The Secrets of My Heart
I realized recently that I'm not willing to be completely honest here and it's not because of who I think might or might not be reading it or maybe it is but I can't put my finger on it ... I mean, I can't say, Oh, this person might be reading it and so I can't say this thing. I just ... maybe it's really a case of being honest with myself. I can be honest with myself, but not honest enough to put it in black and white (or green and white, as the case may be) and let other people hold me accountable for it or tell me it isn't true or whatever they say ... although my fear is more that they'd tell me it was true, that they'd confirm my own fears about myself.
This is getting ridiculous. All I really wanted to say was that I didn't write a couple nights ago, even though I wanted to write so badly, I wanted to jump out of bed and come here and write, but I couldn't because Blaine and I were naked and it felt so good that of course I wasn't going to move before I was good and ready and I went to sleep and the next thing I knew he was kissing just behind my ear and saying, "Good morning," and then I could hear Emily in her bed and I got dressed and got her and I came here and I couldn't write because that's when my heart filled with the dread of honesty.
And it's nowhere as interesting as my elusiveness hints at. Chances are, if you have to be elusive, either it's not very interesting and the only way to make it interesting is to be elusive or else you don't want to hurt the person you're talking about or make yourself less appealing to them.
None of this is what I came here to write about.
I came to write about what happened after the last time I wrote.
After the last time I wrote (if you were paying attention, you will have noticed that I was writing at approximately 4 am), I went back to bed and crawled in next to Blaine and pressed my face into his neck. I wrapped my arms around his waist and he wrapped his arms around me, too, and I could feel the warmth of his hands through my nightgown where they rested on my back. He murmured, "Where were you?"
I said, "At the computer."
He said, "Why?"
I said, "Because I couldn't sleep."
He kissed me then. He kissed my ears and my neck and my lips. His hands ran up and down my back and my legs. I turned against him and I couldn't believe it was really happening. We were going to make love. After everything that I'd just written, he wanted to make love. He wanted to make love and he hadn't left the bed and he didn't know what I'd been fearing here and he made me feel foolish but mostly just relieved, so relieved that I was trembling and I could barely breathe and as he was kissing me he asked, "What's wrong?" and I said, "Nothing, nothing." And I said other things, too, things I don't want to write here, things for his ears and that place only.
Oh, Gods.
I still don't know if he reads this and I know deep down that I'll feel hurt if he doesn't and yet if he doesn't, it's probably out of respect for me, and underneath it all it probably doesn't matter anyway, because he knows, he knows everything he needs to know.
This is getting ridiculous. All I really wanted to say was that I didn't write a couple nights ago, even though I wanted to write so badly, I wanted to jump out of bed and come here and write, but I couldn't because Blaine and I were naked and it felt so good that of course I wasn't going to move before I was good and ready and I went to sleep and the next thing I knew he was kissing just behind my ear and saying, "Good morning," and then I could hear Emily in her bed and I got dressed and got her and I came here and I couldn't write because that's when my heart filled with the dread of honesty.
And it's nowhere as interesting as my elusiveness hints at. Chances are, if you have to be elusive, either it's not very interesting and the only way to make it interesting is to be elusive or else you don't want to hurt the person you're talking about or make yourself less appealing to them.
None of this is what I came here to write about.
I came to write about what happened after the last time I wrote.
After the last time I wrote (if you were paying attention, you will have noticed that I was writing at approximately 4 am), I went back to bed and crawled in next to Blaine and pressed my face into his neck. I wrapped my arms around his waist and he wrapped his arms around me, too, and I could feel the warmth of his hands through my nightgown where they rested on my back. He murmured, "Where were you?"
I said, "At the computer."
He said, "Why?"
I said, "Because I couldn't sleep."
He kissed me then. He kissed my ears and my neck and my lips. His hands ran up and down my back and my legs. I turned against him and I couldn't believe it was really happening. We were going to make love. After everything that I'd just written, he wanted to make love. He wanted to make love and he hadn't left the bed and he didn't know what I'd been fearing here and he made me feel foolish but mostly just relieved, so relieved that I was trembling and I could barely breathe and as he was kissing me he asked, "What's wrong?" and I said, "Nothing, nothing." And I said other things, too, things I don't want to write here, things for his ears and that place only.
Oh, Gods.
I still don't know if he reads this and I know deep down that I'll feel hurt if he doesn't and yet if he doesn't, it's probably out of respect for me, and underneath it all it probably doesn't matter anyway, because he knows, he knows everything he needs to know.