Retard-love

Valentines’ Day was sweeter this year than last. Orpheus wasn’t disappointed with dinner, and we did have a nice time… And despite the fact that he’s rather sick right now, I wasn’t disappointed when we ended up not having sex. God knows I love making the two-backed beast rather a lot, and I’ve definitely thrown tantrums if I didn’t get enough of “it” in the past. Part of that is my history with the ex, LaGrippe (so called due to her stormy temperament, ability to make one pay for attempting to live normally, and how tired she made me feel all the time), who more or less stopped sleeping with me as soon as we were married. I can’t stomach a lack of physical intimacy, and associate such a state with a general lack of ardor. Fortunately, neither can O stomach physical isolation. Even though he’s been sick, we’ve been sleeping together and snuggling quite a bit. It seems to help him sleep, even if the extra heat generated by his brick-oven-like feverish form is driving me slowly back toward sleep deprivation. And it helps me feel like I’m helping, getting him better, while allaying my natural fears because he can’t perform up to standard (nor, honestly, do I want his snot slowly dribbling down onto me while we fuck half-heartedly).

I remember, once, a friend of mine at Summer Camp used his rather pathetic tarot skills to predict that I’d have an average love. At the time, in the blush of youth, nothing sounded more horrifying to me than such a thing. How could something so banal make me happy? My marriage and subsequent divorce taught me that passionate love alone couldn’t drive a relationship. Rather, it tends to fray the bonds between individuals quite easily with the slightest stress. And the slow stops and starts and halts and gos with Orpheus seem to be teaching me that abiding friendship and love can grow out of something weird, sometimes frustrating, and even a little shy like the connection we have shared this past year. Even passion, that delicate, toothsome, flickering nastiness in the night, can sprout… And how! Furthermore, the more I love, the more things I realize I can love at once. It’s hackneyed-sounding, but it’s just the way things have turned out for me. I’m content. I hope that O. and I last, but we’ll take it slowly, and both learn to be patient with one another in fits and starts. It’s the most beautifully frustrating process I’ve been involved in, ever.