I've had sex for nine years, but I've known my own mind forever.
A decade later, I now know what I want in a relationship
Last night, I spent two special hours with a man who, as he carefully notes, is not my boyfriend.
We did things I will remember for a very long time. We also held each other and sang "Mack the Knife." We aren't any manner of couple, but I know I will see old movies with him and he will help me decorate gingerbread drag queens this year. Not that everything in life is perfect.
When one recent relationship hit the rocks, I found myself in my mother's room at a nursing home, where she was recovering at 70 from a broken leg. My mother remains formidable; and her decades as a social worker made her a great person to go to for insight.
"Sex and intimacy are not the same thing," she said as I cried in her room like a child. "You need to wait, so that you know which you're being offered."
Nine years in, this advice governs my attempts at relationships. Sex remains joyful, mysterious, and strange. I like it and do it. Intimacy continues to elude me, though not universally. When I spend a rare night with my poly guy, and he holds me with his whole body, draping one long leg over my hip, I see that these things sometimes happen together; and when they do, it's beautiful and good.