Full of Firsts

Today I have a guest blog-writer. Everyone, please welcome the inspiration for my last three Wednesday blogs in a row: I'VE BEEN GIVEN REASON / LIFE IS NOT A DRESS REHEARSAL / LESSONS FROM CRUEL SHOES. The italics represent his voice, but you'll just have to imagine the British accent yourself.


S-

How do I start? What to begin with?
First wink, first meeting, first kiss?
Before the firsts?

Before the firsts.

What was my motivation to meet you?

So I post a profile. Knowing full well I don’t dabble with meaningless connections. I am honest, knowing I can’t move on without it. How lucky could I get? The first time I email, you don’t reply. Yet I hoped somehow we would meet. Corny but true. Did my subconscious remember you from a decade earlier? Was my visually fixated brain tuning into that momentary meeting? You never forget a face.

So perhaps I wasn’t aggressive enough. No reply from you. You have thousands of guys checking you out. (I thought I was special getting 300 matchees checking my profile) Why is she winking at me again and not writing? Why won’t she answer? So I decide to brag a little after the cyber ghost phantom wink. So I blab a bit about what I thought you would like to read about. I’m trying to figure out what the designer of an essay exam question reeeaaally wants to hear. What ever it takes, I want to know this woman. I’m selling myself, but being truthful too.

So my commercial catches your eye, thank god something is working right for me. Am I owed some heavy Karma? Are you owed heavy Karma? Is this simple coincidence, or is there another layer?

I knew you would be dangerous. Not “Scary; smack me with a frozen halibut” dangerous, but “Shit, I could really fall for this woman” dangerous. So after meeting you for Thai, I continue. Knowing, once again, full well, the potential I was creating.

First date with anyone…you. Why was unveiling my past so easy? Do I do this with everyone I meet? To certain degree, yes. Especially recently, when all was in turmoil. I was grasping for straws. Some advice, some gem to hold. It takes a lot to hold my ear. You hold mine, and you allow me to talk. Prying open my clam. My crab shell.

The story loses its thread because I’m getting lost in blur of weekend rendezvous. I could write about the first kiss, how our styles and urgency met. I could ponder the curves of your body, the sounds you make. ( I was so tense our first time). Each time I learn more about the way you tick, in and out of bed.

I’ve been in a holding tank for many years. Tentative to make the wrong move. Secure with the glass walls, yet scratching at each corner. Fed with half-truths and baited with responsibility. Seeking unattainable promises. Pushing gravel around to rearrange my base. Trapped inside with a strange species.

I still seek security. But I have a craving for you. A taste I can’t deny. My required ingredients for bread have changed. I know I won’t shirk responsibility. And I still will grieve for the bitter-sweet life I had.

I still have many questions, some of them I don’t know yet. I’m not in a rush to have them answered. I don’t feel rushed with you. You provide acceptance, freedom to check my baggage.

I don’t need to hide my feelings from you, yet I remain reserved. My feet still set in two worlds, sliding slowly toward yours. I feel guilt for my children, hotwired to my own homesick journey. I need to allow myself to believe. To take the proverbial leap of faith. Is this too good to be true? Am I too rebound fresh? Do I really know you yet?

I know for certain: You make me very happy at the very core. You have made me whole again. I would be a fool to deny myself that.

Just be slow with me. I’m classic wounded guy.

-S