The One I Never Met

I have written of past great loves, but not all of them. I wrote of “The One Who Got Away.” Thanks to that post we are now friends on facebook, and I continually tease that I will threaten any girl who shows up tagged in his photos. He replies, “I don’t deserve you” and I sigh, now understanding this ridiculous self belief is exactly what took him away in the first place.

But, I have never written about B, the man I met on facebook through my ex husband, the only man he would ever release me to with the total trust would love me the way I deserved.

I friended him, flirted with him, and discovered he was a writer.

A writer, God is that an understatement! I always told him to write women’s porn, his words made my heart beat so fast and sometimes stop, barely catching my breath, red pink hot waves painted my cheeks.

It was a time of Spiritual search for me, my old beliefs from childhood questioned and researched with fury, my hunger for Spiritual truth brought me hundreds of books, more questions, landing me in Joseph Campbell, Metaphysics, Symbolism and even the Tarot and the Kabbalah.

It was a magical time, my willingness to learn like a little child, and I kept and rejected the beliefs I found to be true on the journey, many did stay close to my heart, but most are like thoughts that left with the churches and temples behind me.

B was the man who was a seeker like me, our letters, over 600 long emails over a very short time led us to believe we were in love, having never met.

SO, of course, my family and friends were curious why my status changed, why I had a boyfriend, and I would gulp and sigh, thinking of course they would believe me crazy.

It WAS crazy.

I had never met the man.

I didn’t care. I was that passionate and our love was all that mattered. After you read his version of the story, I will tell you how it ended.

He wrote, 

“When they sent messages to each other, they used the initials B and K.

B, the male energy, had joked around after meeting K, the female energy, online one afternoon.

 “I practice safe Facebook sex” he wrote her.

   She responded a week later.

“I am wearing nothing but red high heels, drinking pineapple juice” said K.

 B was aroused. He was drinking pineapple juice himself.

   Thus, B discovered K’s fascination for Red High Heels.

He remembered an old, late night HBO show called Red Shoes Diaries, a series of short erotic stories about really good looking adults mingling around New York City, having spontaneous sexual adventures. The commercial tag was a tall, dark, and handsome man down on one knee, slipping an elegant red high heel shoe on the foot of a professional looking blonde with long legs. But it wasn’t the show he was interested in; it was the shoes. 

A woman walking around her home in red high heels, drinking pineapple juice…are you kidding me? Could B really have been this lucky? Red high heels represented the entire spectrum of feminine sexuality for him, an archetype stored deep in the male consciousness that triggered erotic, womanly images. It was the inspiration he was looking for, in order to move forward in a time where it was move forward, or fester in the stagnation of the past. 

They called upon a Universal Phonics Hotline for help; it included Numerology, the Zodiac, birthday’s, full names, a mutant pagan plant crucification of Mr. Destiny, stirring a witches cauldron with a flying broom, a topless picture of breasts, a white and black feather, an Atlantic ocean crossing, bad Ukrainian food, a pyramid of  moonbeams, a collection of different size keys, and dream interpretations.

   The Universe, apparently, had lifted a little finger. 

B offered up a well of male energy residing inside of him, a restless and powerful and candid glimpse of the worldliness and responsibility and repressed sexual fantasies that made him “B” in the cyber-world relationship they had kicked off. And K responded with her goddess female energy, a gigantically smooth and beautiful and smoldering splash of creative beauty, a sexual firecracker ‘pop’ on a silver platter, that she offered up in private and across her blog like a virgin on a stone altar. K validated the undercurrent of spiritual openness that B had so long believed in, but had never been led to. Universal Phonics had repeatedly presented him with female energy that was grounded in the dogma of human religion; energy that was close-minded, afraid; energy that was determined to capture and keep and lock up his character, his passions, his self. Basically, energy that put a noose around his testicles.

B’s philosophy could be summed up in an image; it was simply himself, sitting on a mountaintop, facing the warm sun just above the horizon, with his eyes closed. Consciousness understands images better than words. His spiritual philosophy was about unity, not separation through religion; he was grounded so much in nature, so much in the salty ocean, to the point where he always picked jobs that entailed working outside; being a Taurus, connected magnetically to the Earth, his sexual appetite was voracious, like the movement of electric syrup through his veins, and discovering K’s female mirror energy made him smile inside; he repeatedly attracted energiesin the past that wanted to change him, when he already was who he was.

   How can you change something that already is? he would ask.

   But K was different. K used her powers as a mutant pagan, sorceress, and witch to peek between the blinds the Universe would never raise. She discovered secrets about herself, and B, which she learned from, and used tohelp them climb the karmic steps of knowledge. For example; she knew which days she would be in Saturn, which was a good thing regarding love apparently.

She also discovered the main card she must master was focusing her energy. K’s energy had always been scattered, along with her focus, due to her inner emotions of wanting to please and satisfy all the people she came in contact with. 

It was the mother inside her, always putting love first.She was slowly learning that life, on an energetic level, was the stealing or giving of life energy to people you truly liked or loved, and the ones who mastered it, mastered the direction and flow of their lives. Just the same as the earth revolved to night and day, into light and dark, so did people.

B walked up behind her once in a dream. It was nighttime, and she was crying on a beach, staring intensely at a brilliantly full moon. He wrapped his arms and legs around her, buried his face in the smell of her hair, and ever so gently squeezed her back to life. She cried so much, her shirt was drenched.

It was not painful; it was a beautiful release for her, his male energy encapsulating her, protecting her from the night, absorbing her grief without any sound. That hug centered her being in center-less universe. B then took her hand and walked with her into the ocean, where they swam through scenes out of his dreams; a bright, open field of sunflowers, an unusual dream of Buddha’s slipping down a muddy hillside at sunset, strange swimming dinosaur-like creatures with incandescent lights running across the spines of their backs, until they reached the one he wanted to show her.

It was his Universal magician dream, where they witnessed the ebb and flow of life forces, of souls, moving in and out of planes of awareness.

A wizard-like referee was a sort of gatekeeper for all these balls of light…and he let them watch, briefly, until shooing them away with a wave of his hand.

   They found themselves on the moon, one of K’s favorite places. The roles were reversed now; riding piggy-back, she squeezed B so tight as he walked her across the surface of the moon, she thought she was hurting him.

She wasn’t.

Kissing his neck, she pointed out in front of them, and he took her wherever she wanted to go. She laughed, and spanked his butt, and kicked her feet like she was a little girl.

This was the part B was getting at, the part he left out before. He accidentally tripped and fell, and they rolled in a dense blanket of moon dust; it was thick, like cotton candy, and they fed it to one another off their fingers. It tasted sweet. The moon dust turned into sunflowers, and they fed those to each other as well, like ice cream, K teasing and yanking a bite right out of B’s mouth, then smearing it in his face. He smiled, and she giggled. They kissed, and K slowly climbed on topof B, straddled him, and as the moon slowly rotated, the warmth of the sun hit them from the center of the galaxy. 

They watched it rise sitting like that, holding each other. It danced on their skin, each molecule vibrating higher and higher…until they woke up under B’s bed sheets. 

And as they made love, their fingers were still sticky.”

These emails and long calls over the couple months led up to the meeting day, a long waited return for two people madly in love, having never met.

I was excited, nervous, and so happy, certain the man of my dreams was coming to claim me, to not walk me away, but lift me up high over his head and carry me, a soulmate, a man I knew somehow could touch my heart with only his finger, only his. I was his and he was mine.

Until he showed.

He was nervous, my entire family meeting him at the door while I lit candles in my bedroom, hoping to God they wouldn’t unnerve him, all of them inspecting him like Scientists with little magnifying glasses.

He was nothing like I thought, his writing so forward and strong made me surprised to find a introvert in front of me, very quiet and soft spoken, looking around as if he wanted the nearest exit.

My palms began to sweat.

It was awkward, over played, too soon, or maybe I had wanted an illusion so badly I dreamed him up, my heart started to break every moment we spent, his distance farther away.

He said little or nothing, drank too much, could barely look at me, and my family felt more intrusive than ever, the questions asked were well meaning but made him jitter, like a man trying to run for his life.

I realized he was a sailor, a man who lived on boat to boat, and he wouldn’t, couldn’t be mine.

He belonged to no one, to freedom, to himself.

I would grow to resent him and him me if I took that from him.

God, it hurt.

I grieved a man I had never met more than most the boyfriends I had spent holidays and long vacations with.

I grieved a man I knew had changed me, all of me, and nothing was left to say.

But, when he was leaving, us both secretly relieved, he kissed me in the driveway, anxious to get on the road. I cried the whole time I saw his truck turn the corner, my heart completely broken, my dreams crashing around me. Then, I saw the red truck coming back, FOR ME?

I almost fainted from joy. Maybe it had been the family, the fear, the over expectation.

I tried not to cry or over smile, his getting out the truck, like a movie, coming back for me.

I forgot my wallet,” he said.

And so, “The One I Never Met” left, with my heart, and I cursed him and myself, hating myself for falling, for dreaming.

Until now. Now I see the blessing, the lesson, the fact that dancing on the moon and fantasizing of a life together had not been stupid, that the love I felt stupid for taking was in fact real.

That realization was long and hard, but it’s truth finally healed the pain pumping within me.

And one more thing. He introduced me to a little guy named Buddha, a pig that took swims in the pool, so with him in my heart, I did something brave. I wrote.

Buddhathepig was a name not taken, so I took a deep breath and owned it in his name and I wrote, the way he told me to, hungry, giving all of myself, from my heart.

We had the same dream all along and I didn’t even see it.

My dream, like his, was to be free, to be free to live just as I am, and so B, thank you for showing me how.

1 thought on “The One I Never Met

  1. Pingback: The One I Never Met « Normal is a Setting on the Dryer

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