What’s Love Got To Do With It?


When my man first romantically told me he wanted to make love to me I sniggered a bit. My initial instinct was what an utter load of old pony. Sex is sex. Good old-fashioned hard fucking. Making love is something found in films, Bridget Jones and Love Actually and all those other vile rom coms I hate. I genuinely felt slightly superior for knowing better. You can’t wrap emotions into sex. Sex is a natural urge driven by something primal, it’s clean and simple. Love messes up your head and hurts your heart and I want no part of that. I told him the way I felt and he was surprised and possibly slightly hurt but accepted the challenge with a “we’ll see…”


What a silly bitch I really was. It’s oh so easy to allow our emotional judgement to be scarred by our previous experience. We build those walls higher and higher all the more determined that we won’t be fooled again. At no point does it occur to us that the same walls that protect us prevent us from feeling the good things love brings too. My past is an emotional scrap-book of bad choices and disastrous consequences. I’m at best hard work even when in a good state of mind. I’m a whirlwind of contradictions pirouetting from ridiculously arrogant to crippling self loathing, being scared of intimacy and yet feeling painfully alone, fiercely independent but craving someone to take care of me. How was anyone meant to pick that apart and build a meaningful relationship out of it? But he did. With crazy patience brick by brick he took down the wall and I slowly trusted him to hold my heart and not to hurt me. And this is where I struggle with the whole marketing of love. We are all human. And the responsibility of holding someone else’s happiness in our hands is far too large for us mere mortals. We are bound to fuck it up. We will have moments of pride or envy and accidentally dent the one we love. We’ll get frustrated and lash out and sting them. We will hurt them. Definitely. This is guaranteed.


Does this mean we should throw in the towel? No it doesn’t. Part of being adults is accepting our flaws. Accepting we fucked up. More importantly putting it right and not doing it again. I have no grounds to give anyone relationship advice my past being the veritable authority on “how not to girlfriend” but if I was to tell my children one thing it would be, expect pain. And accept it. Fairy tales really don’t exist and if you grow up expecting Cinderella it’s bound to be a shock when you find out that happy ever after rarely comes without trial and error and the course of true love really does never ever run smooth.


So what have I learnt that’s changed my point of view? I’ve learnt that life is so much better with someone to share it with, to laugh at in jokes with, to tell secrets too, to confide in completely. That I enjoy sex more if I’m exploring it with him, it has so much more meaning to do things together, he takes what was jaded and broken and makes it brand new. That I really do feel better in his arms, enveloped by his scent, feeling the rumble of his voice through his chest and this doesn’t make me less strong or independent to admit it. I’ve learnt that it’s possible to miss someone so much it’s a physical ache and you feel like time genuinely stops. And I’ve learnt that when that love is pulled away from you you’ll grieve like you’re in mourning (which of course you are) and may temporarily lose your fucking mind. I can have the worst day and the instant I hear his voice things aren’t quite so bad. The second I see his familiar smile or feel the warmth of his hand I know it’ll be ok because as long as I have him beside me I can honestly tackle anything. As long as he doesn’t give up on me.


So was he right? Of course he was. He usually is. The first time he touched me with emotion, the first time he loved me and stroked me and poured all that feeling into physicality something in me broke, something I’d been maybe unconsciously holding back for years and years. And I cried, big heavy wet tears dragging my mascara down my carefully made up face as my heart struggled to deal with the reality of how he made me feel. All that need and fear washing away in his touch, with his kisses. I cried as he kissed away my tears, while he made me cum and made love to me.




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