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Message-ID: <33674asstr$1006701007@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: mfsmith@mailandnews.com (Mark Smith)
Subject: {ASSM} I Love Her So Much (rom nosex)
Date: Sun, 25 Nov 2001 10:10:07 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

This is both my second posted story and my excuse for missing the
deadlines on both the a.s.s.d. Theme Game and Spam Header Contest.

For such a short piece, it's occupied a great deal of my time lately.
It began as a dark and nasty thing called "Catharsis" but has evolved
into the somewhat less difficult product which now resides on your
screen.

I'm not sure it can be described as a sex story.  Rather it's a
snapshot of a relationship at a certain stage.

It comes directly from me to you without benefit of proofreader or
editor, so all the typos that have slipped through are entirely my own
fault.

All comments, criticisms and even flames are eagerly welcomed.  Please
direct them to mfsmith@mailandnews.com.



I LOVE HER SO MUCH
by Mark Smith

She doesn't open her mail any more.

That's as telling a sign as any of the change that's come over her.

She used to be so punctilious about things like that.  Opening the
mail as soon as it arrived, paying bills when they came due, never
missing a mortgage payment.

Now the envelopes with her name on them sit on the small table inside
our front door, the pile growing a little bit more every weekday
afternoon.  I asked her whether she was worried about them, and she
quickly flicked through the pile and said "There's nothing important,
just some bills and statements."

Once upon a time those statements would have been filed away the day
they arrived, sorted into chronological order in the green folder in
the second drawer.

One of my shoes has worn through and she hasn't even noticed.  She
used to worry that my appearance reflected upon her and she would no
more have let me go out in a worn-out shoe than she would have without
straightening my hair for me.

Now my hair is growing longer and messier.  I'm sure she hasn't
noticed.

What's happened to her?  She's in love.

I love her so much, perhaps more now than I ever did, but it's no
longer me that she's in love with.

Her self-esteem is on the rise too.  If nothing else, her underwear
tells me this.

She'd been feeling down for a long time.  I know it was my fault but I
found myself incapable of helping her.

When her self-esteem is low, so is her interest in sex.  If she
doesn't feel good about herself she feels unattractive and unlovable.

Now, though, she's worn sexy underwear two of the last three days,
silky G-strings in bright colours.  If she's feeling sexy enough to do
this, she's obviously feeling better about herself.

This is so obviously a good thing, and it would be churlish of me to
begrudge her these feelings.  What still pains me is that I'm not the
reason she's feeling better than she has for such a long time.

What I feel is jealousy, pure and simple.  Insane, obsessive jealousy.
Why should this be?

Jealousy is the most selfish of all emotions.  Essentially it's just a
fancy term for self-pity.  I can rationalise this all I like but I'm
still jealous.

I love her so much, but I feel like such a failure.  I watch her dress
for work in that stunning underwear, and I know that I'm not the one
who made her feel good enough to dress like that.

The woman I love, whose sadness has been beyond my reach for too long,
is finding a measure of happiness.  She's found something in him that
I  couldn't give her, and it's making her happy.

I know I should only be happy for her but I'm still jealous.

Nobody told me that jealousy is a physical pain, cold and twisting
just under the bottom of the rib cage.  It intensifies when you least
expect it, taking your breath away with the shock.

I watched her dress last night, admiring her breasts as I have for so
many years.  As she covered them the thought hit me like a physical
blow that when she uncovered them only an hour or so later it would be
for him.  For him to touch and excite them.  To excite her.

That's how jealousy works.  Just when I think I'm making some sense of
all these emotions, a thought like that reaches out and brings me down
again.

I love her so much, and I still have so much to be thankful for.

She treats me so well.  I know she likes me and even still loves me in
a way.  She is the best, most decent person I have been privileged to
know and it must say something good about me that she remains my
closest friend.

We still talk.  We talk more openly than we have for a long time.
Sometimes my obsessive need to know everything upsets her but we still
talk, and not just about our own personal soap opera.

We still sleep together.  Snuggled close for physical and emotional
warmth, arms and legs entwined.  She no longer wants sex from me but
she still wants to sleep with me.  She has another relationship but
still wants my naked body next to hers in bed.  I must have done
something right to retain this loyalty.

I don't sleep well.  Sex may be only a memory, but it's such a vivid
memory.  Over and over in the dark I explore her body in my mind.
It's as clear to me as if I were using my eyes in daylight.  

The place where the curve of her shoulder becomes the curve of her
breast.  The hollow in the small of her back where I used to rest my
head when she slept on her front.  The tautness of her calf muscle
when she tenses her leg.  All these places were mine once and I can't
believe how much their loss hurts me.

Sometimes I reach for her when she's asleep.  I touch her gently,
non-intrusively although I know it's still wrong.

I cup a breast in my hand, slowly rolling the nipple between my thumb
and forefinger.  I delight in the feel of it hardening at my touch.  I
nearly recoil from her at the knowledge that her reaction is
involuntary and that it's not for me.

I trail my finger along the crack between the cheeks of her bottom,
brushing aside the fine, soft hairs and gently explore with my
fingertip the crinkled shape of her anus.

I let my hand rest briefly in her lush growth of pubic hair before,
with an effort, getting myself under control.

Wrapping an arm tightly around her tummy, I pull myself against her
from behind.  With my body hard against hers, I try my best to clear
my mind and await the release of sleep.

I love her so much, but she loves him and he loves her.

Am I a fool to stay with her.  Would anyone else understand why I'm
still here?

I love her so much and I will never leave her.  I know that I'll stay
with her for as long as she wants to stay with me.  She's my drug and
I need whatever I can get of her.

Given time, I know I can adjust to this reduced dose, but I don't know
that I have time.  Her new relationship is still evolving, and I know
that she has as little control over it as do I.

She's in love, and her heart may lead her places her mind hasn't even
imagined.

Soon, I fear, she's going to be leaving me.  Her love grows and pulls
her a little further from me each day.

I can't help but regret that my thoughtlessness and selfishness left
her open to these new feelings.  I can't help but wish that I'd been
able to make her feel that way.

Though I know I'm losing her, I love her so much and I wish her only
happiness.

Last night we went to bed and snuggled tightly against each other.  "I
love you," I told her, my mouth pressed against the back of her neck.

"I love you too," she responded.

I was crying, and I think she was too.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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