When I close (will I wear my blue eyes)

When I open

I love you

Nostalgia has impeccable timing.

All day I’ve been sitting on the edge of sleep deprivation and anxiety, waiting for some kind of catastrophe to stop tomorrow from happening. You know, some earth shattering event that knocks the world off its axis just so I don’t have to go to this thing. I’d settle for getting hit by a bus though.

More on that soon. I’m in love with Thunderbolts. I haven’t told him, although I have no doubt he knows. My wife knows, which means it’s highly likely he knows and is just humouring my snail like pace and commitment phobia.

The words have been like projectiles in my mouth the last three or four times I’ve seen him. If it wasn’t for sudden deep breaths, well-placed coughs and pathetic attempts at diversion, I would have almost definitely said it by now.

I haven’t said it, and in retrospect, the week and a bit I spent being irrationally moody and uptight (even for me), was because my subconscious was sick of waiting. She was sick of telling me to confront the fact I have real feelings of real magnitude for a real person who really matters.

Despite our polyamorous arrangement, endless communication and constant consent checkins, I realise now that an ingrained sense of guilt was stopping me from being honest with myself. Guilt because I’m married, how could falling in love with someone else not destroy what I have and guilt because What if this changes how I feel about my wife and guilt because What if this changes how she feels about me? Somewhere, the social norm echoed in my skull, reminding me again that I’m yet further away from the ideals my mother and my family had for me.

Last night, he lay his body on mine and he took his time. Face to face, mouth to mouth, nose to nose, slowly moving together under a blanket of summer heat and a warm mechanical breeze from the fan at the end of the bed.

Sweat from both of us danced over our skin, pooling around my back and rolling down my neck. One hand of his holding the base of my neck, the other resting on my right arm, a gentle reminder that I choose to surrender and that he chooses me. Euphoria.

We were one. He was patient, he was gentle, he was soft. He was vulnerable and present but still in control.

He talks to me when we’re intimate now. He’s training me. Everytime he asks me to move or to speak or to roll his fingers around in my mouth, I struggle. I wish I didn’t. I wish I could find the complete off button.

I’m struggling to turn off the playback of Him, where direction was not consented and punishment wasn’t anything other than abuse. Thunderbolts knows He exists. He knows, to some degree, what damage He inflicted. Thunderbolts respects my request to leave it be for now, but I also see his eyes flash whenever He comes up.

Thunderbolts has the bluest eyes I have ever seen. They’re expressive and inquisitive. They’re probing and intentioned, calm and confident. When he’s tired, they’re vulnerable, they’re soft, they reflect the switch in him, seeking comfort and reasurrance.

When He comes up, Thunderbolts eyes flicker and flash. In a microsecond, a wave of something washes through them. Thunderbolts doesn’t seem to be a particularly angry man, although he is a man with significant, and dark, depth, but he has never struck me as angry. When He comes up, Thunderbolts doesn’t reflect anger, but there’s a noticeable shift in his being, and almost all of it happens so quickly that it’s almost imperceptible to the naked eye. His body changes – his shoulders lift and his neck straightens, his arms tighten, his hands reach for mine, carefully and calmly, his eyes flash, his head tilts, his legs adjust unconsciously. His mouth gives away that he controls his words much more tightly, spending more time considering and crafting the responses he gives and the questions he asks.

Which leads me to tomorrow. The thing. The thing I’d gladly exchange for an earth shattering event or an unfortunate collision with a bus.

I have to attend an event where He will be.

There a host of reasons why I have to attend, most of which revolve around the fact that there will be a number of other people there who have little to minimal idea of who He really is, and what I really became under his hands. It’s the final hurrah of the year, the one annual get together where all of us meet, eat, they drink and I make nice, until we do it all again next year.

Thunderbolts is very uneasy. Because of the two limited interactions I’ve had with Him in the past few weeks, both initiated by him, I already know I can’t bring any attention to myself by keeping my phone in my hand and repeatededly contacting Thunderbolts. The heat, the anger, the utter and unbridled psychological warfare He would unleash if he connected the dots would be unbearable.

I am scared of him. I will go out of my way to avoid confrontation with him.

My wife is joining us. Partly to socialise with the rest of the party who she has relationships with too, but also to provide some form of safety, protection and deflection for me.

Thunderbolts is uneasy, anxious and preoccupied. I am responsible for that feeling. He would prefer if I didn’t go. He would prefer if I told Him to go away, in no uncertain terms. He prefers but he doesn’t direct, or control, or command, or demand. He knows I have heard him, and he knows I will manage it as best I can right now, or ask for his help where I can’t.

So. Tomorrow.

Tomorrow is the thing. Tomorrow is 6 hours of the thing. With him.

The antithesis of the euphoria Thunderbolts gives me.

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