Love Your Fantasy

Hey there, fellow singles. There’s a lot I hope for us all over this weekend. Have fun. Take it easy. Stay safe.

Please stay safe.

But also, I hope you recognize the core part of you that loves and wants love. Valentine’s should emphasize this more—more than the coupling, more than the pair mugs and assorted chocolates, more than the fancy steakhouse dinner or the wine and ardor that fuels the rest of the night.

Valentine’s is about me. About what my love looks like. My heart that yearns. My body that desires.

Think closely, concretely, on the details.

First I fill in the empty space next to me with “him.” A character who already has a story. A fantasy. I remove him from his canon and develop a rich complex story of how he becomes mine, and I, his.

We begin by treading each other’s surface. Facial expressions. Verbal tics. Features that stand out: his defined hands, for instance, or the obsidian of my eyes.

We ask questions. What foods do you like? (Rice and miso soup with plenty of leafy greens, Spam pork and fried egg with ginger.) What sounds do you enjoy? (The sea and flutes and music box chimes, the strum of the sanshin, the wind through the trees.) What joys makes your soul dance and anchor you to this earth? (Writing and stories. Sunsets. A full moon. And now also, his rare smile and his even rarer chuckle. His thoughtful silence and mild, sensitive speech.)

(His priorities turn on their axis and sweep me into his orbit. Now I must know more about him.)

Here the thought experiment steps up the difficulty, because now I must examine what draws him to me. (Because honestly, what is there to like about me?) My eyes? I’ve already mentioned those. My height? He can wrap himself around me like I’m his cherished secret. My hair? He’s seen the transformation from poof into twists, sectioned and conditioned to sway like willow leaves. He appreciates the clumsy artistry, not the exotic novelty.

Stop. There’s more to me than my physical features. My speech. (Stilted and hesitant. Shrill when excited.) My personality. (Removed. Objective. Cold. Selective kindness masks me.) My passions—writing, video games, my origin, my pain, the sorrows of the world. He asks to hear more. He assures me, he’s not overwhelmed. Rather, I stoke his curiosity.

Neither of us call this relationship “love.” To call us that would collapse the world we’re building around each other. So not yet. Not yet.

He examines the pieces of my heart I lay before him. Without counting or labeling these pieces, he gathers them in his hands and tells me, ‘These are all you. These are all so beautiful.’

He tells me, ‘Thank you, for sharing you.’

He asks me, ‘Would you let me, share me?'

These moments exist in pockets of time hidden throughout our nights, in myriad forms. Silence, and argument. Hidden tears or open sobs. Camaraderie over drinks or murmurs under moonlight. Cradled in each other’s arms or, eventually, tangled in wild passionate abandon.

Neither of us know when we agreed on this next step. We plumb the depths of our bodies and souls; my dimensions inform his. To know him is to know me. I witness myself forming through our bodily connection—of tongue to skin, of lip to scars, of hands woven and breaths melding—a non-transactional pleasure. He learns and touches and tastes me because he must know. He must understand. And I kiss and embrace and take him in because I must know. I must understand.

By surrendering ourselves, we perceive our “selves.” I see and feel him—in me, above me, against me—at the same time I see and feel myself—in him, under him, against him.

Now, I can finally say: I love him.

“You’re just fantasizing though, remember?”

I remember. Sure, it’s just a fantasy, but my awareness of the fantasy makes this exploration safe, my discoveries powerful. So I have no more bitterness toward love or its celebration. Solitude assures me love is a safe, empowering mirror. Solitude confirms the liberation in love.

So I wish love upon everyone.

Please have a happy Valentine’s Day.