New trainer reminded me of someone. Kept on thinking. Who? Who? Who?
He was lying on the bench, demonstrating a weight lifting technique. It dawned on me. Him. That guy.
That guy was the only person I came close to marry. Blond. 5'11". Blue eyes. With glasses. Fit. A spy. Bourne Identity type. International romance. Any city, you named it we hit it. Any place, the epitome of love declared in Hedonism II, Jamaica, then Sandals, he lifted me up under the waterfall, kissing me, passionately, like I had never been kissed before. Our first fight in Chicago, snowy winter night, a long walk in Boston, through Maine we drove until there were nowhere left to go. Meeting his parents in Virginia, walking hand in hand in Washington D.C., where he worked, made love until the sun came up and then fell asleep in each other's arms. His soft voice, his all American good looks, his love, the undying love that nearly killed me, when all that ended, I simply jumped into a relationship that promised nothing, and loved those who could not love me back.
You could say I got burned.
And this new trainer looked like my ex fiance. Two people proposed to me. First was this Swedish guy. I couldn't leave this country for him. Then came to this guy. I couldn't even say his name after eighteen years. I couldn't write about him, and I had trouble remembering much about our relationship, until recently a photo album resurfaced my long forgotten years.
That was the love of a century. I knew that now because I had often tried to love another but I couldn't, and wouldn't. So I ended up trying to manufacture love like feelings towards those emotionally distant men, and I cried when they did not love me back, but I could only love them because I KNEW they wouldn't be able to love me back. Eighteen years and counting, I could never love again, not like that.
He was seven years older than me. That would make him almost 48. His birthday was in early September. He was born and raised near D.C., and was of German decent. He spoke five languages fluently. He was into fitness, body building, and he was brilliantly smart. Never had a lot of former education but he was driven and intelligent. He was sexually perverse. Had done bi stuff, loved sex, addicted to it, rather, and he loved me like he's never loved another. He travelled a lot, and lived in all parts of the world, he was a spy, and worked in Pentagon when I met him. He had been in wars, carrying out secret missions. He had stationed in many parts of the world, the last place we spent together, after he and I were unofficially engaged, was Jamaica U.S. embassy, where he was dispatched.
I nearly married him. He was perhaps the best looking person I'd ever met. Squared jawed and blond sun kissed hair, and that studious, intense look in his eyes whenever he looked at me. I had trouble concentrating when I was with him. He knew that I wanted a threesome. While in Southern California, he arranged for me to meet his friend, and that evening we had the best threesome ever. I had never been with two men after him. It was an experience not to be forgotten for as long as I should live.
In Jamaica's Hedonism II, we saw a BDSM club, people had sex everywhere, I was into nude beaches and sex on the beach, literately, and the room we stayed in had a mirror mounted on the ceiling, there we had sex for hours, and then on the beach and other public places.
Only one other person I knew in my circles had been to Hedonism II in the 90s, and that was B. I remembered it because we were there around the same time. I went to Jamaica to be with my fiance. No one knew that I was engaged. I couldn't tell people after what he did to me. But that was another story, a tale to be told in another day.
We talked to each other often. Nearly every day. We wrote to each other every day. He had other sex partners, I assumed that was the case, but I knew he loved me. and It was difficult at first, to have someone tell you how much they loved you, and to believe it, but I did, I knew he was the one.
There were intense moments, there were moments we fought when he suspected that I was not being loyal, and there was that wintery night when he arrived in Chicago and I was just finished entertaining a gentleman caller. I was young, a professional in my own field, I was wild and crazy, and I enjoyed sex with men I met. But he was different. He loved me. There was something else, and I later learned, with love, it often came with jealousy, possessiveness, and intense emotions.
I avoided drama after that relationship, I was afraid what it would do to my sanity. Whenever there was a conflict, I chose the easy way out, I never confronted, argued or fought for what I believe was right for me. I just stepped back and pretended everything was okay. Perhaps I burned out too fast too prematurely.
For years followed, I couldn't bring myself to love again so completely. I chased after those whom I couldn't love, should not love, knowing that their affection for me would not last, and therefore I would be safe.
Years passed.
One year I was seeing this guy and he told me that he was visiting a friend down in San Diego, a man that fit my description and had his name, was there, and he had those incredibly blond hair, wavy, and he was arrogant and condescending. He had followed me to California by that time, and I had told him to leave me alone, so that I could get over him. When this guy told me about his encounter with this man, my heart sank, not because I was angry about his existence, but I was angry about why I still cared.
After I was an adult, I talked to him once more. About nine years ago. He had moved back to Virginia, and gotten out of the spying business. I did not ask him about his personal life, nor did I want to know. By then, I just needed to know that he was no longer near me.
I tried to forget about him, but one could not really forget about the one person who shaped your life. It was one of those experiences, when told to others, as if it never happened to you, a good story, an adventure of a sort. But when you had lived through it, you knew that it was not all about the glamourous life that you once led.
He and I covered so many grounds. Any city, any corner of the world, we had been together. He was why I was unable to give myself to anyone fully. He was the reason why I couldn't love fully, and he was the reason why I couldn't resist a man who had physical resemblance of him.
I always thought, or rather, knew, one day, one day he'd come back in the form of a ghost, to haunt me.
He was a tormented soul, and I suspected that he had died. I didn't know why, but then why else would he return to my dreams in the recent months?
We all die one day. And sometimes the only peace you get, was when you knew that person was dead. Maybe that was the wedding ceremony I missed, or maybe I never missed it at all, we were apart at last. he was dead.
He was lying on the bench, demonstrating a weight lifting technique. It dawned on me. Him. That guy.
That guy was the only person I came close to marry. Blond. 5'11". Blue eyes. With glasses. Fit. A spy. Bourne Identity type. International romance. Any city, you named it we hit it. Any place, the epitome of love declared in Hedonism II, Jamaica, then Sandals, he lifted me up under the waterfall, kissing me, passionately, like I had never been kissed before. Our first fight in Chicago, snowy winter night, a long walk in Boston, through Maine we drove until there were nowhere left to go. Meeting his parents in Virginia, walking hand in hand in Washington D.C., where he worked, made love until the sun came up and then fell asleep in each other's arms. His soft voice, his all American good looks, his love, the undying love that nearly killed me, when all that ended, I simply jumped into a relationship that promised nothing, and loved those who could not love me back.
You could say I got burned.
And this new trainer looked like my ex fiance. Two people proposed to me. First was this Swedish guy. I couldn't leave this country for him. Then came to this guy. I couldn't even say his name after eighteen years. I couldn't write about him, and I had trouble remembering much about our relationship, until recently a photo album resurfaced my long forgotten years.
That was the love of a century. I knew that now because I had often tried to love another but I couldn't, and wouldn't. So I ended up trying to manufacture love like feelings towards those emotionally distant men, and I cried when they did not love me back, but I could only love them because I KNEW they wouldn't be able to love me back. Eighteen years and counting, I could never love again, not like that.
He was seven years older than me. That would make him almost 48. His birthday was in early September. He was born and raised near D.C., and was of German decent. He spoke five languages fluently. He was into fitness, body building, and he was brilliantly smart. Never had a lot of former education but he was driven and intelligent. He was sexually perverse. Had done bi stuff, loved sex, addicted to it, rather, and he loved me like he's never loved another. He travelled a lot, and lived in all parts of the world, he was a spy, and worked in Pentagon when I met him. He had been in wars, carrying out secret missions. He had stationed in many parts of the world, the last place we spent together, after he and I were unofficially engaged, was Jamaica U.S. embassy, where he was dispatched.
I nearly married him. He was perhaps the best looking person I'd ever met. Squared jawed and blond sun kissed hair, and that studious, intense look in his eyes whenever he looked at me. I had trouble concentrating when I was with him. He knew that I wanted a threesome. While in Southern California, he arranged for me to meet his friend, and that evening we had the best threesome ever. I had never been with two men after him. It was an experience not to be forgotten for as long as I should live.
In Jamaica's Hedonism II, we saw a BDSM club, people had sex everywhere, I was into nude beaches and sex on the beach, literately, and the room we stayed in had a mirror mounted on the ceiling, there we had sex for hours, and then on the beach and other public places.
Only one other person I knew in my circles had been to Hedonism II in the 90s, and that was B. I remembered it because we were there around the same time. I went to Jamaica to be with my fiance. No one knew that I was engaged. I couldn't tell people after what he did to me. But that was another story, a tale to be told in another day.
We talked to each other often. Nearly every day. We wrote to each other every day. He had other sex partners, I assumed that was the case, but I knew he loved me. and It was difficult at first, to have someone tell you how much they loved you, and to believe it, but I did, I knew he was the one.
There were intense moments, there were moments we fought when he suspected that I was not being loyal, and there was that wintery night when he arrived in Chicago and I was just finished entertaining a gentleman caller. I was young, a professional in my own field, I was wild and crazy, and I enjoyed sex with men I met. But he was different. He loved me. There was something else, and I later learned, with love, it often came with jealousy, possessiveness, and intense emotions.
I avoided drama after that relationship, I was afraid what it would do to my sanity. Whenever there was a conflict, I chose the easy way out, I never confronted, argued or fought for what I believe was right for me. I just stepped back and pretended everything was okay. Perhaps I burned out too fast too prematurely.
For years followed, I couldn't bring myself to love again so completely. I chased after those whom I couldn't love, should not love, knowing that their affection for me would not last, and therefore I would be safe.
Years passed.
One year I was seeing this guy and he told me that he was visiting a friend down in San Diego, a man that fit my description and had his name, was there, and he had those incredibly blond hair, wavy, and he was arrogant and condescending. He had followed me to California by that time, and I had told him to leave me alone, so that I could get over him. When this guy told me about his encounter with this man, my heart sank, not because I was angry about his existence, but I was angry about why I still cared.
After I was an adult, I talked to him once more. About nine years ago. He had moved back to Virginia, and gotten out of the spying business. I did not ask him about his personal life, nor did I want to know. By then, I just needed to know that he was no longer near me.
I tried to forget about him, but one could not really forget about the one person who shaped your life. It was one of those experiences, when told to others, as if it never happened to you, a good story, an adventure of a sort. But when you had lived through it, you knew that it was not all about the glamourous life that you once led.
He and I covered so many grounds. Any city, any corner of the world, we had been together. He was why I was unable to give myself to anyone fully. He was the reason why I couldn't love fully, and he was the reason why I couldn't resist a man who had physical resemblance of him.
I always thought, or rather, knew, one day, one day he'd come back in the form of a ghost, to haunt me.
He was a tormented soul, and I suspected that he had died. I didn't know why, but then why else would he return to my dreams in the recent months?
We all die one day. And sometimes the only peace you get, was when you knew that person was dead. Maybe that was the wedding ceremony I missed, or maybe I never missed it at all, we were apart at last. he was dead.
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