I’ve got regrets... but I don’t regret a single day I spent with you.

Wait. I regret one. The one that changed the course of the entire relationship. The one you could never let go of. The one day/morning/moment I can never take back.

You wanted it to work. We both did.

I frustrated you. In that critical first moment. And I broke your heart. And our relationship...

[ more.. ]

“Can you tell me why you like me so much?”

The question she asked was sincere. She’s looking up at me, with those deep brown eyes... yearning for an answer. I don’t have one.

Does it matter why, my love? Is it not enough that we are here, right now, in this moment? What purpose will it serve feeding your ego at this moment.

Yet it does matter. She’s visibly getting angry. She’s been hurt before. She wants to know that this is real. That it will last. That I’m the one.

Yes, this is real. No, it will not last. No, I’m no one.

I am only here to remind you how to love. How to feel again.

They say everything happens for a reason. I disagree. Perhaps I’m wrong, but I don’t believe everything happens for a reason we are humanly aware of.

I can’t tell you why I “like you so much.” I am still trying to figure that out.

Yet I do. Like you. I like this moment. I love providing you glimpses of safety and security. I love being inside you. I love your touch. Your smell. Your taste.

I sense that you want me to tell you that this is permanent. Nothing is permanent, my love. Forever doesn’t exist for people like us. We are here now. Can’t we enjoy the now? Without clouding it with the fear of the future? Because it is fear. You’re already dreading the thought of being without me.

Let’s enjoy this moment now. So what if I can’t tell you why.

“Come. Shower with me.”

Love is giving someone the power to destroy you and trusting they won’t use it.

I have been thinking a lot about life and love lately—in the shadow of so much death. I suppose we each handle death in our own ways. I suppose.

And I’ve been getting to know someone. She’s an incredible young woman. Beautiful and vibrant. Curious and sensitive. At the risk of sounding cliché, I can see the future in her eyes.

Those deep, beautiful brown eyes.

The speed with which we went from strangers to intimate was breathtaking, yet organic. It’s like we’ve always known each other, yet each yearns to learn more.

But she’s afraid. Of the cascade of emotions. And this is what breaks my heart.

We’re taught that emotions are weakness. We’re taught that we can think ourselves out of crisis.

This society has created a lot of people out there who are not capable of true love, which ruins the field for those of us who are capable of nothing else.

So, she has found someone who loves her and will take care of her. And she has withdrawn. If this is the end of the affair, I will be sad, yet without regret. She knows who I am. We are no longer strangers.

In the shadow of death, however, I fear losing her… and all of my loved ones. Losing contact.

At any moment, my light could go out. Or hers. Flame extinguished. And if we’re out of touch, how would the other know?

Imagine, the horror of discovering the one person you had to build up the courage to join, the one you want to pursue your fantasies and desires with... only to find he or she passed away a few weeks ago. Isn’t it better to experience waves of the good feelings over the bad?

We’re all going to burn out. All of us. Death is not a trend, it’s a part of life. We need to stop losing our valuable time thinking about what could happen and risk a little heartbreak. The love we gain is worth it, and we deserve to feel loved. Wanted. Desired.

Discovered today this li’l nugget written August 29 of last year.

I emerge from the kitchen and round the corner, heading toward the bar. That’s when I see him.

Standing there, alone. Looking cool, with his long, curly hair, brown leather jacket, and perfectly coiffed eyebrows. He spends more time getting ready than most women I know—and I look homeless.

And his precisely groomed handlebar mustache. Seriously, who does that? Yet, it works on him.

His back’s to me. He’s slowly spinning, taking in every corner of the room. Owning it.

Yet, suddenly, all I can see is her. Rising up above me like an angel. Arching her back as she raises her glorious tits off my chest, beads of sweat glistening. Then she comes back to me. I’m instantly lost inside those hazel eyes.

Our mouths meet, hungry! We devour each other as I pull her close. My God, she’s incredible. I want this woman.

The memory of last night is fresh, as I return to the present, Jesse still turning, still scanning the room, still standing next to the bar. My bar. Our eyes finally meet. Does he know?

I swallow. Hard. A beat passes. Two.

I begin my approach as he takes his first step towards me. Shit.

I still don’t know if he knows. Fucker.

My mind is racing. Do I even have a defense?

“Here are the facts your honor. The defendant left the bar with his girlfriend at 7:23 pm. At 3:17 am, he called her cell phone as he got off work. The conversation was brief, and at that time she stated she would be home by four.”

She was. I made sure of that. I was two blocks away from her place when she texted, confirming she’d arrived safely. Followed by a shower selfie. It’s still in my phone.

Somehow, I’m still maintaining my cool as I near Jesse. Does he know? Anything? Everything?

“Jesse, how’s it going?” I ask, betraying nothing.

His congenial smile returns as he extends his hand. The man has a good, firm handshake.

“Great! Lydia wanted dinner, and suggested here. It’s one of her favorites, yet it’s been a while.”

“So, she’s here?”

At that moment, as if on cue, she appears behind him, returning from the washroom—a vision in a small, slinky black dress. She locks those beautiful eyes on mine as she approaches Jesse from behind, wrapping her arms around his waist.

My lord. Why am I a better second boyfriend than a first? I feel a slight twinge of longing. For a moment, I’d love to be sitting across from her. I’d love to have this woman in my life.

Yet, I don’t. Jesse’s girl. Fuck. How cliché.

“I have the perfect spot. A corner, window seat, with a view overlooking the city. Right this way…”

I lead them to a secluded booth in the corner of the restaurant. My section. Why do I do this to myself?

As she slides into the booth, I am not seeing the beautiful dress at all. She’s still nude. Glistening. Shit, I can still taste her.

And she is smiling at me. Genuinely.

As Jesse sits, her focus shifts to him. I present the menus under the candlelight. Their hands meet on the table. A beautiful couple.

“Enjoy your dinner,” I tell them as I turn to walk away.

“Thank you,” Lydia says, barely a whisper.

“… For everything.”

I awoke with a start. Someone was banging on the door. Hard.

“Jesus,” I mumbled. “What time is it?”

The clock on the nightstand confirmed it was just after three in the morning.

The banging persisted. Whoever it is, they want in.

I slide out from the warm covers and reach for a pair of jeans. Boxers. Anything. I fumble for the light switch before cracking open the door to peer outside. “Shit,” I think to myself. “I know these guys.”

Larry and his father push their way in.

“Where is she?” Larry demands.

“Where is who?”

“Don’t be a jackass. We know she’s been sneaking out at night. Her friend, Misty, suggested we check here.

“You’ve got quite a reputation in town,” Larry’s father accused.

“I’m sorry, sir. If you’re talking about Elsie, she did meet me several hours ago at the Century Club,” I replied, surprisingly calmly. “But we didn’t leave together.”

My composure was solid. I’d been expecting this confrontation. Elsie is an incredible girl, beautiful, witty and a sensational body. Yet, she’s also a nineteen-year-old Jehovah Witness girl. What’s a 22-year-old guy to do?

“She’s not here,” I finished. “Go ahead and look around.”

Larry is still visibly filled with rage, but I’ve denied him the satisfaction of venting it on me. His father looks resigned. Age and experience, I suppose.

I wouldn’t know. My veins are still pulsing from the intrusion. Yet somehow, I’ve never been so calm when confronted. I’m sizing them up. I’m twice Larry’s size, and his dad is... old. But, two against one? I’m not confident this will end in my favor if it escalates.

They both wander around the apartment. Larry peeks into the bedroom, but doesn’t go in.

“Larry, we’ve been looking for a while. Maybe we missed her, and she’s home now,” Larry’s father offered.

“Maybe.” Larry’s not convinced.

His dad turned to me, “Look here, you little shit, I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but if you ARE seeing my daughter, that ends now. Got it?”

I’ve been confronted like this before. I have to suppress my usual “shit-eating” grin, so I look down. “Yes sir,” I say.

“Good,” Larry says. “If we have to come back here...”

“Got it,” I said, not letting him finish. Now, I’m annoyed. It’s late. Irritation has replaced my tiredness. Who knows if I’ll be able to get back to sleep?

“She’s too good for you,” Larry’s father finishes.

“She is,” I agree. “And she’s not here. And I have to work in the morning, so I think you should leave.” My temper slipped a notch.

After one more cursory glance around the apartment, they both move towards the door. Slowly.

“You’re not to see her again. Remember that,” Larry said as I closed the door behind them.

As I slid the deadbolt, the adrenaline begins to subside.

Damn, there was nearly a fight. In my own place.

Damn.

There’s movement. From the shadows next to the bedroom window, she emerges, wrapped in a bedsheet. My god, she’s so beautiful.

“Elsie, honey,” I start. “We need to talk...”

This morning, as you’re lying next to me, you look at me with those big, beautiful, blue eyes and ask, “Do you fantasize about me?”

And I’m dumbstruck. I don’t know what to say. Because I don’t.

I cherish this moment—feeling the warmth and softness of your naked body next to mine. The sensations are incredible. I feel alive, and I hope you do too. Your flushed cheeks indicate you do.

And the memories of what we did last night… and again, twice, this morning are as fresh as the morning dew.

I enjoy you immensely. You are lovely. You know how bodies were designed to slide together. You understand pleasure—and how to deliver (and receive) it.

Yet, fantasize? No. There’s nothing there.

Wait. That’s not exactly true. Plenty of my fantasies are truly a vast void. But there is one. There is one girl I fantasize about.

An incredible, tall, brown-eyed beauty. She’s the one I imagine walking hand-in-hand along the beach with. And curled up next to me in bed in the Marriott in Chicago. And exploring Ibiza. And sharing a bottle of wine with at an outdoor café in Bucharest.

Her. Not you.

Do I fantasize about you?

No, I don’t. And I don’t know how to answer your question. Without a lie. You don’t deserve a lie. Yet, you don’t deserve to be hurt either.

Sometimes a bully only needs a target. Maybe I did something to this guy, maybe I didn’t. All I can recall is he traumatized (and continues to traumatize) me throughout my youth.

I lived in fear. And paranoia. I still do.

Is he around the next corner? And what will I do if he is?

I’d like to think, that as adults, we’ll continue to ignore each other’s very existence. Yet, what about when the alcohol flows. What then?

—

Bullying was encouraged in my high school. How else were these little pussy boys going to learn to defend themselves?

Hell, even my gym teacher was a child… taking a wet towel snap at a student in the shower.

I suppose we turned out alright. For the most part, anyway. And perhaps, we should be thankful that if a fight broke out on his watch—or the guidance counselor, or the shop teacher—that an effort was made to keep it fair. But, no interference.

Thanks, coach.

—

I don’t remember much about my bully’s youth. His little brother had palsy, or some shit like that, and he used it to be an asshole, just like his big brother. Victim of shitty genetics AND a bully. How does that even work? My god, they were both assholes.

And, I remember their dad had died when they were very young. Toddlers, maybe. Legend has it he was an asshole too. Lost his head—literally—running a snowmobile through a barbed wire fence.

And their mom was pretty, and had no trouble finding shelter for her and her boys.

Oh, I’ll bet those boys resented all of the father-figures that strolled in and out of their lives.

I don’t think that qualifies as a license to be a total asshole. Yet, what do I know?

—

I haven’t even seen this man in decades. Nor thought about him. And there he was, in real life, standing there with a shit-eating grin next to his best buddy, wearing the same grin—minus about forty IQ points.

Then they locked eyes on me. And realized who they are looking at. And I discovered the years had been kinder to their teeth than they had to mine, for I could count them all.

And I felt the familiar sensation. Pure, unadulterated fear. As he moved across the room to pick up a pool cue. And his asshole buddy followed, grabbing one of his own.

Then they approach. Slowly. Deliberately. Still smiling those idiotic smiles.

All I wanted to do, tonight, is finish my laundry, finish my beer, and go to bed.

And now, these assholes, and in my laundrobar, walking toward me, performing test swings with pool cues like they’re testing the balance of a hatchet for cutting fire wood.

Fucking wonderful. Some things never change.

—

Confession: I never learned to fight. Saying that as a grown man is shameful. Looking back at my childhood, my high school bullies are part of that. As a small, chubby kid, it was far easier to hide.

To pretend I didn’t exist.

How small can I get against the wall? The edge of the seat on the bus? Or inside a locker in the girls’ locker room?

Yeah, I let the girls hide me.

No wonder I am a fucking mess with no friends. And can’t relate to men, at all. Nor can I keep a woman. I wouldn’t be attracted to me either. After that first fuck, anyway.

Unfortunate penis, indeed.

—

These assholes are still approaching me. They’ve split up, and one of them has a fucking Roman candle in his back pocket.

I feel so small. I’m in the best shape of my life, yet have no idea what to do or how to do it, there’s two of them—each one twice my size, with no qualms about fighting dirty.

Maybe this is a reckoning. Lady Fortune is dealing judgement for my growing up to be such a pussy. For not doing anything about this asshole when I was a fat youth. As such, somehow I’ll be to blame when the incendiary device burns down the fucking laundrobar.

At least, I can probably miss jury duty tomorrow.

Hours later, she was still thinking about it. She couldn’t believe the audacity in such a request.

He hadn’t even asked her. He had only shown her what he wanted on a piece of paper. Buried. In a to-do list. She could still imagine the twinkle of mischieviousness in his eyes.

Yet…

What harm would it do? She had to admit that her tits were pretty fantastic! She tried to remember if she had bragged about how perfect they are to him. And they probably wouldn’t always be. And she knew him well enough to imagine what joy and delight seeing them would bring to his eyes—maybe she was a little curious to see that expression.

Besides, it’s not like he asked to touch them. Even if he did, would that be so bad? Hell, she might even enjoy it. She felt a slight tingle just thinking about it.

What an act of kindness! Neither of them would live forever, why not share a tender moment? After all, she did like the audacious jackass… and lord knows she had shown them to bigger assholes than him.

So, yeah. She was considering it.

Maybe, she’d surprise him. Show him suddenly when he least expects it… and smile when his jaw hit the floor.

Dawn breaks over the glass house I call home. I wake with the sunrise, and I look over. You’re lying next to me. Still peacefully asleep with a smile on your face. Dreaming of me? I hope so…

I lie next to you for several moments—which feels almost like eternity. I can’t help gazing in awe. At your face. Your body. You’re so incredible. And you’re my girl.

You weren’t always. You fought it. Because of life. Because of others. Because of expectation.

Yet, somehow, it’s always been you. Every moment with you is like we’ve always known each other.

I rise carefully… not to disturb your slumber as I slip out of the bed. I head down the spiral staircase, and start the coffee pot. For you. I hate the stuff.

While the coffee brews, I make myself a cup of tea and start preparing a light breakfast. I think today we’ll eat it on the balcony. Yes, I’ll prepare a tray.

I carry our breakfast out to the balcony, pausing for a moment as I pass the bed… adoring your beauty. You’re just beginning to stir, and sheet has slipped from your breast. Every day, I want you so bad. Even though I have you.

You join me on the balcony, wearing only a sheet. I smile as I watch you eat. It reminds me of the night we met, when I snapped a picture of you eating that gyro. And another of you laughing at me afterwards—your eyes sparkling with wonder!

Now, I just keep the images mentally… because you’re my girl.

After breakfast, you take the dog for a long walk in the woods. I do my daily push-ups and settle down to write.

I write about life. About how understanding does not come from thinking. About how we have to defeat our own egos. Every. Day. In order to get what we want.

No, that’s not right.

To get what we deserve. Yet another piece of writing about how we are all that get in the way of our own happiness. Perhaps, yet it looks different from the other side.

You are my muse. You inspire me to write. To open my heart. To be vulnerable. To realize we had to climb over all of those bodies in our past to get to where we are today.

You return silently with the dog and begin preparing lunch for us. You have taught me so much about life and nutrition and diet and lifestyle changes. You have rescued me from my anguish. Yes, these are the thoughts that run through my mind as you grill us delicious sandwiches for lunch.

“Perhaps I can write about that tomorrow,” I think, as you bring the tray of lunch up our spiral staircase.

Did I really just use the word, “our?”

After taking a long lunch—I simply can’t stop watching you eat. Well, I simply can’t stop watching you. Period. Full stop—we part ways for the afternoon, each to work on our separate projects. We have to finance our lifestyle somehow, yet I’m always looking toward the day we can simply curl up and enjoy our “nappuccinos.”

I love those li’l words that are… ours.

(There’s that word again.)

As the evening approaches, we’re reunited. We share a drink and talk about life and beauty and our day. I am amazed that we continue to find each other’s perspectives fascinating. With no one else, can I share my views on the great taboos: religion, society, politics.

Is this a relationship? I don’t know… we were both led to believe relationships are work, and this doesn’t feel like it. We simply enjoy each other.

After dinner, we take the dog for a walk in the woods. A long, lingering walk… occasionally holding hands, occasionally I’ll fall behind (so I can gaze at your amazing ass), and occasionally stopping to laugh at the dog as she plays.

We return to the cabin and do our own thing for a while. Me? I usually read. You? I am content you are here. That you are my girl. You do whatever keeps your heart full.

Later, I will do my part to keep you full.

Later comes. Some nights, we’re filled with passion and tear up the bed and soak the sheets, and laugh as we have to do the laundry. Maybe that can wait until morning. Who gets the wet spot tonight? Shall we flip a coin?

Not tonight. Tonight, we’re both content to simply embrace… until we make love anyway.

And I watch again. I watch you fall asleep… and I am grateful. For you are incredible. And tomorrow will be just as incredible.