Posts tagged with "women"

What I Mean To Say

Usually, when peo­ple ask me why it was so spe­cial, I say “When it worked, it worked real­ly well”.

What I real­ly mean to say is,

“It was the way her kiss­es would trav­el down my spine. The way she wore her hair dif­fer­ent­ly every time I saw her. The way her cheeks would round so endear­ing­ly when she tru­ly laughed. The way she could look beau­ti­ful wear­ing dress­es, or jeans, or my old paja­mas. The way the tan­ta­liz­ing gold­en down trav­eled along her low­er back. The way her body felt against mine when I pulled her close.

It was because she brought me green tea bub­ble bath when I was home sick for three days with strep throat. Cause she loved try­ing new things, like taro dumplings, and ha gow and sui mai and tofu flower, and bub­ble tea. Cause she would buy me ben­gal spice tea, and hand creams, and soaps, and flow­ers for no rea­son in par­tic­u­lar.

It was because she liked tak­ing pho­tos of me too. Cause she would remem­ber the things I want­ed when men­tion­ing them in pass­ing so she could look them up and buy them for me lat­er. Cause she tru­ly appre­ci­at­ed the gifts that I gave her. Cause she spent so long prepar­ing for my birth­day last year, even though she knows I don’t cel­e­brate it. Cause she helped me seek ther­a­py for my anx­i­ety issues. Cause she came with me to con­certs when I did­n’t want to go alone. Cause she loved The Mars Volta and Shane Watt as much as I do.

It was the way she could cre­ate so many beau­ti­ful things with her hands, using paint or chalk or ton­er or lead or met­al or choco­late. The way she sup­port­ed me and my pho­tog­ra­phy. The way we would take turns choos­ing movies and watched them togeth­er, even though our tastes were so dif­fer­ent. The way she got along with my friends and loved my cat.

It was the way I would fall in love with her over and over again every day.

In her, I had found the per­son I was look­ing for my whole life, and she held me cap­tive every moment we were togeth­er.”

But I nev­er do.

Sex In Between

One time, she sud­den­ly asked me, “Have you had sex with any­one else?”, which she used to imply as between the last time and what we were about to do. It was a valid ques­tion, since we’re both sen­si­tive to the pro­lif­er­a­tion of Cupid’s itch and Venus’s curse.

I was insult­ed that she asked, because at the time I felt like sex with some­one else would have been cheat­ing on her. As uncom­mit­ted as the rela­tion­ship was, she still had my heart, and con­se­quent­ly, oth­er parts of my body as well. I’m also not like that, and it takes a lot before I decide to be inti­mate with some­one. But at the same time, I was flat­tered that she thought I would or could, a lit­tle boost to my ego that is rarely ruled by machis­mo or testos­terone.

“I haven’t either”, she reas­sured, which was some­thing I nat­u­ral­ly assumed of my mod­est muse, so it was of lit­tle com­fort to me.

The Regret Of A Night Lost

I should be hap­py. Or feel­ing bit­ter­sweet, at least. On the one hand, I’m thank­ful to have had the chance to share so many things with her:

  • lis­ten­ing to Bring Me The Disco King (Lohner Remix), as she sat curled in my lap in the dark­ness of my room
  • runs for bub­ble tea before set­tling in for the night with a movie or two
  • a road trip to Toronto, where I got to intro­duce her to my friends, Pacific Mall, and drag­on’s beard can­dy
  • par­ties at Pat and Jen’s, with board games, Rock Band, deli­cious food, amaz­ing peo­ple, and gen­er­al silli­ness
  • moments like this
  • look­ing into her eyes while our bod­ies were locked in blan­kets on the liv­ing room floor
  • read­ing my favourite parts of The Prophet to her
  • just the two of us going to dim sum on a beau­ti­ful Saturday morn­ing, and intro­duc­ing her to a med­ley of new dish­es

But there’s one thing I regret, and that’s not being able to spend the night with her, for she had nev­er slept over, you see. Sure, there were times when we stayed awake well past sun­rise, with only the touch of hand and flesh as silent dia­logue, my desire to pro­long the plea­sure dri­ving my will to stay awake to every moment pos­si­ble with her. Those are some of my favourite mem­o­ries. But the sleep that even­tu­al­ly took us was only our bod­ies pass­ing out briefly from exhaus­tion, and when we woke, she’d be gone soon after.

There are oth­er things I wish I had had the chance to do while it last­ed — shar­ing a relax­ing bath, pho­tog­ra­phy and video ideas, get­ting involved in a deep co-op game — but none of them were as impor­tant as a night spent sleep­ing togeth­er.

A long time ago, I wrote about how a girl­friend helped me fig­ure out the impor­tance of the night because of my ear­li­er romances, and the sit­u­a­tions that nev­er let me share some­thing as sim­ple as sleep, the most inti­mate of inti­mates.

In a rela­tion­ship, shar­ing the night is more impor­tant than shar­ing flu­ids. Falling asleep with some­one is an accep­tance of trust, a way of say­ing that we’re com­fort­able enough to drift into our sub­con­scious minds.

Perhaps it was my fault for keep­ing her awake. I won­der now, if on one night, I should have let myself sleep, instead of let­ting our pas­sion take us long into the next day.