And so, my dream man isn’t quite the man of my dreams, after all. He still looks like him, though. He’s someone who dreams—of someone like me, of a life like mine. His history, his relation to his sexuality, his relationships, his openness… we share little common experience. He assures me that we want the same things, so I proceed, cautiously, but hopefully, positively, happily, into a future with him. I love him, I want this to work. I’m so happy that he’s opened up as much as he has, and I’m girding my loins for whatever else comes tumbling my way. I’ve grown calm, let go of specific expectations, and am open to exploring what’s possible with this man who has stepped out of the romantic fog and into the light of day. I still love what I see, the clarity just giving focus to different possible paths, with different obstacles. I find that I’m still squinting, though, this lucidity a bit jarring. I felt more at ease in my romantic haze.
It’s been a challenge to get comfortable, to transition from the smooth ride of a few months ago, and over and past the bumps of the past few weeks. I’m so settled, so established, love the only thing missing from an otherwise very full life. He doesn’t have a home, a job, friends. He’s moving to a new country, leaving friends and family behind, so much to establish—a complete identity in fact. I have to be patient. He needs me to be supportive, needs me to be patient. I want him to need me, to depend on me. I had envisioned being with someone my age (he’s 16 years my junior), someone with a similar sense of establishment and comfort. I so don’t want to be one of those old needy guys—“What, you have to work late again?”—and this situation seems to present a scenario in which my needs may be subsumed by his, if only in volume.
I can hear my Chorus of Therapists, “Coco, only an independent YOU will be able to join with an independent HIM to make a healthy union. Focus on yourself, find happiness within.” Of course I scoff at those SINGLE bald dudes looking at me over their little horn-rim glasses and yell back, “Haven’t you people been listening to me?? I want to be codependent, to be lost in the melding of two beautiful minds and sweaty bodies! Stop with the independent crap already, you guys are killing me! I can’t be alone, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. I’m dying alone, dying! Why can’t you see that? Could you talk to him for a change? Why aren’t you all bugging him? Just fucking tell him to smother me with love, kisses, his touch, constant affection, copious orgasms, 100 emails a day, an incessant and nonstop presence… It’s so easy to make me happy! I know what I want, to be SMOTHERED by love, oozing into and out of every orifice. I can’t do this, I can’t pleasure myself—he has to, just tell him! And throw in what a great lover I am, how sensitive and caring and talented and hung! Do something for your $175/hour!!!”
Que sera sera.