I couldn’t take her outside, so my home became our mutual world. At first this scared me and left me uncomfortable, but soon I started to like it. If I held Lynn’s hand for a long time, it would warm up a bit. Her body, despite being cool and hard, always responded to my touches with complete surrender. With each day my courage grew and I started to kiss her belly, caress her feet, touch Lynn in all of the ways that I had dreamed of touching a woman. It was soft and smooth, almost too much, but not one hair out of place. I shared my opinion about the last episode of “Game of Thrones.” On the third day, I touched her hair, and after a few days also her skin.
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On the first day, I just sat her on the sofa and observed with insecurity her curvy limbs and face full of superhuman love. Lynn also had an ideal personality: calm and reserved. She looked just like the kind of girl that I like best: long, dark red hair, green eyes, a bit chubbier than the models in magazines. She arrived in a long cardboard box, lying down. I started to look in the other direction as soon as I saw a pretty girl, and had decided that I would spend the rest of my life dining alone. The last time we met, we sat at a brightly lit table in the middle of a crowded cafe, and, unintentionally, I asked her too loudly in front of the waiter if I could hold her hand, after which she got scared and immediately asked the waiter for the bill.Īfter that, I gave up and decided that my only experience of love would be lonely dreams.
Everything I said I had to consider five times over, as I was afraid of saying something inappropriate, not to mention touching her-I never knew what was allowed, what was not, what she would like, what not. Of course, when I met with Greta in real life, these simple fantasies became impossible. It was so easy for me to imagine our relationship: my life would not change much, except I would have someone with whom to make dinner, my favorite macaroni with cheddar cheese and pecans, and discuss the latest episodes of “Game of Thrones.” And at night, I would kiss not the pillow but Greta. Back then when I was all alone, I would think about her a lot. It was the same with all of the women I liked, even with the one before Lynn-Greta.
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I wanted to learn how to touch, but I didn’t know how to do it in a way that did not seem painful and unnatural. I wanted to like them and wished that I could respond sincerely, but I could not even muster a convincing act. Something about my mother’s caresses felt unbearable to me, too intimate. That was all because I once again withdrew when she tried to kiss me on the cheek and made a face when she stroked my head. Even the time when I gave her a bouquet of white lilies and an amber necklace I’d bought by saving my lunch money for a whole year and told her that she was the best mom in the world, she just thanked me dryly and didn’t speak with me the rest of the night. My mother was convinced that I did not love her. Before Lynn came into my life, I only knew how to love people from a distance, only in my mind, and it was torture to bring myself to demonstrate verbal or physical affection.
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