I was running errands last night, without thought to my route or location. Lost in the morass of my brain, my brain on the drug that I call GV8.

A moment of mental recognition, something twitching in my brain, and I start paying attention to my surroundings. Am I really where I think I am? Is that the Starbucks we went to, the morning after we first met?

It was.

It was the Starbucks where we wound down our meeting, where we separated, me leaving his whim to decide our fate. At that time, I had never chased a man, wasn't going to start.

But he did text me the next morning, while I was driving to work.

We were at that Starbucks so briefly. I had been running late to meet up with some friends. Grabbed a coffee and a banana, my usual breakfast at that time, and we talked while I ate, went outside and stood by our cars, running on twenty minutes of sleep, the woman sitting on the patio outside commenting on how affectionate and natural we were, how long we must have been dating, how comfortable we were.

We had known each other for less than twelve hours.

I texted him as I drove past the Starbucks, telling him where I was. He reminded me of the woman mentioned above, I reminded him of the passionate kisses in the parking lot. He said it was a good beginning to a lifelong friendship.

I know he's trying to rein us in.

I would say he's stronger than I am, more controlled, and he is. But... something else is there. Parts of me don't see his logic. Parts of me do. I can't imagine sacrificing what we are together. I can't imagine losing something so rare. For both of us to have slept with the amount of people we have, for both of us to have this emotionally detached enjoyment of sex, never falling in love, always perfectly controlled, and then for both of us to lose that control, to fall in love, to bring sex past the point of the physical pleasure, trascending past the art we create, mere sexual sketches with others compared to the masterpiece we paint together...

It's a loss. It's an immense loss of beauty, of perfection. Such a rare find.

I wish I could describe it, describe us.

I wish words could encompass how wonderful it felt to finally find a missing piece to my sexuality, that all those years, all that research, experience, experimenting, trials and damages, finally to find someone who would not only appreciate that knowledge, but have his own, who could educate, who could return.

To be with someone I could respect on a sexual level.

There's first time for everything.

I remember being at the swing club, on the set of mattresses in the center of the main room, beds full of couples lining the walls around us, the sounds of sex, of liquid, weight shifting, bodies meeting so rhythmically, and we were in the center by ourselves, the largest audience encircling our play area, watching us, watching our perfection in the low light, with us so engrossed in each other it was only afterwards that I even noticed the growing crowd. I remember laying on my stomach, my feet, still in those black stockings, kicked up behind me, him in my mouth, looking up and seeing the mass of people standing still, having been watching, learning, for however long we had been going at it. Time was non-existent for us. It always was, whenever we entered a bedroom.

We texted back and forth while I ran my errands, my sense of loss continuing to grow. I know if he wasn't so strong, I would be stronger. I know it's disrespectful to him to be weak like I am being.

He finally told me that we need to stop, we need to stop with the such brief physical contact we had been, which was something I asked for a few weeks ago when he kept pecking me on the lips. I told him it was too much.

But he did it anyway.

And it escalated into longer hugs, into neck kisses, shoulder bites, brief hips grinding. Saturday, one of the first things he did when we entered my apartment was roughly push me onto the bed, which is what he used to do to initiate play when we dated. A push, a toss, I'd be mattress-bound and he'd descend on me, intense and demanding, continuing to mold me around him, place me where he wanted me... not for anything useful, but just the love of being in control. Until I was whimpering, until I was bruised from his teeth, off-balance, unsteady.

He said we were fucking with our heads too much.

He said we needed to stop.

He said that he'd see me next week, once SFPlayboy had gone home.

It was a push away. It was a too-close, too-fast, we-are-losing-control, how-the-hell-can-two-people-like-us-lose-control? moment. We are too experienced to have this problem. We have iron-fisted control over ourselves, our sex drives, what we engage in.

So now it's distance. Now it's recognizing that, for some reason, we can't stop. And it's getting worse. Rapidly.

If we don't get this under control, we won't be able to be in each other's presence at all.

Reading over that, how weak it sounds. How typical, how lame. If one of my friends was expressing their lack of control over themselves regarding some aspect of their sex or love life, I'd whap them upside the head and tell them to get it together, that they are in control of themselves and stop making stupid, petty excuses to rationalize their behavior.

I must be an idiot.

If I could only get this hope out of my head that it would somehow work out, I'd be able to stop myself.

But I can't seem to shake that little beast gnawing at my brain.

Part of me thinks that I should take up the multiple offers I have floating my way, fuck him out of my system. Make sex trivial again, lose the poetry of it, lose what we had, what we had that I never expected to have for myself, in the bodies of other men.

If I still feel this way in two weeks, I'm going to do so. I can't sit here mooning for a man I cannot have, and I'm going to keep clinging to that hopeless dream until I convince myself it is well and truly over.