I saw the love of my life last week on my vacation. Though that's not really what he is anymore, I guess.
He's the one I fell in love with so hard I nearly broke every bone in my body when I landed.
He helped me end my first marriage, and then nearly ended my second one.
I have a tattoo on my wrist inspired by him, and many more on my heart.
His is the cock to which I compare all others. He's the first man to make my knees weak, to make me crave his smell, to make me want to kneel and worship.
He was not subject to one of the many blowjobs described in my previous post. I didn't even kiss him. We held hands. I listened hard for the tiniest echo of the desire that once rang so loudly I could hear nothing else.
The second night we hung out, I leaned on him. He slapped my knee when I made a joke. When it was time to say goodnight we stood by the side of his truck and hemmed and hawed. "Go home," I said, a hand on his chest pushing him away, but also, I knew, keeping him there. He bent his tallness over me. I could feel his breath on my forehead. If I looked up, he'd kiss me. I didn't look up. "Go home," I repeated, a hand on his wrist, pulling him closer. But then I stepped away. "Good night," I said, and walked away.
I was trying to feel something. I wanted to revisit the inescapable magnetic force field that once surrounded us. It wasn't there. As soon as I walked away I was glad. He loves the woman he's with and would have felt guilty about betraying her. I'm committed to never falling in love again with anyone but my husband.
The fact that I even risked renewing our obsession shows that the echo of it still wields some dangerous power.