I think every woman has loved three kinds of men: one she loves in bed, one she loves at the dinner table, and one she remembers loving.
The man she loves in bed is the man who comes to her when she feels most alone.
He fills her bed with his big build and warms her body by pressing every inch of his skin against hers, showing how much he longs for her feminine touch.
She likes it. She likes it that he makes her feel feminine and wants to be feminine. She likes the way he makes her believe that she has some kind of power over him, that she has to be, but no other.
To be with him is desired and aroused.
When his tongue dances in her mouth and his fingers run along her thighs and then are pushed between her legs, it is as if she had been asleep all this time and suddenly woke up, ready to discover the deepest thing in her and the thickest thing in him, to be free with her animal instincts and every crazy fantasy she never dared to admit.
She misses him in the shower, on the kitchen wall, in the night when she doesn’t see anyone attractive enough, and whenever she touches herself. She wants to feel again that she has a man in her life, a strong body in her bed, rough hands on her breasts, and human flesh in her body.
She calls him at 2 a.m. and he always likes to come. So now every 2 am he is the only man she thinks of, whether she has her feminine needs or not.
Next up is the man she loves at the dinner table.
He is the man she also wants to love in bed, but before this thought even enters her mind, her senses are already switched on by his presence, by the way, he looks at her, how he always teaches her something new and surprises her in all the little things he probably doesn’t even notice.
His words light up the darkest parts of her, and his smile is like a drug that is definitely too addictive for her to feel good.
She likes who she is when she is with him. She likes the way he talks about her to other people as if she were the best girl he has ever met. When life gets hard and she finds it hard to move on, he is the first number she wants to call and the first “Are you okay?” she wants to hear.
But she doesn’t always have the courage to reach out and tell him the truth, and certainly not the truth, which is that her heart skips a beat at the sight of him and her palm sweats when his name appears on her phone screen.
Because there’s just too much to lose. He is too much to lose.
She misses him on those days when she doubts herself and sees no light in front of her, whenever reality turns into a simple black and white picture and breathless moments are lost.
She wants to feel again that she is being cared for and appreciated, that her name is mentioned lovingly and personally, that she knows that there is someone out there who thinks she is capable, who believes in her, and goes to her limits.
Sometimes she feels that it might even be disrespectful to her to fantasize about him in her bed – not that she needs to because it is ridiculously overwhelming to just close your eyes with him for more than 3 seconds, accidentally stroking your arms against his and hugging him friendly while their bodies heat up.
She simply cannot deny that the thought of a private moment with him never stops electrifying her and that she is always hungry for more and more.
After all, the man she loves in her memory is the man who has her in daydreams, nightmares, and every waking second when she is not busy enough.
He is not there to spend the night or to sit at some dinner table and listen to her stories, but he is always there, every puff of cigarettes she takes, every shot of vodka she tries to get drunk with, and every kiss she mindlessly puts on a stranger’s lips.
Every time she’s with someone like that – someone new, someone old, someone who isn’t him – she can’t help but trace memories back to him, and soon old wounds start bleeding.
It’s as if somewhere inside her there’s a sharp knife hidden, which she quietly slices open again. Then she bleeds and it hurts. But it not only hurts, but it’s also disgusting and frustrating, because she has no idea how to get it out of her system, and often she doesn’t want to.
She desperately wishes that it was him who stared into her eyes and whispered to her that he missed her so terribly. She imagines what it would be like to be held by him once more and to feel truly feminine again.
She believes that her femininity was born for a specific purpose, which is to embrace a man she loves and who needs her femininity.
She misses burying her face in his chest, feeling the weight of his body on hers, and in his arms, she is finally at home and never wants to leave.
Now her bed is empty and so is her life.
A woman might have loved one or two or all of these men in her life.
But from time to time these three men happen to live in one body, have a name, and leave her anyway.