THIS POST CONTAINS CONTENT OF AN ADULT NATURE. IF YOU ARE UNDER 18, DO NOT CONTINUE READING.
Our beginning was nothing special. Your profile so like all the others.
But you got me at “hello, I read books too”.
Our game plan was unusual; considering that we met on a sex-site.
We decided to hold off on the hanky-panky, and actually date.
When we did hit the hay, those first attempts were inauspicious.
So we decided to just hold each other. And in that holding, we found our passion.
Our time together has not had a supportive framework.
Work; weekends interstate; odd commitments;
the inconvenient arrival of your ex.
Yet we have continued to grab a coffee here, a phone call there.
And with each grabbing, something has deepened.
Now I look at you and think “Yes. Yes here is the one.
Here is the man who has taught me to put aside childish things”.
And as I wave you goodbye, so horribly soon, I know that here will abide faith, hope and love.
For this, and so much more
I thank you.
A few weeks ago I met a wonderful man: intelligent, warm, funny, handsome, employed, sexy, generous, kind and truly single. He and I have spent some great times together, actually doing “dating” things. But, alas, he has now left this fair city, where he was but a short-term resident, and gone off to another state. He may be back; he may not.
So while we are apart, there is much contemplation going on. Seven weeks has not been long enough for us to get to any safe level. We were still getting acquainted. Still dating. Still asking each other about middle names and star signs and favourite songs. We have not seen enough of each other to know that here is our next relationship.
And this is where I panic.
You see, I have always felt that I am a woman who offers a great deal of novelty value. I’m kooky, funny, sexy, outrageous etc etc. The sort of gal that is loads of fun to date .But what happens when the kooky gal goes home?
My house is often a mess. I keep clothes all over the bedroom floor and half-drunk cups of coffee all over the place. I am disorganized and a chronic procrastinator. I’m a slob, both in housework and in personal presentation. I smoke. I drink copious cups of coffee. I’m often broke. My electricity has been cut off once; my phone on many an occasion. I suffer from depression and anxiety. And I swing between both states, and joyful ecstasy, at the drop of another pair of dirty knickers. I crank the music up too loud. I dance when I’m cooking. I swear enough to make a stevedore blush. I do ten things at once.
I’m a mess.
So my constant concern-with experience to back it up-is that the novelty wears off very quickly once a man has been invited into the inner sanctum of my private world. And without that, there can be no real relationship.
I try to intellectualise it by telling myself that the man must take the rough with the smooth. Does he want a woman who will give him a blow job in the kitchen, or one whose kitchen is spotless? Does he want a woman who sings, laughs and strokes his leg while she is driving, or one who keeps her car clean of cigarette butts and nicely serviced? Does he want a woman who has loads of friends and stories from different walks of life, or one who has had the same, solid job for years, with commensurate super and savings?
I know the answer. And my heart sinks. He wants what I can offer, for a short while. I’m like a holiday in a disney resort. But he soon wants to return to his calm, clean, relatively stress-free life.
Will this lovely man be one of those? God, I hope not. He is something very special. But is he special enough to tolerate the dirty knickers?
Watch this space…