I could never see myself in a long-distance relationship until I found myself in one. Like most events in life and love, it happened by accident. Sweet and I live just far enough away to make it inconvenient to see each other as regularly as we’d like, and just close enough that it isn’t worth either of us moving. It doesn’t help that I’m a subway-dependent city-dweller who can’t leave the metropolitan area due to an extreme case of car-less-ness.
We’ve got a strong, if young, relationship, so the distance between us isn’t problematic in a big way. We do see each other as much as we can, but when life gets busy that means going weeks without getting together. Talking on the phone and chatting online helps, but neither makes up for the fact that she isn’t in bed beside me. A telephonic hug just isn’t as good as the real thing.
Is it sad when you get to a point in life where you’re searching for “girls kissing” on YouTube because the girl you should be kissing is so far away? That’s where I’m at these days. When Sweet and I haven’t been together for a while, my vibrators all get lined up beside my computer, and only get shifted when they need a bath. The framed photo of Sweet on my desk helps too. Every orgasm has her name on it, or some variation thereof. My neighbours must think I’ve got someone named “Babygirl” living with me.
But if there’s one thing Sweet has taught me, it’s that relationships are about more than just sex. Seriously. I had no idea that was the case before we met. Yes, seriously. I’m not even being sarcastic.
For me, a relationship has always been just a vehicle for sex, a kind of insurance that sex will be available when needed: you pay your premiums on a regular basis, and when you need sex you cash in.
Sweet has shown me there is so much more you can get out of a relationship:
Support, approval, laughter, caring, someone to rant to when you’re angry, someone to bounce ideas off of when you’re frustrated, someone to tease when you’re giddy, a true partner, and, yes, a lover too.
It isn’t easy to be so often away from the woman I love, but things could be far worse. It’s not like I have to fly to Antarctica or make my way to Hades to see her; she only lives on the outskirts of metropia.
At great risk to my career as an eroticist, I must admit a dirty secret: I’ve reached a point where I can stand to wait a few extra days for sex (with a little help from the vibrator lineup) when it means holding on to as loving and supportive a partner as Sweet.
Does that sound cheesy?