Besotted

Besotted .The word alone conjures a deep, expensive Cabernet, one that surrenders your shame and drips warm syrupy liquid into your cleavage. So seductive is it to be besotted that soon you are pouring wine over your head, requiring full immersion, guzzling this nectar of the gods until you drown. Drowning in Cabernet is a capitulation to exquisitely perfect men; the long-standing denizens of your tortured imagination. 

Don't drown. Swim. Swim with him, this real man, the one who lives here, not in your nebulous realms. Swim with his imperfections, his bald spot, his stubborn, terrible fashion sense. Swim with his rational solutions to your problems; his sweetness with children and pets. Swim with his sense of humor, so like your own you laugh together in Costco, wondering how the two of you can crack each other up like you do. Swim with his uniqueness, his gross way of eating corn on the cob, his socks on the floor, and his strong, broad shoulders that protect you from the whole world. Swim with his sweet voice that blankets you in peace when he plays his guitar. Swim with his deep sensual kisses that undulate your soul and float you all the way to the magic land. 

Float on the water with him, his raft is red, yours is blue. Float in the pool at midnight, under the Arizona moon with faded memory mountains, primordial and prehistoric, like a pterodactyl should be flying by. Think of nothing as the waves gently rock you. Be sleepy and newly awake, and when his big warm hand envelops yours, don't throw away how good it feels. Hold his hand, feel him, know him, he's a flawed, funny creature just like you. Relax, undulate, float together under the sweet mezzaluna, serenaded by silhouetted mountains. Let an imaginary pterodactyl fly by. Float right next to him. Glide your thumb softly over his palm, like a whisper. Tomorrow, swim again happily next to this very human man, secure in the real world, knowing you are grounded yet absolutely, utterly, and completely besotted.