Desire; the work of the devil

Desire is the work of the devil. I lay here sure of it. Next to you, I can feel the warmth of your still body through the layers of feathery down barriers that sit draped between us like a forbidden concrete wall. My body is tense and restless. I crave you on every level. My spirit feels denied and my soul is wanting. You stir slightly. Your hard snores pierce the air like little knives, taunting and teasing my body. You are oblivious to my unrest and frustration. Even the sour left-over-wine-drenched breathe that floats over me like a little whispery dark cloud, does little to dispel the desire that twinges between my legs and makes my head hurt.

How is it, such a beautiful, gentle, loving relationship on so many levels can leave me aching and wanting night after night? Your consideration and passion surround me; opening a car door, a sweet passing touch, running a bath, hot water bottles left lovingly under my blankets like warm little secrets. You constantly surprise me with your thoughtfulness. Why is that not enough for me? Why do I always want more? I feel so shallow and childlike having these thoughts. But like your touch this afternoon; reaching under my sweater, searching my skin, finding my breast, it leaves me wanting as it always does.

I long to just reach over slowly to touch you now. Feel you. I need your bare, warm, soft skin against mine. I desperately try to push away fiery visions that refuse to leave my mind. I have constant flashbacks. So real. I can feel your lips on mine, your tongue pressing my lips open, searching, exploring, playing. Your fingers examining every inch of my body. Tentative teeth on my breasts, even as a tormenting memory now, still has the power to make my nipples hard and taunt and pressing, throbbing against my pajamas.
Weeknights too tired. Week mornings too rushed. Weekends too many possible interruptions from the child. Not a priority during the weekdays when we have the time and the privacy, you say. Not a priority for my needs. I feel rejected, forced to hold back. I feel embarrassed. I so gently have tried to tell you how I need these moments with you.

When our bodies unite, I feel whole. I feel open, vulnerable, balanced, self-assured, connected. It brings me closer to you. I let go. My pent up emotions, the unexpressed poisons of my mind are set loose. I detach. I feel free. I find my bounce again. I feel warmed through my entire being, I feel gratification from your moans of pleasure as my mouth explores your body and awakens your senses. I feel good making you feel good.

I can not stand even the whisper of a thought of you feeling guilty coming to bed and going straight to sleep. I can not stand the whisper of a thought of mercy sex. I yearn to satisfy my passions through a look from your gentle eyes, or by just breathing you in and having your essence drift directly into my soul.

For now, I lay here awake, tears catching in my throat as I look over at you. The startling full moon lights our room like a spotlight, pointing out mercilessly my turmoil like a gaudy Broadway B movie. Tauntingly your soft tousled hair beckons my fingers. My heart aches for you as much as my body. I feel so alone. You are so far away in your dreams without me. My head whirls as cobwebs of confusion spin relentlessly. How can such desires of wanting to connect and be with you, physically, emotionally, spiritually, based solely on love, weave into such feelings of negativity and wrongness? I prod myself to get out of bed to read or write or something, relieve this anxiety. My legs disobey my thoughts. If I get up there is no chance of sleep. If I lay here, my body might relent.

A glance at the clock glares 3:30 am in bright, green, teasing numbers. Time can be such an enemy. I know tomorrow will be rough and I beg for sleep to take over. I am tired of everything now. You stir and get up to the washroom, I lay still so you will not feel my sleeplessness. I feel like a martyr. I will drift off soon, I always do.

The days pass like the pages of a calendar, ticking off, with little pink hearts, the days filled gently with lovemaking. Then starting at one again, counting, until the next time. Grumpiness rears its ugly head when too many days pass. A beautiful weekend of sweet loving, connection, sharing lusty secrets, makes it all right in my world. For a time. Then, a total shut down. Disconnection takes over mercilessly as too many disappointments and sleepless nights wear me down again to an all time low. Stunted conversations, coded and incomplete make all worse. You, frustrated, try to figure my mood swings. Taking them as rejection, you get hurt feelings. Words trap in my throat making me distraught and withdrawn. I try desperately to explain how I am feeling. It all gets twisted and torn and chewed up until my confessions tumble out nonsensical and stab at my heart. I sense the spiraling effects of my distance. You reiterate time and time again, you have many responsibilities. You are tired at the end of the day. You have other priorities. Your declarations, although valid and understandable, pierce my soul. Again my head spins. Professions of my love for you and wanting to share all of what that entails get turned around.

“I have told you, just jump me if you are that horny.” You state matter of factly.

I shoot back, “If that is all this is, I would take care of it myself, which I do.”

I want the insinuations to hurt. I find sarcasm seeping back into my body. More and more I find thoughts entering my mind uninvited and unloving. I want to jump up and grab you and shake you.

“Don’t you get it? I am a very sensual, loving, expressive woman. This is so not about sex. It is about love, sharing, connection, intimacy. It is a big part of who I am. Sharing my love with you, in turn makes me feel more loving. Sharing my body warmth with you makes my soul feel warmer. Professing my love through my touch makes my love feel deeper.”

But I don’t.

I feel less sexy. I feel heavy. I am caught in a spiraling endless maze of emotions, thoughts and feelings. As I withhold my passions, my love gets buried. My spirit feels less loving, less lovable. I withdraw more and more. Now at last, I don’t want to make love anymore. This in turn makes me feel worse. Closing myself off from wanting your warm body next to mine closes me off from you in other ways. I feel worn out from holding back such an essential part of me. I am grieving for myself and my spontaneous sexy side. I have been grieving enough this year. I feel sad, tired and beaten.
You have put your stake in the ground. It is not a priority for you, even if it is so important to me. You can no more turn on your hormones to satisfy me any more than I can switch off my most intimate desires to be close to you.

This can’t continue. I want more than what this relationship can bring me. Please try and understand. My expression of love for myself is not againstness towards you. I never meant to hurt you. I only wanted to love you.

One symptom of love that has once again finally turned sour.

I am the one now who is tired. So very tired.