Fear of...

I’m afraid that I will never be held again. Really held. With love. With passion. With fervor. After sex. Before sex. During sex.

Oh, yeah. And I’m afraid I will never have sex again. But, honestly, I think I can deal with that. I’d rather not have sex than have bad sex with someone I’m not in love with.

I’m afraid I will never have the shivering, quivering chills that come with delicate kisses on my neck.

God, I need to have sex.

Or not.

I just want to be wrapped up in someone’s arms, whether we’re watching TV or falling asleep.

Sometimes it’s hard when the men I adore hug me good night because that’s as close to the feeling as I can get right now. But those hugs always end too quickly and that feeling dissolves. And I’m left with this lingering want of something I can’t have.

And I’m afraid of spending the rest of my life alone in my daybed with my cat.

And I’m afraid I’ll never have that rush of a first kiss with someone. Or the rush of a second kiss. Or a hundredth kiss. Because I want someone who’s going to thrill me 15 years from now with his touch and his kiss and that may be too much to ask for.

And I’m afraid, occasionally, that maybe my ex (second one) was my soul mate and I fucked it up somehow. That he was the one meant for me and I was too stupid or blind or selfish or something-ish to see it. That I allowed what I wanted outside of our relationship to cloud what I wanted inside our relationship. I know that’s irrational and it’s stupid but it’s there.

I’m afraid that, after two marriages, that this is all I get. I had my chances and I blew them both. Now I get nothing else but the love of friends and the fleeting hugs of the men I love.

Mostly, I’m just afraid of never being held that way again. Because that leads to everything else. And, unfortunately, there’s not much any of you can do about it right now. Unless you want to send George Clooney over.