become ‘okay’ to give the gift of sensuality, sexual awareness and enfold another in the heat of passionate consumption and then abruptly take it away? Leaving them naked, alone and shivering in the cold to figure out just what the fuck happened to them? Why burn that flame so bright that it consumes your entire being, if you know it’s going to burn out in such a short time? Wouldn’t it make sense to try and tame it a little, control it just enough to ensure that it lasts longer then the common cold? Longevity seems to be an “L” word foreign to lesbians.
Perhaps, I am just bitter now and that was an unfair generalization. But, I am bitter. I feel cheated. I was lured in by the invitation, a promise made to my body, given satisfaction to my curious and restless mind, stimulated into believing there was truth in the lust and brought to heights of physical and sexual awareness I never dreamed possible. I fought, then lost the battle for protectiveness of me and embraced the woman bearing all these extraordinary gifts.
I trusted her intensity. Her passion. Her conviction. Her desire for me paled all prior passions to white. Her smile set butterflies in my belly a flutter. Her deep, knowing laugh – which still affects me to this day – sparked a heightened sexual awareness in me otherwise unknown. The ‘accidental’ touching. The soft, sweet, breathy kisses. The smutty, deliciously obscene sexting. The thrill of anticipation. The chase and eventual capture. She’s very good at the game of sexual pursuit. It’s where she lives. Exhilarating. Breath taking. More please. More.
I want to be wanted forever. Desired with the same intensity with which it began. And I want to want my lover in the same way. Is that really too much to ask? Or do people just give up too easily? Because it’s too hard? When did paying the bills, making grocery lists, food shopping, cleaning the house and doing the dishes right after dinner become prioritized over sexually intimacy? And don’t give me that crap about “love changes”, “passion cools and sex becomes less important as the relationship deepens!” Anyone who ascribes to those notions is a fool. Or simply satisfied with complacency. Which to me, is one in the same!
Relationships that endure are made up of the same stuff that grew them in the first place. If lust, passion and romance is how you won your partner, then you need to keep them alive to keep your partner. Removing even one of those vital components leads to expectations being miserably failed and unhappiness replacing bliss. Why else are divorce rates so high and affairs a “norm” in our society? It’s not rocket science.
What happens to passion? Why does desire have to wan?
Do we just get too tired and busy with life? Or do we just get lazy?
After the conquest, is it not a priority anymore?
Jesus, when did we cross that line?
For crying out loud! Write the grocery list on my ass! Dot the i’s with your tongue! Sneak me grapes in the shopping aisle! Spin “Let’s Get It On” and chase me around the house with the duster! Ignore the fucking dishes for once and drag me into the bedroom after dinner! Rip off my clothes and remember me. Remember us!
Change your bloody priorities back to a time when the living of life mattered. When there was passion in every touch, every movement, every smile. Passion with conviction. Feeling with soul. Need with heart. Be alive to the wanting to live. To love.
Be engaged, damn it!
Don’t let the mundane take over. That is a fucking red flag of monumental proportion!
That’s what kills relationships.
I was never afraid of living with P.
I was afraid that she would forget that I still needed her passion.
And she has.
She’s forgotten how to make love to my mind.
Red flag! Red flag! Red flag!