Truly, Madly, Deeply

This may be the gayest post on this blog.

This may be the most self-disclosing post on this blog.

It is certainly the most pathetic post on this blog.

If you abhor gushing girliness, or loathe faggoty fantasies, then perhaps you'd better click here - NATIONAL RIFLE ASSOCIATION.

Even if you do find school girl crushes cloying, you might just enjoy a musical romp through the silent passions of the District Superintendent. This post is meant to be accompanied by a musical score of various songs and videos, so read and listen as directed. It's complicated, but then life is complicated. Oh shut the fuck up and just read it.

Here goes:

I never expected him to be so handsome. There was no picture with the profile and usually that's a deal killer, but I succumbed and I'm reeling from it. If I were going to anthropomorphize my grown-up Christmas wish, Troy would certainly be the incarnation.

He's very tall, and thick, and just furry enough - not fat at all but 6'5" of solid, masculine man. He has liquidy blue eyes that look down on you like nuggets of aquamarine embedded above the granite of his jaw. He has no idea how handsome he is. He has an "awww shucks" self-consciousness when you bring it to his attention: "Whatever...", he mumbles, his blue eyes rolling as if you were trying to sell him the Golden Gate for buck. In his mind, he's just a dude.

In his mind, he's a just dude that likes dick. And it's intoxicating. He's everything that I want in my fantasy husband: powerful, sweet, awkward, small town, voracious.

And. He's. A. Bottom.

Ah, sweet mystery of life, at last I've found you. He asserts that he's bisexual - of course, as a jock and a footballer, there is no other explanation. He is married after all. Yet, when the family is tucked snugly in their beds, he finds me and despite clutching at decency, I relent.

Well we all know that isn't quite accurate. I'm the exemplar of the sure thing. Now I've been a guy who has claimed to be bisexual and have been with scores of other "straight" dudes who just wanna get off or press their noses up against the plate glass windows of gaydom, their bicuriosity driving them to take just one look at the store display. One thing these guys have in common is they don't kiss you, at least not like you want to be kissed. This guy - my coach - has the most passionate kisses I think I've ever experienced.

Cue Song Number One

So let's add this up, shall we?

1. Handsome - check.
2. Tall - check.
3. Crystal blue eyes - check.
4. Kisses like I ain't been kissed - check.
5. Great (no really, I mean great) sex - check.
6. Bottom - check check.
7. Completely unavailable - check check check.

I am making the conscious decision to love him with all my heart. It's absolutely perfect. I get an amazingly hot shag once or twice a week - however many times he needs to do a nocturnal grocery run - AND he can be my fantasy husband. We'd surely be together if things were different, if times were different, if we were different. The potential for melodrama is irresistible.

So this is where the girlie part comes in. In my mind, he's my only source of sustenance. When we're not together I can't breathe - and when he holds me I'm breathless. I'm the other woman, waiting guiltily in the hotel lobby, swathed in a stole of arctic fox, my furtive, waiting eyes obscured by Jackie Collins sunglasses. And I love him - truly, madly, deeply.

Cue Song Number Two

So here we are, entwined in a cheap hotel room - one eye on the LED alarm. And I want him desperately to be mine forever. I want to inhale him, the smell of ball sac and ivory soap and hope, and I want to be the woman who finally understands him. Oh fuck.

The allure here, other than the obvious, is of course his total unavailability. We can't go out to dinner or just spend the weekend Netflixing. I'm left to pine away until he calls. I can't call him, she may answer. I can't demand anything of him - he's not mine. I have to be the noble one, sacrificing everything for slivers of enthrallment - those stolen hours that leave me both sated and empty. This is what gay men LIVE FOR!

If only...but no. He's conflicted. Our trysts, he tells himself, are dalliances - diversions from the orthodontist appointments and Webber grills of his life in the light. His DL encounters are only meaningless releases, he self-affirms. But I KNOW that he loves me and I will wait, knowing that clandestine moments with him are better than a lifetime of loveless regret. I know, after all, that he is drawn out of his mundane days into my passionate nights.

Cue Song Number Three

I imagine myself strong enough to withstand it. To take it one moment past excruciating and then proving to myself that I can endure it. I must think of him, of his family, of his happiness. I must resist all temptation to seduce him with my charm and cooing attention. He has a wife.

What would happen if I encountered her? Maybe I'll go mad with jealousy and pretend to be the Avon lady, ringing her doorbell and greeting her with an Amy Fisher-style spray of lead in the eye. Or maybe I'll see them in the park, all together a perfect family, and slip away crestfallen, knowing that I must leave him to his life of vapid coitus and carpool nagging, drinking beer after beer to drown her out and try to forget me.

My favorite scenario is a frantic knock on the door of our no-tell motel. Panicked, we stage whisper frenetic instructions, all options seeming terrifying. Finally, I open the door, clad only in an outrageously sumptuous bathrobe (Egyptian cotton, his monogram). She stands there, mealy and nondescript. With grown out highlights and reddened eyes, she begs me:

Cue Song Number Four

I hesitate. Should I give him up? Would his sweaty t-shirts, now a heady swath of manliness and foreplay get tedious if I had to pick them up off the floor day after day, no chance of sodomy in sight?

Probably. Okay princess - he's yours.