What a wicked game to play...

"In other words, a man can have any woman, except the one he loves. And a woman can fall in love with many men, but not with the one who loves her."

Soundtrack: Comptine d'un Autre Ete

He never expected to love me.

When we met, at the club, he was open to possibilities, the way a highly competent man is when he is out on the town: not hunting, but aware of the women around him, able to act on opportunities as they arise.

Our meeting was accidental, a slight misunderstanding brought on by a moment of intersecting body language when I stepped in his general direction.

When the club closed for the evening, routine-weary employees shoving the patrons into the street, we stood under a street lamp. My car door was open, I was leaning against the frame, half ready to go, half waiting to be convinced to take him home with me.

He did convince me. With his attitude, his boundless confidence, the smile and those yellow-green starburst eyes.

I took him home.

We walked up the stairs at 3AM, I unlocked the door, and pushed inside.

The computer was running, documents still open with my notes on the large flat panel screen, stacks of papers on the ottoman I had been perched on a few hours prior, debating whether or not I should interrupt my progress to spend the evening with a few friends.

I sat on the edge of the bed, across from the mirrored closet doors, took off my shoes, the knee-high socks, and we began a night where he refused to let me sleep, continued to make my body scream for him until I had twenty minutes to shower and be out the door for previously made plans.

He bought me coffee, kissed me, and we parted.

It wasn't supposed to be more than that.

It wasn't supposed to develop any further.

Fast-forward through the months, through the restaurants, the explorations, the adventures, the clubs, the laughter, the days spent in bed, the hours spent talking. His presence slowly began to mold me into a woman who could do more, be more, than I was before.

I loved him because he had control. He had control of himself, he had control of the world around him. If things were not going the way he wanted them to go, he'd find a way to fix it- whether it was legal or not. Whether it was moral or not.

He weakened me. He would comment on how he was getting in my head, push me outside of my comfort zone, to points of complete rawness as I attempted to cope with a lack of emotional shielding, coming to him afterward, shaking like a lamb, seeking comfort in his presence, even though he was the one who began the process in the first place.

I idolized him.

He ended things, and came back. Repeat. Repeat.

He told me he wasn't relationship material, but he continued to try.

And then he loved me.

He lost focus on projects, postponed them, ran himself ragged, for me.

He turned down parties, booty calls, old lovers, and one night stands, for me.

Whenever we split, the slightest bit of me into his life would weaken his resolve, and he'd be back again, calling me, telling me we should try again. Never quite admitting that he made a mistake.

My alpha male.
My millionaire.
My lover of hundreds of women.
My forty-time over convict.
My successful life-sentence appealer.

I made him crumble. I made him weak.

Rather, his love for me made him weak. Made him human.

His lack of control made me upset and so disappointed. He was a god to me, and suddenly... he's human and much too fallible. Capable of mistakes, capable of faltering. His lack of control over his emotions meant he could no longer maintain his resolve when it came to staying away from me.

How can I respect him? How can I trust him with my emotions, trust him with my safety, the surrendering of my self?

How can I look up to him?

The more I consider this, the more I wonder if anything will be able to repair it. The thought of permanently losing him sends sickness to take root deep into my stomach, but the thought of him coming back to me, telling me he's willing to finally compromise and make it work... makes it seem like he's unable to be decisive, or at least to adhere to the decisions he makes.

And makes me uncomfortable to think of linking my life to his, as we spoke of some months ago.

Perceived masculinity is a tricky thing. It reads like a curse, in a way: forever bound to be locked up inside oneself. Isolated from equal emotional companionship, from true disclosure, the constant monitoring, never relaxing one's gaze from the goals at hand, always maintaining. Expectations pressing on you, knowing that to falter is to lose, and that losing reflects upon you in such a way that undermines identity through desirability.

Do I like this knowledge, that my desire, my love, is not dictated through some cosmic connection, underlying spiritual forces that drew us together?

No, not really.

My love, my emotions, are creations of tiny cues, definitions of masculinity and desired traits that have been dripped into me like an IV by a combination of socialization and biology. My interest is severed when the man drops his cues, drawn away when another is better able to signal his dominance.

I am a moth, flitting drunkenly, looking for the brightest flame.