Timing.
For such a simple word, it sure can fuck things up, and with serious flair. I had a taste of just how horrible the power of timing is this very summer, when I had a brief but intense affair with a man who was and is not single. And yeah, that was a bitter fucking pill to swallow, knowing how different things could have been had we met 5 months sooner. But goddamn, nothing could have prepared me for what happened to me 3 weekends ago, when I casually hung out with the love of my life.
It probably surprises some, if not most, people to know that I have a love of my life. Because yeah, it's true, I’m a sexual fucking beast, a serial non-monogamist, a wild child; so believe me, I understand the incredulousness towards such a strong statement. However, it's true: when I was 22, I met “Dean”. I haven't written about him before, nor our incredible relationship, though I have verbally summed up the then-affair for close friends. But even in those oral recounts, the details of the intense love and connection that I shared with Dean isn’t usually what people remember about the story. It’s the fact I was simultaneously carrying on a relationship with another man. That all three of us knew each other due to work-related connections. That I had to kind of keep both of them a secret from the other. Oh, and the other man was kind of Dean's boss. And they were both kind of older than I was. say, 19 years for Dean and 30 years for the other man. So it was all sort of, oh, what’s the word, kind of fucking ridiculous.
By the time summer was over (this all started in very early spring of that year), it all came to a head when both of them wanted me to move in with them, marry them, and in Dean’s case, bear him a child.
GUYS, I WAS FUCKING 22.
I was not super lost in life, per se, but I knew I was definitely not ready to embark down that path. I mean; if you’ve read my stories, you know I had a hell of a lot of oats to sow. So, I did what I knew and instinctually felt that I had to do.
It was easy enough to break things off with the Other Man. Yes, I did share a lovely connection with him as well, but I did not love him. Plus, he was painfully older than I was, which was starting to feel more and more awkward when we were out and people would stare. Ultimately, Other Man was really more of a - how do I put this delicately - “novelty experience” for me (read: serious sugar daddy.) By mid-July, the pseudo-romance had run its course, and I ended our relationship.
Dean, on the other hand, was a revelation. I don’t know how important the details are of how we got together. All I know is that my life, nor I, have ever been the same since. Within a week of first talking, as just friends of course, he KNEW me. I had never met a man who was able to get me, dissect me, understand me, to such a capacity and with such astuteness. I was a bit blown away, but I wasn’t scared. In truth, it was probably so easy for him because he and I were astoundingly similar people. Even then, I remember thinking, damn, he and I are the SAME PERSON - he just happens to be an older man. We went on to share an absolutely magical few months together - like I said, he wanted marriage, babies, me for life - but I wasn’t ready. I told him that if I did commit to all those things, I already knew that 10 years down the road I would grow to resent him. I told him that I had too much life I wanted to live on my own, things I wanted to do. I still needed to truly discover and understand who I was as a person. So, I broke things off with him, too.
It was fairly devastating, and within months, I was reaching back out to him.
We met for dinner one late autumn evening, at our restaurant. I confessed though I wasn’t ready for certain things, I missed him too much. I told him I loved him and wanted to try to make it work. He sighed and said that I had been right though, that ending things was the best and smartest decision for both of our long-term happiness. I left the dinner in a daze, not sure how to feel. How could I love someone so much yet not be able to give him what he wanted and needed? But I knew, deep down, that my initial instinct and decision was the right one, as much as it sucked. So, I accepted, eventually and 30 pounds of weight gain later, that this was it.
Within two years, he was married to someone else, and they had had a child together.
I guess I should have felt rebuffed, like maybe it wasn’t me he wanted, but simply marriage and kids in general. But even if that had been true, for years, he continued to remain all too presently in my heart. I dubbed him the “one that got away”, and my thoughts were constantly consumed by him, by the loss of us.
Over time, it got covered up and buried by layers of new loves, new men, new experiences. But I never forgot him. It was impossible to. Even something as small as those rare moments he would reach out to me on Facebook, even if just to wish me a happy birthday, my heart would race and my breath would momentarily halt. I didn’t want to read in between the few and sparse lines in his messages, but I couldn’t help but secretly hope that that meant he missed me, too. That maybe he still loved me and I was for him, what he was for me, all these years. But it never became anything. He would simply not respond to my responses.
Then, about a month ago now, he invited me out to a bar crawl. I had work late, and a baby shower early, with a few hours to kill in between. So I accepted the invitation.
It had been 8 years since we had seen each other, let alone had a full on conversation. Enough time had passed, and enough dicks had been sucked, that all my subconscious / conscious hopes that maybe this meant SOMETHING had been dulled-down, and finally and fully put aside. I had long since accepted his marriage and come to terms that we were not ever going to be together. So I got to the bar he said they were at, fully expecting to, a) meet his wife, and b) 40-50 people to be there.
Ummm, it was him and one other guy, a best friend/neighbor of his who I had known while Dean and I dated.
I was confused, thinking I missed the crawl. When I inquired, Dean replied it was just them the whole time. I responded with, “Do you know what a bar crawl is?” And then he said something that I thought was surely a joke at first, “Don’t you know this was all just an excuse to see you?” I was flabbergasted. And you KNOW I really was fucking flabbergasted, because I NEVER USE THAT WORD. “Wait, what?” I said, half-laughing, half-choking on my breath and trying not pass out. “Yeah,” he said, totally matter-of-fact and unabashedly, “You know you're a part of me, right? You’re a piece of me. Right here, always.” and pointed to his heart. I was, I’m sure, gaping like a fish, with my half-raised glass of Jameson frozen mid-air in my halted hand. He continued, “I was completely enamored with you. You were my whole life for a time, my whole existence. I didn’t know how to get over you. You’re the one that got away.” Well, right then and there, you could've knocked me over with a feather. I know it took, what, 5 seconds, tops, for my ears to hear and register this declaration, but it felt like a decade once the words got in there because my mind and heart were completely overwhelmed. It was like time stopped in our immediate vicinity, yet continued to move at normal speed beyond our two-person globe. Those words, those words that echoed every sentiment that had rang in my own heart and soul for him for a near-decade, the words I had for 8 years longed to hear but didn’t deign to hope for, were just uttered by his lips. Here they were. Here he was, saying he felt the same I felt for him, that he missed me too, that I was for him what he was for me. And it was the strangest thing.
We all have our friends tell us not to read into texts, calls, whatevers, from ex’s. That it’s all fantasy, an ideal, and not the reality. And for years, I told myself not to do that with him, with his abbreviated and blunt Facebook messages and random, rare comments on my statuses. And yet, every hope I had buried and convinced myself would be silly to believe in, was now here, being professed to me. I honestly did not know how to handle it.
But really, it didnt even matter. The next few hours were pure electricity. We may not have seen each other for 8 years, but it was as if it had only been since yesterday. We’re two peas in a pod, Dean and I; always were, always will be. He, Neighbor Guy, and I shortly thereafter left that bar and hit the town. It was a hilarious night, filled with crazy bartenders named Guido grabbing my butt, bar hopping, getting stoned off our asses from some ridiculously good weed in a cab ride, stumbling into some weird West Village haunt for burgers and fries, and me having to dash off in an Uber to get to work on time. It was a lifetime in those 2 hours, and a beautifully sad and wonderful realization of how powerful we are together, and how that was probably the one last, little window of joy we will share.
Afterwards, I was in euphoria; it lasted nearly a week. But, it wasn’t quite euphoria. I couldn’t, and still cannot, place the feeling. It was closure, in the sense that I learned my feelings were requited. It was rejoicing, in reconnecting with a soul mate. It was sadness, in knowing that though I am ready now for what I was not ready for at 22, that is no longer something Dean and I can have. Though we are, were, and will always be incredible together, us as a couple is a future that simply does not exist in reality. It was happiness, in knowing that someone out there loved and continues to love me in that star-crossed, storybook, Frank-Sinatra-and-Ava-Garnder way that I always dreamed of. But I couldn’t think of a simple, single word to capture that rush of emotions into one. I don’t know if one exists.
What I did know, even that night, was that I didn't have to convince myself that Dean and I will never be together. I know he adores, and is devoted to, his wife and child. But I did have to try to understand why this night happened; why we reconnected and why he was brought back into my life, even if for a few absolutely perfect hours.
The only explanation I could come up with (other than me accepting his “bar crawl” invite, duh) was that I must have been in need of some perspective on my love life. I don’t want to say that after seeing Dean that night, that I looked back on the past 8 years of my romantic involvements and realized it was all a fucking joke. But yeah, I kinda looked back on the past 8 years of my romantic involvements and realized it was all a fucking joke. Here’s the thing: when I was 22, Dean made an indelible mark on my life and soul. He was the first man, even the first person, that made me realize what I am looking for in a life partner: someone who accepts and appreciates the entirety of my being, the good and the terrible, no matter what. No one had ever given me that before. He was also the first man that made me even realize that I am looking for things in a man, outside of sex, that there are other things that I need and want in a relationship.
After we ended, I certainly did not forget that, but I think over time, definitely in recent years, I sort of forgot what that real magic feels like, and I was willing to overlook what’s important to me for the merest semblance of that feeling. Being with Dean that night slapped me in the face that way. It sharpened my clouded, blurred vision and put me back on track: THAT is what I am looking for, that connection and chemistry, and not just with anyone, but with the right one, someone who is actually a good person. THAT is how I want to be treated; like a lady, with care, with love and adoration til it’s coming out of both our ears, and not to make concessions or sacrifices. THAT is what I want to share- that banter, that wit, no holds barred and no fear, understanding each other and appreciating every second that we have together, because we both appreciate and accept who the other person is.
This is something I’ve known for some time now, but my night with Dean sort of reaffirmed it: just because they are the love of your life, does not mean you physically spend your lives together. I know that is the unfortunate case for Dean and myself; I’ve tried to cry about it since then, and find that I cannot bring myself to tears. Because that knowledge doesn’t have to be sad, tragic, or something to mourn; experiencing something that incredible and special is something to be treasured and something to fill your heart, not break it. Some people are lucky; they get the timing right and spend their lives in every way with that person. But if you happen to be one of the unlucky bastards who doesn’t, let the experience fill you and build you. It’s a pretty wonderful thing knowing that you and another person will always be a part of each other, in a beautiful and indelible way.
