How Do You Know When You’re In Love?

When I was dating Brett, there came a point in our relationship when I was undecided about whether or not I loved him. I hadn't been annoyed with him yet after three months, so I reasoned that it must have been love. I looked up the definition of being in love on the internet. I polled my friends and argued with myself over whether or not I truly loved him. Brett made a racist remark that he maintained wasn't racist and utterly wiped all notions of love from my head before I could come to a resolution.

This was typical of my behavior. With the exception of Peanut, I always questioned whether I was truly in love for a few weeks before deciding I was. Even with Peanut, I had doubts about the sensation. Was it really love? What kind of love was it, exactly? Friendly? Or is it romantic?

What was the distinction between loving someone and being in love with them?

There was a basic appreciation with all the other males I felt affection for. ‘Oh, this is how you are, and I understand you.' A realization that it wouldn't be that awful if they stayed in my life. Sure, not everything fell into place the way I had hoped. Sure, there were a few things about them that irritated me. But I wouldn't alter them (at least, I wouldn't urge them to change publicly; perhaps I'd drop clues). I'd take them as they were for the most part. And I considered that to be love.

And I wasn't technically incorrect. They were fantastic.

But I wasn't smitten by them.

There was no doubt in my mind that I was head over heels in love with Scruff. There was no back-and-forth, no online searching, no arguing with pals. I had a feeling. I felt a lot more than just gratitude. Not only did I recognize him, but I also liked him as a result of it (which is a huge difference from simply getting someone). I didn't just accept him; I adored him in every way, including the ones that annoyed me.

It was as plain as sunshine with Scruff. I was undeniably, unequivocally, over over heels in love with him.

I've arrived.

Scruff had invited himself over the night following our meal. What right did I have to refuse? Because my mother and stepfather were both working overnight and I was alone at home, I decided that some company would be welcome.

Whatever occurred, I promised myself I would not have sex with him.

Nope.

There will be no sex.

Whatsoever.

I assumed this would be a piece of cake after going over 600 days without sex.

But, just in case I was tempted, I wore granny pants.

“I'm boarding a ship the next day.” One of the first things he said as he walked into the house was this.

“What?! Tomorrow??” I was taken aback. All vague dreams of spending the weekend with him and having sex all day vanished (I didn't say I wouldn't, only that I couldn't). “How long until?”

He took a breath and hesitated. “October.”

So, in a nutshell, it was my last night with him before returning to Oakland.

Fuck.

“I'll probably stop over and say goodbye before I leave.” He kept going.

"You had better."

We sat on my mother's couch, as usual, and chatted away. He said he'd be aboard a ship for approximately a week before setting sail and losing contact, so we'd be able to communicate for another week. After then, we'd be able to interact by email. That appealed to the hopeless romantic in me. Something about sending letters (or, more accurately, e-mail) let you open up and reveal your deepest thoughts...

“Are you in love with me?” He inquired, seemingly out of nowhere.

My mind raced as my eyes froze on his face. Was he aware of it? Was it self-evident? I averted my gaze.

“…maybe.”

“I'm going to count it as a yes.”

“It's a possibility.”

After some time had passed, I eventually responded to the inquiry. “Are you in love with me?”

It was his turn to halt and scrutinize my features before averting his gaze.

He grinned and said, "I won't get into all that." “I don't want to frighten you away.”

I interpreted that as a categorical yes.

We gradually melded on the sofa over the course of five hours, moving from opposite ends to entwined limbs in the middle. We were drawn together by a natural force that was almost as strong as gravity. Even though it was just the third time I'd seen him in over eight years, letting my legs rest on his and his arms wrap over my shoulders felt completely natural. As I examined his tattoos, my fingertips brushed across his arms, and he examined my — everything.

I'm not having sexual relations with him.

I didn't know how desperately I wanted it to happen until it did till it did.

I'm not having sexual relations with him.

He kissed my neck and shoulders and slowly pushed the top of my sloppy romper down.

I'm not going to have sex with him. I suppose I should say something right now.

He pushed me back and kissed my nipples with his lips.

...maybe in five minutes I'll tell him.

After a time, he began tugging on my romper, attempting to remove it, and I decided to speak up.

“There will be no sex.”

“That's OK; all I want to do is make you happy before I leave.”

He persisted in tugging.

“Please don't do that; I'll want to have sex with you.”

“If you go down on me, Scruff, I'm going to want to have a fling with you.”

His fingers brushed against areas where they shouldn't have, but where they were warmly welcomed. “Are you certain?”

“Scruff…”

As he pushed my huge granny panties aside and did what he came to do, I flinched and then melted with delight. And he did it really well.

I'm not having sexual relations with him. I'm not having sexual relations with him. I'm not... having... sex...

"Let's head upstairs," says the narrator. Finally, I said something.

My eyelids flew open in response to the bright light that flooded the room. My initial thought wasn't of Scruff's presence until only a few hours before.

It wasn't about how my head, heart, and body all smiled; it was about how everything within me grinned. It wasn't even about how I didn't mind Scruff's night ending in the manner it did.

My initial reaction was that I knew exactly what I needed to do next.

I had to confess my feelings for him.