She was without her Spring; seemingly born from childhood to only Winter Cold. I was drawn to her for that reason, it seemed.
I'd hoped for a manufactured Autumn in her from my own intense desire of it, and, that could, by mere exposure, melt her glacial-ness;
she would then be unable to resist the Fire I had in-born for her;
that mere proximity would set her breasts afire--brighten her glassy eyes, make her exhale-abandoning her stony regard; over-come the challenge she took for anyone to reach her inside ice-berg which floated upon on what must have been the Arctic Seas her Soul sailed.
I drew near, confused as to if I were prey or the preyed upon, as she watched me advance my hand slightly, I feigning to touch her's by mistake; I, ready to embrace her or retreat, pretending it was all an accident- yet hoping, even if there was retreat, that a spark would ignite breaching the contour between the hand offered and the frozen finger-tip, if only in repose.
These moments, I think--a hand's touch, given or received rejected or accepted--can reel back the curtain on a promise of more or reveal a door to slam and nothing gained.
I moved my finger close again, looking for a sign to see if Affection's Beast would purr or pounce; but it did neither, and from my sense of her, she, too, had that nervousness first encounter's make, we both I thought, lost in the entreaties of the yawl between that offered or given, smile or scowl, push away or grateful reach, or better yet; reciprocity.
We both were extended at the finger-tip; I trying at each step to sense if her cold ship had any willingness to sail to warmer climes, or lay frozen avoiding my touch. Softly bold, I lay my hand atop hers measuring pitchful signs of a ship looking to up-anchor ready to cast moorings for the comfort of the open Arctic sea, or, ready to move into my slip.
But overlapping warmth, mine to her's, she allowed-not withdrawing, and I took this from her, her first Spring bud; all this blooming from a single finger's touch.
She touched me and while she was not the prettiest one, she had, I thought, in that gesture, the aspect of in time, coming to love me--no, not love, that is an overstatement--reality is more complicated.
Rather, I thought she could come to see me, in time, as someone she could not have hoped for and within that this could make her happy, then that could morph over into some kind of love; or maybe I could in time, with love and care, see her develop a sense of devotion to me, undergrided with this layer of gratitude in the mix.
I did sense that in those first few weeks she couldn't believe her luck. And, that created a sense of vunerabilty in her and I noticed this and it made me like her even more. That vunerabitly even though I could not, and did not, see its origins, nonetheless, made me want to protect her and, I felt that, in me, it could easily grow into love.
But, she saw it slightly differently because part of her always felt that luck might change, that I might find someone else. Luck is, after all, not the best of bases for a long-term relationship. That is why, I suspect, she did, in fact add to this circumstance an additional factor of devotion; communicated that to me and I was so happy at that because she was right-luck does not require reward but devotion does, in her thinking.
"He doesn't really understand me and I can see him looking at me wondering what I really feel and why; but he seems content to consider these answers as mystery and to content himself appreciating that whatever that mysterious something was, he liked how I presented especially when I presented to him my vunerable self and proved to him that I was devoted to him and needed him,. He needed to feel that I am sure."
So she gave that to him as her understanding of what she needed to do to make the relationship stable and for it to grow. She gave him what he responded to and seemed to need.
And for a time that seemed to work just fine.
But it changed. No, rather she changed. After some time she began to feel new pulls in new directions and a new self was getting born out of her experiences and, that while he loved her old self, she sensed he did not like the new feelings and thoughts surging through her. She felt that being the same old person all the time was becoming grating and boring and she wanted to grow. The relationship itself gave her confidence and she wanted to spread her wings, and try new things. Why shouldn't she take belly-dancing lessons, try new things?
But crazy ironic, she found her self becoming more insecure as these thoughts grew. The more she allowed herself to think about new ways of being and doing life, the more insecure she became.
But she couldn't show this to him. She wasn't sure how he would react. No, she was sure of how he would react. It was that she was not sure of how she would react to how he would react.
See. It's complicated.
Her real underneath fear was that the whole circumstance was beginning feel like an emotional trap that had a component of ingratitude to it because she had devoted herself to him but, also, a fear of that because, after all, it was luck, she thought, he had chosen her in the first place. He could have had a lot of other girls. But by luck, and some mysterious reasoning, he had chosen her. So why wasn't she content with that?
He could see her, at times, holding his hand, but her mind was on other things. Rote answers and silent nods made him feel she was drifting away in odd moments and even during intimate ones. That choked up in his throat; he thought she was losing her sense of how lucky she really was.
But that thought made him feel bad because he could see how hard she worked at things, how devoted she was to everything, him included. She was trying, really trying.
But underneath, he could see despite all that trying it wasn't really working for her anymore, it was getting to be more and more work for her to be the cheery one, the one to anticipate his needs and moods.
That was the scary part. It didn't matter that it didn't work for him, after all, he had not asked for her devotion. That was what she had chosen to give. No, the scary part was that her devotion, he could see, was no longer working for her.
The more he saw this the more resentful he felt himself becoming because in abandoning her devotion it felt like she had foisted upon him some emotional lie, one she no longer herself believed in, and one he had never even asked for. But, for it to go away, nonetheless, felt like a loss.
After all, if she was no longer interested in what she had to give, and what he had not asked for in the first place, but had gotten used to --what now was he to do?
It is devastating. I see him drifting away, no longer interested in me; in my needing him, in wanting to be close to him, in the doing little things I used to do for him.
It, now, is beginning to feel like despair; despair mixed with betrayal. She had worked so hard in the relationship. Why would he now reject what she had to give. It made no sense.
Unless there was another woman.
He was sure of it. She was changing and he had no clue, no clue about how to go about getting back that which he had never asked for in the first place, and now, it was becoming clear, it too, was something she was less and less interested in giving.
I was thinking, maybe my luck was running out and some other woman now had the luck.
I was thinking if only I could get back to what I wanted, whatever that used to be, I couldn't remember exactly what that was. I was now all focused on what she was no longer offering.
After all what man would not want a woman who seemed very willing to be devoted to him?
What is our story here?" he thought to himself.
"What is going on here?"
She decided after a time to invite her self into his dark moods; she wanted to absorb his growing dark despair, pull it inside her, nurture it, make up to him what she had wrought.
She would enter his Cave of Cringing Aloneness, his redoubt of inarticulateness bringing him to its mouth showing him what light was, bringing him back. She would do that.
She felt that bringing him back would make up for what she had done to him-cause him to feel again. Even as he rejected her, pulled more and more away, she looked beyond that, starting in it all to make love to his dark longings, which underneath came with a mix of wanting to vent his anger upon her but also to ravage her.
She found herself drawn to, and curious about that in him, excited by this emerging part of him. She was not afraid of it, she was sure that she could control it; that it would not come out until it was summoned by her and allowed by her. She plunged into his dark desires; unafraid.
She was unafraid because she knew his need for her was far stronger than her need for him to have her; so she gently, Kissed His Iron Ironies, toyed with her own confidence that she, would in the end ravage him, in his need to ravage her; that her control of his depths was stronger than his raw need to penetrate.
He, too, seemed to understand that saying to her: 'I want you more than I can resist that need in you to transform me."
"This" he said, "will be the contours of our new relationship.
And he did understand. She could then surrender and she did to her growing ability to withstand his dark; she melded with him; both moving toward Twilight.
"I have my mouth to give if you will receive it. My arms are free if you will envelope too; take my Honest Intents allowing them purchase as my smile floats free to be captured singlely in your eyes blinking. Move your body close because our heat increases when our thighs meet.
Sighing she said:
"I see stars in your embrace take from you essences freely offered
and I see my self transformed in your eyes better than I am and ever were.
"Your kiss," she said, "takes me to Nether Time in this our Twilight Gloaming".
And this took them both to heights and depths; fierce blandishments, with torched love-making, body racking dark joys, with exhausting hurts afterward, which healed only slowly.
But in time those healings took longer and longer to manifest themselves both found within themselves a growing mutual sense they had become lost in the relationship each seeking to repair an unspoken malaise, shrouded within an approaching dread.
Each sought balms and bandages which included making new friends, concentrating upon work, drugs even, alcohol; she focusing upon his sense of being angry and adrift, while ignoring that she, too, shared those same emotions. Each fiercely diving into work.
Over time these distractions they had constructed ceased to be distracting even as they participated in them more and more until, at one point, they lay side by side in bed, with absolutely nothing to say to one another- coping more with the alcohol from the night before and unwilling to deal with one another's emotional state and feelings.
Without forethought she, in driving past the belly-dancing school, stopped, went in and signed up.
She just did it just like that and didn’t tell him because she did not want to deal with the confrontation which that would surely bring. She did it and lied to him about it, gradually over time becoming more involved in the class.
There she made some tentative friends, none close, but, it was good to get back in touch with her body, and to do it with other women.
She came to think of it as a small thing she did for herself. It was harmless.
But simultaneously, she also noticed she was not as excited about their relationship as she once was, and, as well, she was careful not to let him notice that, least he feel betrayed and become angry. But she knew he did and she also pretended not to notice his masturbating, and, also, as well hiding her own.
But I did notice. I could sense that while we had regained some lost ground in our relationship, that was proving to be temporary. I saw her starting to fade, starting to fake her interest in their “distractions.” I felt I was losing ground to something or to someone else. I started to notice there were blotches of time in her schedule which were unaccounted for, those little joys and secrets she seemed to have but was unwilling to share when I asked what was going on with her.
Suddenly she had phone calls walking away out of ear-shot taking the call, which she said was ‘just work.”
There had to be another man, I came to suspect, or even another life. Either way, I felt a growing sense of betrayal.
"How am I going to tell him. Me, pregnant?"
This solar system mobile slowly rotates moved by a tiny breeze I imagined just might come from me below breathing with the tiny life inside me. "Maybe I am pregnant, maybe I am not," she thought.
"But what if I am? How will I tell him; how do you tell anyone, yourself included, that new life lives, or is about to come live, inside you, growing, developing; the most intimate of roommates.
This was the silence of we two looking up, the mobile slowing rotating, yet, since I was not sure, I felt I could did not let myself become too excited about it. I would have to keep my silence, savor it, anticipating life, yet not get too excited since it might not be; I might not be pregnant, and even if I were, would I, would he, want to go through with it; would it make things better between us or make them worse?
This was the silence of two; her silence and the silence of that possible new life.
The next day was a blank day, I imagining the baby must have been hearing the echoing silence of a vault inside me trying to become alive inside of me.
I found myself listening for it, trying to gain some sense of its real existence, some sense of movement.
All I had now was a growing tiredness, somewhere between depression and excitement, sadness and fear How could I tell him, tell him and convey my own feelings when I did not know what those feelings were fully?
In the grocery store I found myself looking at articles on pregnancies, on babies, on feeding babies, on having a baby. I took the mirror and stared at my vagina below trying to imagine a baby’s head emerging, or looking into mirrors to see ifmy face screamed "pregnant", or if my breasts were slowly enlarging, or if my skin showed any glow whatsoever.
I was sure that something was going on with her. She seemed more inward than ever, and when we made love she did not have the same passion and seemed to more into laying back quiet while I mounted her. When I looked into her eyes she had a dreamy faraway look.
I was sure she was thinking of something else, but the old resistance and anger was not there, and that was something I liked; she felt more giving than she had been before.
I sank into those moments happy to have her passive in any event rather than distant and angry, In fact I liked her more passive, sexual self and found myself willing, in that mode, to explore my own need for what I came to regard as quietly ravaging her, taking her, giving even if she did not respond, yet not resisting. The new mood was better than her old mood. I found her body softer, willing as I pushed against her; she yielding to me. I liked that, it make me feel, in a strange way, that we had maybe moved from body anger to softer yielding body contacts.
I felt her yielding last night when she started to cry, sob.
She never sobbed.
“What he said, what is it.”
I could not tell him was it was, because I did not know what it was myself fully.
Likely it was connected with my sense that I might be pregnant, that all the emotions around that were bound to make me more emotional; cryingseemed natural to do. I clung to him because, if I were pregnant with their child ,they would become a different couple.
A baby is a profound thing to share and I felt overwhelmed by that thought. My body felt overwhelmed by that feeling in that moment and I cried.
I was different to myself and he was different to me as well.
Something, profound was happening more and more now during sex, something I did not have words for.
This is strange. It appears to be two stories. The way you posted it resulted in a huge gap between… I had to scroll a long way to get to the second story.
Both stories have a psychological battle between acceptance and rejection. I suppose that happens in most relationships, so it is not new here. The first story, using the seasons, is far better than the second. Some may like this kind of interplay between lovers (?), but I find myself rushing to the end and finding nothing significant happened.
The use of capitalization of some words might be better expressed by not capitalizing them, but, perhaps, using italics for emphasis. Using boldface may be a bit too bold. I did note a number of typos that could be easily removed with further editing.