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The loveseat in front of my TV is all black leather and nowhere near big enough for me to lie down on comfortably. There was a time when we would sit there tensed, respecting the layer of distance friends need between each other, arms uncomfortably at our sides. We've found a way to make it work somehow, us two big people, her voluptuous legs wrapped around me like ivy, my hands sprawling redwoods growing up through the crook of her arm.-
We broke the bed. That's an accomplishment I have never matched in terms of ego-swelling athletic sexual pride. When I was on top of her, I'd have to grab the steel rail of the headboard and push it forward to keep us from collapsing in on ourselves. It was awkward, but the sense of control, of knowing that I'm an integral part of what keeps this assembled and secure . . . well, it's the perfect metaphor.-
It's the cutest burp you've ever heard. She turns her head and makes a noise like "pf-huh". Maybe if I wasn't in love with her it'd just be a twee affection, the sign of a woman trying to hard to be a girl. But it triggers something in me when I hear it. Something cliché and vulnerable and forcefully inchoate.-
It's not a 'relationship.' That's what she told me. Still living with the man who at some point was her boyfriend, she can't take the mental leap to calling this what it is. Or what it isn't, perhaps. We talk about it, and we reach most of a resolution each time, but some conversations are ever-living. In August she moves out, and she said she'd be fine calling me her boyfriend about a week after she's left his house. I winced and told her it felt like I'd been punched in the gut.
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She wanted me to choke her. Inexperienced, it was my first time taking control of someone in that primal way. I kept wondering if I was going to asphyxiate her, but my grip stayed tight. After I did it, she told me I was a natural dom, which conflicted me. There's nothing truer to my current philosophy than the act of taking control. But I wonder how far I've come from who I used to be.-
I keep saying sappy things. I love how thick she is, and I never tire of expressing it. Every time I tell her how special she is to me, she bites her lip and looks away. The gesture makes me feel anxious, like I've fucked up, but I keep doing it.-
She texts me all the time. Little things: good morning, I miss you, how's work, this creep is staring at me on the bus, fuck Cubs fans. We've been friends long enough that we already have a secret language, but the added intimacy has created bizarre new slang and in-jokes. Despite all the sex and cuddling and professions of love, having someone I always want to talk to is the thing that stays with me throughout the day.-
Ending things is hard, whether it's a blog post or a relationship. I wonder when our denouement will come, and then sometimes I wonder if it will come. I can't stop knowing that our shared daydream will probably come to an end at some point, and it kind of tortures me. I want to watch plays and movies and have boring nights with her. I want to deal with the worst parts of her and watch her ugly cry. I want to get to the point where we keep getting annoyed with each other so that we can get to the point of sublime acceptance. I want to do the whole dance. Pondering the possibility isn't the same as envisioning a destiny, but any chance is worth it.
