So this is what it’s like to be in love. Wow. That’s really all I can say, and that still doesn’t even begin to cover it. My mind zings all the time. It’s downright surreal to feel and say all the things I have heard from everyone else all my life. It really is my time now. It seems I begin every other thought in my head with “So this is what it feels like to . . .”
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It’s all new and irresistibly glorious. It’s like I sometimes can’t physically contain the reactions; I sometimes think a heart valve will become overworked and burst like a water main under the onslaught of reactions. My reaction to the phone ringing, to his email address on my computer, to the sound of the doorbell, to the sound of his car engine turning off, to the unexpected touch of his fingers on mine. My heartbeat used to be so regular, but now it’s a pattern of randomness. Constant sudden flares of heat burst out in radiating waves from my heart at every sound of his voice and every touch of his hand.
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I am loved, my heart sings. I am loved. I am loved. This man who makes me shiver with all his many perfections, with the full complement of lovely qualities that so exceeds any other man’s, this man who commands the attention, respect, and interest of everyone in the room, loves me.
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And this man is head over heels in love, too. I am constantly amazed by all the times and ways he seeks my notice. I just can’t seem to wrap my brain around the constancy of it: he is just as fascinated with me as I am by him. He doesn’t lose interest. There never comes a point when we’re together when I feel instinctively that I need to hold back, that I need to edit my single-minded passion and need for him. There is no possibility of rejection. Because he is mine, because he was made for me and only me, because he was the one man to hear and respond to my song, he is then the only man who can draw out of me all I have saved and am capable of. It’s so freeing! I never knew what it was like, to be totally yourself, to loose your passion on someone and know with absolute certainty that they will match you, heat for heat. I don’t worry that I need to be careful or he will discover I am a little too different, or I am not quite what he bargained for. He loves it, can’t get enough, always seems hungry for more of me.
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The world has exploded, busted out of the neat mold I had made of it. Colors and sounds have sidestepped their familiar boundaries and have splashed me every moment I’m awake with a spangled intensity. Whenever he is with me, all is well with the world. When he is not with me, I still carry around the silken armor layered over me by his love. All has changed. All is different, better, brighter, richer, wilder. The only thing that reconciles me to the ending of the moment I’m in is the immediate prospect of the next moment.
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So many times in my lonely life I wondered if any love, any relationship, could be worth all the years, all the missed experiences, all the lost opportunities. Could any love be fantastic enough to compensate for all the lost time? And the answer is yes! Yes, yes, and yes. So many benefits I am gleaning from all those years when the only one to invest in was myself. Because we were both mature adults when we met, we don’t fight like we would have done when we were younger. No festering resentment or simmering anger. We are both so comfortable in our own skin, confident of our choice in each other, and more knowledgeable of how to deal with people and situations, that we can let things go, pick our battles, and address important issues calmly and respectfully. And because we both waited so long for each other, we don’t easily lose sight of that over some petty annoyance. I am glad I waited for so long for him – it makes the having not only sweeter but more harmonious. I always thought healthy relationships necessarily encompassed fights, but it doesn’t have to be fights. It doesn’t have to be that unbalancing or violent. We both make a concentrated, consistent effort to appreciate each other and be considerate of each other, so disagreements, arguments, and annoyances tend to work themselves out calmly.
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And it’s hard to stay mad at him when I look over and see his strong throat I want to kiss, or his relaxed hand that can be so gentle, or that mouth that looks so lonely in our disagreement. I just don’t like being mad at him. I waited so long for him, for him specifically even though I never knew it was him I was waiting for, that I don’t want to waste one unnecessary minute being angry with him. And when he hurts my feelings, I see the whole of him – always so gentle and considerate and loving and solicitous and generous –and I know he doesn’t mean to.
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It just boggles my mind that I have him. I get to keep him. I get to spend eternity with this stunningly delicious person. My toes curl with pleasure at the thought. He’s gotten used to seeing me lost in my thoughts with a forgotten smile on my face. He knows how much I love him. And respect him. He is such an admirable man. Girls do tend to gravitate toward men like their fathers, so it is a really good thing I have such a father, so I could have such a man. My man is such a happy, full combination of qualities that he stands out as a god among men. I about snap my buttons with pride. My chest swells when I observe him. Smart, gentlemanly, kind, assertive, sociable, gracious, funny, witty, clever, irreverent, wise. And he’s mine. He is mine.
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When he touches me, I can’t get over the sensation. A lifetime of quite simply a void of human contact outside my parents makes for a heightened awareness, a sensitivity to all the elements of that sensation of touch that no one else could guess at. The whisper-quiet slide of his big, warm hand over my skin, the heat and movement of his breath on my body when he is close. The feel of his skin beneath my palm. The rougher texture of his stubbled face, the silky yet tougher texture of his skin. I always was aware of how powder-soft my skin was, but I am struck anew by it now that I can feel his skin. And yet his skin is so delicious to me. The taste of it, the especial yield of it under my lips. It’s just so fun to touch him! I never want to stop!
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And I’m so beautiful to him. He can’t keep his hands off me, either. We are constantly touching, whether from passion, familiarity, or comfort. And it makes me shiver with pleasure when he rumbles softly in my ear how soft I am, how irresistible I am, how delicate I am. And I’m surrounded by his strength, his height, his breadth. He’s all around me. I get dizzy by how much of him there is when for the whole of my life it was just me. Small, female me. I only knew my body, my size, my skin. And then he came along and startled me and warmed me with his sheer masculinity. I love it. I don’t believe I’ll ever get used to it. It’ll probably take another thirty years just to expect it. As it is, I always notice our differences and love the freedom I feel to revel in the differences, no intimidation to be found.
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We are so alike, but his differences from me make me feel so safe, so treasured. Oh, he is a wonder. I marvel at him. He thinks he is an ordinary man, but he is never that. He is my every dream, my greatest passion.
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So this is what it feels like . . .
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