The distance that separates us is both a blessing and a curse; how badly I want to wrap you in my arms and show you that you are worthy of love, that you're quite a catch, actually, and **** your brains out because we both need that release, too. I want us to have live conversations, firing ideas and observations and crazy thoughts back and forth as they pop in our heads, sharing little details of our day, for both of us to have that rewarding sensation of being able to spend time with someone who "gets" us. I want us to engage in all the sexual, sensual, affectionate physical play that is so vital to our health, to have that spontaneity and freedom to change a conversation about shitty drivers we saw that day into a hands-down-each-other's-pants makeout session in the kitchen that gets interrupted so that we can finish fixing dinner, and we just add it to the fuel for the fire later that night, when we **** each other's brains out again, and maybe again, then probably again again. I want us to spend evenings together where you talk on the phone with a friend while Boy sits next to me on the couch and we go over his homework, and he knows the warmth and security of being loved by both a mother and a father for no other reason than because he is a living human being and deserves nothing less. One morning you might help Girl with her hair, and she'd feel valued, and she'd know her feelings matter for no other reason than because she is a living human being, too. Boy would grow up knowing how to be a man, and Girl would grow up knowing how to be a woman, and both would know what love really is, and they'd share it, they'd give it and receive it, and they would be happy, and give and share that, too.

And it is a blessing, because as much as I'd want all the above, I also want to be free, to indulge in my heebie-jeebie, spine shivering impulse to run the **** away from any kind of serious relationship where I could get hurt, to never again feel the fear of someone else's opinion of me, to feel the aching ****ing hunger of wanting to be accepted, totally completely unequivocally accepted for who I am, **** and sweat and stink and all. A blessing because I know I would be compelled to rub my shittiest moods, my worst personality traits, my most unattractive features in your face, to confirm my fear that you'd be repulsed, that you hate me too, that anyone who sees the real me would revile me as much as I do on my bad days. A blessing because this ugliness knows no depths, no sacred ground, no neutral territory; I'd eventually be shitty to Girl and Boy, to let them know, too, that I'm not worthy of their love, that they should be better, smarter, tougher than to be hurt by a guy like me, to make me a father figure, because look how selfish I am, look how mean I am, look how scared I am of being hurt.

And then we'd hate each other, we'd hate that we ever exposed our weakest sides to each other, hate that we'd seen each other naked, hate that we ever allowed ourselves to be so vulnerable, dropped all of our inhibitions and allowed the other to touch all of our pleasure zones, orgasmed wildly and spectacularly because we completely trusted the other with our innermost secrets of our errogeny, and now we want those secrets back, because **** you, you were never worth the trust I gave you, you lying, miserable piece of ****. And the cycle would begin again, the self-loathing, the hypercritical introspection, the acting out of our worst impulses with people we barely know in a wild, wounded animal way to distract ourselves from the pain. We'd drink, we'd ****, we'd do things we know are bad for us, because we'd feel bad, we'd believe we were bad, and that we deserved to live down in the pig ****, covered in filth and debased by even the lowliest of animals, and we'd die a little bit more.

So, instead, we'll engage in this somewhat safer exchange of thoughts, of fantasies, of nightmares, we'll share the best and the worst of each other, we'll see all the great things the other has to offer while cutting our own insides open and pinning them down on wax, gagging on the smell of formaldehyde and decay as we sadistically vivisect our very own souls. Perhaps we'll learn about ourselves this way, come away from each exchange as a slightly better person, the truth setting us free from the guilt and the pain we heap upon ourselves, for nothing evil can live long in the bright light of the truth. We hack at our emotional cancer with crude implements, cutting it out and tossing it on the ground with little regard for the healthy cells and no anesthesia, preferring to sit on the improvised surgical slab bloody, scarred and deeply wounded but finally free of infection.

And, in a better world, we'd come back together then, we'd wash and bandage each other's wounds, we would be nurse and doctor, parent and child, we'd love each other because we're human beings, and how much more do we really need to have in common, to want to help each other survive this world? We would love platonically, compassion and empathy guiding our actions until we were healthy, in mind and body. With healthy mind and bodies, we'd regard each other anew; residing in our new temples, our glorious carbon based soul casings, I would say "I am alive" and you would say "I am alive", and we would then desire to show each other what those words mean, to celebrate the overflowing bounty of ****ing wonderful that seems to be bursting out from every single one of our cells. "I am amazing", I would say, and I want to show you why...and you'd say "I am amazing", and you'd want to show me why, and from then on, we would do just that. We'd **** with our words to each other, we'd **** with glances and touches, little considerations we give each other, our every act would be an intimate one, our ridiculously perfect lives one long orgasm from that day forward.

Then we'd probably ****ing wake up, realized we'd drooled on the keyboard again, wipe our face on our sleeve as we shuffled to our own beds entirely too late, and we'd be incredibly sad for a few minutes until we started to drift off to sleep, when we'd catch the dream before it got away again, and we'd smile a little smile and feel warm inside again.

I think this lovely bit of creative writing is in the wrong section

ah ****.
too much writing.

Clearly this is how a writer thinks. I do the same. Annoys peeps. Just another day.

I kinda skimmed over it fast but did get the "warm inside again" part...

You have chosen the perfect name for yourself MultipleDichotomies!!...Congratulations!!

Hey, thanks, Leigh! It came to me pretty quick when I tried to describe myself..."I'm this, but I'm that, and I'm this, but I'm that...wait...all I am doing is contradicting myself over and over..."

I thought it was too explicit to be in Dating, guess I've been overruled.

Calling me a writer...makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside!

I didn't read that but sounds to me like you might need to get out more.......

Sorry, I quit reading your post after you said "I didn't read that..."

Yeah I was a bit wordy. Apologies...........

Now that's what I call baggage.

Not making a judgement, just posting a comment is all.

No worries...I'll try to smiley face more, to add "tone of voice" to my replies. I was just trying to be safe with where I posted my narrative, didn't want to run afoul of the rules.

Oh, absolutely.

Whenever I start to feel like I've shed the weight of the past 42 years, I feel that familiar tug and realize I'm still dragging quite the wagon cart behind me. I'm not close to the finish line yet, but I have made some really good progress, so I'm okay with where I'm at.

I'm also told I think too much, but I haven't really decided if that is true or not.

Yeah...would definitely call your little narrative giving things a little too much thought

Will someone else please read that out loud to me?