Strapon chat meet

02-Jun-2019 10:31

Each time we meet, which is about once a year, I’m struck by her raw, physical beauty. The other 364 days I don’t see her, I sit in my mind’s dark corners and wonder about her.She writes me on Facebook sometimes, when her husband and children are asleep.But I can’t because she’s not here and I can’t because she never will be.I would tell her these things, and it wouldn’t change anything, but maybe we would know each other a little better, for a little while.We drink wine together across the country and type things on blue screens.This is where my love has gone—into tiny, pixelated boxes. There’s more value in not knowing how things might have turned out.I remember meeting her husband for the first time and how I thought he’d be more .But he was perfectly suburban, perfectly polite, even though the night before she and I tore each other’s clothes off in his nice suburban kitchen.

But then I was giddy and the wind tangled my hair and words and I was so happy to be in that car with her, to be alive with her.

I felt similarly out of place all weekend, like a weed growing out of the pavement, strangers spilling out from every room, all of them unknowable, but her.

She poured us drinks with the feigned nonchalance of someone privately recording and savoring every moment. Anyone could have seen us, but maybe that was part of it too. I was a window she could either gaze at or jump out of, a road she’d never take, the broke lesbian artist romance.

I once read that our memories change each time we recall them, that we are constantly editing what happened.

In the end, we can’t hold onto anything, not love, not even our own truths, because everything moves. If she were here, I would tell her how I get angry sometimes and maybe it’s powerlessness and maybe it’s uncertainty and maybe I should stop searching for other words when angry will do just fine.

But then I was giddy and the wind tangled my hair and words and I was so happy to be in that car with her, to be alive with her.I felt similarly out of place all weekend, like a weed growing out of the pavement, strangers spilling out from every room, all of them unknowable, but her.She poured us drinks with the feigned nonchalance of someone privately recording and savoring every moment. Anyone could have seen us, but maybe that was part of it too. I was a window she could either gaze at or jump out of, a road she’d never take, the broke lesbian artist romance.I once read that our memories change each time we recall them, that we are constantly editing what happened.In the end, we can’t hold onto anything, not love, not even our own truths, because everything moves. If she were here, I would tell her how I get angry sometimes and maybe it’s powerlessness and maybe it’s uncertainty and maybe I should stop searching for other words when angry will do just fine.By the end I was talking more about myself and less about the religion and then someone changed the subject to how good enchiladas are and I nodded in silent agreement.