Escaping The Friend Zone

In my defense… I knew it was a dangerous idea from the moment I heard he was coming to town. He’s been my favorite vice for years, and I’ve known for a long time that this could only end badly.  Just like last time, logic doesn’t slow me down. I gave up worrying about the how’s and why’s of it a long time ago.

What could possibly go wrong?

I could end up even deeper, with a need that can’t be easily satisfied. That’s what.

I made an educated decision to ignore the little nagging voice in the back of my mind,  shaking my head at myself because I know what happens when I ignore her. Too busy fantasizing about him while I shaved, waxed, spray tanned and tried not to bite my nervous red lips, raw.

Some things never change. The first sight of him and his beautiful smile,  the cologne that ties my stomach in knots. Sigh…I’m an adult, not a saint and I silently begged my body to obey the situation and B R E A T H E . . . but.

It’s Him. That same Him. It’s new because it’s been a while… but it’s not new. It’s a familiar sort of perfect that gives me the same butterflies I had at 14.

I’ve learned a lot about perfect in the past five years. Besides the fact that it doesn’t exist, I’ve learned that I had unreal expectations for some of the men I’ve named.  Being labeled as perfect sounds horrible to me. What an overwhelming burden to maintain. However… he just is. Sweetly sexy in a way so primal that I feel like I need to go to Mass this morning to apologize for the sexual acrobatics my subconscious mind has him performing.

He makes me want to listen to slutty hip hop, inspires the most intense workouts and loathe my empty bed in ways I never imagined possible.

 

People tend to live up to their labels and I’ve been known to saddle a man with his worst vice. He’s an exception to every rule I have, which is absolutely fantastic and completely refreshing. Never mind the torturous sleepless nights that have resulted in my ignoring what I already knew would be a horrible hangover.

Just as quickly as he was here, he’s gone again and it’s a new sort of suffering I haven’t even considered for the past 5 years. Weeding isn’t helping, I’m too distracted to knit and I wake up to dreams about him in my sheets. I resent my kitchen utensils because they remind me of him, so the poor whisk has been sent to the pantry until I can look at it without wanting to hop on a plane. I have to just grin and bear it with the spatula.

I am at my breaking point, when I hear a text from him come in… and I’m freshly addicted and grinning like the latest Publisher’s Clearinghouse winner.

Platonic chats about cheese never felt so scintillating because I want just one thing.