It’s been one month now since I started dating B — strangely, it seems like a lot longer, in a good way.
In the annals of my dating experience, one month is an extraordinary of length of time. And one month of the kind of emotional bond that we are developing is unheard of. I can’t wait to see what the second month holds, especially considering that I’ll be finished with the conference and able to spend more quality time with him.
One month. Two hearts. How cheesy… that should be the slogan for a really gooey chick flick coming out around Christmas starring Hugh Grant and, oh, Meg Ryan. Sorry. I won’t do that again.
It’s so frustrating to think that there are so many brainwashed (or brain dead) people out there who seem to think that I am doomed to everlasting hellfire for my oh-so-hideous “choice” of loving a man.
Last night I sat in the living room getting some last minute work done, waiting up for B, who was performing a few miles away. In he walked, wearing a tux and looking very dapper. He plunked down on the couch, and we finished watching a TV show before bed, and it all seemed so natural and right. There was no orgy happening in my house, and no one got naked. There was no abberant behavior and the dog was not joining in. No, we just went to bed, and woke up at 5am this morning holding each other tight.
If the scene had been two members of the opposite sex, the red voters would have all, in unison, sighed a romantic and approving sigh.
Me and B? We should be stoned to death.
I guess it goes without saying that if I had not posted this entry, no one else in the world would have known that I actually had another man spending the night in my bed; not my neighbors and not the fundamentalists among us. And yet, holding my boyfriend tight and loving him seems not to have resulted in the dissolution of anyone’s marriage; it didn’t “recruit” anyone to my sordid, unspeakable lifestyle, and God did not rain down death upon us.
Gee. I feel so powerless and ordinary.
And in love.
