It’s been forever since we were a couple, but my ex-boyfriend and I continue to stay attached—sometimes sexually, other times emotionally. Our connection refuses to die, like the knife-wielding psycho in a horror movie—no matter how much you try to kill it, it’s still there ready to resurface and stab you in the genitals.
Whatever it is that ties us, it isn’t enough to overcome the obstacles that stand in the path of us being together. For better or worse, we will always be drawn to each other—just not in a traditional way.
I think I figured out why we’re so sexually compatible. He programmed me. Not like the way you would program a computer. I’m not saying it was all part of his evil master plan, it just happened. Maybe since he was my first real boyfriend, he unintentionally imprinted on me sexually. He knows what I like because he’s the one who unlocked those desires in the first place.
We first got together at a college party. The night ended with us making out on the host’s wrap-around porch under the stars, as a light rain fell—very romantic. I prepared to just count it as a hookup and told myself not to expect anything from our encounter. Going against all dude-dating-protocols, he called me the next day, and we were on.
Our first official date was at the movies. As we sat in the dark theater, I tried to concentrate on the film, but he started drawing circles in the palm of my hand. I don’t know why, but this action sent a jolt of joy directly to my lady parts. I was incredibly aroused. I don’t know why I found it so erotic, but nothing has ever matched it.
I was practically a virgin when we had sex for the first time, and it almost didn’t happen. I hadn’t planned ahead and wasn’t dressed for sex. I was wearing a pair of panties that I washed with the dark colors and were now a shade of not-exactly-seductive grey.
A button was missing on my jeans so I had fastened them together with a large safety pin. Not surprisingly, my boyfriend was up for the challenge and handled these wardrobe obstructions with ease.
As we started to get into it, his kid brother began banging on the door, trying to get my boyfriend’s attention—not exactly sexy-time music, but not distracting enough for us to stop what we were doing. Although I hadn’t much experience, I could tell my boyfriend was good. No, better than good—he was a sexual genius.
After that, we had sex everywhere—his house, my house, the park, the student union and even in that old stand-by, his car. I didn’t realize that he was hardwiring me to respond to his way of having sex.
Then for no reason, I started to pull back and begin parceling out sex as if it was Halloween candy that I didn’t want to get sick on. I hadn’t had enough partners to know that my boyfriend was way better than average. I thought everybody is probably that good and wondered if others might be even better.
Behind my boyfriend’s back, I started to see his friend and an eventually traded one in for the other. My ex was hurt and angry, but we stayed friends. After a few months of friendship, my ex confessed that he was in love with someone else. I didn’t react well and he didn’t react well to me not reacting well.
In an overly dramatic gesture, I returned all the letters and gifts he had given me. Our post breakup termination was ugly. We were both furious and thought that it was over. But of course, we weren’t done, not yet, not by a long shot.
Skip forward a few years. He married a woman I objected to—the woman who wasn’t me. I was living with his friend 300 miles away while my ex worked as a front desk clerk at an upscale hotel. One of his duties was to take over the switchboard so that the operator could take her lunch break. One late night he took advantage of some free long-distance and phoned me.
“I could call anywhere in the world, but I’m calling you,” he said on my voicemail. Even with all the distance and relationships between us, I clearly heard his message.
Sadly, his marriage didn’t work out. I was single, still living in L.A. I had some female surgery a couple of months before, and convinced him to come visit me, and help me check to see if my plumbing works. He was resistant because he was still angry that I dumped him for his friend.
Luckily, I didn’t have to do much to convince him that he’d be sleeping with me, not for pleasure but for medical research. He agreed but silently promised himself not to kiss me—that’ll show me. We ended up doing it a number of times and even without the kissing it was good, really good.
More years passed. We stayed in touch. Every so often I’d visit him or he visited me. No longer feeling like he had to punish me, he reinstated kissing. Yay! We had sex—mind blowing, toes curling sex. Now I understand why everyone is so fixated on it, sex. But every time, we even considered reuniting as a possibility, fate stepped in and ruined it.
One time, he was in the next town over from me on a children’s theater tour. He was there for a few days, but each time we made plans, they got cancelled and I never saw him.
Then another time, when we were actually both single and in the same city, I was positive we’d get back together at his family’s New Year’s party. I waited and waited all while holding a fancy cocktail, but he never showed up.
I finally understood that this is the true nature of our relationship. We can’t be together but we’ll never be completely apart.
I haven’t seen him in years, but I know that we’re imprinted on each other’s heart. I feel lucky that I have someone in my life who has been a witness to my journey as a person, a sexual being and a friend. He’s somebody who knows what I like and how to get me going and for that I will be eternally grateful.