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He’d said he’d not been doing that well.  He’s having trouble sleeping.  He went to bed, his door slightly cracked.  I knocked, stood in his doorway while we talked, and then he invited me to sleep with him that night.  I agreed to sit with him.

The talk was lighthearted.  His smell seemed new and unfamiliar.  As did mine to him.  And then he nuzzled my bathrobe with his face, his hands rubbing my bare knees.  He talked about how smooth my legs felt.  He held me close.  I gave in.

We were intimate.  He buried his face between my legs–something he rarely did.  He sucked on my nipples–something he often did.  He pushed inside of me, trembled, and kissed me.

And then he had to go to the bathroom.  And then he lost his erection, and could not get it back again.

He was frustrated, angry.  He said he we shouldn’t have done it, that he wasn’t ready.  Then, he wanted to be alone so I went to my room and slept.

He did not sleep.

In a brief text message this morning, he says he’s going to get a sleep aid tonight.

I tell him ok.  If I can be of help, let me know.  I know the walk across the parlor is a long one, but I’m here.

I do not tell him that I slept well.

I do not tell him that I was ok.

I was not hurt about his troubles in bed.  I did not take it personally.  I realized that this was a reflection of his own, quiet struggles.  It was not a reflection of my worth, beauty, or attractiveness.

That is a huge difference from a year ago when a similar incident occurred.  I fled from the room.  I cried.  I asked what was wrong with me.  I based my self worth, my sexiness, on his flaccid cock.

It is a strange thing to emotionally detach from someone you love.

It is a strange thing to feel his lips pressed against yours and feel a part of you enjoying it for what it is–a moment of physical intimacy and waves of pleasurable sensations.

It is a strange thing to experience something that would once cause you to self-identify as unattractive, dirty, repulsive, not worthy of love, and consciously recognize that his limpness is nothing more than that.

It had nothing to do with me.

I know that in his mind, he may blame me.

“I wasn’t ready,” he said.

But I will not accept the blame.

And yet, I feel like a fraud.  Our relationship is over, and others have been so supportive.  Still, I let myself enjoy what he did to my body, with a clear and conscious understanding that it was a moment, not a promise.

This a strange place to be.

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