Dear Diary,

By this time in my life, I know what my sins are. I have them categorized and some even nicknamed after certain memorable moments.

Sins like lust, intemperance–

–the snow, the snow twinkling down like falling stars, sticking to our eyelashes, so tipsy we were still spinning even though we were standing still–                                                                                                                                                           debauchery, impatience, and a cold heart.

Oh, I have virtues, too, but they are boring, taken for granted, like long work hours without overtime pay, something expected without recompense–fidelity, kindness, integrity, empathy, confidence…but never patience.

No one would ever bother to make a movie starring Brad Pitt featuring the seven essential virtues.

But the seven deadly sins?


Yeah, that one was a winner.

Out of all of these, my current weakest weakness is lust.

Lust is…

–not wearing underwear under a lovely dress as we go out for dinner…then inviting him to check.

—my hand in his lap under the table as our conversation continues without missing a beat.

—musing out loud that the restaurant has a remarkably roomy restroom, with a stone counter just the right height for sex.

Mostly, Lover just likes the idea of these things, and his restraint helps keep the balance between free citizen and arrested delinquent for public indecency .


It’s also texting him from the shower or from bed, pictures of a leg or a thigh while out running errands with the caption “Panties or no panties? Place your bet!”

Or I send an invitation to bend me over, anywhere he wants. (The kitchen is a favorite.)

I have wanted him since the moment I first met him. There is something indefinably magnetic, a chemistry that cannot be broken down to simple elements like height/weight/cologne/clothes.

At first it was hard to tell, if this were real. It had been a long, long time since someone held me, the way that he does, always with the right mixture of strength and suppleness. But within a few months last summer we knew, that despite the casual intentions of our initial encounter, this was something…more. Gradually, we evolved into this blend of teasing, talking, helping, understanding, and adventuring that we call a relationship. 

Between us, sex is not a weapon, not a stepping stool, not a power struggle. It’s not a chore, or a reward, or an obligation.

Sex is consensual laughing, kissing, whispering, breathless bliss. It’s a matter of a perfect physical fit and like personalities, reciprocal rhythm and wants and needs. When he’s brought me to the impossible brink once more, and I can’t imagine my body being able to respond with an ounce more passion–it’s in that suspended abyss that the world shrinks to just the gasp of his name, the touch of his hands, the goosebumps raised by the sigh of his breath on my skin. And I feel that I am so lucky to be alive, with him, here and now and tomorrow.

Beware, my cold heart. Beware.




**Photo Credit**