A Bit of Therapy

“This is therapeutic,” he said after pulling away from a long hard kiss. “Great. You think I’m therapy,” I said calmly but not without a hint of exasperation and dejection. But in my head, I was screaming, “I’m therapy?! I’m fucking therapy?!” This is hardly the thing I want to be described as, hardly the thing I would like to describe this thing we’re doing. Couldn’t he have just gone to the spa? Or a shrink?

I don’t get him. At all. I’ve been trying to figure him out, maybe as much as he’s been trying to figure me out. But at least, I’ve proven him (and myself) I’m actually strong enough and willing enough to actually take a chance on him. He, on the other hand, is being a pussy about the whole thing. And this is what actually drives me mad. He blows hot and cold, always shifting, never staying still. And he wonders why I’m defensive around him.

I know I should blow him off already, just as I vowed to do for the last couple of times. But I am an addict, and he is my drug. He’s bad for me but I can’t seem to get enough of him. Heck, I can’t seem to stay away. Every time I see him, I try to compose myself and tell myself that this time I won’t get affected by him, that this time, I can bravely face him and feel nothing. But every time, all my resolve melts away, and I literally feel weak in the knees. He fucking makes me swoon. How Victorian is that?

The only consolation I get though is that he, too, can’t stay away. No matter how much I push him away he finds a way to come back to me, making a real effort to connect, to reach out. “You’re irresistible,” he said as he stroked me that night. But I wonder if there’s really anything between us besides heat, if he feels anything real besides what he gives me.

S. tells me I should just take things as it is, to simply enjoy the moments I’m with him. But I can’t be content with that. I need to know. I need to understand the things he do, and more importantly the things he doesn’t do. For if everything we do is an act of self-definition, how do I then define him? How do I define myself against him?

“I’ll see you,” he says as he got off the car. “Yes, in August,” I replied back. He held the door open, silent. I wanted to be off-handed about it. I wanted it to hurt him. “I’ll see you when I get back…in a few weeks,” he trails off. I smiled. It was a small victory, to know he still wanted to see me. I won, this round at least. I just wonder, in this game we’re playing, does anyone really ever win?