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.