Flunging My Flings
Devotion to receiving love ought not be far-flung hope. When lasting love has escaped thee and ghosts of your lovers past are reflectively dueling with the wistful dreams of your true love, my best advice is flunging your flings to the seas of change. Give yourself a little room to grow in a more personal way, without diluting your vision by always adding a partner. Sexploration and powering through the forest of humans to get to the one you want can leave a great soul frenetically forlorn. It is effortfully dedicating to your most sincerely healthy and happy love life that turns tides for any turbulent ocean of love I’ve ever known.
Lingering sunshine wasn’t ready to depart the day. They clutched hands tightly. Their fingers intricately entwined savagely, as if two bodies dangling from a cliff wall unknown yet whether they’ll survive or not. His body was her body and hers was his. Enmeshed as one, sweat beads trickling between becoming one, there was nothing else that mattered in that space of time but a lust to create love together. Men who like spooning are necessary for my survival. After the roar of satiation fizzled and as the nearby cat’s purr came into focus more loudly, one peered back at the other with the most genuine smile. She felt he was memorizing her face. Those freckles could not be happier you acknowledged them, her mind bent out of shape. He drove her home and she never saw him again.
Teetering the flinging fence for decades, I pine for the lover who compliments me, has no other vision than me in his life for the rest of it, and asks me to marry him. We are that couple others mock and turn away from in public, our reason for living — one another — so strong and mushy it loops to the throaty Cohen ballad Dance Me to the End of Love. I seek him through conversations in so many states and countries or planes. Friends of friends are peeled back from simply their online social settings for me to delve into more introverted quizzes for the truth to see could they be my one. Then there’s a tape inside me playing simultaneously that cautions me from jumping back into permanent lover land fast and keeps presenting activities that detract from connecting with a singular man.
But there’s also a middle ground. That’s the place I think I live most presently, yet all the time for as long as I can remember. It’s where the two worlds run against one another. Cue the PMJ is for Lovers soundtrack over and again. Competing, often colliding, and rubbing elbows so intimately you forget which is your sure fire and that you should pitch out. Just the idea of rubbing against one another gets me hot and bothered, which ignited the entrenched part of me that has defaulted to sex as my allure of choice. I think I’d even welcome advances while I was soundly sleeping, so long as no dirty creepy stuff was going on. Boy, has this been a fling style I’ve worked hard to sling far into my past!
Lovers are as available as a bottle of beer at a southern summer barbeque. But lifer lovers seem a rare breed, sometimes as impossible to connect with as Mr. Snuffleupagus was for anyone other than Big Bird. If your road to discovering what in the world healthy or happy have to do with love is lined with bumper to bumper flings, you might want to take a detour. It’s been difficult to stifle my temptress. Though I wouldn’t have been caught dead stating this phrase a few years ago: not having sex, making out, dating, or having a significant other is completely ok. In fact, there is quite a bit of sanity when you sort away any crazy patterns that may have been persistently dashing your long-term wooful ways.
It’s nice to know my loverly planning committee is still in session. However, I’m bleeding words. Tossing around fantasy-laden fiction I desperately wish to become nonfiction, that man in my life has maintained his elusiveness. I want to write him into my history. My hands keep scribing you heart pumping emotions, while I whisper my invitations on winds or attempt a steady stream tried on many a man to spark my interest. Everyone deserves an enthusiastically good flirt now and again. I’m sweetly torn when watching the two ice skaters circling one another at Rockefeller Center until they land in an icy kiss. Wishing to be in someone else’s love doesn’t mean it would work well on you. With self-taught restraint, endless endeavors to tackle my insecurities, and the resolve of taffy on your teeth, I declare victory for those of us who launch into effort with all the appeal of a free snowcone in the Sahara.
An absurd amount of patience should be welcomed. Spend time learning who the heck you are. Sex in the City remains so appealing for me through its multi-layered reveals of my different personalities that parade for potential mates. This tv show comically and thoughtfully always seemed to be feeding and working through my good girl, bad girl, and better-claim-a-leaning-to-a-side-of-that-fence girl lest I be caught in constant unfulfilled limbo. Why does that loving person really wants whatever it is you honestly can’t live without in the loving category, instead of settling for what everyone else thinks for you? My, yes, you might adore a sexy fling or nice person treating you to dinner by candlelight, but do you need that if they’re not available for more if that’s what you’re looking to receive? Needs versus wants make a decidedly expert deciphering tool that will keep you living at least as long as Die-Hard’s main man could.
Free-flunging any flings not singing your tune is a genuine self-reward.
