Isn't it Romantic

I am inclined to say I don't like "romance". Long walks on the beach, candlelight dinners, red roses, etc. seem to be the universally agreed upon romantic gestures. The sort of things you see in a chick flick rom-com, the types of things girls are supposed to want. Those things seem really contrived to me, not romantic at all.

It might be more honest to say, not that I don't like romance, but that I don't like insincerity. I don't like operating under illusions, and romance seems like a lie to me. I have an active imagination and a rich fantasy life, and as much as I'd like to have my hopes and dreams fulfilled, I don't expect it. It's getting to the point where I'm not even disappointed anymore. It just is.

When I saw M last week, I was in a real funk. I nearly cancelled our visit. Instead, I told him that I would leave my keys in my mailbox, and that I would like if he was there when I got home from work. I said I just wanted to take a shower and then crawl into bed with a beautiful boy. He said he would be there, and he was.

That's romantic.

When I got home that night I was relieved to see M sitting on my bed. I looked like shit, and I felt like shit. I took off my grimy shoes, knelt on the floor beside the bed, and wrapped my arms around his waist. I laid my head down against his warm body, and sighed. He pulled me up to lay on top of him, and I protested that I was too dirty to get on the clean bed and his clean body. He insisted, and I relented.

That's romantic.

He asked if I wanted to shower, and I said yes. He asked if I wanted him to shower with me, and I said it wasn't necessary, that he had obviously showered before he came over. And I felt grungy and ugly, and I slide off of him to go into the bathroom. I undressed and put on my robe. As I walked out of the bathroom to comb my hair, he followed me to my mirror and began to caress me from behind. He opened my robe, ignoring my protests, pushing my hands away, and ran his hands over my naked breasts and into my panties. I could feel his erection pressing against my ass. He was trying to show me he thought I was beautiful, even if I felt like I was a disgusting, greasy mess.

That's romantic.

We showered, and I washed my hair. We dried off, I put my robe back on, and we got into bed. I felt so drained as I smoked my cigarette. I was not being a great hostess, or even good company for that matter. He offered to give me a backrub. I declined, saying it wasn't necessary. Again he insisted, telling me to get on my stomach and to take off my robe completely. He called me "Laani", I think for the first time. He said "O Lanni, you're such a mess," and he said it with so much sympathy as he attempted to ease my tension wracked body.

That's romantic.

Maybe it's because I don't receive backrubs, or maybe it was because he seemed to show so much tenderness, but I couldn't relax. He had to tell me repeatedly to not anticipate what he wanted, but to just relax and go limp. He told me to tell him if he hurt me, saying that this wasn't "play, so it shouldn't hurt." He used my marshmallow lotion, and expressed mild surprise that I have so many sweet, food scented lotions, considering my rather spartan eating habits. I said I like to smell like edible things, that I don't want to smell like flowers. He answered, "I want to smell like you."

That's romantic.

And I don't know why I am so uneasy with his soft words and tenderness, at the same time I crave it. I don't want to foolishly believe it all if it's just "pillow talk". I don't want to delude myself. I want to trust him. I want to believe him. I want to please him. I want him.

Isn't that romantic?