A Love Letter

To my dearest Alistair,

A few days ago, you said that I had never written you a love letter. And I suppose that in this day and age, the hasty text message has become a poor substitute.

Though our situation is difficult, though my position is at times torturous, and though your heart is complicated, I thought I would write this to you.

Darling Boy, at the beginning of last year, I would never have guessed that it would be your bed that I was occupying in the future. The best part of eight or nine years having been spent barely acknowledging each other's existence.

It was at the Gate that I knew that if I let my guard down, even for a second, I would fall for you. I remember being snuggled under a blanket with you in the dungeon, thinking how beautiful you were, and how much you made me smile. I breathed in the scent of your hair and skin, and I wanted you so very much. So I decided to act on that feeling, and a very subbie girl became less so... And I remember you looking at me (and of course, we were more than a little high), and wishing I could take that look and lock it away somewhere, so that I might keep it, and drink it in again and again. I remember saying to you that I wanted any man I was dominating to look up at me with utter devotion. And you said that I wanted them to look up at me with love. I made an extra effort to keep myself guarded, because I secretly wondered, hoped that one day you would look at me with love.

And despite the fact that I knew it was foolishness, I eventually did let that guard down. And I think I was in love with you even before I would be honest and admit it to myself. By the time I said it to you, it must have been obvious to all. And you made me break one of my rules again. I said it first. Now, I know you had said "Love you" many times to me at this point, but I had heard you say the same thing to all your friends and everyone you were close to. But that Friday Night, I waited until I was wasted enough, and I told you. We were sitting on the floor of the living room, cross legged, half-naked, and half-clad in latex... I didn't look you in the eyes... The floor was far more interesting. And I told you. And I felt so vulnerable. We had been living together for several weeks at this point, (in between homes as I was). You told me that I knew damn well that you were in love with me too.

Those weeks I lived with you, despite the few splurges regarding the complicated mess, were so happy for me. Being around you felt, feels, so natural. You laugh at my jokes, and sometimes you just laugh at me in my moments of ditzy and strange. And I love that. And I love that you make me laugh too. I never tire of the banter that we have, nor of the fact that you are clever enough to challenge me, and I never tire of letting you win ;-) .

I love the fact that you encourage me to behave with slightly more decorum than I usually would, though not always with success. I love the fact that sometimes, just sometimes, I can pull down your barriers just enough so that I get to see the little boy that wants to fool around. I love that we can just snuggle in silence on the couch and watch movies, and that we fit there so well. I love that we like to go to bed together at night, and I love the way you emerge from the covers like a sleepy creature out of its burrow in the morning.

And when we fuck, or make love, or play, there is that chemistry... Others have seen it and said they are jealous. You, dear Alistair, are trouble. Perhaps it is because I am as transparent as a pane of glass to you, or perhaps it is because you have just the right amount of arrogance... But you are not afraid of crossing any line I draw in the sand, and then carrying on a few metres, just for good measure. You have had the, (handshake to your heritage), chutzpah to do things to me that every other man has been terrified of trying. Moreover, things that I truly believed I would have been quite happy going to my grave having never done. And I am glad you pushed me. And I am glad you have made me cry. Several times.

Every time you make me cry, I feel more than a twinge of pain. This is because every time you make me cry, it is because you have reduced me to the point where I would do anything, give anything to you, and yet I know that you are not mine. Despite this, my pretty boy, I know that I will go there again.

I will go there again because of the look in your eye, your mischievous smile. And that voice... As I have said, I do believe that I could listen to you read the phone book and make it sound enjoyable. And I will go there again because you are Alistair, and I love you.

See, that is the thing about romantic love, there are so many things to be listed about that person... You fall in love with them both for the many reasons that you can articulate, and for that intangible, undefinable "because". Because they are who they are, and there is a spark between you that is beyond the boundaries of common language... But you know it is there, the two of you.