“Sometimes I miss you so much that I am pitiful.”
She didn’t think so. She thought it was the most wonderfully romantic thing for me to feel that way about her… and voice the emotion.
But my need for her makes me feel so weak, so dependent. Pitiful indeed. For she is married to someone else. Another man’s wife. Not my girlfriend at all. I am just a paramour. A man who provides her with the sex that she doesn’t get at home. A sad bastard who cannot get a woman of his own. A short, fat cunt. Lonely and alone.
So, when she told me she was leaving him and setting up on her own, I was nonplussed. Suddenly, the possibility that she could be mine opened up before me. Trying to support her whilst she dealt with all the trials and tribulations of a marriage breakup, comforting her and holding her as she cried over the dissolution of her security for the previous three decades, fretted over her guilt and sadness, worried for her children, I came to realise the depth of my love for her.
When she snuggles up to me in bed, all warm and naked, pressing herself into my flesh. Watching her as she dances around my flat wearing next to nothing. When she organises me to make the most of my business and finances or cleans my kitchen floor whilst I’m out. Waking up to the joy of one of her early morning blowjobs. When she’s screaming like a banshee as she comes over and over again and I’m grinning like an idiot that I can do this. And, later, as she kisses me and strokes me and tells me I’m beautiful.
Sure, I have told her I love her many times before. And I did. I do. She is this wonderful person in my life. A lover… and a friend that I could never imagine not wanting to have contact with.
But it is more than that. There have been so many women, but I’ve never felt this way about one before. And, suddenly, it began to dawn on me.
I don’t just love her, I am in love with her.
She makes me feel glorious.
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