I look at him from across the room, and he looks back at me. It’s the look of love: silent and unstated. I smile, and turn back to the TV while he does the dishes. It’s a strange feeling, really. This quiet contentment. Which in so many ways is so different from the chaos of dick chasing and the ceaseless late night fuckery that filled up most of the last twelve years of my life.
I almost don’t what to do with it. In those quiet moments in the night when he holds me tight like everything is going to alright. I have spent most nights screaming in pain, and I do not know what to do or how to be without the noise of my own discontent. I might not being enjoying this right. I might be blowing it. I might be itching with old habits.
Or, perhaps, even worse: I am okay with it. I am okay with the cozy nights in. I am okay with not binge drinking and waking up in a stupor. I am okay with not cringing at the boy who lies next to me. I am okay with the cute text messages and the hand holding. I like it, even. I like being in love, and not in a self destructive way where I am only in love because it numbs the fact that I am trying to slowly die. I like being in love in a way where it makes me feel like I’m so alive, and that I want to keep on living, for him, with him, forever.
However, I must admit: this does not make for very interesting sex blog content. I care about his feelings, and I’m not trying to put his dick on blast on the Internet. But I also don’t think it’s very interesting to read about how happy someone is, especially given how dark these times are.
I am watching the world go to shit all around me. But we have each other, so somehow it is okay.
Yeah, you’re right. Fuck writing about being in love. It’s not nearly as salacious as reading about some girl fuck her way through her emotional problems. But that part of my life is over, so…I guess lightly sexual feminist musings from here on out.
Sorry to disappoint.