Ex-quisite Agony
Of all the relationships I’ve had (and really, there aren’t that many that I could call actual relationships; maybe like 4, with a few half-hearted datings and friends-with-benefits thrown in), there are two where I would say I was actually in Love. Love is not a word I use lightly; not that I’m necessarily afraid of Love, but I am afraid of jumping into it too easily. Only two guys in my life have ever sufficiently melted my heart to the point where even now, years down the line, if they asked me to go out again, I would probably say yes in a heartbeat, the hell with anyone else. One of them lives far away and rarely comes to visit (though he might be around today, which would be a nice touch). This was the good break-up, where we both, I think, went into it without expecting a real relationship; we blew it because we ended up falling in love. (Damn.)
The other one is much unhappier story. Basically, I was young and naive and indecisive, and not ready for a relationship, which didn’t have any impact on the fact that I totally fell for this guy. Unfortunately, he thought I didn’t like him enough, and so broke up with me right at the point where I was really, really starting to get crazy for him. It was totally out of the blue, I was heartbroken for months, and I think it’s an experience that left a scar on my heart for, if not ever, than at least a while. Additionally, he lives two blocks down the street from me, which has made for the occasional awakward moment; usually, after passing each other in the street, or bumping into each other in the cheese aisle at Whole Foods, he sends me a message online apologizing for not saying anything, and that really, we can still be friends. Then I don’t hear from him for five months until the next time.
However, he contacted me out of the blue a few weeks ago, just to say hi, apparently. And I warily responded, trying to have some semblance of a normal conversation. He only messasged back once, but since then, I’ve been seeing him everywhere. On the street, in the bar, at the coffeeshop…I can’t tell if it’s just ill luck or if he’s stalking me. Last night he came to the bar and was there for a good hour, dancing with his boyfriend (as well as an apparent friend of his, this guy who hit on me once, who’s really socially awkward until he gets blitzed; then he’s really touchy-feely), ignoring me. I know he saw me; I know he knows I saw him. And yet, despite all of his supposed good intentions, he still will not say hi or acknowledge my existence.
I really would like to still be friends with him. About a year ago, we had a good hour and a half conversation that culminated in him asking if I’d cheat on his boyfriend with him. I told him, though I’d love to see/fuck him again, if it were just physical, I don’t know if I could handle it; and all things being equal, I want him to be happy, not cheating with me and messing up his two-year relationship. (When I explained this to an older, more cynical gay friend, he said, “Oh, honey. You have got to lose those morals, fast.”) I used to think about him literally every day, and how he was so perfect for me, and how (I thought) I was so perfect for him. He made me pancakes in bed one time. The fact that I wasn’t brave enough to tell him how I really felt when I first felt it is one of the greatest regrets of my life (and I don’t have many).
But I think, until he sucks it up and says hi to me, as he has had ample opportunity to do, he’s just as much of a chicken as I am. I guess I could too, but his boyfriend might punch me… But I think it’s different for me; it’s more about how it’s taken me a long time to admit how I really feel–and maybe still feel–even to myself. But I guess it’s still too late, and I’m still a coward.
~~ PQ
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