Needless to say, I haven’t really found someone I’m interested in, even after making a whole new commitment to putting myself out there. I always try to find the lesson in everything — the silver lining that will make it all make sense, that will make it all seem part of a grand scheme, or some predetermined fate that I can’t even begin to visualize yet. But really the only thing I’ve become convinced of is…
…dating can suck. It can honestly, really, really suck.
It’s constant disappointment. It’s something being off even if you’re not quite sure what that something is. It’s trying to avoid the wolf underneath the sheep, and to find the sheep that’s hidden by your mesmerization with the wolf. It’s hoping for a someone you’re not entitled to meet just because you’re you. It’s a lot of scheduling and work, compromising and wondering when it’s all going to fall into place. Frankly, it’s so exhausting, I’m tired of writing about it — but…
…I still want to do it.
Because you can’t find the right one if you don’t know how to spot a bad one. And you can’t get what you want if you refuse to go after it. Or to let it go after you. You can’t have your heart feel those many wondrous things it longs to feel if you don’t open it wide enough to let someone touch it. To capture it.
Internet dating is the new bar scene, which means there are a lot of people in my boat. And internet dating is just not the same as meeting someone at a bar. For example...you look at my picture and that caused you to respond to me..
Most people based their internet dating on picture. Most woman see a handsome picture of a guy and they don't know at him at all. They have fallen in love with a pretty face, and an idea. The image of who he is, what he cares about, his flaws and perfections, are nearly entirely made up through their imagination. That alone should be a problem for any rational person. But love isn’t rational – or so I hear.
More specifically, most woman knee-jerk reaction is to the idea that she fell in love with a face. With the way he looks. Does that mean that looks are really all that matter? And if people are calling this romantic, does that mean that our society is ok with the idea of falling in love with the way someone looks? What ever happened to being a good person? An honourable man or a knowledgable man?
I am not arguing that physical attraction doesn’t matter – it does. You need that initial physical attraction to notice the other person at all. But, it’s definitely not sustainable. What if the man who looks like your dream guy has a problem with gas? What if Mrs. Dreamboat picks her nose and eats it?
And isn’t that the goal? Find someone who mixes with you? A partner in crime? A yin to your yang?
Most average woman who goes after men who are
a) heavily pursued
b)have a lot of options or
c) are wicked obnoxious.
Women in their twenties and thirties pursuing the Don Drapers, They come to Manhattan with dreams of meeting the rich i-banker.They don’t care how smug or self-important he is. They want the man who will help them believe that they are more attractive or engaging than they really are. The problem is that they can’t compete. So rather than setting their sights lower, they decide to make it about how awful and entitled the men are. For the record, nobody is debating this point. But if you would just accept that you belong in a certain caste and stop trying to date out of it, your experience would become exponentially more positive.
You message these men on dating sites because you want them to go out with you. You want to be The Chosen one, and when you repeatedly fail, you heap all of the blame and frustration on men. You play a huge part in this and you need to get that. These men? They don’t have to choose you They will sleep with you, but won't marry you. They have more than enough options. Common sense would dictate that you lower your standards. But no. Much like the men who suffer from similar chips on their shoulder, you’re going to continue to go after men way out of your league because you can’t admit that you just aren’t what they are looking for.
Yes, I know. You’re awesome. If people would only give you a chance, etc. Sweetie, nobody owes you a Blue Ribbon just for participating. Everybody doesn’t get a trophy. Only the winners. You want to win, you compete in the appropriate class. If you want to compete in a higher class, you train for it.You do not sit around and whine about how unfair it all is. Nothing – and I mean NOTHING – is more unattractive than a weak woman. Whining and complaining are inherently weak traits.There is no dignity in that. Not for men. Not for women.
There’s a lot of talk about the Sexual Market Place and the man’s value or lack there of in it. Well, here’s what you need to understand. The more of these whiny, disgruntled women that enter the market place, the higher the value of the entitled man. That man is the one all of you woman are trying to date, whether you admit it or not. I mean, if you were pursuing decent, kind, feminine men, you wouldn’t be complaining in the first place.
If all a woman wants is someone to call a boyfriend and to follow her around, she can effortlessly find one. The Alpha guys don’t want her and will use her for a month or two only to discard her. Once she’s had enough of that she’ll settle for The Beta, but she won’t see it as settling because The Beta showers her with attention and validation and gifts and meals. Anything to compete and keep her interested. She’ll continue to ride that carousel for years on end until she’s sitting alone in her apartment and telling everybody how she “chose” to be single or how she’d rather be alone than in a bad relationship or whatever mantra she repeats endlessly in an attempt to avoid the real reason she’s single.
Meanwhile the rest of us, aka The Ones Who Get It, are out here happily dating decent, good, fun, attractive to us people. We’ve accepted our league. We’ve learned to spot the signs of someone who might pose trouble down the road. We don’t over-think or over-analyze every little thing. We employ critical thinking. We’re not talking about how hard dating is or how nobody responds to us because dating isn’t hard for us and people do respond because we know what we can pull. We’re not quitting. We accept that it all means nothing until it means something. We aren’t marking down days on the calendar until we can bray or write smug tutorials about how we found a boyfriend or girlfriend.
In short, we’re Dating Realists. Join us, won’t you?
PART II
Somewhere in this world, and perhaps in this city, lives a woman.
She is a living, breathing, actual person with a history that I don’t know. She was born somewhere and she may or may not have moved away from her hometown. She has a freckle in an odd place that’s hidden away under her clothes. She has an ex-boyfriend who broke her heart, a certain way she loves to be kissed, and she may care less if the Jets won or loss. She has a food that she can’t get enough of, a vegetable she isn’t the biggest fan of, and a scar that has a story. Her girlfriends known since elementary school and a teacher who made an impact that lasted past the classroom. She knows every single word to a few songs, has read a book or two that she couldn’t put down, and she has a place she dreams of going, but never has. She may have an affinity for intelligent men who like to write.
I haven’t met this woman. Or if I have, I don’t know it yet. But this person, with all of her incredible and messy qualities, is the woman I have faith I will meet, and marry one day. I don’t believe in the idea of a soulmate who makes your “half” a whole, but I do trust there is a single person for everyone, who is suitable (and preferable) for life-long commitment.
Before this journey, the fact that my person, my wife-to-be, existed, and I had no control over when I’d meet her – really bothered me. I would watch all of my friends, either on Facebook or in real life – getting engaged, talking about how they met their match, and waltzing down the aisle, and all I could think was: “Why not me?! Why don’t I deserve to meet my gal? Where the hell is she?“
And so, to combat these desperate thoughts that made me feel unworthy and unattractive, I immersed myself in romantic illusions about her – and at any given moment, I prepared for our paths to cross.
Somehow, fantasies of an elusive Ms. Right: what she’ll look like, how she’ll kiss me, how we’ll meet, how we’ll both ‘just know’, and how it will all play into a divinity I’ve yet to experience – are easier to dream about then to focus on what really deserves attention: myself.
And that’s a self-defeating approach I’ve seemed to master. I’ve had a reoccurring dream about being married to someone named Laura, who I’ve yet to meet – but if you’re out with me, and a woman says her name is Laura, my head whips around quicker than it does when I see a sample sale near my office. I’ve filled nearly 5 years of writing of “Letters to My Soulmate” that have chronicled my life and as ridiculous as it may sound, I went to a psychic (who has been scarily accurate thus far) and she told me to put a rose quartz in the most right-hand corner of my room along with a list of all the qualities I looked for in my future soulmate, to bring her near me, faster.
Until I realized that my expectations of this woman, who while I’m sure will be kind and beautiful will most likely not be a princess, and will really have no need for me to rescue her from anything. So what was I doing putting all of this energy into her? Especially when I haven’t even, technically, met her?
While I was picturing her, getting lost in the endless wondering of when (or if) I would meet her or pondering if I could catch a glimpse of her on the next train or bump into her at the next cocktail hour – I had forgotten that a relationship with myself is really the one I needed to be working on.
Really, I knew had a choice: I could get lost in this fantasy character I’ve established in my mind, with blond hair, blue eyes, and perfect, succulent lips who like to have sex all the time than I can dream of (but is insanely humble and talented) – or I could first accept myself, and then accept her, for whoever she is. This doesn’t mean I settled for less than I deserved or lowered my standards, but I realized that instead of writing her letters and wishing on a “magical” pink-colored stone, I could just go about my life and let whatever is meant to happen, happen.
I still have a ways to go on this journey, but I hadn’t realized how much progress I made until a beautiful stranger locked eyes with me on the subway yesterday and I smiled back, before getting off at my stop – and it occured to me: I haven’t thought about running into Ms. Right in such a long time.
And that was it. I did it. I finally let go of anticipating our encounter or wishing on stars to meet her.
And today, I’m a living, breathing person. I have dozens of stories that she doesn’t know. I’ve been lucky to love some wonderful women, and I’ve learned from the ones who have done me wrong. There are foods that I would never give up,and I admittedly have memorized most Backstreet Boy songs. I have a scar on my left wrist that’ll forever remind me of how i burned my wrist making lunch for a picnic with one of my ex. I’m full of endless hope and can be inspired by even the slightest of sightings, conversations, or words. I’m short, but my personality isn’t.
Regardless of when she stumbles into my life or what she is really like or what color her eyes are, I am just as important of a character, of a person, as she is. And finally, she isn’t my top concern, my highest priority, or the thing I worry the most about. I don’t dress to impress her, imagine all of the ways I could meet her during the activities before me each morning, or curse the universe for delaying our impending marriage.
Instead, my look, my style, is my own. I look forward to the moments of my day where I’ll do something that’s fulfilling and helps others. And I thank the heavens above for giving me the chance and the drive to devote my passion, my enthusiasm to the most important, most beautiful, and most life-altering relationship I’ll ever experience: the love I have for me, or what I’d like to call myself…Mr. Right.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Sunday, November 18, 2012
LOVE LETTER: I WANT YOU
To My Dearest Love:
I have loved you for so long now, yet never had the courage to speak my mind, nor act in accordance with the desires of my heart. Though I have told you how I feel, I have restrained myself. I have refrained from racing to your side, just for the pleasure of being near you, giving way instead to the petty dictates of my life. My courage has failed me time and again, keeping me confined to the familiar prison my life has built around me. Where has the spirit of abandon, that sense of boundless adventure that is the hallmark of youthful passion gone? If I could, had I the courage, I would throw fate to the winds and love you to the fullest extent that I am able. If I could.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can see you there sitting next to me. I am holding your hand as we speak, savoring the delicate softness of your fingers pressing into mine. Try as I might, my attention keeps slipping away to be caught up in the play of your lips as your voice tumbles over them, a soft contralto reaching out to bridge the gap between us. Your words, unheard, caress my heart and remind me of all the reasons I have to love you. Your soft gentle lilt washes over me, easing my woes and soothing my spirit. Unconsciously, my thumb strokes the soft skin across the back of your hand.
You have stopped speaking now, a gentle smile playing across your lips. I have been caught watching you. Vaguely aware that you had asked me something, I search my memory, struggling in vain to recapture the words spoken, but they have fled unheard. Embarrassed, I try to withdraw my hand from yours, only to find it caught as I have been caught by you. Startled, I look in your eyes, and for the first time see something else, something undreamed of, behind your gentle gaze. Unnoticed before, I see a tenderness, an affection for me that reaches beyond the bonds of friendship. My breath catches in my throat as my heart stutters it's way up to a staccato rhythm of hope.
Trembling, afraid to believe, I cover your hand in mine, clasping it tightly as I have always hoped to clasp you to me. Smiling, you cover my hand with yours. Uncertain, heart racing, I am at a loss for words at this unexpected turn of events. I am conscious of your warm hands holding mine. Looking at you, I wonder if I have the courage to believe that you might return my feelings in some small way. I wonder if this is the extent of it, or if there could be more? Having taken this small step, I find that I need to know.
I reach out to touch your cheek. You turn your head, laying your face against my hand, then turning further, kiss my palm. A feather's brush of breath sends goosebumps racing up my arm, and with it, a thrill of anticipation. Dare I hope, am I brave enough to believe that you love me, even as I have loved you? With a sense of wonder, I caress your lips with my thumb, feeling their warmth. They are soft and sensuous, without a trace of lipstick to stain their natural hue. I have dreamed of feeling them, tasting them for so long now that I am almost afraid to let this most cherished fantasy go. Yet to feel that fantasy made flesh is too much to resist. You are too much to resist. Trailing my fingertips across your cheek, I caress the line of your jaw to brush your mouth, finding it tender and yielding. Your lips part slightly, taking my touch into a small kiss, an acceptance of my affections. I lean towards you, a mute request, for more.
You return my caress, cupping your hand around behind my head, long fingers entwining themselves in my hair pulling me closer. Your gaze is locked to mine as we close the last remaining gap, those scant few inches between us. Our lips touch and I am immediately lost in you. Your eyes, bright with emotion, are my world; your kisses greater than all my fantasies taken together. The taste of wine slips into my mouth, carried on your soft tongue. Our kiss continues, questing and deepening, a bright spark lighting a flame in the night. I cannot believe how tender your kisses are, yet with the capacity to draw such passions from me.
I am conscious of your body, your every whisper carried on wings of softest breath. I trail my hand down your neck to caress and stroke your back, a gentle touch that pulls your body into mine. I love the feel of your muscles as they ripple with your motion, a motion that speaks volumes of that lithe strength that I have long admired. I had never been able to resist watching you as you move. The grace and beauty of your body, revealed in stolen glances numbered by the hundreds, served to excite my imagination and fill many a night. My favorite peeks came on warm summer days, when your blouse invariably had a few buttons undone. I looked forward to those times when you would lean forward, or (oh, please!) drop something on the floor. The view down the line of your neck and under your shirt would keep me awake that night, without fail and without recourse.
Sliding my hand down further, I follow the line of your back to your jeans, replacing wild imaginings with the tactile sensations of feminine strength. Continuing my languid journey of discovery, I follow your body's flow, tracing the roundness of your bottom. I pause here for a time, massaging and exploring that delicious shape, the unwitting victim of yet more stolen glances (and not a few outright stares). The rocking of your hips excites me, encouraging me to grip and hold you tightly. However, my hand has developed a will of its own, and after a time continues its slow languorous exploration across your hip. You flex in response to my touch, enticing it upwards, drifting to the dip of your waist, that sensual line that defines the curve of your hips and the swell of your breasts.
I can feel your ribs rise and fall with each breath you take. Shifting your position slightly, you turn so that your breast falls into my hand as I continue to travel the sultry shapes of your body. Surprised, I stop, a deer caught in the headlights, mesmerized by the warmth caught in my hand. A pant restarts my heart, and I kiss you again, deeply, reveling in the fullness, the weight that seems to have been created for my hand, and mine alone, such is the perfect fit that we make together.
As our tongues slip together, drinking deeply of each others kiss, so does my hand slip over the curve of your breast, pressing into that full softness, that quintessential representation of all that is woman. Pressing and massaging even as our kisses press and rub against each other, my hand cradles that wondrous orb, feeling the thin cotton of your blouse slipping over the smooth fabric of your bra. I can feel upper edge of that garment, a line that marks the absence of barriers. This line marks the entry to a new realm, beyond which lies the province of tender flesh, the fruits of my desire.
With trembling fingers, I begin to undo your buttons. My need for you burns hot now, hot enough that my hands are shaking for the power of it. After a moment you cover my hands with your own. Moving them aside, but not away, you begin to undo the buttons, one at a time. With memories of stolen glimpses in my mind, I break away from our fervent kisses to see the rest of you revealed for my pleasure. As more of your porcelain skin is exposed, I am unable to tear my eyes away.
Taking the edges of your blouse, I unwrap this gift you have given me, revealing all that had been hidden from my view until now. Resting my hands upon your bare skin, I marvel at the luxuriant softness of it. You sit still, allowing me to take in my fill of this glorious sight, my eyes unable to rest in any one place for long. From the firm strength of your stomach to the swell of your breasts, my eyes take it all in. I am especially taken by the sight of my hands touching you, wandering the landscape of your body, feeling you for the first time. Seeing my hands upon your body is the a thing of beauty to me, speaking with an eloquence beyond words of my love for you.
Slipping your shirt from your shoulders, I continue to marvel at the beauty revealed. Smooth skin laid over feminine muscle, your curves and slopes, your essential femininity is displayed for the first time before my eager eyes. This glowing vision alone is enough to light my every night, for the rest of my life. As delightful as my fantasies have always been, the truth, the reality that is you is so much more. Your shape leads the eye on a tantalizing journey, rising up from your hips through the dip of your waist, around the outer swell of your breasts to follow the gentle slope of your chest to your neck. The lines of your throat lead my eyes back down to savor the valley found in the swell of your breasts. I continue tracing you with my eyes, down across your stomach to end at the waistband of your jeans. The lines of your body disappear within, hinting at more discoveries to be made in the length of your legs, the smooth strength of your denim sheathed thighs. My eyes filled with this vision, I look up to your face, unable to express how blessed I feel for the gift you are giving me this night.
Wrapping my hands around your bare waist, I return my attentions to kissing you. Save that now my intention is not to limit my kisses to the sweet wine of your lips, but rather to shower adorations upon the rest of you. Trailing kisses down your face and neck I allow my hands to come up your body to cup your breasts, embracing their warmth. You are still wearing your bra, and for the moment I don't mind. The fabric slides against my hand as I trace the curve of those delightful globes. My fingers find the edge of the garment and taste the velvety smoothness of your breast for the first time. I am enjoying this slow exploration, this gradual revelation of your treasures.
Kissing your throat I feel your pulse, quicker now, against my lips. Your chest rises in a deep breath of pleasure at this touch, pressing you firmly into the cup of my hands. Soft yet firm, the velvety smoothness of them excites me further, calls me to lavish my worship upon them. Tongue trailing a glistening path down across your chest, I gently lay you back, exploring and tasting your skin as I go, until finally my questing mouth arrives at its destination. My hand, still massaging and rubbing, pushes the swell of your flesh out of your bra slightly to meet the heat of my breath.
Kissing exposed skin, I reach around behind you to undo your bra. My hands are steadier now, and accomplish the task with only slight fumbling. I am steadier now, firm in my purpose, confident in your welcome. Your hands stroke and caress the back of my head, guiding my kisses to where they are most wanted. Your bra undone, I slide it off of your shoulders, brushing my fingers down the length of your encircling arms as I go. Nestling my cheek in the delicious valley unclad, I gaze at the soft mount presented to me with its perfect temple perched at the tip.
Your bra abandoned to the floor, your hands once again take my head, fingers gripping my hair, and turn my mouth to the flushed heat of your flesh. I can taste the salty tang of your sweat, smell the deep musk of your desire building, a faint trace of your perfume underlining and punctuating your essence. I trace the swell of your breast with my tongue and lips, circling the base, an explorer embarking upon an historic journey to the top of a fabled mountain. Gradually, with your encouragement and guidance, I trace my way to the erect nipple at the top.
Heart hammering, my breath coming hot now, I circle your nipple with my tongue, enjoying the textures of the aureole. Mounting the peak, I stroke your nipple and, closing my mouth over it, taste its full sweetness. It is hard now, harder than I knew possible, pressing against the motion of my tongue. I scrape it lightly with my teeth, causing you to gasp, a sharp inhalation of breath that presses you further into my mouth. Eagerly I take in all that you have until I can hold no more. Suckling as hungrily as any newborn infant, I pull my head back, drawing out a moan from your throat, a sigh of pleasure that is not so much heard as it is felt deep within my core. Lips and tongue sliding over every inch of your breast, I strive to bring forth that pleasure in you again, and succeeding, continue to tantalize and taste you.
Massaging and rubbing, I pull your other nipple, twisting it lightly until it is as fully erect as its sister. I trail kisses across your chest, through that wondrous in between to climb this new mount. Repeating my earlier attentions on her sister, I savor your taste, your smell. Every texture is committed to memory, lest this be not only the first time, but the last that we can ever meet this way. I want to memorize every detail of the luxurious landscape that is your body, never to forget. Once a dream, I am afraid to lose the reality, and so force myself to go slowly, an act of worship at the temple of your love.
As I lay my tender affections upon your flesh, your hands grasp me and pull me closer. Once in a while, when I give you a light nibble, your nails will briefly dig into my scalp, a sharp pain that only serves to intensify my pleasure, and with it, my desire for you. You draw your hands down the back of my neck to my shoulders, holding me tightly. Continuing downwards you find the hem of my t-shirt. Hooking it with your fingers, you pull it up, dragging your nails along my back as you go. The sensation causes me to shiver and groan. I am forced to stop tasting your sweetness as my breath stutters into a pant.
This brief respite from my ministrations gives you the opportunity to tug my shirt up the rest of the way, until I have to remove myself from the delights of your skin allowing you to pull it up over my head. Taking advantage of the space between our bodies, you lay your hands upon my shoulders and, pushing me back slightly, allow your eyes to trace the muscles of my chest and stomach just as I had done to you. Pushing me back further you swing your leg over mine, straddling my hips, and lean down to kiss me, deeply, passionately.
I am beginning to lose my sense of self to you. Your hands on my chest, your lips against my face, mouth and neck are the whole of my existence. The brush of your breasts on my chest combines with the heat across our hips to make “us” the only world I have ever known. My hands find their way to rest against your hips, riding the slow undulations of your desire as you flex against me. I wrap my hands around the firm round of your ass, gripping it, enjoying the ripple of muscles as you grind your hips against mine.
We enjoy our kisses for some time, neither hurrying, content to be lost in each other. Our hands wander, touching and reaching, discovering and exploring what delights we can give to the other. A thin sheen of sweat adds a sensuous texture to our motions as we slide, skin to skin and denim to denim, against each other. Now the soft silk of your hair, then the hard ripple of your back, slippery smooth, each touch is an experience unto itself, and yet is but one part of a greater whole. Each new sensation only adds to the heat generated by our lips and tongues as we continue to taste each others elixirs. Your kisses, it seems to me, are a fiery wine that is slowly consuming me, a willing sacrifice to your most passionate demands.
Slipping from my lap, you sink to your knees, touching and kissing as you go. Pausing at my chest you kiss and nibble me, sending shivers of delight through my body. After a moment you continue downwards, your hands stroking across my ribs, stomach, then on over and past the front of my jeans to rub my legs. The sensation of your hands on my thighs inflames me more than I had ever thought possible. Stroking and rubbing, your hands find their way to my crotch, rubbing me through my pants.
Looking down at you, I can see a small Mona Lisa smile playing across your lips. You like what you feel, and that makes me happy. You kiss my tummy in that sensitive area just below my navel, sparking a pulse of heat through my groin, before beginning the slow, luxurious return journey upwards until you are laying atop me, our lips once again meeting in an electric union of love and lust.
Lifting you to your feet I sit up and begin laying a new trail of kisses down your body. I make every touch, every caress and every hot breath a sensual experience unto itself as I once again travel across the nuances of your body. Through hill and valley, mount and dale I experience this landscape of dreams to its fullest until, dropping to my knees, I arrive once again to the borders of the unknown territories marked by the waist of your jeans.
I bring my hands around to the front of your body, a stroke of passion that starts at the small of your back, traverses the curves of your ass and hips, to finish at the gates to your temple of delights. Undoing your button, my fingers lightly tickle the exposed skin of your tummy. Your zipper is drawn down, revealing smooth black fabric under the denim fortress that has guarded your love for so long.
A shiver of anticipation washes over me at this sight. Hooking your pants, I draw then down to your ankles, a smooth motion neither fast nor slow. Stepping you out of them, I lean back to take in the view now revealed to my hungry gaze. Long legs, smooth and shapely and beautiful, greet my eyes. You are almost completely undressed now, and the sight of you has made me harder than I have ever been in my life. Smooth alabaster skin interrupted only by black satin, an enclave guarding the altar of my love, an altar that it has been my life's desire to worship at.
Hands grasping you firmly, I pull this final gateway to ecstasy to me. Kissing you there, my lips press against the precious mound underneath. Your heat bathes my face, an exciting radiance that mingles and joins with the hot pant of my lust. I can taste you where your moisture has escaped to dampen your panties. I can smell the musk of your essential self, your sex. As I press my face against your crotch you let out a soft groan. Your legs, so beautiful and strong, tremble slightly. Entwining your fingers into my hair, you pull me to my feet until we are standing together, faces flushed with the heat of the moment. Taking you into my arms, I lift you off of the floor to carry you into my bedroom. Your legs wrap around my hips, an clenching embrace that tells me not just that you accept my love, but that you want it, need it as badly as I do.
Entering the bedroom, I am reluctant to let you go. I sit on the edge of the bed holding you against me. I slip my fingers under the hem of your panties to caress the shape of your ass, questing and exploring a brand new realm of delights. Finding the join of your cheeks, I press my fingers down into that closed valley until my hand is filled with you. Our position does not allow me to reach any further forward, the press of our bodies making a barrier that I cannot push through without hurting you. I rub and tease everything that I can reach as I lavish more kisses on your breasts, now ideally positioned to receive such attentions.
Taking my head in both hands, you tilt me back. Leaning down over me, your hair cascading over us like a curtain, you treat me to yet another tantalizing kiss before continuing the motion, laying me down beneath you. Slipping down to kneel between my legs you undo my pants, revealing my erection to your examination. Laying your hands on my groin, encircling the base of my inflamed member, you bring your head forward. Your hair falls to obscure my view, intensifying that first delicate touch of your tongue to an experience of electric sensuality such that I am almost undone then and there.
The intensity of sensations that you are sending through my body rob me of the strength to do anything but lay there groaning, and allow myself to taken in by your tender mercies. As you take me into your mouth your hand shifts to grasp the base, trapping and controlling me for your pleasures. Your lips stroke the remaining length as your tongue plays across the head, circling it and rubbing it, smooth and wet in a slow rhythm that holds me on the edge of Nirvana for a seeming eternity. As you sense that I am approaching climax, you pull your head back, freeing me from this most captivating of kisses. Tossing your hair to the side, you allow me an unobstructed view as you lick and kiss your way down to the base. Both hands free now, you take the edge of my pants and tug them down. Lifting my hips allows you to draw my pants down, but after a moment my strength flees once again and I drop back to lie prone and helpless to the bed. Drawing your tongue back up the underside of my desire, you finish the stroke by planting a small kiss on the throbbing tip before stooping to finish pulling my pants off.
Looking at you now, standing before me, lust and desire return to me all the strength that you had taken just moments before. Sitting up, I take you by your hips and, in your turn, lay you upon my bed. The memory of my brief sojourn across your panties draws me now, threatening my self control. Your musk lingers in my nose still, and I want more. Growing impatient, It is my turn to kneel between your legs, and pull your panties off. I pause for a moment to take in the revealed beauty laid out before me, reasserting a measure of control. Every nerve, every fiber of my body is aflame for you now, and mastering my base desires is difficult, but taking a deep breath I somehow manage it.
Lifting your leg, I lay a kiss on your ankle. My hands find their own way as I follow the line of your calf to the inside of your knee, where I have to pause again, as my control is perilously close to evaporating completely, such is the force of my desire. My hand has already traveled onwards and upwards, past your knee, to sample the velvety smoothness of the inside of your thigh.
Self control reasserted for the moment, my lips follow the questing hand's path. I taste your growing heat as I sojourn ever upwards. My hand has found that triangle of hair that lays nestled at the joining of your legs. It is soft, lightly curly and luxuriant. I rub the mound above your sex, delighting in the shapes and textures found there. Inadvertently, my thumb brushes the protruding lips of your inflamed labia, causing you to gasp, my only signal that I had touched that most intimate of spaces. The texture found here is unique, silky slick with moisture, soft, yet firm, protruding from within the nest of curls that have hidden and protected it for so long.
Having discovered this new delight, I am incapable of straying far from it, stroking the lips and discovering the hard nub perched at the top of your innermost flower. This touch brings forth a gasping spasm from you, first arching your back before drawing your knees up to your chest. I am forced to follow you if I wish to continue tasting the sweetness of your thighs. From this new position, laying above you, your heat and scent draw me down and away from the succulent line of your leg into the delicious valley between until my mouth finds that sacred space nestled between their meeting point. The raw heat and deep musk of you serves to dissolve the last of my controls. I am now completely at the mercy of my desire to taste you, to experience you fully and in all fullness.
Seeing your innermost self laid open before me is more than I can resist. I descend to kiss these other, more precious lips. Tracing their outer edges with my tongue causes you to gasp and thrust again, pressing you to my mouth. My lips caress the hard button of your arousal, delighting in the taste and texture, reveling in the physical reactions that they can produce in you. Your hips have taken on a life of their own, gyrating and pressing against my mouth with a rhythm of desire that is hard to follow, and even harder to resist.
Placing my hands behind your knees, I spread your legs a bit more and press down in an attempt to restrain your motions, keeping you under my tongue a bit longer. I run the tip, stiffened to hardness, down between the lips to encircle the entrance to your core. Closing my mouth, I kiss you again and again, stroking and teasing you. Sucking your lips into my mouth, I hold them there, washing them and stroking them with my tongue, fully exploring their creases and folds, before slipping upwards to focus my attentions exclusively on your fully erect delight.
Sucking that center of pleasure into my mouth, I lightly tickle the underside using the very tip of my tongue. Your groans and gasps intensify as I continue to suck that tender protrusion of flesh. Your hands have taken hold of my hair again, locking me in place to lap up your precious elixirs as they flow from deep within you. A light scrape of my teeth causes a particularly strong reaction from you, overcoming the strength of my arms. Your legs, now freed from the restraint that I had them under, clamp around me, rendering me completely incapable of being anywhere but here, worshiping at the altar of your love.
The truth, of course, is that there is nowhere else I would rather be than here, drinking in your pure essence. You are intoxication personified, a drug to which I would gladly throw my life away for the least taste. A willing prisoner to the power of your desires, I continue to lavish my kisses upon these, your most secret of lips. I have discovered that, at least in this moment, I love nothing more than kissing and tasting your deepest self. The feel of you pressed against me, the sweet moisture bathing my mouth and tongue, coating my face, the music of your groans, moans and gasps all combine to spur me to greater effort. My only wish is to fulfill your desires in their entirety. Your body begins to shudder and shake as your groans deepen into a long drawn out moan. I reach up, taking your breasts in my hands, roll your nipples between my thumb and forefinger. You stutter for a moment as your breath catches at the this new stimulation, before resuming your song of love.
As the culmination of my worshipful service approaches your moaning rises up into the drawn out crescendo of your climax. Your back arches with the power of it, lifting us both off of the bed. You shudder and shake as the orgasm washes over and through you, until the last pulsing wave of pleasure recedes, leaving you laying upon my bed, sweat soaked and spent. After giving you a few moments to rest I resume washing you with my affections, in the hopes of bringing you back up the heights of ecstasy once again. You, however, have a different idea.
“I want you”
These are the only words that we have shared since that first tender kiss. They are also the only words that matter, have ever mattered to me. I know that they are an expression of more than simple lust. They are a statement of the depth of your love for me, and mine for you. A declaration of needs that go beyond the mundane and the physical, these words contain within them all that I have ever dreamt of. These are the words that I have yearned to hear for time uncounted, and hearing them now I am powerless to resist your siren's call.
Panting, face coated with your essences, I lift myself up, and following the length of your body, lay my self back down upon you. My love, hardened by lust, is close to spending just at the thought of entering you. Struggling for restraint I slowly, gently press myself into your most secret of spaces. Sliding smoothly to my full depth, the entry eased by your wet heat, I am soon enveloped by a silken glove that encompasses all that I am. I am so inflamed by my desire, a desire held in check for too long, that I know I will not, cannot last. Nonetheless, I make the effort, drawing myself out slowly, before pressing back into you. Your hips rise to meet mine, your legs wrapped around me pulling me in tightly. Once, twice, three times I stroke you in this fashion and I am done. Done, but not spent.
Such is the effect you have on me that I do not lose my erection (much to my intense relief). After a moment's rest, we are able to continue our lovemaking, a slow undulation, bodies entangled until it is impossible to tell where you begin and I end. Now that our immediate needs are satisfied, my awareness can expand again. I am conscious of your breath, hot on my neck and your voice, low and soft in my ear. Wrapped up in each others embrace, bodies locked together, we fall into a gentle rhythm, an sinuous wave of amorous union that transports us beyond the realms of the ordinary and into a timeless space inhabited only by the person that is us.
Our limbs entangled, bodies entwined, our sweat and essences paint a landscape upon the sheets, a map of our journey from the fulfillment of need and lust to the mutual gifting of pleasure and love. Time passes unnoticed, each moment blending into the next, one long beat of the heart pulsing with vitality, a gentle affirmation of life and love, awash in bliss. Eventually we settle into a steady rhythm of thrust and counter thrust, unhurried and eternal, a fundamental beat to the music that we are making. Soft groans and wordless whispers fill the air with a melody punctuated by delighted grunts and gasps.
As the end of our night long operetta approaches, you are resting atop of me. Gazing at each other, we both intuitively know that it is time to cement our union in one last ecstatic effort. Your breasts gently sway and bounce as you gradually increase the rate of our lovemaking. Sweat glistens between them as your soft moans are joined to the ever increasing tempo of our bodies slapping together, a clap of joy celebrating the release of a love, once held in secret, now freed to find its exuberant expression in our lovemaking.
The sun breaks over the horizon, streaming in through the window. Its light kisses your face, bathing you in a golden glow as our climax reaches out to take hold of us. My hips rise and fall in tempo with yous. Your hands upon my chest curl into a grip, nails digging into me as our fire rises, adding its light to the morning's glory. A long, drawn out moan shudders, though I cannot tell where it comes from; you, I or both of us. When at last the end arrives, we finish together, two bodies locked into one flesh. In that moment we are one mind, one body and one person, an explosion of light and sound that proclaims our existence to the heavens with such fervor that even the angels are made to turn and look upon us with wonder at the purity and joy of our love.
The phone is ringing. As I shake myself from this most cherished of fantasies, I am left with one final image. You are laying upon my bed, bathed in the sweaty afterglow of our lovemaking. The sun is shining fully upon your lithe form, illuminating your body much in the same way that our love has blazed into the darkness, a herald declaring that life is so much more than my dreams have ever foretold. Your lines and curves, still faintly glistening with the sheen of night, awaken a faint stirring deep within me. However, we have loved enough for now. There are many more nights to come, a lifetime's worth of joys to discover, ours and ours alone to sample and savor
This is my fantasy, to love you like this for the rest of my days. If I could, I would fill your nights with such loves as these, and your days with dreams of rapture. I would demonstrate by word and deed that your grace upon this earth is the source of all my joys, and the fulfillment of my life's purpose. I would show you the full depth of my love, without reservation.
If I could.
I have loved you for so long now, yet never had the courage to speak my mind, nor act in accordance with the desires of my heart. Though I have told you how I feel, I have restrained myself. I have refrained from racing to your side, just for the pleasure of being near you, giving way instead to the petty dictates of my life. My courage has failed me time and again, keeping me confined to the familiar prison my life has built around me. Where has the spirit of abandon, that sense of boundless adventure that is the hallmark of youthful passion gone? If I could, had I the courage, I would throw fate to the winds and love you to the fullest extent that I am able. If I could.
Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can see you there sitting next to me. I am holding your hand as we speak, savoring the delicate softness of your fingers pressing into mine. Try as I might, my attention keeps slipping away to be caught up in the play of your lips as your voice tumbles over them, a soft contralto reaching out to bridge the gap between us. Your words, unheard, caress my heart and remind me of all the reasons I have to love you. Your soft gentle lilt washes over me, easing my woes and soothing my spirit. Unconsciously, my thumb strokes the soft skin across the back of your hand.
You have stopped speaking now, a gentle smile playing across your lips. I have been caught watching you. Vaguely aware that you had asked me something, I search my memory, struggling in vain to recapture the words spoken, but they have fled unheard. Embarrassed, I try to withdraw my hand from yours, only to find it caught as I have been caught by you. Startled, I look in your eyes, and for the first time see something else, something undreamed of, behind your gentle gaze. Unnoticed before, I see a tenderness, an affection for me that reaches beyond the bonds of friendship. My breath catches in my throat as my heart stutters it's way up to a staccato rhythm of hope.
Trembling, afraid to believe, I cover your hand in mine, clasping it tightly as I have always hoped to clasp you to me. Smiling, you cover my hand with yours. Uncertain, heart racing, I am at a loss for words at this unexpected turn of events. I am conscious of your warm hands holding mine. Looking at you, I wonder if I have the courage to believe that you might return my feelings in some small way. I wonder if this is the extent of it, or if there could be more? Having taken this small step, I find that I need to know.
I reach out to touch your cheek. You turn your head, laying your face against my hand, then turning further, kiss my palm. A feather's brush of breath sends goosebumps racing up my arm, and with it, a thrill of anticipation. Dare I hope, am I brave enough to believe that you love me, even as I have loved you? With a sense of wonder, I caress your lips with my thumb, feeling their warmth. They are soft and sensuous, without a trace of lipstick to stain their natural hue. I have dreamed of feeling them, tasting them for so long now that I am almost afraid to let this most cherished fantasy go. Yet to feel that fantasy made flesh is too much to resist. You are too much to resist. Trailing my fingertips across your cheek, I caress the line of your jaw to brush your mouth, finding it tender and yielding. Your lips part slightly, taking my touch into a small kiss, an acceptance of my affections. I lean towards you, a mute request, for more.
You return my caress, cupping your hand around behind my head, long fingers entwining themselves in my hair pulling me closer. Your gaze is locked to mine as we close the last remaining gap, those scant few inches between us. Our lips touch and I am immediately lost in you. Your eyes, bright with emotion, are my world; your kisses greater than all my fantasies taken together. The taste of wine slips into my mouth, carried on your soft tongue. Our kiss continues, questing and deepening, a bright spark lighting a flame in the night. I cannot believe how tender your kisses are, yet with the capacity to draw such passions from me.
I am conscious of your body, your every whisper carried on wings of softest breath. I trail my hand down your neck to caress and stroke your back, a gentle touch that pulls your body into mine. I love the feel of your muscles as they ripple with your motion, a motion that speaks volumes of that lithe strength that I have long admired. I had never been able to resist watching you as you move. The grace and beauty of your body, revealed in stolen glances numbered by the hundreds, served to excite my imagination and fill many a night. My favorite peeks came on warm summer days, when your blouse invariably had a few buttons undone. I looked forward to those times when you would lean forward, or (oh, please!) drop something on the floor. The view down the line of your neck and under your shirt would keep me awake that night, without fail and without recourse.
Sliding my hand down further, I follow the line of your back to your jeans, replacing wild imaginings with the tactile sensations of feminine strength. Continuing my languid journey of discovery, I follow your body's flow, tracing the roundness of your bottom. I pause here for a time, massaging and exploring that delicious shape, the unwitting victim of yet more stolen glances (and not a few outright stares). The rocking of your hips excites me, encouraging me to grip and hold you tightly. However, my hand has developed a will of its own, and after a time continues its slow languorous exploration across your hip. You flex in response to my touch, enticing it upwards, drifting to the dip of your waist, that sensual line that defines the curve of your hips and the swell of your breasts.
I can feel your ribs rise and fall with each breath you take. Shifting your position slightly, you turn so that your breast falls into my hand as I continue to travel the sultry shapes of your body. Surprised, I stop, a deer caught in the headlights, mesmerized by the warmth caught in my hand. A pant restarts my heart, and I kiss you again, deeply, reveling in the fullness, the weight that seems to have been created for my hand, and mine alone, such is the perfect fit that we make together.
As our tongues slip together, drinking deeply of each others kiss, so does my hand slip over the curve of your breast, pressing into that full softness, that quintessential representation of all that is woman. Pressing and massaging even as our kisses press and rub against each other, my hand cradles that wondrous orb, feeling the thin cotton of your blouse slipping over the smooth fabric of your bra. I can feel upper edge of that garment, a line that marks the absence of barriers. This line marks the entry to a new realm, beyond which lies the province of tender flesh, the fruits of my desire.
With trembling fingers, I begin to undo your buttons. My need for you burns hot now, hot enough that my hands are shaking for the power of it. After a moment you cover my hands with your own. Moving them aside, but not away, you begin to undo the buttons, one at a time. With memories of stolen glimpses in my mind, I break away from our fervent kisses to see the rest of you revealed for my pleasure. As more of your porcelain skin is exposed, I am unable to tear my eyes away.
Taking the edges of your blouse, I unwrap this gift you have given me, revealing all that had been hidden from my view until now. Resting my hands upon your bare skin, I marvel at the luxuriant softness of it. You sit still, allowing me to take in my fill of this glorious sight, my eyes unable to rest in any one place for long. From the firm strength of your stomach to the swell of your breasts, my eyes take it all in. I am especially taken by the sight of my hands touching you, wandering the landscape of your body, feeling you for the first time. Seeing my hands upon your body is the a thing of beauty to me, speaking with an eloquence beyond words of my love for you.
Slipping your shirt from your shoulders, I continue to marvel at the beauty revealed. Smooth skin laid over feminine muscle, your curves and slopes, your essential femininity is displayed for the first time before my eager eyes. This glowing vision alone is enough to light my every night, for the rest of my life. As delightful as my fantasies have always been, the truth, the reality that is you is so much more. Your shape leads the eye on a tantalizing journey, rising up from your hips through the dip of your waist, around the outer swell of your breasts to follow the gentle slope of your chest to your neck. The lines of your throat lead my eyes back down to savor the valley found in the swell of your breasts. I continue tracing you with my eyes, down across your stomach to end at the waistband of your jeans. The lines of your body disappear within, hinting at more discoveries to be made in the length of your legs, the smooth strength of your denim sheathed thighs. My eyes filled with this vision, I look up to your face, unable to express how blessed I feel for the gift you are giving me this night.
Wrapping my hands around your bare waist, I return my attentions to kissing you. Save that now my intention is not to limit my kisses to the sweet wine of your lips, but rather to shower adorations upon the rest of you. Trailing kisses down your face and neck I allow my hands to come up your body to cup your breasts, embracing their warmth. You are still wearing your bra, and for the moment I don't mind. The fabric slides against my hand as I trace the curve of those delightful globes. My fingers find the edge of the garment and taste the velvety smoothness of your breast for the first time. I am enjoying this slow exploration, this gradual revelation of your treasures.
Kissing your throat I feel your pulse, quicker now, against my lips. Your chest rises in a deep breath of pleasure at this touch, pressing you firmly into the cup of my hands. Soft yet firm, the velvety smoothness of them excites me further, calls me to lavish my worship upon them. Tongue trailing a glistening path down across your chest, I gently lay you back, exploring and tasting your skin as I go, until finally my questing mouth arrives at its destination. My hand, still massaging and rubbing, pushes the swell of your flesh out of your bra slightly to meet the heat of my breath.
Kissing exposed skin, I reach around behind you to undo your bra. My hands are steadier now, and accomplish the task with only slight fumbling. I am steadier now, firm in my purpose, confident in your welcome. Your hands stroke and caress the back of my head, guiding my kisses to where they are most wanted. Your bra undone, I slide it off of your shoulders, brushing my fingers down the length of your encircling arms as I go. Nestling my cheek in the delicious valley unclad, I gaze at the soft mount presented to me with its perfect temple perched at the tip.
Your bra abandoned to the floor, your hands once again take my head, fingers gripping my hair, and turn my mouth to the flushed heat of your flesh. I can taste the salty tang of your sweat, smell the deep musk of your desire building, a faint trace of your perfume underlining and punctuating your essence. I trace the swell of your breast with my tongue and lips, circling the base, an explorer embarking upon an historic journey to the top of a fabled mountain. Gradually, with your encouragement and guidance, I trace my way to the erect nipple at the top.
Heart hammering, my breath coming hot now, I circle your nipple with my tongue, enjoying the textures of the aureole. Mounting the peak, I stroke your nipple and, closing my mouth over it, taste its full sweetness. It is hard now, harder than I knew possible, pressing against the motion of my tongue. I scrape it lightly with my teeth, causing you to gasp, a sharp inhalation of breath that presses you further into my mouth. Eagerly I take in all that you have until I can hold no more. Suckling as hungrily as any newborn infant, I pull my head back, drawing out a moan from your throat, a sigh of pleasure that is not so much heard as it is felt deep within my core. Lips and tongue sliding over every inch of your breast, I strive to bring forth that pleasure in you again, and succeeding, continue to tantalize and taste you.
Massaging and rubbing, I pull your other nipple, twisting it lightly until it is as fully erect as its sister. I trail kisses across your chest, through that wondrous in between to climb this new mount. Repeating my earlier attentions on her sister, I savor your taste, your smell. Every texture is committed to memory, lest this be not only the first time, but the last that we can ever meet this way. I want to memorize every detail of the luxurious landscape that is your body, never to forget. Once a dream, I am afraid to lose the reality, and so force myself to go slowly, an act of worship at the temple of your love.
As I lay my tender affections upon your flesh, your hands grasp me and pull me closer. Once in a while, when I give you a light nibble, your nails will briefly dig into my scalp, a sharp pain that only serves to intensify my pleasure, and with it, my desire for you. You draw your hands down the back of my neck to my shoulders, holding me tightly. Continuing downwards you find the hem of my t-shirt. Hooking it with your fingers, you pull it up, dragging your nails along my back as you go. The sensation causes me to shiver and groan. I am forced to stop tasting your sweetness as my breath stutters into a pant.
This brief respite from my ministrations gives you the opportunity to tug my shirt up the rest of the way, until I have to remove myself from the delights of your skin allowing you to pull it up over my head. Taking advantage of the space between our bodies, you lay your hands upon my shoulders and, pushing me back slightly, allow your eyes to trace the muscles of my chest and stomach just as I had done to you. Pushing me back further you swing your leg over mine, straddling my hips, and lean down to kiss me, deeply, passionately.
I am beginning to lose my sense of self to you. Your hands on my chest, your lips against my face, mouth and neck are the whole of my existence. The brush of your breasts on my chest combines with the heat across our hips to make “us” the only world I have ever known. My hands find their way to rest against your hips, riding the slow undulations of your desire as you flex against me. I wrap my hands around the firm round of your ass, gripping it, enjoying the ripple of muscles as you grind your hips against mine.
We enjoy our kisses for some time, neither hurrying, content to be lost in each other. Our hands wander, touching and reaching, discovering and exploring what delights we can give to the other. A thin sheen of sweat adds a sensuous texture to our motions as we slide, skin to skin and denim to denim, against each other. Now the soft silk of your hair, then the hard ripple of your back, slippery smooth, each touch is an experience unto itself, and yet is but one part of a greater whole. Each new sensation only adds to the heat generated by our lips and tongues as we continue to taste each others elixirs. Your kisses, it seems to me, are a fiery wine that is slowly consuming me, a willing sacrifice to your most passionate demands.
Slipping from my lap, you sink to your knees, touching and kissing as you go. Pausing at my chest you kiss and nibble me, sending shivers of delight through my body. After a moment you continue downwards, your hands stroking across my ribs, stomach, then on over and past the front of my jeans to rub my legs. The sensation of your hands on my thighs inflames me more than I had ever thought possible. Stroking and rubbing, your hands find their way to my crotch, rubbing me through my pants.
Looking down at you, I can see a small Mona Lisa smile playing across your lips. You like what you feel, and that makes me happy. You kiss my tummy in that sensitive area just below my navel, sparking a pulse of heat through my groin, before beginning the slow, luxurious return journey upwards until you are laying atop me, our lips once again meeting in an electric union of love and lust.
Lifting you to your feet I sit up and begin laying a new trail of kisses down your body. I make every touch, every caress and every hot breath a sensual experience unto itself as I once again travel across the nuances of your body. Through hill and valley, mount and dale I experience this landscape of dreams to its fullest until, dropping to my knees, I arrive once again to the borders of the unknown territories marked by the waist of your jeans.
I bring my hands around to the front of your body, a stroke of passion that starts at the small of your back, traverses the curves of your ass and hips, to finish at the gates to your temple of delights. Undoing your button, my fingers lightly tickle the exposed skin of your tummy. Your zipper is drawn down, revealing smooth black fabric under the denim fortress that has guarded your love for so long.
A shiver of anticipation washes over me at this sight. Hooking your pants, I draw then down to your ankles, a smooth motion neither fast nor slow. Stepping you out of them, I lean back to take in the view now revealed to my hungry gaze. Long legs, smooth and shapely and beautiful, greet my eyes. You are almost completely undressed now, and the sight of you has made me harder than I have ever been in my life. Smooth alabaster skin interrupted only by black satin, an enclave guarding the altar of my love, an altar that it has been my life's desire to worship at.
Hands grasping you firmly, I pull this final gateway to ecstasy to me. Kissing you there, my lips press against the precious mound underneath. Your heat bathes my face, an exciting radiance that mingles and joins with the hot pant of my lust. I can taste you where your moisture has escaped to dampen your panties. I can smell the musk of your essential self, your sex. As I press my face against your crotch you let out a soft groan. Your legs, so beautiful and strong, tremble slightly. Entwining your fingers into my hair, you pull me to my feet until we are standing together, faces flushed with the heat of the moment. Taking you into my arms, I lift you off of the floor to carry you into my bedroom. Your legs wrap around my hips, an clenching embrace that tells me not just that you accept my love, but that you want it, need it as badly as I do.
Entering the bedroom, I am reluctant to let you go. I sit on the edge of the bed holding you against me. I slip my fingers under the hem of your panties to caress the shape of your ass, questing and exploring a brand new realm of delights. Finding the join of your cheeks, I press my fingers down into that closed valley until my hand is filled with you. Our position does not allow me to reach any further forward, the press of our bodies making a barrier that I cannot push through without hurting you. I rub and tease everything that I can reach as I lavish more kisses on your breasts, now ideally positioned to receive such attentions.
Taking my head in both hands, you tilt me back. Leaning down over me, your hair cascading over us like a curtain, you treat me to yet another tantalizing kiss before continuing the motion, laying me down beneath you. Slipping down to kneel between my legs you undo my pants, revealing my erection to your examination. Laying your hands on my groin, encircling the base of my inflamed member, you bring your head forward. Your hair falls to obscure my view, intensifying that first delicate touch of your tongue to an experience of electric sensuality such that I am almost undone then and there.
The intensity of sensations that you are sending through my body rob me of the strength to do anything but lay there groaning, and allow myself to taken in by your tender mercies. As you take me into your mouth your hand shifts to grasp the base, trapping and controlling me for your pleasures. Your lips stroke the remaining length as your tongue plays across the head, circling it and rubbing it, smooth and wet in a slow rhythm that holds me on the edge of Nirvana for a seeming eternity. As you sense that I am approaching climax, you pull your head back, freeing me from this most captivating of kisses. Tossing your hair to the side, you allow me an unobstructed view as you lick and kiss your way down to the base. Both hands free now, you take the edge of my pants and tug them down. Lifting my hips allows you to draw my pants down, but after a moment my strength flees once again and I drop back to lie prone and helpless to the bed. Drawing your tongue back up the underside of my desire, you finish the stroke by planting a small kiss on the throbbing tip before stooping to finish pulling my pants off.
Looking at you now, standing before me, lust and desire return to me all the strength that you had taken just moments before. Sitting up, I take you by your hips and, in your turn, lay you upon my bed. The memory of my brief sojourn across your panties draws me now, threatening my self control. Your musk lingers in my nose still, and I want more. Growing impatient, It is my turn to kneel between your legs, and pull your panties off. I pause for a moment to take in the revealed beauty laid out before me, reasserting a measure of control. Every nerve, every fiber of my body is aflame for you now, and mastering my base desires is difficult, but taking a deep breath I somehow manage it.
Lifting your leg, I lay a kiss on your ankle. My hands find their own way as I follow the line of your calf to the inside of your knee, where I have to pause again, as my control is perilously close to evaporating completely, such is the force of my desire. My hand has already traveled onwards and upwards, past your knee, to sample the velvety smoothness of the inside of your thigh.
Self control reasserted for the moment, my lips follow the questing hand's path. I taste your growing heat as I sojourn ever upwards. My hand has found that triangle of hair that lays nestled at the joining of your legs. It is soft, lightly curly and luxuriant. I rub the mound above your sex, delighting in the shapes and textures found there. Inadvertently, my thumb brushes the protruding lips of your inflamed labia, causing you to gasp, my only signal that I had touched that most intimate of spaces. The texture found here is unique, silky slick with moisture, soft, yet firm, protruding from within the nest of curls that have hidden and protected it for so long.
Having discovered this new delight, I am incapable of straying far from it, stroking the lips and discovering the hard nub perched at the top of your innermost flower. This touch brings forth a gasping spasm from you, first arching your back before drawing your knees up to your chest. I am forced to follow you if I wish to continue tasting the sweetness of your thighs. From this new position, laying above you, your heat and scent draw me down and away from the succulent line of your leg into the delicious valley between until my mouth finds that sacred space nestled between their meeting point. The raw heat and deep musk of you serves to dissolve the last of my controls. I am now completely at the mercy of my desire to taste you, to experience you fully and in all fullness.
Seeing your innermost self laid open before me is more than I can resist. I descend to kiss these other, more precious lips. Tracing their outer edges with my tongue causes you to gasp and thrust again, pressing you to my mouth. My lips caress the hard button of your arousal, delighting in the taste and texture, reveling in the physical reactions that they can produce in you. Your hips have taken on a life of their own, gyrating and pressing against my mouth with a rhythm of desire that is hard to follow, and even harder to resist.
Placing my hands behind your knees, I spread your legs a bit more and press down in an attempt to restrain your motions, keeping you under my tongue a bit longer. I run the tip, stiffened to hardness, down between the lips to encircle the entrance to your core. Closing my mouth, I kiss you again and again, stroking and teasing you. Sucking your lips into my mouth, I hold them there, washing them and stroking them with my tongue, fully exploring their creases and folds, before slipping upwards to focus my attentions exclusively on your fully erect delight.
Sucking that center of pleasure into my mouth, I lightly tickle the underside using the very tip of my tongue. Your groans and gasps intensify as I continue to suck that tender protrusion of flesh. Your hands have taken hold of my hair again, locking me in place to lap up your precious elixirs as they flow from deep within you. A light scrape of my teeth causes a particularly strong reaction from you, overcoming the strength of my arms. Your legs, now freed from the restraint that I had them under, clamp around me, rendering me completely incapable of being anywhere but here, worshiping at the altar of your love.
The truth, of course, is that there is nowhere else I would rather be than here, drinking in your pure essence. You are intoxication personified, a drug to which I would gladly throw my life away for the least taste. A willing prisoner to the power of your desires, I continue to lavish my kisses upon these, your most secret of lips. I have discovered that, at least in this moment, I love nothing more than kissing and tasting your deepest self. The feel of you pressed against me, the sweet moisture bathing my mouth and tongue, coating my face, the music of your groans, moans and gasps all combine to spur me to greater effort. My only wish is to fulfill your desires in their entirety. Your body begins to shudder and shake as your groans deepen into a long drawn out moan. I reach up, taking your breasts in my hands, roll your nipples between my thumb and forefinger. You stutter for a moment as your breath catches at the this new stimulation, before resuming your song of love.
As the culmination of my worshipful service approaches your moaning rises up into the drawn out crescendo of your climax. Your back arches with the power of it, lifting us both off of the bed. You shudder and shake as the orgasm washes over and through you, until the last pulsing wave of pleasure recedes, leaving you laying upon my bed, sweat soaked and spent. After giving you a few moments to rest I resume washing you with my affections, in the hopes of bringing you back up the heights of ecstasy once again. You, however, have a different idea.
“I want you”
These are the only words that we have shared since that first tender kiss. They are also the only words that matter, have ever mattered to me. I know that they are an expression of more than simple lust. They are a statement of the depth of your love for me, and mine for you. A declaration of needs that go beyond the mundane and the physical, these words contain within them all that I have ever dreamt of. These are the words that I have yearned to hear for time uncounted, and hearing them now I am powerless to resist your siren's call.
Panting, face coated with your essences, I lift myself up, and following the length of your body, lay my self back down upon you. My love, hardened by lust, is close to spending just at the thought of entering you. Struggling for restraint I slowly, gently press myself into your most secret of spaces. Sliding smoothly to my full depth, the entry eased by your wet heat, I am soon enveloped by a silken glove that encompasses all that I am. I am so inflamed by my desire, a desire held in check for too long, that I know I will not, cannot last. Nonetheless, I make the effort, drawing myself out slowly, before pressing back into you. Your hips rise to meet mine, your legs wrapped around me pulling me in tightly. Once, twice, three times I stroke you in this fashion and I am done. Done, but not spent.
Such is the effect you have on me that I do not lose my erection (much to my intense relief). After a moment's rest, we are able to continue our lovemaking, a slow undulation, bodies entangled until it is impossible to tell where you begin and I end. Now that our immediate needs are satisfied, my awareness can expand again. I am conscious of your breath, hot on my neck and your voice, low and soft in my ear. Wrapped up in each others embrace, bodies locked together, we fall into a gentle rhythm, an sinuous wave of amorous union that transports us beyond the realms of the ordinary and into a timeless space inhabited only by the person that is us.
Our limbs entangled, bodies entwined, our sweat and essences paint a landscape upon the sheets, a map of our journey from the fulfillment of need and lust to the mutual gifting of pleasure and love. Time passes unnoticed, each moment blending into the next, one long beat of the heart pulsing with vitality, a gentle affirmation of life and love, awash in bliss. Eventually we settle into a steady rhythm of thrust and counter thrust, unhurried and eternal, a fundamental beat to the music that we are making. Soft groans and wordless whispers fill the air with a melody punctuated by delighted grunts and gasps.
As the end of our night long operetta approaches, you are resting atop of me. Gazing at each other, we both intuitively know that it is time to cement our union in one last ecstatic effort. Your breasts gently sway and bounce as you gradually increase the rate of our lovemaking. Sweat glistens between them as your soft moans are joined to the ever increasing tempo of our bodies slapping together, a clap of joy celebrating the release of a love, once held in secret, now freed to find its exuberant expression in our lovemaking.
The sun breaks over the horizon, streaming in through the window. Its light kisses your face, bathing you in a golden glow as our climax reaches out to take hold of us. My hips rise and fall in tempo with yous. Your hands upon my chest curl into a grip, nails digging into me as our fire rises, adding its light to the morning's glory. A long, drawn out moan shudders, though I cannot tell where it comes from; you, I or both of us. When at last the end arrives, we finish together, two bodies locked into one flesh. In that moment we are one mind, one body and one person, an explosion of light and sound that proclaims our existence to the heavens with such fervor that even the angels are made to turn and look upon us with wonder at the purity and joy of our love.
The phone is ringing. As I shake myself from this most cherished of fantasies, I am left with one final image. You are laying upon my bed, bathed in the sweaty afterglow of our lovemaking. The sun is shining fully upon your lithe form, illuminating your body much in the same way that our love has blazed into the darkness, a herald declaring that life is so much more than my dreams have ever foretold. Your lines and curves, still faintly glistening with the sheen of night, awaken a faint stirring deep within me. However, we have loved enough for now. There are many more nights to come, a lifetime's worth of joys to discover, ours and ours alone to sample and savor
This is my fantasy, to love you like this for the rest of my days. If I could, I would fill your nights with such loves as these, and your days with dreams of rapture. I would demonstrate by word and deed that your grace upon this earth is the source of all my joys, and the fulfillment of my life's purpose. I would show you the full depth of my love, without reservation.
If I could.
LOVE: MOST WOMAN ARE RIDICULOUS WITH THEIR LIST
Most woman really do abandons their standards for really good looking guy.If you want to have standards, have standards. But standards only prevent you from being used and abused if you stick to them consistently. The whole “I refuse to settle” argument is so flimsy and disingenuous.
After 35 every single woman must “settle” in order to end up in a serious relationship If a good looking woman in her mid to late 30s wants to find a smart, funny man, who has a job, and that she personally is attracted to, to have a serious relationship with, why shouldn’t she wait for ridiculous standards like he must make six figures, look like George Clooney, be as funny as Conan O’Brien, blah blah blah.
Someone says “settle” and most woman think it that I am suggesting is to find some schmuck and get him to marry you. When women automatically assume that that’s what “settle” means, that is usually an indicator of the fact that those women try (and chronically fail) to date out of their league. Most woman don’t seem to be getting it. It’s not that there is a limited supply of men who want to date you. It’s that there is a limited supply of men who want to commit to you or anybody else. And if they do want to commit, they either are probably going to do it with someone under 35 so they won’t be rushed into settling down and having kids OR they are guys that you have blown off and passed over as you wait for your funny, attractive, educated, employed, charming Mr. Right. Many women have been listening to tales and fables from their friends about that one woman in their office or second cousin or sorority sister from college who found Mr. Right. They are exceptions to the rule. Not the rule.
If there are so many options for you ladies, then where are all the stories of courting and wooing? about some dude who beds you and disappears Why is online dating a billion dollar industry? Why is there a new dating blog popping up every ten god damn seconds deconstructing all the bad dates that women have? The days of marriage and commitment being a given or a must have are over. So many woman been saying they didn’t need a man and had plenty of time to find someone that they completely missed the part when men started thinking the exact same way. Men have learned how to use the overage of single woman in the market place to their advantage. Now they’re winning. Now they’re being taken care of by desperate women who would rather support some leech than be alone. Or they’re dating multiple women who, like them, don’t want commitment. Or they’re juggling multiple women who do want commitment and then dumping them and then starting over. There’s a constant supply of single women for them! And by “them” I mean the men that most women want. The ones with options and charm and looks and money and stability.
Since no one gets EVERYTHING they want in a partner, then by definition, EVERYONE settles. LIke everything else in life, relationships are about tradeoffs. What can I live with in order to get the things I can’t live without.
It’s amazing to me that not only is this a foreign concept for otherwise “mature” adults, but that something that is essentially a truism should spark such incredible rage and emotion in some people. Do you also become outraged that the sky is blue and that the sun sets?
When anyone interprets settle as just taking the first guy that comes along, it indicates her rigidity and failure to understand the give and take in any relationship. It indicates her lack of ability to communicate well. We have to listen and go with the flow of the conversation, too.
The cold harsh truth is that we are always settling our entire lives. Each of us is one person on a planet of billions. Even insanely wealthy and powerful people have to settle. They still don’t get things exactly their way.
There is no one on this planet that exactly fit our criteria. And our criteria doesn’t even stay the same. No one should compromise on matters of principle, but matters of taste are an entirely different thing.
most women don’t like the idea of “settling” because they don’t understand that when you are looking for a committed relationship, you are by definition settling. Always. Every time. You are settling by precluding an opportunity with someone who might be better. And there’s the nub. If you haven’t managed to land a committed relationship or marriage by 35, you have been and continue to be holding out for someone who might be better.
Consciously or not, you’ve been critically evaluating every guy you’ve dated or had a short-term relationship with. One guy might have a good job, be smart and funny, but are you attracted enough to him? The next guy might be funny and very attractive, but maybe not as ambitious in his work or have a higher degree. The thing is, no matter who you’re with, you’re looking for faults and comparing every man you’re with to a theoretical “better” man. Which is why the word “settle” upsets you so much.
By always looking for the “better” man, you leave yourself open to being played while looking for ways to reject the men that would be good for a long-term relationship.
Instead of critically evaluating every man against your 462-point checklist, try this challenge: with every guy you are attracted to, focus on his good qualities, and actively look for those good qualities. If you can do this consistently, you will invariably find that you’re even more attracted and realize that you’re not “settling,” you’re accepting a person and building them up so that they become the “better” man. You’ll be happier and more likely to find that genuine committed relationship you seem to be looking for.
The other thing I have been seeing is women trying to do things like men. Trust me ladies, you don’t necessarily want to do that. That’s not what the feminist movement fought for. Equality does not mean doing things the same way. Ex, I have been looking at online profiles. Its amazing the age ranges I see women seeking in men. Does that slightly overweight 45 year old really think she can get an athletic 38 year old man to commit to her? He may do sex, but commitment, hardly likely. It’s just unrealistic. Men in the over 35 age have too many options. And the younger guys are no help. They are generally never going to give you what you really want.
it still comes down to bargaining chips. If you are 45 and desperately want commitment, you will have better chances with the guy over 50 than the guy below 50. I keep seeing profiles of women where the upper end of their desired age range, is their age or no more than two years older than them. There are even some women listing years younger than themselves as their upper end. What people forget is that if they are 42, they will be 45 at some time and they will feel pretty much the same way about themselves. So really, nothing is wrong with the 45 year old guy. Even guys these days are starting to list five years older as their upper end.
The bigger problem with settling though, is that people are really not looking in the mirror. They are often asking for a standard that they can’t give. It’s the 5ft 2in girl asking for a guy over 6 ft.. It’s the 42 year old woman with a kid asking for a man with no kids. It’s the slightly overweight woman that wants a buff guy. It’s the woman with non-negotiables and disclaimers asking for an easy going drama-free guy. It’s the woman going on numerous dates with various guys asking for a one woman man. It’s the woman wanting a guy who will pay her bill, but want no part in paying any man’s bill. And finally, it’s the woman who has few or no potential suitors interested in commitment, demanding that very desirable guy who she knows has endless women throwing themselves at him.
When people self sabotage they are still, as ever, acting in their own interests, the thing to figure out is what interests specifically they might be. I’ve also noticed that as women’s options decrease, the demands get ramped up when they should be reduced. Women have a hard time dating online at all, its an admission of defeat in itself, as is any organised dating activity. It isn’t what Disney or TV promised would happen. Its also a wrench because the experience of younger women is clearly better than that of older women, I’d imagine it might be quite hard to face up to things having changed and wondering why all of a sudden men got so lazy and ill mannered (‘where have all the good men gone?’). So even if you’re getting dozens of replies, there is something painful about the whole experience anyway which is why, IMHO, we have these endless debates about how women have it just as bad online as men even if they are showered with attention. Its like getting a good performance appraisal in a job you never wanted.
So what is going on is a kind of internal poker game where the stakes are ego and the currency is some sort of pain. I date online but I have really high standards is a way of rationalising the whole thing and protecting the ego. The problem is that the worse it gets, the more painful it gets, so the higher the standards get which can sometimes get to the point of being quite comical to the onlooker (definitely one of those ‘you’re always the last person to know’ things). You have to understand at this point the dating profile has long since ceased to be written for a guy to actually read, its only for the person writing it to look at. It doesn’t annoy me, I just feel a bit sorry for someone in such a bind really. The only way people move on from something like this is that either they are capable of a bit of introspective inventory-taking or more usually, the pain of moving forward is outweighed by the pain of standing still.
People will go to endless lengths to avoid any sort of pain like this, its what ‘cognitive dissonance’ (a constantly misused term) is actually about. In Leon Festinger’s book that coined the term, the UFO cultists weren’t beamed up on the appointed day. Could they face up to having wasted their time and being fools? No. They made up a story that their actions had actually saved the world, they were right all along and this was a sign to actually stick even more closely to being UFO cultists. I’d have thought the parallels here are fairly obvious.
On the issue of standards/settling, I think the best standards to have are about yourself and what this person does in relation to you, rather than some objective, standalone standard. For example, I’d say it’s more important to find someone who (assuming you want it) is able to intellectually challenge you and broaden your horizons than it is to find someone with an Ivy League degree. Likewise, it’d be important to find someone where, with combined incomes, you’d be financially stable and capable of living the kind of life you want to enjoy, rather than them having an X-figure salary just to have one. Like, if the two of you with 5-figure salaries would be able to live comfortable, then why are you trying to find someone in the low-to-mid 6-figures? What’s the point? Likewise, sharing particular tastes in this or that is ultimately meaningless, if the person’s communication style is totally incompatible with yours. I mean, sure, you can talk about how you both love XYZ indie rock band, but if you’re incredibly animated and the other person is incredibly subdued or taciturn, would it be a good fit?
So, I’d say the standards to compromise on are the external hard-line standards (up to a point, of course), and that those standards should be compromised on in pursuit of the more important ones about how you feel with that person.
After 35 every single woman must “settle” in order to end up in a serious relationship If a good looking woman in her mid to late 30s wants to find a smart, funny man, who has a job, and that she personally is attracted to, to have a serious relationship with, why shouldn’t she wait for ridiculous standards like he must make six figures, look like George Clooney, be as funny as Conan O’Brien, blah blah blah.
Someone says “settle” and most woman think it that I am suggesting is to find some schmuck and get him to marry you. When women automatically assume that that’s what “settle” means, that is usually an indicator of the fact that those women try (and chronically fail) to date out of their league. Most woman don’t seem to be getting it. It’s not that there is a limited supply of men who want to date you. It’s that there is a limited supply of men who want to commit to you or anybody else. And if they do want to commit, they either are probably going to do it with someone under 35 so they won’t be rushed into settling down and having kids OR they are guys that you have blown off and passed over as you wait for your funny, attractive, educated, employed, charming Mr. Right. Many women have been listening to tales and fables from their friends about that one woman in their office or second cousin or sorority sister from college who found Mr. Right. They are exceptions to the rule. Not the rule.
If there are so many options for you ladies, then where are all the stories of courting and wooing? about some dude who beds you and disappears Why is online dating a billion dollar industry? Why is there a new dating blog popping up every ten god damn seconds deconstructing all the bad dates that women have? The days of marriage and commitment being a given or a must have are over. So many woman been saying they didn’t need a man and had plenty of time to find someone that they completely missed the part when men started thinking the exact same way. Men have learned how to use the overage of single woman in the market place to their advantage. Now they’re winning. Now they’re being taken care of by desperate women who would rather support some leech than be alone. Or they’re dating multiple women who, like them, don’t want commitment. Or they’re juggling multiple women who do want commitment and then dumping them and then starting over. There’s a constant supply of single women for them! And by “them” I mean the men that most women want. The ones with options and charm and looks and money and stability.
Since no one gets EVERYTHING they want in a partner, then by definition, EVERYONE settles. LIke everything else in life, relationships are about tradeoffs. What can I live with in order to get the things I can’t live without.
It’s amazing to me that not only is this a foreign concept for otherwise “mature” adults, but that something that is essentially a truism should spark such incredible rage and emotion in some people. Do you also become outraged that the sky is blue and that the sun sets?
When anyone interprets settle as just taking the first guy that comes along, it indicates her rigidity and failure to understand the give and take in any relationship. It indicates her lack of ability to communicate well. We have to listen and go with the flow of the conversation, too.
The cold harsh truth is that we are always settling our entire lives. Each of us is one person on a planet of billions. Even insanely wealthy and powerful people have to settle. They still don’t get things exactly their way.
There is no one on this planet that exactly fit our criteria. And our criteria doesn’t even stay the same. No one should compromise on matters of principle, but matters of taste are an entirely different thing.
most women don’t like the idea of “settling” because they don’t understand that when you are looking for a committed relationship, you are by definition settling. Always. Every time. You are settling by precluding an opportunity with someone who might be better. And there’s the nub. If you haven’t managed to land a committed relationship or marriage by 35, you have been and continue to be holding out for someone who might be better.
Consciously or not, you’ve been critically evaluating every guy you’ve dated or had a short-term relationship with. One guy might have a good job, be smart and funny, but are you attracted enough to him? The next guy might be funny and very attractive, but maybe not as ambitious in his work or have a higher degree. The thing is, no matter who you’re with, you’re looking for faults and comparing every man you’re with to a theoretical “better” man. Which is why the word “settle” upsets you so much.
By always looking for the “better” man, you leave yourself open to being played while looking for ways to reject the men that would be good for a long-term relationship.
Instead of critically evaluating every man against your 462-point checklist, try this challenge: with every guy you are attracted to, focus on his good qualities, and actively look for those good qualities. If you can do this consistently, you will invariably find that you’re even more attracted and realize that you’re not “settling,” you’re accepting a person and building them up so that they become the “better” man. You’ll be happier and more likely to find that genuine committed relationship you seem to be looking for.
The other thing I have been seeing is women trying to do things like men. Trust me ladies, you don’t necessarily want to do that. That’s not what the feminist movement fought for. Equality does not mean doing things the same way. Ex, I have been looking at online profiles. Its amazing the age ranges I see women seeking in men. Does that slightly overweight 45 year old really think she can get an athletic 38 year old man to commit to her? He may do sex, but commitment, hardly likely. It’s just unrealistic. Men in the over 35 age have too many options. And the younger guys are no help. They are generally never going to give you what you really want.
it still comes down to bargaining chips. If you are 45 and desperately want commitment, you will have better chances with the guy over 50 than the guy below 50. I keep seeing profiles of women where the upper end of their desired age range, is their age or no more than two years older than them. There are even some women listing years younger than themselves as their upper end. What people forget is that if they are 42, they will be 45 at some time and they will feel pretty much the same way about themselves. So really, nothing is wrong with the 45 year old guy. Even guys these days are starting to list five years older as their upper end.
The bigger problem with settling though, is that people are really not looking in the mirror. They are often asking for a standard that they can’t give. It’s the 5ft 2in girl asking for a guy over 6 ft.. It’s the 42 year old woman with a kid asking for a man with no kids. It’s the slightly overweight woman that wants a buff guy. It’s the woman with non-negotiables and disclaimers asking for an easy going drama-free guy. It’s the woman going on numerous dates with various guys asking for a one woman man. It’s the woman wanting a guy who will pay her bill, but want no part in paying any man’s bill. And finally, it’s the woman who has few or no potential suitors interested in commitment, demanding that very desirable guy who she knows has endless women throwing themselves at him.
When people self sabotage they are still, as ever, acting in their own interests, the thing to figure out is what interests specifically they might be. I’ve also noticed that as women’s options decrease, the demands get ramped up when they should be reduced. Women have a hard time dating online at all, its an admission of defeat in itself, as is any organised dating activity. It isn’t what Disney or TV promised would happen. Its also a wrench because the experience of younger women is clearly better than that of older women, I’d imagine it might be quite hard to face up to things having changed and wondering why all of a sudden men got so lazy and ill mannered (‘where have all the good men gone?’). So even if you’re getting dozens of replies, there is something painful about the whole experience anyway which is why, IMHO, we have these endless debates about how women have it just as bad online as men even if they are showered with attention. Its like getting a good performance appraisal in a job you never wanted.
So what is going on is a kind of internal poker game where the stakes are ego and the currency is some sort of pain. I date online but I have really high standards is a way of rationalising the whole thing and protecting the ego. The problem is that the worse it gets, the more painful it gets, so the higher the standards get which can sometimes get to the point of being quite comical to the onlooker (definitely one of those ‘you’re always the last person to know’ things). You have to understand at this point the dating profile has long since ceased to be written for a guy to actually read, its only for the person writing it to look at. It doesn’t annoy me, I just feel a bit sorry for someone in such a bind really. The only way people move on from something like this is that either they are capable of a bit of introspective inventory-taking or more usually, the pain of moving forward is outweighed by the pain of standing still.
People will go to endless lengths to avoid any sort of pain like this, its what ‘cognitive dissonance’ (a constantly misused term) is actually about. In Leon Festinger’s book that coined the term, the UFO cultists weren’t beamed up on the appointed day. Could they face up to having wasted their time and being fools? No. They made up a story that their actions had actually saved the world, they were right all along and this was a sign to actually stick even more closely to being UFO cultists. I’d have thought the parallels here are fairly obvious.
On the issue of standards/settling, I think the best standards to have are about yourself and what this person does in relation to you, rather than some objective, standalone standard. For example, I’d say it’s more important to find someone who (assuming you want it) is able to intellectually challenge you and broaden your horizons than it is to find someone with an Ivy League degree. Likewise, it’d be important to find someone where, with combined incomes, you’d be financially stable and capable of living the kind of life you want to enjoy, rather than them having an X-figure salary just to have one. Like, if the two of you with 5-figure salaries would be able to live comfortable, then why are you trying to find someone in the low-to-mid 6-figures? What’s the point? Likewise, sharing particular tastes in this or that is ultimately meaningless, if the person’s communication style is totally incompatible with yours. I mean, sure, you can talk about how you both love XYZ indie rock band, but if you’re incredibly animated and the other person is incredibly subdued or taciturn, would it be a good fit?
So, I’d say the standards to compromise on are the external hard-line standards (up to a point, of course), and that those standards should be compromised on in pursuit of the more important ones about how you feel with that person.
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