As I lie in a hospice bed awaiting the answer to the extant question, ‘What’s wrong with me?’ I wondered… What really is wrong with me? The halls of the Downtown Los Angeles Hospital echoed with cries of a madman refusing treatment, howls of terror crept up in my mind. Although I was alone, I did not feel that way at all. The night prior I was rescued from a terrible confrontation and fight. I was literally chased out of a building by a pseudo-friend.
I arrived to my golfer’s apartment in tears and was whisked up into his gentle and loving arms until the torrential downpour stopped running from my eyes. His baby blues moved toward mine as he kissed me, the stronghold of his energy calmed me.
Not sure if it was the energy of the moment or the suppression of my desire for him had come to a boil, but I fell to his bed and removed my skirt. He pulls the underwear from my hourglass and proceeds to make the softest love to me. It was sensual, long-lasting, and his member is sturdier than a kickstand. Our age difference was far from my mind when the lights went out. Up until this point it had been two years since I let a man devour me. It was our third month of courting.
It wasn’t sex or fucking, it was a convergence of souls through flesh that satisfied a hollowness, a beckoning question, ‘what’s wrong with me?’ His body answered mine softly to say ‘nothing, you’re beautiful, smart, and I want you just as you are.’ He’s renewed my faith in humankind and after 6 years of being single in Los Angeles the dating atmosphere doesn’t seem as dismal. But that’s not why I’m writing from a hospital bed.
I awoke the next morning with no feeling in my left foot and freaked the hell out. A weight-lifting, organic eating, water drinking health nut. Where had this ailment had come from? No clue but I had to find out what my nerves were trying to tell me.
Lying next to him in bed I called my employer and told them I needed a personal day, realizing I abandoned my belongings during the argument I had no money for the co-pay to see a physician. I explode into tears and beat myself to a pulp, my golfer stops packing his clubs and cleets to give me a few crisp hundreds and stuffs it in my torn bra. Tears ran down my eyes again.
Blindsided abnormal night of drama, my golfer rescued me. Literally. I feel even closer to him now, regardless of the sex or wherewithal provided, I now know that he is a true gentleman, friend, and a definite keeper. I cannot believe I let his age bother me when I should have been looking beneath the surface for the nurturer and provider that he has shown to be. I offered to pay him back to he refutes, “your money’s no good around me ever.” My golfer helped me realize that nothing is wrong with me, nor was it ever. Timing is everything and the love we share is utterly perfect. He takes direction and wants me to be happy from the trivial to the monumental. He is such a giver, if you know what I mean J. He picked me up at my weakest and his love makes me feel strong.
So I’m here in this hospital bed, a stark white bracelet circling my bony brown wrist. I await a friendly, spry doctor to return with what turned out to be good news. I pinched my sciatic nerve and my numbness is perfectly normal. Mister golfer and I spend everyday together and he still owes me a bra.
Quick side note(s):
1. He’s read everything I’ve written for BB&W, which I love and hate that he does because what if I need to throw him under the bus occasionally? Kidding? Not kidding.
2. Ladies I love you all but a few of you need to quit with the judgment. My life is on display for your reading pleasure so please spare me with the granny speeches about boundaries, tact, and respect. Over it. My mother reads what I write. Live YOUR life.
3. There was no physical violence during the altercation on the night in question.