Everyday Stranger

The Story of Y

People have been asking about Mr. Y. The Mystery Man from my past, the one who took my heart and never gave it back, and the best sex of my young life. The second of the great loves of my life, and one of the things that made me who I am today.

I have loved two men in my life, both of them to levels of absurd incomprehension, degrees of fragrant liquid emotion. The first one was a gentle and kind man named Kim. Some of you who have been here a while have read about him and know about him, and basically, most of the biggest regrets in my life are tied up with him. The regrets are not in being with him, but in losing him.

The second great love is someone I will call Mr. Y. He is still alive, and has actually recently found my site. He is creeping back into my life, back into my head.

I would say back into my heart, but the truth is, he never left.

He and I met in what now feels like a lifetime ago. We actually met in a meeting, and weirdly enough, we both remembered a great deal about that first meeting, although we never spoke directly to each other. I noticed him right away-English with a cut-glass accent. Tall, brown hair and gorgeous blue eyes. Hands that shake (a big one for me, since Kim's hands shook too. I just love that.)

About six months later, we were with a large number of others at a business conference in Bangkok. It was an exciting time, my first trip to Thailand, and I found the place to be overwhelming. Turn one corner and you were assaulted by the scent of heady blossoms. Turn another, and you smelled some sizzling, amorphous meat cooking on a grill. It was chaos. It was brilliant.

The last night that I was at the meeting, there was a massive party. I was planning to settle into the jacuzzi bath with a bottle of wine and some room service, since the week had been so demanding. My phone, in the bedroom, beeped and I went to fetch it, dressed only in a towel. I had received a text message from Mr. Y, asking if he would have the pleasure of my company for the evening. I texted back and told him I was staying in. We had a ping-pong of conversation for a bit, then I got one more from him, saying simply: "Reconsider."

I threw on a girlie strappy dress, with a tiny thong underneath, and headed down to the reception. Upon entering, I was graced with a garland of orchids around my neck and a glass of wine firmly inserted into my hand. Mr. Y came up to me and we talked. He drifted off from time to time, but always came back. We drank more. The party raged on. At one point, I turned to him.

Me: Y, do you think I am attractive?
Him (looking closely at me, a slow smile on his lips): Well, I think you're an ordinary girl, and I am an ordinary boy.

An ice sculpture melted near us. People laughed. The room was a blaze of flowers, food, people, liquor, and mirth. But for me there was only his company, and only that time.

A group of people suggested we go to more bars, and we agreed. We all piled into cabs, Mr. Y and I riding together in the back of one cab. As we pulled up to a market place, with bars hiding in the background, whispering of decadence and sex, we got out of the cab.

Mr. Y reached out and took my hand as we crossed the road, his fingers wrapping gently around mine.
And it was a moment that changed my life.
Forever.

You hear cute elderly couples talking, reaching out for each other. They always tell you that at a certain moment, they just knew. They just knew that was the person that they wanted to spend the rest of their lives with. I always thought it was cheesy Hollywood nonsense, the type of media machine destined to make saps like us believe in that kind of love. No one could be touched by another person and feel electricity, it just wasn't on, they were just giving us false hope.

But I did.
I felt it instantly, all the way down to my toes.
He did, too.

And all I wanted him to do was keep holding my hand on that crazy, brilliant, wild Bangkok street, with my little dress and our garlands of orchids and all the time in the world. We drank a bit in the bar, but all we could do was sit there and stare at each other in awe, dwelling with wandering hands and licked swollen lips.

In no time, we were back at my hotel room, 20 stories above the Chao Praya River. We came in, kissing and touching, and he announced he wanted to shower. He was feeling a bit drunk and wanted to sober up, that this moment was important. So he got in the shower, and I walked to the window. I decided to join him, and walked back to the bathroom, padding my feet on the thick carpet. As I got to the bathroom door, he stepped out and towelled off.

And I was dumbstruck. He was all man, in every sense of the word. Strong shoulders, thick furry chest, deep ridged muscles on his legs, and although the towel he used to dry himself off with was hanging in front of him, I just knew that he would have a spectacular cock.

Never before had I honestly felt I was with a man. And Y was absolutely a man, a real man, a man who woke up feelings inside of me that I hadn't even known existed. He turned to me, and whispered "No regrets", just as his hand reached my face and the heat of his just-washed body hit me like a wave.

We didn't have sex that night. It took some time before we did, and he was one patient man. When we finally did, it was in a tiny European town whose name still rings in my heart and has carved an immensely special place in it.

I wrote this letter for Mr. Y. In it, I tell how we first made love. How we touched. How he made me feel. He was my first proper orgasm, and about five thousand ones after that.

My Jiminy Cricket once told me something about how romance happens when we do not expect it-there is no right time to fall in love. He was bang on. Meeting Mr. Y was at the worst possible time in my life, but falling in love with him was inevitable.

We had it all. We had passion. We had fire. He was my best friend, my confidante. I trusted him beyond trust. Telling him the truth became a drug, one I couldn't live without. In return, he told me every inch of his mental attic, and we found true comfort in the idea that someone, in the big wide world, knew us and understood us.

All the feelings, secrets, thoughts and dreams that I had always bottled up were poured out into him, a ready receptacle that drank me in and seemed to always only want more. It wasn't easy, it didn't come naturally to me, but he never gave up on me. We would stay up for hours talking into the night. Things that had been bottled up inside of me for my entire life came out, as he kindly, patiently, lovingly coaxed them out of me.

We never got tired of touching, and sometimes we had to have sex four or five times a day, it was never too much, we always just had to get closer to each other. I loved him more than I thought it was possible to love someone, and it wasn't "newlywed love" or anything like that. It grew over the long time we were together into the type of feeling that is almost tangible in its strength and depth.

Sometimes, I was ashamed, as I loved Mr. Y more than I had ever loved Kim. How could I betray his memory like that? Kim had been surpassed, and in my memory, I held him special and close and felt so guilty that he was no longer the greatest love of my love. He was the first. Mr. Y was the second. And sometimes, the ones we love the most are not the ones we get to love the longest.

He wasn't perfect (and neither am I, in fact far from it). He could be stubborn. Resistant. He would sometimes commit a crime in the relationship and expect instant exoneration, only understanding the magnitude of the crime once I had committed it. He was sometimes unsympathetic to my paranoid mind (which I understand, since I can be a real management nightmare to deal with). He wasn't, in the beginning, overwhelmingly supportive of my career. And he could be jealous, but it was something I also loved about him.

With Mr. Y, I was able to explore it all. In college, I had had some pretty strange experiences, mere fumblings that were inept at best and drunken misbehaving at worst. But Mr. Y and I tried it all, and we tried them with organized style. Swinging. Threesomes. An orgy once. Tying up, tying down. Sex toys. Spanking. Al fresco sex. Fantasizing. Above all, degrees of domination and submission. Sometimes, it was as if someone had poured the contents of "The Book of Sex" into us and pan-fried us to a crisp.

But then we got too brave. We ventured too far. We were so cocky and so foolish. One of us slept with someone else once on the side. Then the other, with the consent of the wronged party, slept with someone else in order to "even the score". We thought it would save us.

Instead, it became something that lay between us from then on. A hurt that couldn't heal. A betrayal we couldn't forgive, no matter how hard we tried. We had taken the one thing that made us greater than the average love and ripped it apart, and that thing was trust. I used to always roll my eyes at the Diane Sawyer specials where husbands and wives talked about trust with fervered suburban servitude, but finally it had a meaning to me.

Sometimes you can't get over the image of your lover's limbs tangled up with another, and you are nowhere in the picture.

It was that, and one issue from Mr. Y's life (since it is his personal issue, and he is present here, I really don't feel I am at liberty to discuss it) that tore us apart. We could never get over it. The ghosts of the two extra bed-buddies just couldn't be exorcised.

And I have missed Mr. Y every fucking day since. I have tried to lace myself into a conservative vanilla life with vanilla feelings and vanilla sex, with not even a cherry on top. I would give anything to have Mr. Y back (and perhaps will do someday), but before I ever have him back, we would need some ground rules:

- None of this extra bed-buddy business.
- Just one blanket on the bed.
- This time, we marry.
- Vacation again to Jersey, to that special place.
- Never go away again.

And, my darling, no regrets. Ever. And I truly mean that.

-H.

PS-3 more days to Judgment Day

PPS-my Guest Map is only 1 person away from breaking 100 (and I did pay for the upgrade)!

PPPS-had a strange dream that Don and I were taking a foreign language class together and fell in love. Weird.

Posted by Everydaystranger at November 17, 2003 08:50 AM | TrackBack