Seven: On the occasion of my wedding anniversary

Seven years ago last night…

I’m going to be honest. I don’t remember much. Bits and pieces, but I don’t remember my emotional state. I don’t recall having the jitters or what I talked about late into the night (or with whom). I don’t remember it being difficult for me to fall asleep.

But I remember just about every moment of the next day. All of the amazing ones and all of the stressful ones, too.

People still tell me it was the best wedding they’ve ever been to.

It’s so far away now. Seven years – If we’d broken a mirror that day the curse would be ending today.

But all we did was break a glass. One of the three concessions we gave my parents – the glass, the chuppah, and the blessing over wine.

There’s a part of me that will always love him. When people call him my “ex” I have to correct them. He didn’t walk away. We didn’t divorce.

I still refer to him as “my husband,” because that’s what he was. It amuses me. I once told a friend that there’s a part of me that will always be polyamorous because my love for him continues to exist, though he does not.

Some time ago I wrote something on an alt account. I can’t remember if I ever shared it here or not. I went back and looked at it tonight, and I think that…in honor of my seventh wedding anniversary tomorrow, and the 18 months since I’ve found love again, I’ll share it here now.



Passing the Torch

There was a version of him who worshipped the light in my eyes. Before the darkness overtook his soul, and maybe even still then. He’d stopped going to church, but he still prayed in his own way.

Now, he is a memory, an idea, a series of stories that have been carefully curated into an album one pulls out to show company.

And here is the time that….

And then there was the time that….

It’s hard, sometimes to pinpoint exact moments when I felt his love, but not at all to remember how it felt to be consumed by his love. Not the kind of love that is fleeting and temporary. The kind that is unhinged, unhampered, and undeniable.

There was love after him but it was careful and methodical and questioning. It was too afraid to fly, and instead it fell.

You are not afraid. You, with your quiet confidence. With your understated presence. You fill the room by not trying. You are just you. Without apology. Without need for apology.

You look upon me as though I were fine art. To be admired, and cherished, and even celebrated; but not worshipped. For you, I am not descended from the heavens but grown from the earth. There is the magic of fairy tales and the miracle of science.

And I do so love to do science with you.

I wonder, had this been a relay and not a reboot, if he’d been around to meet you, how he would have felt about this quirky situation of ours?

He worshipped the light in my eyes. I think, if he could, he’d take one look at me now that you’re in my life and drop to his knees before you with gratitude for bringing it back.

Irreplaceable

I had a dream last night. It involved time travel. There was one of him and he was going through time collecting all of me at different ages and in different timelines. It was like a poly dream where he was still my only one, but he had several of me and he loved them all dearly.

I told him about it as I woke up. “Luck you,” he said. And I replied, “Nah, lucky YOU.”

I mean, he had a half-dozen me’s to keep him busy. But each one of me still had to spend time without him, and that was sad.

I thought back to the dream. There was an old version of me with grey hair who wore frumpy sweaters. He loved her, too.

“Whenever I’m with you…. no, wait. Even when I’m not with you,” I corrected myself, “Since we’ve been together, I sometimes forget that….,” I paused, trying to figure out how to say it right. “I forget that I’m not perfect. Or that I’m not everyone’s ideal. I forget that I’m not thin.”

He smiled. He understood what I was trying to say. Since I’ve been with him, I forget that I’m fat. I forget that the form-fitting dresses aren’t really “sexy” to the rest of the world. I forget to feel insecure about myself. “I see me the way you see me,” I said.

“Well,” he answered, “I am unique in the world. Then again, there could be dozens of others who think like I do that could replace me.”

“No,” I said. “Nobody could ever replace you in my life. And I don’t think anybody could ever replace me in yours, either.”

He shook his head, agreeing with me. “No, that would be impossible,” he said pulling me close.

Poly or not, he loves me for who I am. At any age. What we have is unique in the world, and nobody could ever replace us in each other’s lives. That’s enough for my monogamous heart to feel secure in my relationship.

I think that’s what that dream was telling me, but I only need to catch him staring at me with his big loving eyes to know it when I’m awake, too.

His

Beads of sweat still glistened, trapped in the soft hairs of his chest and belly. She gently wiped them away with the tip of a finger, one by one, reminiscent of the chasing and popping of bubbles floating through the air during a childhood summer.

Her ear to his chest, she could feel more than hear the thump of his heart beating against her cheek. She could taste him still on her lips, but just to be sure, she leaned them forward and planted a gentle kiss on his smooth, luminescent skin.

“I am yours,” she whispered. He nodded in agreement.

“Whatever that means….” she trailed off absent-mindedly. “I just know it means something.”

He tilted his head. “Mmmm?” he questioned. “I could hear the first part, but you’re whispering too quietly for me to have heard the rest.”

“I said I’m yours,” she repeated.

“Yes, you are mine.”

“And I don’t know what it means, but I know it means something.”

He smiled. “I think it means you’re my dirty, red-headed slut,” he said, reminding her of the force with which he’d just taken his filthy slut’s holes in succession. “I don’t know if that’s any great revelation though. You’ve been a dirty slut for a long time.”

“Sort of,” she laughed. Years of abstinence. Years of waiting for the right fit to come along. Desire and opportunity had never presented themselves together so perfectly until he came into her life. What made her the slut? The desire? The action? The sheer jubilation with which accepted orgasm after orgasm when he fucked her?

The truth hinged on the word “yours,” as it so often did.

“Before I was yours, I was Schrodinger’s slut,” she surmised.

His broad smile met with the twinkle of her deep blue eyes.

There was no doubt anymore. Whatever had been in that box all those years belonged to him now.

A love letter to my friends

The other day, I read the words “I deserve to be surrounded by people who appreciate me…” and saw a writing in which someone wrote a letter to her partner’s partners. Two different writings that I’ve since lost track of.

So, with the full disclosure of where this particular writing is coming from, understand that it’s from reading a sentence that began with “I deserve” and reading another post addressing the author’s metamours.

My metamours kick ass.

I don’t know that I could do this type of relationship if they didn’t. For context: I’m not poly, but my partner (and his partners) are.

We’re each very different people. That makes sense, though, doesn’t it? I mean, why would someone get a three-scoop sundae with all three scoops being the same flavor?

But it’s all ice cream in the end, so despite our differences, there are some core similarities in our value systems, our integrity, our honesty, and our kindness and support of one another.

I’ve had people from outside the scene ask me, “Is it like that show “sister wives?”

I gotta answer, “I don’t know, I’ve never watched it.”

(note: upon reading this, H and I agreed not to ever call each other “sister wives.”)

Here’s what I do know. I respect and care deeply for these two friends of mine. These are people who are on my list of people I step up for. There’s a lot of that here on the Fetscape, isn’t there? Lots of “packs” and “houses” and “siblings” and all the profiles state that the people in their headers are the people you’re protective over.

My metamours are quite capable of protecting themselves. In fact, I think they’d probably feel more protective over me if shit ever hit the fan. Of all of us, I’m the least handy with a blade.

But, where I am strong, I share my strength with them. My time, my home, my energy, my heart, and my words will protect them whenever they are needed or requested.

Here’s what I’d write, in my letter to my metamours. I’d probably title it “A letter to my friends,” because that’s what they are, first and foremost.


Dear E & H,

We all love the same man. He’s a lucky man. He’s a good man. I think he deserves our love, don’t you?

When I think about that word ‘deserve’ – it takes me through a series of memories on the journey that brought me to where I am today. My life is not your life. My hardships look different than your hardships and a side by side comparison would have my shit lookin’ easy, for sure. I’m grateful for all the good I had and even more grateful to have survived the bad.

When I think about the word “deserve,” and I look into his eyes – I can honestly say that I feel like I deserve this happiness. Yep. Feelin’ entitled over here. I’m a good person swimming in a positive karmic balance sheet.

When I think about the word “deserve,” and I think about each of you – I feel exactly the same way. I’ve done this thing before, the poly thing with metamours. It wasn’t like this with them. They made me feel threatened. You make me feel safe.

But did you know that when I first started down this road, you both scared the crap out of me? Because I didn’t know. All I had was my past experiences to go on, and those had soured the taste of this lifestyle for me. I had choruses in my head of “these people are not the same people. Their motivations are not the same motivations” on repeat until they pushed those fears away.

I admire each of you for all the ways you are different from me, and feel connected to each of you in all the ways we are alike.

I can look into his eyes and tell him how happy he makes me, but I don’t know that I’ve ever acknowledged (at least to you directly) that you are the reasons I’m happy now. It’s because of you that he’s even in my life. And not just because you’re comfortable with his poly or because you literally introduced us – but also because, as friends and metamours go – y’all are top notch. You’re good people. A testament to his taste, to be sure – but a reason why he feels safe to me. It’s because you feel safe to me.

I’m sure I haven’t always felt 100% safe to either of you. I mean, I know for sure there have been moments when my increasing presence in his life might have been unsettling for either or both of you. I suppose that’s to be expected. I’d feel exactly the same way if the roles had been reversed.

You feel safe to me now. I feel safe in saying something to you now that I wouldn’t have thought possible.

I love you.

And thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I’m about as happy as I’ve ever been. I think we all deserve to feel that.

Your friend,

phi


(posted with permission from the metamours themselves)

From the secret archives: Passing the Torch

I have a “secret” profile on Fetlife where I post some of my more sensitive blogs.  This is a love letter I wrote several months ago.


There was a version of him who worshiped the light in my eyes. Before the darkness overtook his soul, and maybe even still then. He’d stopped going to church, but he still prayed in his own way.

Now, he is a memory, an idea, a series of stories that have been carefully curated into an album one pulls out to show company.

And here is the time that….

And then there was the time that….

It’s hard, sometimes to pinpoint exact moments when I felt his love, but not at all to remember how it felt to be consumed by his love. Not the kind of love that is fleeting and temporary. The kind that is unhinged, unhampered, and undeniable.

There was a love after him but it was careful and methodical and questioning. It was too afraid and it fell.

You are not afraid. You, with your quiet confidence. With your understated presence. You fill the room by not trying. There is no search for glory, there is no “game” to win, there is no disembodied force to fight.

You are just you. Without apology. Without need for apology.

You look upon me as though I were fine art. To be admired, and cherished, and even celebrated; but not worshiped. For you, I am not descended from the heavens but grown from the earth. There is the magic of fairy tales and the miracle of science.

And I do so love to do science with you.

I wonder, had this been a relay and not a reboot, if he’d been around to meet you, how he would have felt about this quirky situation of ours?

He worshiped the light in my eyes. I think, if he could, he’d take one look at me now that you’re in my life and drop to his knees before you with gratitude for bringing it back.