Hope and I had what will surely be our last sexual date. It was excellent, fun, hot, as every date has been. She sucked my cock, kneeling until her knees ached, her hands and arms bound behind her back with my belt, nude, as I fucked her face.
I took what I wanted from Hope, and gave her what she thought she needed, in the moment.
When she left, though, I thought I discerned a certain dissociative misery. I’m familiar with this misery. Excruciatingly familiar. That misery defined me for over a decade, that empty, lost, hopeless, sad, lonely, inescapable feeling. I thought I had seen that in her eyes once before, but she had reassured me that all was fine, and I allowed myself to believe her reassurance. Because I wanted her to be ok. I wanted to be a part of a joyful, healthy part of her. Not a collaborator in the murder of her soul.
What we were doing together – as much as I enjoyed it – wasn’t good for her, any more than heroin is good for a junkie. And I’m many things. But I’m not a pusher.
So I’m losing Hope. And I’m sad. Even as I’m grateful, and hopeful, that her perception and wisdom and strength will serve her well as she moves forward through, and out of, her misery.