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By darwin Date: 2004 Dec 01 Comment on this Work [[2004.12.01.14.40.17666]] |
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I remember when I was 18, my hymen yet intact. There were heady dreams of romance, mostly nutured through various books and the oggled romance of the 90's romantic comedies. I thought that by happenstance, a man would walk by and our eyes would meet, and suddenly cupid in all of his naked ass glory would string his bow and shoot us, right through the heart, sans massive coronary. Of course "You've got mail" never put a disclaimer on their movie saying that every other person on the internet is really a transvestite or a guy acting as a girl to get the girl so he can have a threesome and get away with an every man fantasy. Rarely does reality have the sound effects necesary to bring everything to a screeching halt. But if there ever is a moment when a woman's romantic notions come to this, it would be the moment one loses her virginity. I have never understood women who said that their first time was possibly the best experience in the adult (preteen) lives. There truly is not anything orgasmic about it. There cannot be anything enjoyable about something phallic being shoved up your you know what, and breaking a barrier in your body that has been intact since you were fetal! For the men, the moans and groans you took for your exceptional performance were anything but aspirations of love. Rather the pain of every motion that rocked our bodies and we wondered why we even considered getting naked with you at that very moment! But then eventually the pain passes after the first couple of times and we can finally get down to business. Then after the relationship is built and the sex is to be had, one realizes that it is not the hand holding and the cuddling, not even the occasional dozen roses and chocolate that are eventually deemed romantic. Rather it is when one comes home and finds that the dishes are done, or the husband has decided to pick up his beard trimmings from the bathroom sink. Perhaps even that he had whipped up his version of a gourmet meal, french fries included and you can settled down to a comfortable night of wearing those old clothes you never thought anyone else would ever see. You know those slippers. The ones that have every single spill that ever happened to fall on the kitchen floor, and you just didn't feel like mopping it up? Yeah, those slippers. No more bottles of champagne with a 100 possiblities to stare at each other over, now it's just a glass of milk if your lucky. Punch drunk love never happened over calcium. What exists in this domestic scenery though are things that are more enjoyable then the bubbly romance of that first moment of love realized. There is that amazing comfort that comes knowing that your body is watched in all it's lumpy bumpy glory by someone who loves you for all your lumpy bumpy glory. That even though he may leave his beard trimming on the bathroom sink, his world is defined with you in it and him in yours. Eventually to love as long as you can, you need to be able to live together as long as you can and it takes compromises. Not promises and platitudes, but cooperation and acceptance. Love isn't about the flowers and the candy, it's about mutual respect. I've found more of that over a glass of milk, then any other time over a glass of wine. |