I can’t believe he writes these things—

—He can’t believe you don’t.

—ooOoo—

—ooOoo—

I’m just another shiny rock to you—

—What? What do you mean?

You’re enamored with me—

—So?

I’ve never felt so loved by anyone—

—So what’s wrong with that?

There’s a lot of shiny rocks.—

—ooOoo—

What’s your love language? Touch. Intimacy. The quickest way to this man’s heart is not a meal, and most nights I’d prefer not to eat or cook.

This is where I get into trouble, especially with people that conflate sex with intimacy. They’re separate and distinct animals to me. Not the same.

Physical intimacy is an act of vulnerability. A letting down of the guard. Sharing. It could include sex, but it looks more like holding one another.

Sex looks like my breakfast out this morning. The woman who won’t stop trying to get my attention, all while having brunch with her Valentine.

There’s a third category. One that has nothing to do with sex or intimacy, although it may include them. This one separates the men from the boys.

Dominance. Submission. Where pain intersects with pleasure. Not sex. Not intimacy. Not particularly married one way or the other. I’m a switch.

Hunting the trifecta. Sex isn’t hard, there’s an app for that; and the need for intimacy can be somewhat satisfied by merely holding a close friend.

It isn’t a trifecta, is it? There’s something more. What do they say at the track? A “quadfecta” – Gotta have The Secret Sauce. The Glue. The Love.

*sigh*