love and sex. love and sex. love-sex.

To me, those 2 things always went together. Because why should you have sex if love wasn't there? You would just feel unsatisfied afterwards. And uncertain.

And didn't love always naturally lead to sex? The kind of sex that's still on your mind days later - when you're walking down the street and images of skin and sheets spontaneously pop into your head, making you smile. Yes, that Love-Sex. It's life's rule. My only rule.  I refer to it as the hopeless romantic in me.  I can't and won't ever let it go.

But the only problem is...sometimes love is fleeting.

Love Letters, Part XXXIVsomething

I dreamt about us yesterday morning...that it was a few months into our unlikely pairing. And you whisked me away to Barcelona because you knew I fell in love with Spain when I visited Malaga, Picasso's birth town, a while back. Our first night in Barcelona, you took me to the cutest, almost-secret little tapas bar in Las Ramblas that only the locals know about. They sat us at an intimate table and we laughed all night...drinking Tempranillo, my favorite Spanish wine. And Spanish wine has a thing about making me feel so happy and in love...Like you.

Yes you...let's get to you. You had never looked so dorky until that night. With your glasses. And you somehow thought it would be "neat" to grow out your sideburns. You said you were in disguise. But every time you looked at me or touched my knees - I wanted to pull you by the neck into my lips. It was a hot May night in Barcelona and all I had on was a black tank top and high-waisted pants, a little bit of blush and you had already kissed away all of my red lip stain. But you said I looked like a goddess. I thought you were crazy, but you made me feel what you felt about me. I saw myself the way you saw me. And it was intoxicating as hell...

And then, the dream ended...

Tomorrow, Paris!

Yes, I'm going to Paris for the FIRST TIME tomorrow.

Decided I'm going to wear black the entire time. Well, plus my new pink Keds sneakers. Because the coolest item I own right now is a black "Ain't Laurent" cropped black sweatshirt. And when I say "coolest"-- I mean easy and comfortable.

My style, as of late - has been all about soft and stretchy. And I strongly believe that every girl's hair should be big and billowing with curls. And very bouncy.

So I'm taking my soft and stretchy style to Paris, with my big bouncy curls. And we'll see if the Parisians can spot the Cajun Girl.

Seychelles

Maybe sometimes it's ok that he's in your head. Every sentence that he's said to you, only you have heard them. And only you get it. No one has gotten me like the way you get me, he says. It's grammatically incorrect, but you feel a rush anyway and think he's clever as hell.

And in your head, you & he have a special place somewhere on the border of Nolita and Soho. The kind of place that always has Strawberry Abita's when you crave them. With sweet, kitschy photographs of 90's memorabilia and Kandinsky replicas. It doesn't even have a name; it's just called "our place" and you both know to meet there every Thursday at 5:30pm...For a little bit of T.I., some Seychelles and a whole lot of i'm-crazy-about-you's...because in that place, it's always Christmas morning. His hand's on your thigh, your heart written on your face and his eyes telling you everything you imagine your husband would say, promising you the universe. And he smiles yearningly when you say "I'm naming our daughter Tallulah and our son Fritz, not Fitz, but Fritz. Maybe Meaux if there's a second son."

And he says "I can't wait, Babe."

Perhaps all of this exists inside your little head. But it's yours. And it's real. And no one can break it apart.

My Hundredth Attempt at Writing Poetry...

his pulse felt hard on the heels of my whims
our eyes locked and instantly i was jerked in this cyclical wind of wonder and nervousness and...hope
i was fearful, yet inflamed.

he then did this little dance, breathed a little too close to my face, and i finally noticed the hue of his bright eyes.
They were the same color as honesty, as sex, as the eyes of the other guy trying to see Soho's lights from my balcony.

he dared me to stay with him, in a romance that can rival any Shakespearean love and said "i'll never let you go."
under the haze of the Nolita smoke cloud, I said show me your streets, your crevices, your corners. and i'll show you mine.

at midnight, he became brazened
teasing
delicious
my legs intertwined with his, my tenacity no longer mine to control
he showed me so many things, tastes, smells.
his different smiles.

Now vs Then

Disappointment. It'll come crashing in with a triumphant thud, piercing the air with its siren. It's like having an unwanted houseguest on the first weekend of spring when all you want to do is drive around to look at all the gorgeous azaleas. Or if you live in a pre-war NYC apartment, it's the sound of the ancient furnace turning on at the sign of the first autumn frost – loud and rude. Either way, it's un-deterred in the way that it permeates your heart, your smile. 

Whether it's the waiting and waiting, the relentless waiting for that little miracle that you first dreamed about when imagining a life with Mr. Right. Or when you see that no matter all your efforts at being charming, the fire between you and him is just…all but diminished. And he no longer tells you all the joyful little things he used to tell you that made you completely combust with a new light, a happy dance and made every day an amazing hair day. Or he's too tired to explore all your places, when before – he was insatiable when it came to your body, your face, your laugh, your thoughts. 

And each new day, you look at him and wonder what he sees when he looks at you. The Southern spitfire with a dazzling smile that made his insides do somersaults or just the same girl with the same pajama pants he goes to bed with every night? It's a dance between you and him that became almost too easy. Complacent. Comforting. A warm cashmere sweater. When instead, you wanted the taste of a intoxicating sweet sancerre. And that's the current disappointment. 

Am I playing it too safe?

Girl Holding On

Just celebrated a pretty significant birthday...the first, true leap into womanhood. And it was zero crazy-show. Zero neurotic hysterics. I looked my age in the face and said "oh, you again? for real?"

But it seems that an expiration date now applies to all those innocent things I used to have so much fun doing. Like wearing cheap frilly shoes from Payless. Over-romanticizing school-girl crushes and falling crazy-in-like with cute Australian guys at the office. Saying "like" too much...or "dur." And reading quick, easy chick-lit books written for 20-something girls but with the language level for 6th graders.

Yes, all of those things require some re-thinking....But maybe next year...