Peter, Peter, Peter

“Intense” was the word I continually used in describing my new relationship with Peter. Everything was so serious, passionate, stern. Our conversations were more like study sessions about history, religion and sex. He informed me about Berwyn’s Mafia ties over and over again, his conversion to Buddhism and sexual explorations through classic erotica and his experiences with a Tantric mistress that provided him with sexual healing. It was all very interesting and enlightening, but so heavy and exhausting. I found it to be challenging to make him smile and a little frightening if I was able to make him laugh. This was not my usual cup of tea, but I felt it could become an acquired taste?

He continued to be gentle and kind with me. He said it was all about my comfort and he wanted to care for me, feed me, heal me. At times, I felt he was my submissive and that he preferred it that way, but the reality was that he was controlling me. I had to be quiet and listen intensely so I could try to keep track of all of the lessons he spouted. I had to be still and patient because the performance issues continued and I felt myself bargaining away my true feelings about his use of medicinal marijuana, which was more frequent than I was comfortable with.

I was thrilled about how he would ask to see me, to go out of his way and travel for hours on public transportation to see me, to wait for hours for me to arrive. I was taken aback by how many times he thanked me for my little acts of kindness and patience with him. He cooked for me, he did dishes without being asked, and he volunteered relentlessly to please me. It was all a little too good to be true.

However, I was equally generous and attentive. I gave him clothes my son no longer wanted, I treated more times than not when we went out, I picked him up and drove him back to the train stations and I found myself purposefully not sharing my true thoughts out of fear that I might upset him. Peter seemed to be a troubled soul, a delicate flower, someone who claimed to be abused by women and men alike. He continued to share with me his sexual explorations and the common thread was that they were with very strong, authoritative women. I have to admit, I found his fascination with my jewelry a bit disconcerting and I began to wonder about his true sexuality and lifestyle choices or lack there of.

I wasn’t used to a man wanting to see me so much. I usually did the chasing, this man kept being available to me, almost begging to be at the ready for me. He stayed overnight most times, but I did not let him stay in my home without me being present. However, one day he arrived before I got home from work and I was startled to see him sitting in my kitchen, my son had let him in. At first, I thought how nice it was to come home to someone, but then again, who exactly was I coming home to? I had only known this person a week or two and it felt as if he had moved in already. I figured that once he became employed again, which was in the very near future, this would not be the case, or would it?

Once again, in his need for me to be comfortable about him, he took me to see where he lived. He had warned me that it was very small, but I wasn’t prepared for how unhealthy it looked. There were piles of unpacked boxes and dirty dishes in the sink and on the counter. There were stacks of papers and books most everywhere I looked. Peter liked to read…a lot and noted the lack of books in my home and how it was a sign of a lack of intelligence. So, maybe he wasn’t so kind to me all the time after all.

The main feature I noted was the tattered window shade in the unkempt kitchen. No matter his lack of funds, I would think that would be the first thing I would replace. To me, it was a view into the deep recesses of his mind. It was dirty, torn and tattered like something out of a haunted house, right there in plain sight to be seen on a daily basis. Was this a mirror, a window of sorts into the soul of this person? I was beginning to see that I may not be dealing with someone who was completely sane, but who is, right? He had told me that he was medicated for bipolar disease and I wrote it off because, who knows maybe I should be too. I’m an emotional whirlwind myself, so who am I to pass judgement. However, I did not let my living quarters be this way, dark, scary and tattered.

I hadn’t felt well that day to begin with, but this realization added to my feeling ill. Peter was short on funds until his unemployment check arrived and asked if he could borrow $20 for his medicinal marijuana. I had agreed to lend him the money and we headed to the dispensary. It was located in a not so pleasant part of Chicago, but it was daylight and this was a legal facility, so I parked my car and we went in. It was bright and clean, professional looking and had a very welcoming waiting room where I sat as he made his purchase. However, as I was sitting there, I felt weaker and was becoming disoriented, most likely, it was a flu about to wreak havoc on my body.

I managed to drive us safely back to my home where I insisted on taking a nap. Peter stayed and seemed genuinely concerned for my well being. I slept for hours, woke for a few and went back to bed. He suggested that I stay home from work the next day, but that really wasn’t an option for me. In the morning, I was still under the weather, but I was determined to go to work and possibly leave early. Peter was fully aware of how I was feeling, but for some reason, he started on one of his negative rants again. I honestly don’t remember the topic this time, but it didn’t matter. I didn’t feel well and now I felt like I was being attacked. My filter was completely gone and without thinking I finally said, “You know what Peter? Fuck you!”

I had only ever said that to one other man, someone who had played me for years. I said it when I was at my breaking point and that was exactly where I was with Peter. He took his coffee and silently walked into the living room. I stood there realizing what I had done and thought, I just ended this relationship, now how do I get this man out of my house so I can go to work. Or, maybe it wasn’t that bad. Maybe this was a grownup fight and I can apologize and we can move beyond this point, but was that what I wanted?

The rants had been relentless and exhausting. The doubts about my level of intelligence because I didn’t read much and I had trouble remembering all the intimate details, dates, names, etc. of all that he had been spewing at me for the past two and a half weeks. The hit my pride was taking at not being able to please him sexually, not even once. It didn’t matter that he said it had nothing to do with me, but with how other women had treated him, it hurt and made me feel incompetent as a lover. I didn’t want to be with a submissive, I wanted to be with a man, an equal partner, someone who was not only kind to me, but could be supportive and yes, a man I could take to the promise land with accomplished pride.

To be continued…