Moving on from June W. is the hardest thing to accept. So what if the damage has been admitted, it still doesn’t repair everything. And I still love her; I still have passion for her. 17 years of desire does not disappear easily. I used to sing to her, sometimes over the phone from 1500 miles away, sometimes in person (in Spanish). Neither of us understood the words, but the motions and emotions were obvious. It was sweet.
Sitting in a chair, June sat there like a prisoner accepting the punishment of my voice and body on top of her. She just sat there with a willing smile on her face while I sang to her in broken Spanish…she just loved it. It showed in her smile and smell of her inner juices. I don’t know how or when to brake the prisoner/pleasure barrier, but it really felt right that night. She’s fine, there was no reason to stop. I don’t remember what happened afterwards.
She asked me later to do it again. I couldn’t, because I couldn’t duplicate the same emotional explosion…it was simply a spur of a moment type of thing.
June and I once challenged each other to quit an addiction: hers was smoking, mine alcohol. We wrote little books chronicling our bi-polar failed attempt to become better. She succeeded; I did not. I hold onto these books. I really felt that I could be the sober man for her that she met, not just married, but became the partner in life.