“You know why I can’t fuck you. . . I love you too much and I don’t want to hurt you. I love you too much. ”

Everything that is beautiful and horrifying about my relationship with LP is right there.

He loves me too much to be with me, but he thinks about me, my strength and my fragility, the shape of my body, the beautiful face he loves, daily.

He dreams of me, fantasizes about me, but he can’t be with me. And he can’t not be with me.

He woke me inadvertently with a text. Then, he called.


He started the conversation talking about the fact that now that he’s not with his ex he can be with me, he can fulfill these fantasies he has about me — all, if I am honest, a little creepy, as all fantasies are, I suppose.

He fantasizes about coming here and staying clothed as we “defile” his suit and tie. He fantasizes about sitting with me at a table on a patio under a heater with his hand under my dress until I beg him to fuck me. His fantasies are about power and dominance and control, and based largely on memories of things that have happened. Our driving through town, lost, with his hand inside my dress. Our dates.

He wants to possess me, but he’s afraid he will destroy me. He thinks he is unworthy of me.

He tells me he … actively … thinks about me daily, looking at a photo I sent him weeks ago.

He loves me so much that it borders on obsession. But it’s the real me he knows and loves, not an abstraction. He knows my heart, he knows the flash in my eyes. He knows me better than anyone else I’ve ever dated. He knows the contours of me.

On our first real date, he scared me. I left it knowing we would spend our lives creating and destroying each other.

It’s intoxicating to have that connection.

It’s incredibly unhealthy, too, to know that you have that power over another person.

I could destroy him. If I left him, really left, he would be alone.

I would assume he’s dating now, having sex with other women about whom he does not care, filling gaps and time.

I’m certainly dating, flirting, and actively involved with a few people.

But I know that at night, when he’s in bed unable to sleep, he thinks of me. I am his constant. I am real and complete and he loves me for my wonderful parts and my fucked up parts.

He knows everything and he embraces it all.

And yet, this makes me deeply unhappy.

It is all real and not real.

And, we are reaching the time when I will no longer be waiting while he works it out.

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