Falling...

I did it. I fell.

I promised myself I wouldn’t, that I would just be, just enjoy, just go with it. Don’t fall, I whispered to my heart. Don’t do it. Just wait because we don’t know what this is yet. So wait… just wait…

But my heart is not patient. It is like a six-year-old child who just wants what she wants, everything else be damned. And yesterday morning, she grabbed her makeshift parachute and leapt off the cliff, screaming “whoo-hoo” all the way down.

And of course I fell. These past couple of weeks with the Filmmaker have been right out of a romantic comedy. Showing up unexpectedly with cupcakes, late night adventures 35 floors up with a full moon, wrapped in his arms. Showing up at my door at midnight, sweeping me up in his arms, so full of passion and desire that he takes my breath away. And he bought a nightlight for his bathroom so I wouldn’t be afraid of the dark.

And I was doing so well, just really enjoying him, embracing our time together, trying not to put any expectations on this, just letting it be whatever it is.

But something shifted yesterday morning.

He came over the night before, bottle of wine in hand, and we sat and talked for a long time, the first time we’ve been able to do that. Just sit. Just talk. Just be together without craziness going on around us. And it was lovely. And the rest of the night was just as easy, just as beautiful, filled with passion and desire. And wrapped up with each other.

And as he sat on my bed in the morning, getting ready to go home and face his day and let me face mine, something shifted. Usually, we’re both kind of rushing to tackle our day in the morning, at least when he’s here because I usually have a ridiculously early college class (four days a week, ridiculously early classes). So the morning is usually nice and polite and fine but definitely both of us getting ready for our day.

But he moved slowly yesterday. And I sat on the bed next to him and snuggled into him and he wrapped me up in his arms and just held me. And then he just looked at me.

And something shifted. And I heard that six-year-old child that holds my heart leap.

And I don’t know if it shifted for him. He’s a guy. You know how they are.

But for me, this is usually when it all goes terribly wrong. If only I could learn not to leap.

But it’s too late. I’m on the way down now, rocks looming, all pointy and jagged, waiting for me to fall all the way so they can tear me up when I reach the bottom.

And I know it’s just me.

Well, actually, it’s not just me.

It’s CL, who was one of the first I fell for in my new life. Who drew me in and pushed me to leap, only to run when I did. Who told me I was “too much”. Who posted terrible, awful, scathing things about me and who tore me apart because I never understood why. He just turned and left me to the rocks as I fell.

It’s CB, who I thought was something, who I thought was going to be something very, very special. Who saved me so many times in those early years of discovery and freedom. It’s you who saw me hold out my heart to you, you who almost took it, almost leapt with me, but then left me standing there as you faded away, without a word, without a sound. Just… gone. You, who still smiles when you see me and who probably still thinks we’re friends. Or maybe not. I don’t know. Big, fucking rocks tore me to pieces over you.

It’s the Poet, who promised me we’d always be friends, who was so much of an almost, despite his trying to deny it. The Poet who looked at me that way, who held me, heart pounding, and who has also vanished into the night. Who told me he’d never hurt me, he’d never leave, he’d always be my friend, my good friend.

You all leap with me and you’re all the ones I hear as I leap, making me sorry that I do. Because this leap means the beginning of the end. It means he’ll be gone soon because I’m “too much”, I get too close, I … I’m just always wrong. I’ve been taught that lesson well -- I’m just always wrong.

And the clowns are rejoicing as I fall because, suddenly, I can hear them. I can hear them mock me and torture me as I try to figure out what I’m doing. I popped up on Facebook tonight to say hi to him and the clowns belly-laughed, because they know I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know why I shouldn’t have but apparently the clowns think I shouldn’t have. Because they think he’ll find it invasive, he’ll suddenly be afraid of me, suddenly feel smothered, because that’s what I do. Drive him away. I’m good at that.

And the leap makes me stupid. It makes me become the person I hate being - wanting, needing, pining. Questioning, that’s the worst part. Asking all the things I’ve been avoiding asking, setting expectations that I’ve been avoiding setting. Wanting more than I can have right now.

And the clowns have started to pick at this, starting trying to find the seams and trying to unravel it and me. They want me to only see the bad, not see the good. They want me to build unbearable scenarios and they want me to twist everything out of true so I’ll be heartbroken long before that’s necessary.

And I hate that my history drags me to this place, drags me into the dark despite my efforts to stay in the light. I hate that my immediate place to go is into the black. I hate that I can’t just let this be something simple, something easy, that all the years of abuse make me want to figure out the end game and want me to protect myself.

And I hate that, right now, everything in my being just wants to end this and run. Because it’ll be easier if I can stop the leap midway down and not fall all the way. If I can just not let my heart go this time, if I can just hang on to it and not put it in his hands, then maybe I can survive this.

And I hate that instead of living in this moment and embracing the passion and desire and joy that he brings to me, that I’m trying to figure out how to fuck it up. Trying to figure out how to get away from it.

But what I really want to do is just fall. Just leave the corpses of those in the past behind as the air streaks past me, whistling in my ears as I close my eyes so I can’t see the rocks at the bottom. I want to just float on the wind and not think too much about how I’m going to land. I want to trust that he will be different, that I will reach out my hand to find him falling along beside me. I want to believe that he will continue to surprise me and that, instead of landing on the rocks below, we’ll get caught up on the updraft and find ourselves soaring over the ocean, finding a warm place to land where we can just stay for a moment, wrapped up in each other, finding our way without expectation. Just be, just love, just us.

So despite the fact that my heart is fighting me, I’m going to close my eyes and try to breathe and try to say goodbye to those who have left me behind, let go of that pain, let go of that fear. I’m going to listen to the wind and not think about what’s going to be. I’m going to picture his face in my mind, and feel his kiss on my lips, and hang on to that, for a moment, I could see him falling with me. And reach out, heart in hand, and hope he catches it.

I want you to want me

(WARNING - PG-13 - THIS BLOG INCLUDES THINGS LIKE HOT MONKEY LOVE AND SEX INVOLVING ADULTS WHO ARE NOT 20. SO IF YOU HAVE A DELICATE CONSTITUTION, STOP READING HERE. YOU’VE BEEN WARNED….)

I have never been wanted. Not in that carnal, primal, visceral way. Definitely not in my second marriage, where sex became mundane almost immediately. Maybe way back in my first marriage, when we were in our 20s and just raging hormones. But I have never felt wanted in that way.

Now before everyone gets on my case - yes, I know I’m attractive and all that crap. But I’ve never had a man show up at the door, cut me off with passionate kisses, sweep me up into his arms and carry me into the bedroom to make hot monkey love to me.

Until last night.

Okay, maybe there wasn’t sweeping up in the arms and carrying involved because, well, neither of us is 20. But the rest of it certainly lined up.

The thing with the Filmmaker is he makes me feel WANTED. He drove across town last night to be with me since we wouldn’t see each other for at least a week because of holidays and his kids and all that stuff. I had just accepted that we’d see each other next week. But he showed up at my door at midnight after a meeting he had just so we could be together for a few hours before the week got away from us.

Nobody has ever done that for me. Not made me feel like I am someone worth wanting.

Okay, the clowns in my head started screaming and complaining that he only wanted to come over for the aforementioned hot monkey love. And I countered with, and that’s bad how?

Sex has never been comfortable for me because I have very little experience with it. Before the Filmmaker, I had only slept with three men, two of which I married. So to be single after 16 years with one man, who was not the greatest of lovers (never try to play with food in bed with a compulsive-obsessive control freak), and to have so little experience and to know that so much of my almost-fifty-year-old body has become a victim of gravity, the idea of sleeping with someone made me want to just run and hide. Who’d want to see me naked? Really? I don’t even want to see me naked.

Maybe it’s because I’ve always been the smart one. My ex always said the sexiest thing about me was my brain. He never really told me I was beautiful, except maybe for our wedding day. I would wake up and find him watching me sleep, which was sweet, albeit a little creepy. He didn’t have the tools to express his passion, his love, because of his Aspergers. Or because he was an asshole. Take your pick. But I never felt desirable, never felt beautiful with him.

And with my family, my sister was the sexual dynamo, breaking world records at sleeping with guys. Maybe that’s why I backed off. I couldn’t compete with that. And she’s just sexy and hot and beautiful, whereas I was the smart one.

And I love being smart, don’t get me wrong. I love that I have a 4.0 GPA right now and that I am usually one of the smartest people in the room. I think that does carry a certain amount of sexy.

But all my life, I’ve just wanted someone to make me FEEL that. Feel wanted. Feel desired. Feel sexy.

And last night, this beautiful man showed up at my door and made me feel wanted.

And, sure, the sex is nice. I’d be nuts to say it isn’t. And it’s not just nice, it’s kinda awesome.

But what really makes me feel wanted is that after, he’s still there. He knew I had an early class this morning and he has his kids coming today and has a ton of stuff to do so he started to say he should go last night. But then he pulled me in close and that was it. We spent the night wrapped around each other until I finally climbed out of bed this morning to go to class.

I thought I’d never feel that again. Feel wanted. Feel that rush when that person kisses you. Feel that passion when it’s just right and new and exciting. I thought I was done with all of that, figured I’d spend the rest of my life with an empty bed and other ways to release tension.

Then this man showed up at my door.

And it doesn’t matter that we’re still figuring out our rhythms or that there’s usually a certain amount of giggling involved. And it doesn’t matter that neither of us is going to grace the cover of Sports Illustrated or Men’s Health or anything like that. And it doesn’t matter that this… thing… between us is undefined and open-ended and may not exist at any given point in the future.

What matters is right now, which is a huge step for me. I don’t know if we’ll be something incredible and together for a long time or if we’ll be just a short-lived, deeply passionate, wildly incredible fling. And right now, I don’t care.

All I know is that he wants me. Wants me in the same way I want him. And, for now, that’s enough.

Not almost

I woke up this morning wrapped in his arms, not wanting to breath, afraid to break this moment. But then he shifted and pulled me in tighter, and I breathed out, knowing nothing would break this moment.

I’ve waited for a long time for this. Almost seven years of being alone. Almost seven years of wondering if anyone would ever hold me like that again. Almost seven years of almosts.

This is not an almost.

I’m not sure what this is yet but there is no doubt that this is not an almost.

The Filmmaker has surprised me in ways I didn’t think I could be surprised in. Even if this is all it ever is, the last 48 hours have been filled with delight and surprise and little, teeny, beautiful romantic moments that made me feel special, made me feel like I’m the most incredible woman on earth. There is no question about how he feels, no wondering if he wants to be with me, if he finds me attractive, if he just wants me. I can’t remember my ex ever making me feel that way.

I’m finding it kind of strange that, at almost 50, I have never felt attractive, really. Rarely has a man told me that I’m beautiful. And only my gay male friends have ever called me sexy. And I usually pride myself for being smart, not beautiful, because I know my intelligence with always win out over my boobs.

However, I’m still a girl deep inside. And when I got dressed at the Filmmaker’s place last night to go out to this event and I came down the stairs in my sexy black, thigh-slit skirt, my fishnets and my heels, and he stopped what he was doing and just whispered, “wow”, I felt like the most beautiful woman on earth.

In a hundred ways over the past 48 hours, he has made me feel so beautiful, so sexy, so incredible, more so than my ex did in almost sixteen years.

And, for the first time in these past almost seven years, I’m not trying to figure out who to be or what to do to make him want to be with me. Because he wants to be with me. No question, no almost, no wondering. Falling asleep in his arms last night clarified that very quickly.

The difficult thing has been the clowns trying to rally in my head and find something wrong. Something has to be wrong because this doesn’t happen to me. I don’t get to have the kind, sweet, not-seriously-fucked-up-and-afraid-to-get-close guy. I get to have the seriously-fucked-up-I-want-you-oh-wait-no-I-don’t guy. The one who won’t hold me, the one who won’t gasp when I walk into the room, the one who won’t even hold my hand. The almosts. That’s what I get because I don’t deserve the good, kind, grown-up man.

Until now.

And last night, the clowns tried to get me to leave, to run away, before things could go exactly where I wanted them to go. As the past 48 hours have become more and more what I wanted them to become, the clowns have tried to get louder and louder, to convince me that there’s something wrong because he couldn’t possibly be what he appears to be, that he couldn’t possibly be doing these darling things without there being an exit strategy, without there being some kind of mother-fucking whopper of a hurt on the other end of it.

And I almost listened to them.

Almost.

There were so many moments yesterday where I almost walked away from the absolutely-not-almost because I couldn’t believe that this was really happening. I fought the urge to call him and say, you know what, I don’t think I’m ready for this, kthxbai.

Even as I was sitting thisclose to him, his hand on my thigh, his eyes locked with mine, I fought the urge to run screaming from the room because this couldn’t possibly be happening. I don’t get to have this. I get the almosts.

And it wasn’t until he wrapped his arms around me as we lay in his bed last night that I finally breathed out and believed. Believed that I could have this, for however long I have it. Just today, last night, just that is almost enough. If it’s only another week, another day, another night, it’s almost enough. Because at least this wasn’t an almost.

And I woke up this morning, certain that the almost would return. That he would turn away, find an excuse, be a hundred miles away as we woke up.

Then he pulled me close, almost asleep, and snuggled in behind me and I knew he wouldn’t turn away. He wasn’t a hundred miles away. He wasn’t even inches away. He was present, he was there and there was no almost anymore.

(Sorry, I’m having a moment of “I can’t believe I’m writing this”. But I always swore this blog would be no-holds-barred, so here we are - no holds barred.)

And without a word, without explaining anything, without talking things to death, I felt safe. I felt secure. I felt no almost.

And that was just about as scary.

I’ve had such fucked up relationships in my life that I don’t know what to do with a non-fucked-up one. I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop - and it may well yet - and it makes me a little sad that I have been taught to not believe in good things. That I have been taught to question what feels right, what feels good, and keep a distance there so I can’t get hurt again, to protect my heart, protect myself, so I can’t be destroyed again.

But if I stay there, if I stay where I cannot be reached, then all those years with him, all the hurt he caused me, all the ways he tried to destroy me will be valid, will accomplish what he (unintentionally) did to me. If I don’t let myself go and let myself fall and believe and just try, then I may have just stayed with him, just stayed where I was afraid and abused and empty. If I don’t let someone in, especially someone who wants to come in, then these last almost seven years have been for nothing.

So I will leap, I will embrace, I will let myself be taken away by this darling, sweet man who simply understands where I am. This man who will let me talk about where I am and how I feel and what’s gone on and just accept it and treat me with gentleness and care. I will hold my breath and try not to let the clowns get too loud and just be with him, without expectation, without planning, without trying to figure it all out so I can do it perfect and do it right and do it well, for once, goddamit. I will be present and be there and be moment to moment, knowing that he isn’t the only one who gets to choose how this goes. I get to choose, too. I can be there, I can walk away. I have a choice in how I participate. I’ve never felt like that before.

And I look forward to the next time his arms are around me, the next time he gazes at me that way, the next time I wake up in warmth and care and gentleness. Even if it’s only one more time or if it’s a hundred times. Each one will be treasured, because each one is real and true and not almost. It is just is.

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What this girl wants...

What I want is this:

Phone rings.

Me: “Hello?”

Him: “Hey, it’s me. I just dropped the kids off and I really want to see you. I’m on my way over.”

Me: “Really?”

Him: “Really…”

Twenty minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. I open it. He’s there. He cradles my face gently in his hands and kisses me like I want to be kissed. No words, no sounds, just a kiss.

And from there, well, you know the rest.

What will happen:

Me, popcorn, “Dexter” and “Walking Dead”.

The thing is, I’m a bitter, cynical, non-romantic-comedy chick. I prefer watching “Dexter” to anything vaguely “chick flick”.

But deep in my dark, twisted heart lies a woman who just wants to be romanced. And I mean really romanced.

My ex knew how to play at romantic. He said all the right things, he surprised me once or twice with something he would say. He tried flowers, he tried gifts, all that stuff.

But he never really swept me off my feet.

And I realized, after spending time with the Filmmaker last week, my ex never told me I was beautiful, unless it was in response to a dress I wore. And maybe on our wedding day. I can assure you he never told me I was sexy. Ever.

And no one has ever expressed that they WANTED me in the way the Filmmaker did last week. He said things to me about wanting to take me home and how he would seduce me that sent my little heart into a tizzy. I still didn’t go home with him because that’s just not in my nature but, man, I wanted to, more than I have ever wanted to with anyone, with the exception of the Poet. The Poet was an exception to many rules.

Anyway, back to the Filmmaker…

And that set my broken, shattered, romantic heart spinning, building scenarios that can never happen, that never happen in real life. Scenarios like the one above, that only happen in sappy films that manipulate you into crying because that scenario is never going to fucking happen in anybody’s fucking life.

And that pisses me off just a bit.

Because I will never have that moment. And I want that moment more than I really care to admit. Although I did just admit it to at least 52 of you.

And it makes me ache that no man will ever do this to the woman he loves because, well, because they’re men. And men just don’t do that. At least not in my world.

And it makes me pine a little bit more for that kind of moment, that once-in-a-lifetime moment that I would carry with me forever. And really make me feel like the most amazing, incredible, beautiful woman in the world… ever…

And it will never happen.

Because it just doesn’t.

And yet, I still want it so much that I spend hours fantasizing about these incredible moments I want to have happen in my life, to find someone who will actually bring those moments to life.

And it will never happen.

And, really, the way my life has been, the one amazing night last Saturday with the Filmmaker will probably be the last one I have with him. My life is not wanton knocks on the door in the middle of the night by a man who just has to see me. It’s more like men telling me how amazing I am, how incredible I am and then vanishing into the dark.

So now I’m just waiting for the dark to swallow up the Filmmaker so I can add his head to my virtual wall of men who won’t date me. Because I am more certain that this will be the outcome of our encounter than the scenario that started this blog. I’m so certain that he’ll run that I’ll be surprised if he does actually make the next move, as much as I want him to make that move, whatever it may be. It doesn’t have to be showing up at my door, in the rain (rain always makes it more romantic), kissing me like his life depends on it. It can just be actually calling to see me again. Right now, that would be enough.

And while that may make me sound sad and pathetic, I accept that this is my lot in life. I thought I had romance with my ex-husband because he said all the right things, he brought me flowers and gave me all the little trinkets that are supposed to be romantic. And I couldn’t make that relationship work. And his romance left me feeling empty and alone, not loved and embraced.

And I have chosen to be alone and keep my protective guard up. I could have gone home with the Filmmaker on Saturday. And it would have been an incredible night, of that I am certain. But my dark, twisted heart would have been lost to him, no matter how much I may pledge that it wouldn’t be. So I chose to say no, chose to say not right now but thank you very much and let’s try it later. I chose to take a chance that this man will be a man and take me at face value, that his affection and desire for me is stronger than two little letters - n-o.

And if it’s not, then that was my choice to be alone. That was my choice to say no. That was my choice to protect myself and not get lost again.

And I’m not sure what I will do if he calls, if he wants to see me because I never have gotten that far, as far as someone actually wanting to be with me. It’d be so much easier if last Saturday was all there was because it would then be a beautiful memory of someone who wanted me once. Perfect and precious and special because it didn’t become something garish and real and wrong.

So what I want and what will be are eons apart and never the twain shall meet, in all probability. And I’m not sure what to do with that and I’m not even sure why I shared this with you. Just the ramblings of a single woman on a Sunday night thinking about a soon-to-be-lost possibility and hoping that maybe somehow, he will actually show up at my door, shattering all my cynicism and bluster with a single kiss.

Yeah, that’ll happen.