I’m tired of masturbating to him.
I wonder if it’s true, what he vaguely alleged, if I’d be able to overlook his emotional debuts and tiny manic moods if we actually had frequent sex? And the fact remains that this shocked me because I paused more to myself than to him. This could be a half-truth and this made me feel troubled and by troubled I mean my perspective on this matter had zero perspective on this matter (which calls for this entry).
Where would I be mentally or emotionally say if we had sex continuously for 3 months in the time we decided to get involved? Where would he be? It’s been brought to my attention time and time again how sex is important to me. I could live in part-time denial but I’ve been in the process of accepting myself for who I am a lot lately. So where would my mindset be if we had continuous sex? See, we only engaged in sex once for 3 pleasant hours: One month and 12 days ago. It’s going to be longer because he’s in California now. (I’m not sure why I’m counting besides the obvious? This is highly unlike me. Plus I’m getting sex mighty well from elsewhere as is.)
It’s easy to memorize when I decided the next morning after our breaking night, how he said he loved me in the back of an Arab store drinking his sorrows to Sapporo beers as we made out like rebellious teenagers in public with his one hand scaring me as it clenched to my ponytail in a minor dominating matter as he vomited his feelings into the windows of my unready soul. It’s easy to memorize how I took this time to conclude that through his mourning there’s a form of strong aphrodisiac from both ends, how I’ve been prepared to give my body to him since a year ago. But the sealing of the deal was on his mother’s birthday, the first anniversary where she’s to represent a higher plane outside of this physical world.
I believe it’s true I’m in this (mostly?) for the physical aspect. But who’s to say I don’t like him deeply from the bottom of my heart. That I like the way he manages his voluminous lips with Chapstick. I like the way he takes care of me and massages my hip flexors and stretches me out like a considerate lover in the middle of a training session. Or how I like the way he mentions his achy childhood stories with freedom and just how stimulated he becomes (like me) with a forty-minute conversation.
Still this relationship is a square of four total people involved. We’re each affected by what one does or doesn’t do and by what the other person says and doesn’t say. We’re each living a separate life and out of the four that make the line only three know while one has some idea. Still this relationship is odd and dysfunctional. It’s testing me in ways I’ve never been and it makes me feel things I haven’t felt. I’m connected even when I try to look the other way. Still this is part of the beauty: No true reassurance of anything. (Perhaps I like it this way? It keeps the illusion of mystery alive.) It’s following, weaving and it’s swerving. It’s make a hard left and its turn a soft right. And all in all it’s partially misleading.
I like that he reminds me of me. When he pushes away is when I should be coming forward, when he says no he really means yes. He creates distance when he doesn’t want to relinquish power. Above all he tests my water, questions my abilities of patience, romance, positivity, fullness, training, learning to let go, being adventurous, swimming out with the other extroverts of life, nature, flowing, not questioning every single thing (because you can), the six senses and human connection. Within experiencing somebody you experience yourself.
So where was I about masturbating?