To Be Kissed

I was walking with a friend when they took my hand and held it. “Is this ok?” they asked.

Yes.

Yes, it was ok. (!!!)

I had suspected something might be going on, but nothing had been said — out loud anyway.

They touched my arm a few times when we had gotten a drink a few weeks prior, but when I reported back to my therapist she advised, “Don’t get ahead of yourself, some people just like to touch you when they’re talking.”

I was bummed. But thought, “Yeah, she’s right. Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

I’ve gotten ahead of myself in the past and it has only gotten me into trouble. Staying in the present is so hard. To not get caught up in vibes or touches or hopes of being wanted.

In my last relationship, it was so clear that the person did not want me. I look back on pictures of us and think oh my god, I was trying so hard and he was just … there.

I can’t and won’t do that again.

I deserve better.

I am better.

When my friend took my hand, I smiled like what some people may refer to as an “idiot,” and tried to hide it. I was also carrying a pizza box, which is probably the least sexy thing (or the sexiest?!) so I felt especially stupid, but that’s because I’m in a constant battle with my body and feeling worthy despite its imperfections.

Sure, I had eaten pizza at dinner and was going to continue eating it at home, but parading it around in public, while someone I liked held my hand — far too much vulnerability. (If you don’t understand this, yay — you’ve never had an eating disorder and I’m so happy for you. Truly. It fucks with you always.)

I asked them to hold the box and stopped walking.

“I think you should kiss me, and we should see if there’s a spark.”

So, they did.

And it was really, really nice.

I hadn’t been kissed in a year. Or met anyone who I wanted to kiss. I made a private declaration that part of my life was over, I was destined for a life of self-pleasure, which, fine.

But it is nice to be kissed. For someone to touch your arm. To be hugged.

I don’t want that part of my life to be over. But chasing someone, trying to convince them I’m wonderful and worthy of loving, that part is. I am done with it.

I don’t have to go back there — like Vegas. I’ve seen it, I hated it, and now I never have to go again. Unless I’m there for a layover or to see a concert I can’t see anywhere else. But I don’t have to stay or commit to anything that doesn’t work for me. And my God, that is freedom.