recoil

Last night was my first evening with The Pilot since mid-October. I splurged on new lingerie recently, imagining what he might think of it. Pretty lacy things to wear under dresses and skirts… but I wore a plain thong under my jeans.

I walked into the hotel bar and there he stood, waiting to show me to his table. He turned and walked away before I’d even reached him, so I just followed. We sat there for an hour while he finished up a work assignment on his laptop. He had a free drink card from the hotel, so I ordered champagne. It made me suitably lightheaded, but I don’t think I ever quite relaxed.

Dinner at an Indian restaurant was a spicy affair, which may have contributed to the nausea I woke with several hours later. We talked about family, work, and nothing else, really. When I questioned this, he seemed confused. “Why do you seem to think there’s more to me than this?” he asked. I was stunned. Accustomed to deep thinkers and conversationalists, I found this statement tragic.

In the hotel room, he turned on the TV, took off his shoes, lay back on the bed and fell asleep. What happened to the man who used to pounce on me in the elevator on the way to his room, who would have me half naked within moments of getting in the door? Talking with Ex Man earlier in the day, I’d wondered how things would go after such a long absence. “If he’s not seeing anyone else and it’s been that long since he’s seen you, I’m sure he’ll be all over you,” he’d told me. I wasn’t convinced and had a sneaking suspicion things weren’t going to go well. Turns out I was right.

Maybe it’s me. Maybe I’ve been standoffish, pushing him away without noticing it myself. Maybe he just enjoys the thrill of the hunt, but loses interest once he’s got what he pursued. Maybe he’s just an emotionally unavailable workaholic like my dad.

I climbed onto the bed and unbuttoned his shirt.”Do you want me here tonight?” I asked as he opened his eyes. “Yes, of course I do. I like having you here,” he said dismissively, as if it were a silly question. After a short discussion that went nowhere (except for me asking if he was seeing someone else, to which he answered “no”), I moved away, curled up on the other side of the bed and tried to ignore the TV. A few minutes later I was dozing. I barely woke as he gently removed my clothes and tucked me under the covers. I looked at the clock. I’d been with him for nearly three hours and this was the first time he’d actually touched me. I slept for a while, waking again as he prepared himself for bed. He turned out the lights and slid under the covers, away from me, as he always does.  It’s times like this I miss all the other men in my life who have curled around me, even when sometimes it felt like I was being smothered.

I listened to him falling asleep; his soft, heavy breathing comforting in a way. Sliding out of the bed quietly, I looked around the dark room for my clothes. His were piled on the desk, mine were laid on the overstuffed chair next to the bed. He turned to me as pulled up my jeans, the clink of the belt buckle rousing him. I don’t know what was said next, all I remember is standing fully dressed at the foot of the bed, ready to bolt out the door, and then he was standing naked behind me. I turned to him, wrapped my arms around him, buried my face in his chest and said “I’m sorry,” which was the only thing in my mind to say. “Don’t be sorry,” he said as he held me gingerly and I tried not to cry. Hot tears stung my eyes and I shook as I held back the wail inside of me. There are very, very few people I will allow myself to cry in front of. If he had held me tight, kissed me, rocked me, anything like that, I would have melted right there, but he didn’t.

For the second time that night he disrobed me. The sex was enjoyable and I came repeatedly as I often do, but there was a level of distance that saddened me. At first he was inside me, which felt wonderful. His forehead touched mine for a few strokes, his heart against my chest, and I started to feel myself reaching out, softening, but then he pulled away, leaving us to find other ways to please each other.

We’d spoken on the phone after he returned from his trip over a week ago, a brief, terse conversation in which I told him I was afraid of becoming too attached to him and that I couldn’t let that happen. What I had wanted to say was how fond I was of him, of how I wanted to be with him more often, not less. The words that came out of my mouth exited without thought; verbal renegades tumbling about and causing me to push him further away than he already was. A typical case of “I’ll hurt you before you hurt me”. Of course, this ends up hurting everyone and no one wins, but it seems to be how I handle things and I’d never realized it until last week.

Through it all last night, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wanted to leave, to get it over with, to say goodbye and disappear without a trace. Please don’t hurt me anymore, ever again, was what I thought. But who is hurting whom? The only pain he’s caused me is by being distant. I’ve had worse. Much, much worse.

We both slept. I woke when my phone rang at half past midnight, as my daughter was wondering when I’d be coming home. “Everyone’s asleep here, so don’t worry,” she told me. “Are you okay?” Her voice sounded sleepy and concerned.

“I’m fine,” I said quietly. “I’ve just been sleeping. I’ll come home in a while.” I put the phone back in my bag and got back into bed. I woke an hour later to a roiling in my stomach and a feeling that I might cry again. I debated whether or not to throw up in the bathroom, or just get dressed and leave. The idea of leaving seemed to calm my stomach, so I got dressed. I heard the Pilot wake, but he said nothing, keeping still as I left the room.

I do not want to go on like this.

Walking alone through the lobby of a hotel after midnight used to be a bit of a rush for me. I would pretend I was a high class call girl or an executive’s mistress. Now I just think of myself as a friend who dropped by to say hello and fell asleep, forgetting to go home at a decent hour.

He never once kissed me the whole night, but I can still smell him on my hands this morning, and that makes me smile. It’s something, anyway. Every time I think I will let him go, something inside of me tells me not to, to hold on long enough to understand him, let him understand me. But I don’t know why.

It’s eating me up inside, and I don’t have much inside left.

~ by curiouslyrandom on November 18, 2009.