He had given me a book to read. He said that I’d like it; he
said that it had three elements that made the book a pleasant read:
short, funny, and with sexual component. I told him that I no longer
cared for sex. I was not getting laid, and I refused to have sex with
men these days. He was one of the men. The last one. I would never stay
at his place again, I would never kiss him again, I would never ever let
him see me naked, ever again. It was a new era, and he knew what it
meant. If we were to make it as friends, we must be sexually not
involved.
It was a rule that made by him, and it was a rule that worked for me.
I liked him. We were so different, but similar in some ways. We had a great potential once and when it faded I could never see him the same way. I missed the old feeling but I did not miss my interaction with him.
He cared somewhat about me. He knew enough about me to know that once my mind was made up, there was no turning back. I still acted as if we were dating. I curled up next to him to watch a movie, he caressed my hand and my leg as if he had a free pass to my body. I put my hand in his pocket as we walked. He called me baby as he used to. He thanked me when I picked up the tab. It was my turn. We talked about going to places, making future plans, even, and I wanted to know his life, as I shared with him mine.
At dinner, he said, “Why, why did you change?”
He was referring to my venturing out of my seemingly perfect life.
"Because I was hoping to find love."
I said. Then my voice changed, a little weak a little shaky. “I still hope one day I could find love. And to fall in love again.” I said.
I missed the feeling of being in love. Even a pretend one. But I had decided that my time was up. I could not love again. I had to remove the one self who was capable of loving and replacing the one who was hard pressed with emotions. I must learn to stop searching for things and emotions that I was not entitled to.
He and I had great potential. Then it ended.
I laid on the couch next to him. I put my face next to his crotch and my legs stretched on the other end of the couch. I felt noting. I felt absolutely nothing as I rested my head on his body. As I stretched and contoured my body, I asked for him to massage my back and neck. He did so as if that was expected of him, without any words he complied. Then when I laid quietly, he did not make any move. He was not aroused either; if he did, I would not know. I liked him the same way as I liked my father, but not the real father, but the fake, in everything-was-perfect-about-my-father kind of way. I could sit straddling him, like he was my lover, or like he was my father, I'd straddle him and tell him a story. I felt like a young girl in his presence and thus not sexual in any way. He was confused for a moment but then he was relaxed, he let me sitting on top of him, telling him a story and he admired me and listened, almost proud of me. He then touched me as if he missed me, or perhaps he padded me like a cat he never had. He folded my body against his, caressed me like I was his rag doll. I told him that I could no longer be with him, physically. I was done, and I did not want him to want me physically. I just needed his companionship, I needed him to hold me and I needed him to see me cry.
He would not know what to do if I did cry. I would not cry of course, but if there were anyone I could hold and cry, it would be him. I felt utterly safe with him, because he could not hurt me. I did not love him. I did not like him in a physical way, I needed him like I needed a father, a father I never had and he played well in that role. He would kiss my forehead, and he would hold my hand, and he took pleasure in knowing that I was safe and sound. I needed nothing from him, and that gave me the strength. He could nurture me into health. I would eventually be healed and stop loving someone who was cruel, not him, but the person before him.
We had great potential. He and I, then it ended.
Initially, I thought what we were going through was an inertia. But we no longer fucked. So this must have been a new path. A new path where he and I could have it a go, me as his daughter that he never had; he as my father, the one I never had. I had no relationship with my birth father, and he would never have a child. This was a symbiotic relationship. I needed him, to see me through this, to be wholesome and good again.
I noticed a bump on my left knee, it was a fresh bruise that had gotten worse over time. I was not sure how I got it. He touched it gently. and said, “Oh you poor baby, you are hurt. I always hurt you.” I did not stop him, I was not hurt by him, not in a way that was materially damaging. I was hurt long before he showed up. Even if he disappeared tomorrow, I would not be hurt. But I let him to think that way. I needed him to feel bad. Men often thought their cowardliness would hurt a woman, but women could hurt men too. It just would not be a direct hit. It would happen over time. It would happen, you just would not know when.
There was a story somewhere. I just couldn’t tell you how it would end.
It was a rule that made by him, and it was a rule that worked for me.
I liked him. We were so different, but similar in some ways. We had a great potential once and when it faded I could never see him the same way. I missed the old feeling but I did not miss my interaction with him.
He cared somewhat about me. He knew enough about me to know that once my mind was made up, there was no turning back. I still acted as if we were dating. I curled up next to him to watch a movie, he caressed my hand and my leg as if he had a free pass to my body. I put my hand in his pocket as we walked. He called me baby as he used to. He thanked me when I picked up the tab. It was my turn. We talked about going to places, making future plans, even, and I wanted to know his life, as I shared with him mine.
At dinner, he said, “Why, why did you change?”
He was referring to my venturing out of my seemingly perfect life.
"Because I was hoping to find love."
I said. Then my voice changed, a little weak a little shaky. “I still hope one day I could find love. And to fall in love again.” I said.
I missed the feeling of being in love. Even a pretend one. But I had decided that my time was up. I could not love again. I had to remove the one self who was capable of loving and replacing the one who was hard pressed with emotions. I must learn to stop searching for things and emotions that I was not entitled to.
He and I had great potential. Then it ended.
I laid on the couch next to him. I put my face next to his crotch and my legs stretched on the other end of the couch. I felt noting. I felt absolutely nothing as I rested my head on his body. As I stretched and contoured my body, I asked for him to massage my back and neck. He did so as if that was expected of him, without any words he complied. Then when I laid quietly, he did not make any move. He was not aroused either; if he did, I would not know. I liked him the same way as I liked my father, but not the real father, but the fake, in everything-was-perfect-about-my-father kind of way. I could sit straddling him, like he was my lover, or like he was my father, I'd straddle him and tell him a story. I felt like a young girl in his presence and thus not sexual in any way. He was confused for a moment but then he was relaxed, he let me sitting on top of him, telling him a story and he admired me and listened, almost proud of me. He then touched me as if he missed me, or perhaps he padded me like a cat he never had. He folded my body against his, caressed me like I was his rag doll. I told him that I could no longer be with him, physically. I was done, and I did not want him to want me physically. I just needed his companionship, I needed him to hold me and I needed him to see me cry.
He would not know what to do if I did cry. I would not cry of course, but if there were anyone I could hold and cry, it would be him. I felt utterly safe with him, because he could not hurt me. I did not love him. I did not like him in a physical way, I needed him like I needed a father, a father I never had and he played well in that role. He would kiss my forehead, and he would hold my hand, and he took pleasure in knowing that I was safe and sound. I needed nothing from him, and that gave me the strength. He could nurture me into health. I would eventually be healed and stop loving someone who was cruel, not him, but the person before him.
We had great potential. He and I, then it ended.
Initially, I thought what we were going through was an inertia. But we no longer fucked. So this must have been a new path. A new path where he and I could have it a go, me as his daughter that he never had; he as my father, the one I never had. I had no relationship with my birth father, and he would never have a child. This was a symbiotic relationship. I needed him, to see me through this, to be wholesome and good again.
I noticed a bump on my left knee, it was a fresh bruise that had gotten worse over time. I was not sure how I got it. He touched it gently. and said, “Oh you poor baby, you are hurt. I always hurt you.” I did not stop him, I was not hurt by him, not in a way that was materially damaging. I was hurt long before he showed up. Even if he disappeared tomorrow, I would not be hurt. But I let him to think that way. I needed him to feel bad. Men often thought their cowardliness would hurt a woman, but women could hurt men too. It just would not be a direct hit. It would happen over time. It would happen, you just would not know when.
There was a story somewhere. I just couldn’t tell you how it would end.
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