On love and lust . . .and lust.

Another Valentine’s post. Just how many of these things have I written to date, anyway? I wonder sometimes when it was that I actually got caught up in the holiday to begin with, the one that Hallmark and M&M Mars use to pimp out all things screaming gluttony. It’s an excess of pink, of naked babies inappropriately armed with archery supplies, of pajama grams sold on late-night television. I care not. Whatever it is, I’m buying.

To be entirely honest, I’m not particularly saddened that I’m not gazing into the eyes of my life mate this February 14th, and I’m 66.6 percent sure that isn’t the Cab talking. Sure, I love the fantasy of a black halter dress zipped up my back, of reservations I didn’t have to prompt him to make, the smell of my perfume hanging in the hallway as we leave for the night. Of his hand on the small of my back, of coy looks that we haven’t given each other in a few weeks. Of a savory filet. Of a slow dance to jazz and conversation that doesn’t stop even when the next seating has arrived. Of my closest knowing money for roses would be much better spent on an amazing bottle of red poured into glasses with a stately stem. I won’t lie. All of that would be delicious.

I should say it will be delicious. Because I know it will happen just as surely as I know Pamela Anderson will marry again and Matthew McConaughey will turn up greasy in the tabloids. It’s in the cards. I have little doubt.

It’s that this year I have no one to be close to. To hold tight. To caress. Need I be more blunt?

Ahem.

I’m entering what my 11th grade health teacher deemed a woman’s sexual prime, and my arrival here couldn’t be more textbook. I want to be so close to someone that I lose track of our skin, to feel his kiss on the back of my neck when I’m hatching, to have him slowly and deliberately move his lips up to my ears where the feel of his warmth alone might make my head tilt gently when it in reality wants to explode. I think about tracing his mouth with my eyes as he talks at a crowded restaurant table, glancing over to me with every turn to his right. Of both suggestive and loving notes left in wool coat pockets. Of dinner left to simmer on the stove and healthy weekends spent in bed. Of the joy of choosing to engage in this way with one and only one, of adoring that his being and this moment is yours and likewise. Of leading one by the hand to a familiar spot and finding yourself still holding that hand in the morning.

It’s gorgeous decadence and I can seem to think of little else. I wouldn’t have said it two years ago, but I want the cocktail of love and desire, of ripping one another’s shirts off despite the irritation of lost buttons, of moments of this-isn’t-your-father’s experimentation and time spent together in the shower that leaves no hot water for guests. It’s about knowing you’re safe and he’s there for the long haul. You’re a force taking on the world and making mince meat of each other in your off time.

Sweet Lord, I can’t stop. I think about things I shouldn’t write about lest my mother and childhood pastor ever learn the ways of the Google. It’s like I’m 17 again, and beyond the ability to consume 4-lb. solid chocolate hearts, it’s what I’m missing most this year. Closeness. Familiarity. Confidence in yourselves and your hips and each and every last touch and whisper.

It will happen. I know this. It’s all simply in the cards.