He came in to my town Friday afternoon and we met for a pineapple cocktail. He told me months ago that pineapple was a natural deterrent to bitter pussy. Whether or not that is a researched fact I can't say positively, but he also told me that there's no learning certain things, like how to love women. "You just have to have a vested interest in learning," he said. Needless to say, I trust him. I had been promising him I'd "keep it in my pants" because he's in a healing process right now and doesn't need any badness or conflict. Not too long ago he was saying things like, "If you're attracted to me, there's something wrong with you." I think that was on the tail end of his drinking problem, but there it is: a bold statement I would only ignore in my youthful folly when I didn't know that men frequently mean what they say. So I promised to listen to his statements and to be his friend and let him heal without female interference of the usual kind. It was a bit of a joking matter too, but for me there was seriousness additionally. I had begun imagining he was "the perfect man for me" a week or two earlier.
I told my therapist about this feeling that he's "Made for Me" at the end of a chatty session involving all sorts of stories of my social butterfly activities and intrigue. He was tacked on there, not an afterthought but an undeveloped sense of possibility.
Mmm...undeveloped sense of possibility. Now there's a state of affairs I can get hot to trot for.
I included my sense of this man to my counselor because I get a lot of shit for falling in love "all the time" from my friends and it causes me to worry about my behavior. I get a sense off of some people that I'm not being "careful enough" with my heart. I'm becoming more sure that it's not a simple as that, and that the flip side of these admonishments should be the statement that it is the others who are not being careful enough. So I was looking at this mild, romantic, and funny concern that I might fall in love again.
How that got to be a fearful thing, I don't think I'll ever understand.
I have hesitated to begin processing this man because I am looking at my patterns and do not want to act carelessly. I do not act without care, I just like to look and see if I am taking care to have an intention. I have had enough of getting swept up in the third act of someone else's drama, just because my own play is at intermission. I have a vested interested in my own course when people enter the theater now. Getting swept up is how I have acted in the past, and we lovers all know this, there is something akin to destruction in falling in love. What is destroyed, in the universal sense, I cannot put my finger on. What I wonder about is this: it seems to be a human truth that there is a sense of destruction in the act of falling in love. We all know that falling in love is far different from being in love and from sustaining love. So, in the act of falling, an obvious destructive signifier, what is destroyed? Is it destroyed simply because you cannot have a new thing without an old thing dying?
But, let's back up from this philosophical edge and again towards the point. The point was honestly to gush. Can anyone get sick of that giddy feeling? Of being smitten?
In the words I've absorbed from money market watchers this last year, here are the indicators.
1. My horoscope has been consistently buoyant since before 2009 mercifully walked in. I have been given words of encouragement from multiple sources in the areas of my communicative ability, my instinctual development, my future's path, and my innate capabilities to see what others do not.
2. I have known that something was going funky in the house of Venus, for Aquarians like me, since the beginning of the year and that this spring-bacchanal time was riper than usual for my Venus to come back to her vixen-virtuous ways and Bloom.
3. I have known, since I lamented that I'd never find love, one of those times a year ago when I kept falling for the wrong sign of people, that Sagittarius and Leo are the favored children for my long term amore.
4. I have known since I was little girl that people who embody opposed juxtapositions are more delightful than others. I am attracted the the unlikely stereotypes of the classical piano playing car mechanic or, in this very real instance, the submariner who paints, carves, sews his own fantastically freakish and beautiful attire, et al.
My dream man can fix anything. He can name his favorite poem. His hands are rough and his eyes are playful. He is older than me and wraps me safe in his arms. He lets me lay my head in his lap and strokes my hair with his heavy, washed, and yet cigarette smelling, palms. He has traveled but loves home. He is busy manifesting his dreams into reality most of the time. He disappears and returns baring unusual gifts from accidental out posts. He fucks dirty. He paws at, grabs hold of, slaps around and orders me, in the bedroom and out.
This is really the man I have dreamt of since I was old enough to say "I love you Daddy." My dream man is only partially my father. My dream man is more get-up-and-go than my own sweet Dad ever will be. My dream man lives more in the reality of right now than he does in the places he never got to in the past.
Here are a few difficult-to-admit truths about me. I have wifey fantasies of cooking dinner, keeping the house neat, and looking and smelling nice when my man comes home. I love pleasing my man. I love feeling looked out for, watched over, instructed by my man. There is not one man on earth whom I have allowed to do for me those things until just now, when he walked on to the street at the corner of my favorite bar and met me a few days ago.
I want to oppose the above statements here to remind you of what I am that counters those things, but I don't want to dilute those truths. So here I sit smiling wanly, pleased.
I find myself dreaming, dreaming, I'm always a dreamer. I find myself in a home with my man. He doesn't keep me in any historical or oppressive way on a day-to-day basis. We are egalitarian in most functions and efforts. I am pleased a rum-punch to put on my jeans and hold the carburetor while he digs into his old truck's bowels, just as he is sweet as pie when I ask him to paint my toenails. But there is a structure. There is a symbiosis to the nature of our relationship which was constructed upon a set of understandings and strict rules that I have never been more pleased to adhere to.
Why was a smart ass masochist before and why will I bend deeper than I think I can now? Because I was testing the boundaries and ropes and attention to detail. If the man wasn't knowing what I needed, I taunted him somewhere, rather than boss from the bottom, because I wanted to play. I might hope to get him onto the right trail but, when communication is based on crooked ground it rarely rights itself, even aided.
This situation is no more straight-forward than any of my other explorations. I can do nothing straight, nearly everything I do loops and curves back in on itself. I met him in the same upsurge that introduced me to so many nearly two years ago. I met him on the same internet watering hole and have gotten to know him in similar ways, virtually, in that time. It is an interesting indicator to me. All those people that have come and shaped and gone, or stayed with me, since then. He was always in the periphery, us separated by more than half the width of a continent and by vastly differing experiences. When I thought of that time frame those two weeks ago, on my way to therapy, I thought, "Huh, I do love a good turn of the story."