ARMS AND THE MEN

ARMS AND THE MEN

Since Bob became corporeal and our long-held feelings for each other became an actual relationship, I sometimes ruminate on how well matched we are, in terms of our needs, our weaknesses and our strengths. Usually, these ruminations rumble to the surface as I hold a sleeping, or almost-sleeping, Bob snugly in my arms – times when both of us are more than content to be exactly where we are, doing exactly what we’re doing.

I still don’t know all that much about Bob’s former life. I hope he’ll tell me one day, and I think he probably will; it’ll just take time and trust. Oh, he trusts me – we trust each other of course – but Bob the man and Harry are still feeling their way with each other in subtle ways neither of us usually think about consciously. This is especially true when we’re just…together. I do my ruminating thing, and I suppose Bob does too.

We have a lot less issues with sex. The sex has been both tender and hot from the beginning. Our bodies clearly trust each other implicitly. But sex doesn’t always reflect the inner workings of the psyche. Bob still holds back parts of himself, which has a domino effect on me. I try not to hold back, but a part of me understands that I am, on some level. Still, I’m not too worried about it. We’re getting there, and the journey so far has been all I could want. When all is said and done, love itself has never been an issue.

I gather, from the cues I’ve been given, that Bob has never had enough touching in his life, enough holding from someone who cared about him – anyone, from parent to nurse to lover. I also sense that he’s never felt safe before, ever. That makes me very sad, and also determined to give him what he needs.

I’m learning about myself, too. I never knew my mother, but life with my dad, in the relatively short time we had together, was full of physical affection. Maybe it was something he needed, but also just a natural part of him. It has to be genetic, because I need it too, the touching and the hugging. I’ve never been shy about dishing it out, either. I could see that Bob didn’t know how to initiate physical contact outside of sex, but I have no trouble, and it gives me a warm feeling to the tips of my toes to see the light in his eyes, and feel him relax into me when I take him in my arms. I’m steering him gently to reciprocate when he feels the urge, to see that I’d like that, too. His awkward attempts invariably have the effect of melting me into a puddle and encouraging me to cuddle the heck out of him. Hopefully, that will reassure him that his efforts are appreciated.

I know that Bob feels protective of me, and has for a long time. It was a surprise to realize that I feel just as protective, maybe more, towards him. If anyone tries to harm a hair on his head, I’ll skewer them without a thought. The first time that came into my head, I was shocked. Now, it’s just a part of me I don’t think about unless I perceive danger to him, when the realization is only strengthened. Bob is mine, and God help anyone who wants to hurt him. Not mine as a possession, but mine as far as being a part of me, the other half of my soul; myself. Mine as in I wouldn’t want to live without him. I feel responsible for him, and I’ve never felt responsible about much of anything in my life; I have, in fact, prided myself on the opposite. Funny. Loving Bob is forcing me to grow up.

I think Bob is my discipline, and I’m his freedom. Nobody, not even my dad, and definitely not Justin, could get me to do what’s expected of me like Bob can. I would rather die than disappoint him, and I don’t know if he realizes that. That’s something I’m holding back, for now. For one thing, it’s scares me; for another, I don’t want to overload Bob with a sense of responsibility, I want to let him enjoy his freedom without any strings except the ones he wants to attach.

We’ve gotten to the point where sex isn’t the be-all and end-all of our relationship. It never has defined us, but early on, it came pretty close. I have my hang-ups about sex; Bob would seem to have none, which has made for some interesting evenings – hell, weekends. Weeks. Not that I’m complaining. He’s liberated me in ways I never dreamed of. He’s given me a confidence in myself, in just being me. Sometimes, the things we do and the feelings I have about them, and about Bob, still shock and embarrass me, but they tickle me, too. I can laugh at myself now, thanks to Bob – who would never laugh at me about this. He’s a patient, willing and very adept teacher in all subjects, academic or otherwise.

At this point in our relationship, we enjoy each other’s company and each other’s bodies without any expectations. I think that’s real freedom, for both of us.

We sit on the couch watching TV. Depending on his mood and the weather, his head may simply be on my shoulder, his body leaning against mine, or both of my arms could be around him, holding him close to me, stroking his hair. His hair is incredibly soft, and it soothes me to run my fingers through it. He’ll bury his face in my neck, embarrassed but needy, making soft noises of happiness. When he’s feeling especially – what, I’m not exactly sure – sad, or lost in his memories, vulnerable, or trusting – he’ll curl up with his head on my lap and let me pet him for a long time, sometimes until he falls asleep. If it’s cold, we’ll be snuggled under blankets and I practically have to pry him off me with a crowbar to get him to go upstairs to bed, he’s that content to sleep in my lap all night. It makes me humble like nothing else can.

In the apartment, I can pounce on him for a hug or a kiss anywhere, even in the office. He’s stopped giving even a token protest about people seeing us, or walking in. I think he likes the idea, actually, and I sure as hell don’t mind. Personally, I keep hoping for Morgan or Ancient Mai, since I doubt Murphy would be surprised.

Conversely, Bob can convince me to indulge in a grope or more pretty much anywhere in the apartment. Sucking me off under the desk has become one of our favorite pastimes, although it gets damn dicey when I’m talking to a client – which of course is Bob’s favorite time to indulge. Other times, our dinner has been seasoned by something unexpected when he’s jumped me in the kitchen. And when Bob talks dirty, it doesn’t matter where we are or what he wants, I’ll do it. That, he does know about me and uses, and you know, I can’t bring myself to protest.

Yep, we, as in Us, are coming along. Last night on the couch, Bob actually whispered in my ear, “hold me”, and of course I did. This afternoon, I let Bob fuck me in the john at McAnally’s – with somebody in the next stall. I wasn’t quiet.

Life is pretty damn good for the only wizards in the Chicago phone book.