THE
LAY-AWAY LOVER
(C) Susan Mason
She was never
quite comfortable when it came to defining relationships with men.
She’d had
plenty of them,
but what she felt wasn’t easily verbalized. Part of the problem (as
she saw it,)
was that most
of what she’d felt had been unrequited. In situations like that,
it was safer not
to reveal herself
to anyone, much less the object of her desire.
Her longing
for love and affection was intense, but never desperate. Every time
she became
enamored of
someone, it was easy to see why she might have chosen him. Typically,
he was
beautiful--but
not (necessarily) in the conventional sense. From her childhood crushes
to the
choices made
in adolescence and adulthood, these men radiated an innate sweetness and
vulnerability
which was often hidden beneath layers of pain and sadness. They were
always
talented and
intelligent in the arts or sciences...but most had suffered emotional damage
because what
made them beautiful and special also set them apart. It would be
easy to
understand
why she sought men of this ilk, considering that she too was packaged
“differently.”
But the truth is she never consciously sought “the type.” She was
drawn to
them as were
moths to a flame, bees to pollen...a heart to a soul.
In those years
which followed the “Wonder-Bread years,” her devotion was accepted but
rarely
reciprocated.
Even then, it was only in the most platonic way. Still, she gave
herself without
question.
Somehow, the act of being a friend kept her loneliness at bay. Except
late at night.
In the hours
of darkness, her loneliness seemed to swell, consuming her with pain and
a need
to create something
more than just a diversion. While the world around her slept, she
wove
dreams and
fantasies in which she felt whole and strong. She exorcised her pain
by writing in
makeshift diaries,
certain that some day, those who had used (or even worse,) shunned
her
would read
her and instantly recognize themselves (despite the fact that names were
rarely
mentioned.)
Some might try to make amends, but most would be judged by their own
reflections
in the mirror.
She survived,
despite years of emotional malnutrition. She took nourishment where
and
whenever possible,
but never mistook the fulfillment of a physical need for love.
On the eve
of her thirtieth year, it seemed as though the tide was turning in her
favor. She’d
met someone
who promised her what (until now,) she’d only given to others. This
man
wanted to love
her! It was too good to be true. He was too good to be true.
Literally. She fell
in love.
With him, with his promises, with his strength and his weakness...but when
his pain
manifested
itself in cruelties and acts of deceit against her, the love could not
survive.
She escaped
with her life. With the exception of a few bruises, the vessel in
which she resided
was unscathed.
Her heart was not so lucky. No x-ray could show how badly broken
it was, but
looking in
her eyes, one could see the extent of her injuries with chilling clarity.
She began to
heal herself, slowly. She was relieved to find that some men still
found her
desirable,
but what they had to offer was not in sync with her needs. Still,
figuring that it was a
step in the
right direction, she took solace in physical pleasure--something she hadn’t
known
for a long
time. It didn’t take long for her to realize that that could never
be enough. Not
since she had
known a greater connection. Still, from time to time she would seek
the comfort
of another
warm body. The sweet, gentle pressure of a kiss, the magic of a passionate
embrace
and the closeness
and intimacy of lovemaking assured her that she could give and receive
pleasure.
However, it wasn’t long before nights of passion gave way to harsh, cold
mornings.
Last night’s
lover looked like the stranger he really was, and she was plagued with
a cold
emptiness which
quickly erased any memory of satisfaction.
While she held
out for “something with an afterglow,” three years passed. Then,
she met Him.
Their meeting
was fated, he told her. And he said things she hadn’t heard in a
long time. “I’m
not going anywhere
unless you tell me to leave,” he said. He’d made up his mind about
her
almost immediately.
On the night
they met, each told the other about the marriages that had failed them.
His
candor was
captivating, and his deep brown eyes hypnotic. He spoke in complete
sentences,
touching her
constantly. She felt no threat in his touch. He told her what
a good listener she
was, and she
looked at him with amusement, saying “Not really. It’s just that
you haven’t let
me get a word
in edgewise!” He did talk a lot, but she was happy to listen.
in the deepest part
of that warm
summer night, he asked if she would let him see her again...She said “Yes.”
He
walked her
to the door and gently kissed her good night. She marveled at the
feel of his kiss,
sensing that
this man might want something with her, not just from her.
And so, their
relationship began. Their values were seemingly compatible.
It seemed as if
they were searching
for the same things, and his determination that their meeting was fated
gave her hope
that they might find those things in each other. Even with all these
factors in
their favor,
the road seemed inordinately bumpy.
His commitments
precluded the spending of time together, but he promised it wouldn’t
always be like
this. She wondered what it would be
like.
In dulcet tones, his words wafted over the telephone line caressing her
hopes, diffusing
her doubts.
He lauded her patience and faith, promising that she would be rewarded
with “a
good relationship.”
“What defines
a good relationship?” she asked. “The people in it,” he replied.
Vague, yet
profound.
She decided
to wait, as he had asked. If she walked away from him now, she might
forfeit the
best chance
she had of finding real love. For her, “real and enduring love” was
a composite of
friendship,
romance and passion that time could not extinguish.
Months passed
since he’d found her. He called less often now, and their
conversations
lacked the intensity and flirtatious sense of fun which had made her heart
race--but he
said it wasn’t her, that he hadn’t “changed his mind: nor did he feel any
differently
about her than he had. His other obligations were taking an unmerciful
toll (on
him.)
She hoped that waiting for him was (still) the right thing for both of
them, and that him
knowing she
would be there when he “arrived” would help propel him to his journey’s
end.
Meanwhile,
she remained on the outskirts of his life. Before she could even
contemplate what
their “good
relationship: might be like, (well, the truth is that she did speculate
some...about
its mood, texture
and of course, long-term potential.) She worried still that he might
not
come to her.
Most of the
time she felt tentative: wanted, but not quite taken. Their
relationship happened
in installments,
based on his budget. Sometimes his budget allowed only a brief
encounter,
and on rare
occasions, a trip to the movies. Though days could pass without a
phone call and
weeks could
go by without a visit, he seemed secure about her. Yet, when they
went to a
movie, he held
onto her tightly--as though he was afraid of losing her.
Ironically,
that possessive behavior surfaced only when they were together in public.
He didn’t
care for public
displays of affection. That was something he made clear early on.
Yet, his grip
on her was
unmistakable. Sometimes it felt more parental than intimate.
The harder she
tired to understand,
the more confused she felt.
In the privacy
of her apartment, his touch was pleasing, but not affectionate and it seemed
as
if each and
every stroke or caress was a means to an end. Physical contact for
the sake
of...physical
contact didn’t occur to him. Certainly not in the same manner it
did her. She had
a ravenous
appetite for intimacy. He allowed her to minister to him but did
not reciprocate
even though
she had asked him explicitly to do so. She was (in the words of a
Kathy Mattea
song,) “Standing
Knee-Deep in a River and Dying of Thirst.”
Lovemaking
(his term for the sex they had) was also done “on a shoestring.”
He initiated it by
directing his
energies toward giving her pleasure, then taking her for his. It
was physically
satisfying
but emotionally devoid of passion and intimacy. He wouldn’t accept
her kisses, and
he only kissed
her upon his arrival or departure--rarely both.
His distaste
for this crucial expression of tenderness and longing made her doubt her
attractiveness
and desirability. He did not touch her breast or stroke her skin.
As a direct
result, she
was starving, and the rate at which her sexual self-esteem and desire for
him were
deteriorating
seemed to be growing by leaps and bounds.
Whatever he’d
done to keep her was not a testament to his romantic prowess. They
were
bound to one
another by need. At the core, their pain was the same, but that’s
where the
similarities
ended. After all, not everyone who bleeds needs a bandage.
Some require only
time to heal.
He must have
considered himself one of the latter. She needed (at the very least!)
a band-aid.
And she needed
him to be something he was not capable of being. He was not open
to the
concept of
change for himself, but seemingly demanded it whenever and wherever her
philosophy
and expectations exceeded his willingness or ability to give. The
bottom line was
that one day
he would arrive to collect his lay-away lover only to find her no longer
available.
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