Sexy boy olion to date
I’ve been in and out of 12-step recovery programs (like Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous) for almost 20 years.
I’ve had many periods of sobriety, from a paltry four months to a lengthy seven years (and everything in between).
Jamie and I chatted for a minute, then I passed the phone to her. Afterward, I said to Patty, "Hey, you don't like to go out, either. After that, I cut him off entirely and distanced myself from Patty. The one thing that had helped me get over him was the notion that he couldn't have a real physical relationship with anyone. I hired a new therapist, trying to get to the root of the whole twisted experience. Nearly a year later, I heard from friends that they'd broken up. "Jamie is one sick guy," she said when she called back, adding that he would tell her he loved her one minute, then pull away the next. "I wish I'd never met him." Over time, I came to forgive Patty for what I saw as a temporary lapse of sanity. Eventually, I stopped thinking about her role in things altogether—and about Jamie's culpability, too.
You two should talk to each other when I'm not around." I'd handed her the phone on impulse, but on some level, I did want her to get to know Jamie—he was my quasi-boyfriend, after all. After several months of silence, Patty called and said she needed to talk. All along, I'd thought of myself as having been lured into a half-baked attempt at intimacy because Jamie wasn't willing to meet, when in reality, it was me who was afraid to take the relationship further.
"Nope," I said, "I'm satisfied." Then one night, he asked, "What are you wearing? Within six months, we were saying "I love you." I kept meaning to ask when we were going to meet in person, but I also kept putting it off.
" "Well, everything is at the Laundromat, so a pair of boxers, my roommate's 'Virginia Is for Lovers' T-shirt, and black socks," I admitted. Partly, I didn't want to pressure him; partly, I didn't want to risk meeting him and not liking him in person; and partly, I felt vulnerable.
I think I'll always be evolving in that department.
All I can do is fight the urge to live in a fantasy—so a Jamie can never set up camp in my heart again.
"I want to know everything about you, and I want to share everything about me. But he wasn't some creepy pervert living in his mother's basement. I knew he was who he said he was because there were articles written about him. "Good." Soon, we were having phone sex every night.
This guy had already managed to hurt me, in the space of just two weeks. We spoke for hours about everything, from our damaged childhoods to jobs to exes to first kisses.
Then he'd found me—a woman he might want to have a real relationship with. "Please," he begged, "give me another chance." I hesitated. I'd planned to merely dip my toe in the water, but instead, I cannonballed right in.
Being treated as my father's intellectual and emotional equal was heady stuff, and I'm guessing it was then that I developed a taste for the whispered intimacy of a forbidden nighttime chat.
Over the next few months, my e-mails and calls with Jamie grew increasingly passionate.