I signed the dotted line and the next few months were a chaotic mess of fear, numbness and denial mixed with the excitement of possibility. The idea of uprooting my life in such a big way seemed like pure fiction. How could I possibly be the protagonist of such a crazy adventure where one rids themselves of all their worldly possessions, says goodbye to friends and family, their favorite creature comforts; and moves to a private island for the next two years of her life?
Usually, our post-sex silence is almost as intoxicating as the sex. Our bodies remain blurred together and magnetized by some type of cosmic energy that floods my spirit with warm sensations of "yes". That type of hushed connection feels absolutely delicious and completely non-threatening... for awhile.
And that's the dude I turned The Rock down for. But rather than wallowing in misery and regret, I became a slut. Not a slut in the numerical sense, though. Let's just say, I lost any sort of cautionary discretion when it came to sleeping with someone before really getting to know them. Yes, even less discretion than cohabiting with someone within weeks of meeting. Put it this way: if I knew your name and you made me "tingle"... I was down.
"When you meet the right one, you just know." Yep, we gushed those same words with cherished pride just like any other couple in the lust phase on the verge of sealing the deal with a shiny rock. And look at us now.
