Respect

I have given a great deal of thought to my lack of writing and blogging of late and there are many factors, most of which do not really hold water. I am busier – as if the last two plus years of hell have not kept me busy, as if I did not blog at strange stolen hours. There are other reasons – being more secure in who I am, being more circumspect in the wake of destruction and, I suppose, having real people (no insult intended) who know my tale and who I can share at least some of my life with.

But of late there has been a new reason: I have … I hesitate because the obvious words seem stilted. I do have a boyfriend though with our average age pushing towards sixty, boy friend seems a mite young. I could say a lover, though there is an air of sexuality to that which seems to belittle the way we feel. I suppose in gay land one could say “my other half”; however I have spent too long learning to finally be whole to give away a half.

The thing is that in one sense there could be much to write – tales of our time together, stories of our meeting, the path leading from a casual meeting to using the most powerful four letter word of all. And it would make for good writing and good reading. It has been a fun ride – road trips and all. But I hesitate, for good reason I think. If there is any regret over the last few years it is in the public sharing of my life. The regrets are muted by the knowledge that without this forum I could not have reached the current plateau. But reach it I have and somehow to “kiss and tell” does not feel right. It is not that these pages are a secret. We have no secrets. It is not that I am afraid of what he will read nor am I afraid that my personal form of exhibitionism will scare him off – he is well aware of all aspects of me.

Ultimately it is many reasons but one stands above the rest: respect. Respect for him and respect for myself. Sure there are those moments I want to scream out “Look at me, look at my happiness, look at my new found sense of self.” But I realize that screaming that smacks of insecurity, of back sliding to a land that hopefully I have left behind.

So there will be many stories, stories every day it seems, and there will even be ones that I will continue to share here. Last night as we lay in bed, both having had a long day and not seeing each other until a relatively late hour, we spoke. Boring things I suppose, our days, our little stories. And my friend looked at me and asked “Is this pillow talk?” It was, and that is where I now choose to tell most of my stories and there is where most of them will stay.