Tell Me I’m Pretty

A complete stranger told me I was pretty today.

I was standing in line at the checkout in the grocery store and the cashier and I were idly chatting about something I can’t even remember now. Just one of those inconsequential conversations you have, you know?

Anyway, the woman in line behind me was obviously listening. Somewhere along the way I made a comment about how I might get better access to something if I was 18 and pretty. The cashier and I laughed that kind of laugh you do when you know something is painfully true but you’re pretending it doesn’t matter.

Then I said it was all right because my hubby still thought I was pretty, even after all these years. So it didn’t matter what anyone else thought.

The woman behind me immediately chimed in, “You’re still pretty.”

Sweet, right? An unsolicited compliment. So what did I do?

I diminished it.

I fucking diminished it.

I laughed the kind of laugh you do when you feel awkward and then thanked her in a very offhand manner. Which I’m not proud of, by the way. I mean, she was just being nice. Right?

But then I did the thing that I knew was really wrong when I did it. The thing that I always do. The thing that I hate when other women do it and I just did it anyway.

I made a joke about how many glasses of wine she’d had for lunch.

Yup. You got it. I implied that she had to be drunk to think I was pretty.

What’s worse is that she got it. Instantly. Because I’m willing to bet my considerable ass that she’s done the same thing herself.

Because it’s what we all do, isn’t it? It’s what women do.

Men don’t do this as much, do they? If you compliment a guy he usually puffs up and takes the compliment as his due. Like he knows he’s all that and a bag of chips and it’s about damn time you noticed.

But women? No way. We demur. We turn away. We make a joke. We laugh it off. And I know it’s not just me because I’ve seen countless women do it over the years. Women who just can’t seem to take a compliment about anything. Even from other women.

This isn’t about a #MeToo moment or anything like that. It’s not about some guy trying to get in my pants or someone wanting something from me. This was just a sweet, lovely older woman offering up a sweet, lovely compliment to a complete stranger.

And I made her feel bad about it. Or less than, anyway.

I knew when I did it that I shouldn’t do it. I knew after I’d done it that it was stupid. Senseless. But I did it anyway.

I’m smart as hell and I don’t generally have self esteem issues and I just plain smacked away that compliment as surely as if I’d have taken a tennis racket to the thing with a back-swing worthy of Serena Williams.

Why do we do this? More importantly, why do we do this to ourselves?

We’re conditioned. From birth. We’re taught to be quiet. Be small. Not to draw attention to ourselves. Even a woman like me who was raised by a strong mother and a loving father who both told me I could be anything and do anything I wanted in this life. Who always made me feel loved.

Still, I knew deep down at an instinctive level that I should push away the attention.

Whether I’m pretty or not isn’t even the issue. The issue is why I couldn’t let a perfectly nice woman say I was. Just once. Just for a moment.

And honestly, I don’t have an answer for why not.

At least, not a good one.

Be My Valentine

It’s that time of year again.

That special day when you are made to feel completely inadequate about your relationship and everything in it. You men love this day, don’t you?

You don’t???

Hey, I know. Valentines Day is a made up holiday. You don’t get the day off so what good is it? You have to spend a pile of money to prove that you love someone you’re already dating or live with or are married to. You will never quite meet expectations and you’ll pay dearly if you get it wrong.

For most men, it’s a minefield.

If you’re dating, you need to get her just the right thing to convey exactly where you think your relationship is. Spring for something too much too soon and she’ll think you’re pushing. Hold back and she’ll be crying because you don’t care as much as she does.

If you’re married, you might think you’re off the hook. After all, you did do the whole diamond ring and wedding thing. Surely that’s enough, right?

WRONG!

Being married puts additional pressure on. Because now she knows how much money you have and exactly what all your friends are getting their wives. Yours has to be just a touch better. Something she can tell her girlfriends that sounds sweet but has just a hint of the brag in it.

Sort of a “my husband loves me more than yours loves you” type of thing.

Plus if you ever want to get laid again, you’d better not actually forget that it’s Valentines Day. If you do, it will just be you and your hand for weeks. Months, even. Women can be vindictive bitches when we want to be.

Then there’s the problem of what to do if your wife just had your baby. If she squeezed a whole human being out of her hoo-haw, you sure as shit better offer up something better than some flowers and a cheap-ass dinner. She wants jewelry, poetry and for you to look like a young Brad Pitt for the night.

Just sayin’.

My hubby looked at our calendar for the week late Sunday night and stared way too hard at it for what he was supposed to be doing. Finally I had to ask what he was thinking. Always a risk, by the way. (smirk)

He said he just realized that Valentines Day was this week. Then he turned to me and pinned me with those deep brown eyes of his that I love so much and said “Thank God I don’t have to do that shit anymore.”

Romantic, ain’t he?

Actually. He is. He got Valentines right pretty much every year until I called a halt to celebrating it with anything more than a simple dinner together.

He used to order a dozen long stemmed roses way ahead of time so he got the good big ones. Paid extra and everything. Then he made sure they were delivered to my office early in the morning so all day everyone could see just how great a guy I’d picked. Other women in the office without any flowers went home to husbands and boyfriends that were in the doghouse before they ever even knew it existed. (bigger smirk)

Plus he wrote beautiful poetry on the card. Intimate private prose that made me blush and smile. Which made those flowers mean so much more. Because it meant that he didn’t just make a phone call to a florist. He went in person and wrote out something he’d thought about. Something he took his time with. Something that told me just how much he loved me.

I’ve saved every one of those.

He never forgot. Never. Even when his father had just died. Even when he was recovering from surgery. Never.

So all you men out there – here’s a gift from me to you. A guide to how to navigate Valentines Day.

1. Don’t forget. No matter what. No excuse, except possibly being in a coma, will ever be good enough.
2. Make it personal. Those sweet poetic cards hubby sent with my flowers meant more to me than all the roses in the world. It doesn’t have to be Hallmark worthy or compete with Shakespeare. Just tell her something special you love about her, even if it’s just the way she looks at you. Or how you love that she makes your favorite meal. Or the way she moans when you make her come. (You do make her come, right? Because if you don’t, nothing you write is ever going to compensate.) (Huge smirk)
3. It doesn’t have to be expensive. The roses I got were pricey. But in the earliest years when we didn’t even have the idea of a pot to pee in, my hubby still found ways to tell me what I meant to him. He cooked for me. He put on music and we danced around until we were naked and dancing in a whole other way. He bought really cheap wine and then toasted me with sweet nothings in my ear.
4. Don’t forget. Did I mention this already? Because it’s crucial!
5. Don’t think that fancy flowers and dinner or even jewelry will compensate for you being a dick. If you’re cheating on her, she knows it. She might not say it but trust me, she knows. So don’t bullshit her. If the only time you’re nice to her is Valentines Day, do her a favor and become a better man the rest of the year first. Seriously.
6. Plan ahead. Don’t wait until you leave work on the 14th to get her flowers. If you cheap out on grocery store crap, she’ll spot that in a minute. Order at least a month ahead.
7. Don’t buy lingerie. Unless your woman regularly buys a ton of fancy lingerie for herself, it’s not something you should buy on Valentines Day. If you get the size wrong, there will be tears all around. For days. If you buy something too slutty because you’re a dick, she’ll hate it. She might wear it once if you push it but you’ll never see that shit again. Not a chance. Don’t waste your money unless she tells you she wants that. Better to buy her tickets to a play or a concert and take her to that. Better to get her earrings or another of whatever it is she collects, even if you think it’s silly.
8. Did I mention that you shouldn’t forget?
9. All these things aside, it wouldn’t kill you to call your mother. She birthed you and she was your first Valentine. Believe me on this – you’ll miss her when she’s gone

OK. Have you got it now?

Yeah, I know. It’s not easy. Women have it better. We can make you a special dinner or give you a blow job that lasts more than a minute and you think it’s the best fucking day of the year. Men are easy. Women are not.

We’re complex creatures and Valentines Day just makes that more obvious. If you’re not sure, ask her best friend. Not your best friend. He’s probably a dick too. Ask her best friend. And then listen.

Maybe it’s too late for this year. Maybe you can salvage things by doing something sweet and personal. Probably not. If you were that romantic and creative you wouldn’t be trying to fake your way through the day at the last minute.

Try to remember that you love this woman. Or at least really like her. And if you ever want sex again, you’ll give Valentines Day it’s due.

One final thing. Some women hate Valentines Day. Even in relationships. Even in marriages. Hubby and I stopped the roses and gifts years ago because I hated him spending money like that to tell me what I already knew.

He loves me. He shows me just how much every single day.

That, by the way, is the best Valentines gift of all. Showing her the other 364 days of the year just how you feel about her. Help around the house. Treat her well. Tell her you love her often and mean it. Hold her without expecting sex all the time. Take care of her when she’s sick. And even when she’s not. Don’t be a dick.

A woman who feels well loved the other 364 days a year is a whole lot easier to deal with on Valentines Day.

You might even get that blow job you really want!

 

How to Meet Women

You know how sometimes a subject will keep coming up in your life over and over again? No matter who you’re talking to or where you are, somehow that same topic just keeps popping up.

Well, for me this week it’s how men go about meeting women.

It started at a restaurant. Hubby and I were having a fast dinner at a chain restaurant that is a step above fast food but not a huge step. At a table behind us there were two men talking. Their conversation was loud enough that I could hear it without trying. At first, I tuned it out. Until I realized they were trying to figure out how to find women.

One of the men was obviously divorced. He only saw his kids one or two days a week and he worked from home so he didn’t have much chance to meet women. He said he had tried some of those single groups out there and even online dating. But no luck.

I kind of felt for the guy. One the surface he seemed like a nice guy. He was (I checked) good looking and in good shape. I didn’t ask him to strip or anything but he certainly didn’t seem overweight or sloppy or any of those things women might use to write him off as a potential mate. He talked about working on his basement so he had some basic skills and he even mentioned certain meals he had cooked. He spoke about how business was good and he had no money worries.

All good, right? So why couldn’t this guy get a date?

Then yesterday in a conversation with a friend she mentioned that the guy doing some flooring work in her house asked her how he could meet women. He was, according to her, good looking and in great shape. And yeah, she checked out his ass. More than fine, she reported. He obviously had a job and she said he seemed like a nice guy.

Then today. I’m sitting in a waiting room at a hospital clinic and a guy is talking to his brother about how he can’t find a date. He wasn’t the one there for medical treatment. He was nice enough to bring his brother, though, and he worked a job that had some flexibility for those sorts of things. He had his own house and by all accounts was a nice guy.

Three guys. All fit, working and having a home of their own. One divorced with kids, one divorced without kids and one never married. All sharing way too much of their private life in public if you ask me. Not that it matters.

So why are these guys alone?

The answer showed up in all three conversations.

Expectations.

We live in a world where men are watching porn that shows them gorgeous women with huge boobs and asses who will deep throat them without hesitation. They’ll do anal at the drop of a hat and come back for more.

They see movies where super thin movie stars crawl all over older, fatter men who don’t seem to have much going for them. They see those same movie stars all over the internet dating all kinds of guys, including ones who don’t seem to measure up to the women. Heck, even Julia Roberts married a camera guy. Not a movie star. They date their bodyguards or their assistants or the director on their movie or television show. Regular looking guys.

So when these three men look in the mirror, they expect a movie/porn star will come drooling for them.

Yeah, right.

I thought I might be wrong until these men kept talking. All of them complained how the women they met weren’t up to their standards. They didn’t say it that way, exactly, but their intent was clear. They wanted a 10 when they should have been looking for a 6 or 7.

I mean, these guys were good but they weren’t exactly George Clooney or a Helmsworth or Ryan Gosling. Or whoever it is that women drool over these days.

I thought about it afterwards. Maybe the women had the same expectations. Maybe we wanted 6 pack abs and chiseled jaw lines and billionaire lifestyles. After all, that’s what all the romance novels tell us we should want.

I honestly don’t know. What I do know is that from what I heard it was the men dumping the women and not the other way around. One of the guys really just wanted sex for a while. It was too soon after his divorce for more. But a guy like that practically wears a sign that says “Fuck me & Move On”. Not a lot of women are looking for that guy.

The guy who had never been married was well into his thirties. Another red flag. Why hasn’t he been married yet? Or at least engaged or living with someone? Is he one of those guys who will never find a woman as good as his Mommy? Hard to compete with that.

So what’s the answer?

There’s a guy online who posts endless pictures of stunning women in lingerie alongside sweet poems about being a good man and taking care of his woman. His followers go crazy for it all. But it’s bullshit. Because he wants a women who looks like the pictures and waits on his ass every day. Plus he’s married. Makes no secret about it, for shit’s sake.

Yeah, that’s the guy for me. (Big eye roll here!)

Guys need to be honest with themselves first. Are they looking to fuck? Say so. Are they looking for a Mommy? Say so. Are they married and just a piece of shit masquerading as a nice guy? Well, they don’t have to say that. We’ll spot that shit right quick. But at least it’s all honest.

Look, I feel for these three guys. Alone sucks. Especially this close to Valentines Day and hot on the heels of a Christmas where sure as shit someone asked why they weren’t settling down.

But real love isn’t about your abs or taking it up the ass. It’s about connection. Commitment. About being unselfish. About being honest. About being a friend as well as a lover. It’s not about expecting her to look stunning all the time. It’s not about her lingerie either. It’s about loving her even when she’s sick or tired or fat or fed up or whatever. Just the way these men want to be loved.

And if the men out there aren’t ready for that, then they are never going to find what they think they are looking for.

No matter how much they talk about it.

Real Men Eat Pussy

Do I have your attention? Did the title of this blog make you want to read it?

Perverts!

I did warn everyone when I started this blog that it was going to be NSFW. And if you’re underage and still reading, get your ass out of here. You have the rest of your life for the adult stuff.

Because today, among other things, we’re going to talk oral. As in pussy. As in men who say they do but might not.

It started, as do many things these days, with something I read on my Twitter feed. Yeah, all right. I spend too much time on the damn thing. But it’s fascinating. All these people and all these opinions and all this fun and weird and great stuff flowing freely down my screen.

Anyway, an account I’ve followed for a while slipped past my “Turn Off Retweets” rule. I love my followers but sometimes they follow other people I don’t love. I was finding that my timeline was full of retweeted book ads and the same dozen or so GIF’s that I hated the first time I saw them. Never mind the hundredth. So I generally turn off all retweets for pretty much everyone.

Anyway, I headed into his timeline to turn off his retweets and saw a few things that interested me. One follower of his, in particular, got a lot of his attention and practically everything from that guy got retweeted.

So, being the diligent writer type that I am and counting the whole process as research, I headed into the timeline of that guy.

Here’s the thing. He’s a Dom. Or says he is. His tweets are full of submissive women all tied up and held down and on their knees and with their asses in the air. You get the idea. But it’s oddly tasteful. The shots are beautiful and the men and women are all gorgeous. The men wear expensive suits, when they’re clothed at all, and the women wear lingerie and shoes that probably cost hundreds of dollars. At least.

He’s obsessed with eating pussy. Loves it. Endless shots of various men with their tongues slurping all over a nice juicy clit. Drops of sweet desire landing in their open waiting mouths. Women with their head thrown back and their thighs tight against a man’s head as they shiver and shake in ecstasy. All very erotic. Lots of little sayings about letting her ‘cum’ first.

And the tag line – over and over again. Real men eat pussy.

It’s not original. He didn’t create those photos or those GIF’s or videos. He wasn’t the first guy to use that phrase. But it was a definite theme. Tie her up, plant your face between her thighs and make her shudder and scream.

Not a bad way to spend an evening. Or a morning. Or both.

Interspersed with those, though, were a lot of shots of one particular man. A Dom. Definitely. Sometimes he was in what was was identified as a “play room”. Or he was sitting in a big leather chair with his pants undone and a certain body part on full display. Or he was naked and wet, just coming out of the shower. All sort of yummy pictures that were done to look like selfies. You can imagine the type.

(You’re imagining it right now, aren’t you? Do you need a minute? Or a few?)

Anyway, this guy implies, over and over again, that the man in those photos is him. He basically says so outright. Except none of those ones show his face. All you see is a pretty damn fantastic body and a particular body part that is…well, let’s just say above average.

Waaaay above average.

I mean, you could put someone’s eye out with that thing, you know? That kind of above average.

(Go ahead. Imagine it. I’ll wait……)

So naturally, I looked some more. Research, remember? (Cut that out. I can hear the giggling and eye rolling from here.) What I found was more of the same. Almost.

Then out of the blue a post popped up that was about the writer undergoing some tests and surgery. It didn’t fit at all with the image that the Twitter feed was projecting. Especially with the image of that one dominant very well-hung man who was supposed to be the owner of this particular feed.

Curious, I scrolled further and found a photo of a different man from the Dom standing in front of a place that was startlingly familiar. Believe me, this guy looked nothing like the very above average dick…um, sorry… guy whose pictures were all over the timeline.

This other guy lived in a place I recognized from the photo. An ordinary not quite small town where I’ve spent some time. He was average. Older. Hair getting really grey. Thinning. Waist pooched out a bit over the belt of his average pants. Wearing an average looking shirt over an average body. There was no chance in hell he was the well-built muscled 6-pack abs guy with the above average assets who was all over his Twitter feed.

So who was this guy?

Was he ever the well-built Dom? Was he the walking cock master with women dripping beneath his talented tongue when he was younger? A lot younger? Was he the guy with a play room and miles of rope, some of it clearly wrapped around very beautiful women in the style of Shibari. Which, by the way, can take years to learn to do really well. Was this guy the man who did that?

Or was this guy some ordinary schlub who lived out his fantasies on Twitter? Was he Joe Average with a decidedly average body and, I’m guessing, a probably very average cock. Because the average guy never actually showed that body part. Only the hunk did.

I don’t have a problem with hiding who you are online. Fantasy can be a very real part of any sex life. It can certainly be a part of your online life. Wishing you were someone else isn’t new. We’ve all done it. But how far do you go in presenting yourself as someone else? How far can you go before the people who have become invested in you and in your thoughts feel betrayed when it’s revealed you’re nothing like you said you were?

I didn’t follow the guy. Not because he was average. I actually found that stuff more interesting. But I didn’t follow him because I felt like he wasn’t being honest with himself. And if you can’t do that, how can you be honest with the rest of us?

Full disclosure here. My name isn’t Laina Ruff. That’s a pseudonym. I’ve been pretty open about that. But everything else you read here is me. I don’t post GIF’s on my Twitter feed because I didn’t make them. I only post photos on both my Instagram and Twitter pages that I’ve taken – which you can tell because they’re so crappy. On rare occasions I might post photos taken by friends of mine, all of whom are exponentially better with a cell phone camera than I will ever be.

But it’s all me. My words. My life. My opinions. Me. Chocolate and all.

These days privacy is rare. It’s something to be treasured. So I’m careful about using my real name and location. Other than that, I am what I am and if you don’t like it, there are millions of other nut jobs out there you can hook up with.

This guy presented an intriguing face to the world. Not to mention a spectacular cock. But was any of it real? Is he really a Dom? Or does he just want to be? I liked the false face but I would have liked to see more of the real him. Even if he is average. Even if his body is average. Even if the women he was with were average. Because at least it would be real. Honest.

The bottom line is this. Real men tell the truth.

They also eat pussy.

 

 

 

Sugar Daddy

I got my first message from some guy offering to be my Sugar Daddy today.

At first it made me laugh. Then I felt a little sick. Now I think I need a shower.

Do people really do this? I did some hunting around – there’s an hour of my life I’ll never get back, by the way – and discovered that a lot of this is scam crap. People just want your name and bank information so they can take your money.

But it’s also a real thing. Men go looking for women, mostly younger and prettier women, to be with. To have sex with. The men pay, obviously, because what young and beautiful woman in her right mind would let herself get slobbered over by an old fat guy if he wasn’t paying her?

I guess it’s a fair deal. She gets cash, he gets sex. It’s like prostitution only it’s more like a variation on the Girlfriend Experience. He can pretend she really cares for him and she pretends she’s not adding up her bank account in her head while he humps away.

Kind of like true love – minus the true and the love parts.

Look, if you want to sell any part of your body, either temporarily or permanently, then that’s your business. Or at least it should be. And if you want to pay someone to pretend to care about you, then that’s your business. Or at least it should be.

What’s weird to me is this random reaching out. Nothing in my profile indicates that I would be interested in such a thing. I mention my husband in my bio. I talk about him off and on in my timeline. One fast check of a few of my tweets and you’ll see I’m not for sale.

And yet…there it is. A Direct Message Request asking me if I want some unknown guy as a Sugar Daddy.

His profile is, of course, locked. His picture is of some guy supposedly on a helicopter. He looks like he’s successful, I guess. I’m probably supposed to infer that the helicopter is his. But here’s the weirdest part – there’s a kid next to him.

A kid.

Am I supposed to think he’d make a good father? Am I supposed to believe he’s a good person because he took a photo with a kid and then put it online. While he trolls for women as a Sugar Daddy?

Oh, yeah. He’s Father Of The Year material, all right.

Look men, here’s the thing. We hate this crap. We hate the come-ons. We hate the dick pics. We hate the “Hey, babe” messages. We hate all of it. None of it is going to get you laid. Like, ever!

And if you’re a young beautiful girl out there looking for a way out of paying for college, grow up. Working hard is part of being an adult. Working hard teaches you how to be self-sufficient. You learn things about yourself. You learn things about the world. Try it. Surely it’s better than closing your eyes and pretending the lump on top of you isn’t an old creepy guy who is also pretending he’s a chopper pilot who would make a great Dad.

No sugar tonight, buddy.

Or, you know, ever.

Happily Ever After

I got into a discussion today on Twitter about Happily Ever After.

I’ve believed for a long time that people don’t really understand what that actually means.

We have a very skewed view of what romance is these days and especially what Happily Ever After is. We see a guy on the front cover of a romance novel who has gorgeous abs and flowing hair and the absolutely perfect amount of facial hair and we want that. Men see women in ads and in magazines who have perfect breasts and the most exquisite ass and an unblemished face with big eyes and soft lips.

We think that’s romance. But it’s not.

We think that’s happily ever after. But it’s not.

Did you ever see a picture of a couple who have been married 60 or 70 years? Do they look physically perfect to you? No. Of course not. Because they aren’t. Hell, most of us aren’t. I’m certainly not and neither is the man I’ve loved my whole adult life.

Very few of us look like the covers of those books and magazines. But we’re inundated with filtered and processed and altered images all day long. Women think they need men who are tall, dark and handsome. Men think they need women who have big boobs and a perfect ass.

Almost none of us get that. We just don’t.

Humans are flawed. We’ve all got body parts that aren’t perfect. Our boobs sag. Our tummies are to big and too soft. Our ass is too flat. Our dick is too small. Our hair is thinning. Our nose is too big. Our face breaks out if we even look at sweets. We smell funny when we sweat. We fart and burp and even throw up sometimes. We say the wrong thing at the worst possible time. We snort when we laugh. We snore when we sleep. We’re all flawed in so many ways.

And yet, we all want love. We all want to be in love and be loved.

But if you’re only looking for perfection, how the hell are you ever going to be satisfied?

There was a time when many marriages were arranged. Sometimes it was because the town was small and there was little choice. Sometimes it was a religious thing. Sometimes it was because men needed a wife to help work the fields and sometimes it was because women needed a way out of a bad home life. No matter what the reasons, a couple would meet only days or weeks before their wedding. There was no living together ahead of time. You rarely even dated without a chaperone first. And then there you’d be. Married and fumbling under the covers before you even really knew their middle name.

But those marriages often stood the test of time. They often stood strong in the face of weather disasters, financial difficulties and the death of multiple children (which was common in those days). Love grew out of respect. Out of shared work and common experiences. It grew over time.

These days we expect instant love. We expect wild romantic dates and staged proposals that rival movie scenes. We plan intricate weddings that cost more than my first house.

But nowhere along the way do we consider the actual marriage.

When I got married we had to go see the minister and do a personality test to see if there were areas where we were incompatible. Now in fairness, by the time we got married we had already lived together for several years. But when we came back for the results, the pastor just grinned and told us he’d see us for our 50th anniversary.

It wasn’t that we were perfectly compatible. It was that hidden in the test were questions about if we talked to each other. About how we communicated with each other. Those were the critical ones. They let him know that we were prepared to hash shit out, even if it was hard.

The truth is we really did have insta-love. The real thing. We both knew within seconds that we belonged to each other. But even with that and even with the intense physical and chemical attraction we had to each other, it took a while before we married. We had to adjust to each other. We had to learn how to live with each other.

It’s about more than physical attraction. Bodies change over time. No one (or almost no one) stays beautiful forever. Things droop and soften and fall off. We get fatter or dumpier or have health problems that rob us of sexual desire or physical energy. If all you ever looked for in a partner was outer beauty, your relationship is in the crapper practically before you get started because life wears you down. Without a solid foundation, you’re adrift before you even push off shore.

When we first got together we were wild for each other. We couldn’t keep our hands off each other. We’d close the door to our tiny one bedroom apartment on Friday night and stay naked and entwined around each other the entire weekend. We used to drag the mattress out to the living room and put it in front of the television (we could only afford one crappy set) and we’d watch old movies. We’d make love off and on all day, ignoring the clock and the phone and basically everything else.

Even now, when our bodies have shifted and aged and when health troubles have left their mark, we still crave those times alone together. We like to sit in the same room, even though now we live in a much bigger house with lots of places to choose from. As I write this, hubby is little more than arms-length away from me. Which is how we like it.

Even when we fight, and heaven knows we’ve had our share, we never took the low blow because beneath all the anger and frustration and hurt feelings was still that solid foundation of love. Of trust. Of connection.

None of which has anything to do with his abs or the size of my boobs. It doesn’t matter if I’m wearing fancy lingerie or that he doesn’t have a monster porn-sized dick. (I’m not sure I’d want him to! Ouch!!)

He loves me best when my hair is down, my makeup is off and I’m wearing my easy to open bathrobe. I don’t have to try all the time to impress him. I don’t know how women do that. I’d be exhausted. He just loves me as I am. Even when I bug the hell out of him. Even when he most definitely does not agree with me. Even when it’s hard to love me.

I love him because he makes me laugh, even when I don’t want to. I love him because he cares enough about me to worry when I don’t have warm socks on in the winter. When my hand was big and puffy and swollen recently he made sure I had a pillow in the car. No fuss. No big deal. Just done. I love him when he’s yelling at the refs during football games, even if he’s wrong about the call. I love him when he’s annoying and irritating and I want to scream at him. Because even then he looks at me with those soft brown eyes of his and I can see the love.

The same way I could the first time I saw those eyes.

True love isn’t photoshopped. True love isn’t clean. It’s not picture perfect. It’s not the best hair or best body. It’s not artfully draped across the bed in tiny lace lingerie. It’s not about tying you up or tying you down. It’s not about money or the fanciest car or the biggest house. It’s not about the biggest salary or best job. It’s not about who’s on top or who’s on the bottom. It’s not about anal or oral or deep-throating or doggy-style. It’s not about IQ or college degrees or who can answer the Jeopardy questions faster.

It’s about eliminating all of that from the equation and still finding out that you love the other person anyway. It’s loving them at the moment when they piss you off the most. It’s loving them when they are sick or hurting or crying. It’s loving them when they are angry or frustrated and looking for someone to take it out on. It’s loving them they are exhausted but they still can’t sleep. It’s loving them when they make a mess and loving them even more when they try to clean it up and make it worse.

It’s about giving them what you want in return.

It’s about waking up every day and deciding to choose them. About opening your eyes and seeing them and knowing with absolute certainty you’ll love them as much at the end of the day as you do in that moment.

It’s not even about sex. Lovemaking is important, don’t get me wrong. But there’s no right number of times to do it and no right positions. It’s not about swinging from the chandelier or having the most orgasms.

It’s about losing yourself in their touch. It’s about the feeling you get when they kiss you. It’s about the feeling you get just before they kiss you. It’s about their touch and how it makes your body react, even when you’re in public and there’s no possibility of anything else. It’s about the soft drift of their hand on your waist as they move past you in the kitchen. It’s about a hand on your knee as you sit at a red light. It’s about the way their hugs fill up every cell in your body.

No matter how modern we get, the basics still remain. For all our smart phones and computers and technology, it’s about a look. A sensation. A breath. An embrace.

Love doesn’t need to be the best or the sexiest or the richest or the coolest or the wildest. It needs connection. It needs commitment. It needs patience. It needs time.

True love is ancient and sacred and powerful and holy. It’s kind and humble and forgiving. It’s hard as hell and easy as pie. It can’t be quantified by Twitter or Facebook. There’s no measurement for it. No program to track it.

But it’s out there. If you’re willing to work for it.

Because trust me – it’s worth it.