It’s only been a week since I met this guy, and already, yes already, I can think of and see absolutely nothing but him. All day I think of him. I dream of him at night. I think in clichés. He’s the first person I talk to in the morning, the last before going to bed. If we don’t talk, I look at his pictures and smile myself to sleep. I say his name all day, out loud, trying to get that slight trill in my “r.” In the past, I’ve used pseudonyms in my blog for the guys that I’ve been interested in, perhaps a subconscious acknowledgment of participating in a kind of fiction. But this man’s name is Stavros, and he’s the realest thing I’ve ever known.
Except that he lives in Greece, and I actually haven’t met him in person yet.
I can see you all rolling your eyes. “Again??” Someone even asked me if perhaps I’m the one afraid of intimacy, and this is why I’m attracting these guys who live in other time zones and on different continents. Ma che dice! I am like an intimacy sponge! I’m so open to and craving intimacy that I’ll look for it everywhere, as the feeling that I want to experience isn’t tied so much to specific things like mutual interests or a common language or convenient transportation, but to a kind of emotional exchange that I’ve experienced a few times and just can’t get into a relationship without. It’s what you see between Bogie and Bacall in To Have and Have Not.
It’s there with Stavros. Just his voice pierces something deep in me, some emotional G-spot. I have nothing to lose in being my effusive self with him, he actually welcomes it, and returns it as fervently. There seems to be only one gear to shift into, and, damn the potential torpedoes to come, that’s full-steam-ahead.