I believe every woman who has loved has loved three kinds of men: the one whom she loves in bed, the one whom she loves at the dinner table and the one whom she loves in her memory.

The man whom she loves in bed is the man who comes to her when she feels lonely the most.

He fills her bed with his big build and warms her body by every inch of his skin pressing against hers, making it known how much he yearns for her feminine touch.

She likes it. She likes that he makes her feel feminine and want to be feminine. She likes the way he lets her believe she has some sort of power over him that it must be her but no one else.

When his tongue dances in her mouth and his fingers run along her thighs then thrust in between her legs, it’s like she has been asleep for all this time and suddenly awakened, ready to discover the deepest of her and the thickest of him, to be free with her animal instincts and every kinky fantasy she’s never dared to admit she has.

She misses him in the shower, up against the kitchen wall, on the night out she sees no one attractive enough and whenever she touches herself. She wants again the feeling of having a man in her life, a strong body in her bed, rough hands on her breasts and human flesh inside her body.

She calls him up at 2 am and he’s always happy to come. So now every 2 am he’s the only man she thinks of whether she has her womanly needs or not.

The second man is the man whom she loves at the dinner table.

He’s the man whom she also wants to love on bed but before that thought even crosses her mind, her senses are already switched on by his presence, by the way he looks at her, by how he always has something new to teach her and surprises her in all the little things he probably isn’t even aware of.

Like, how his words lighten up the darkest parts of her and his smiles are like drugs that are definitely too addictive for her own good.

 When life gets tough and she finds it hard to keep on going, he’s the first number she wants to call and the first “Are you okay?” she wants to hear.

Though, not always does she have the courage to reach him and tell him the truths, and definitely not the truth that involves her heart skipping a beat at the glimpse of him and her palm sweating whenever his name pops up on her phone screen.

Because there’s just too much to lose. He’s too much to lose.

She misses him on the days she doubts herself and doesn’t see any light ahead, whenever reality turns into a plain black and white picture and breathless moments have gone missing.

She wants again the feeling of being cared for and valued, of hearing her name called dearly and personally, of knowing there’s someone out there who thinks she’s capable, who believes in her and pushes her limits.

Sometimes she feels like it might even be disrespectful of her to fantasize about him on her bed — not that she needs to because it’s already ridiculously overwhelming to simply lock eyes with him for more than 3 seconds, to accidentally brush her arms against his and give him a friendly hug goodbye as their bodies heat up.

She just can’t deny that wondering what it’s like to have a private moment with him never stops electrifying her, and that she’s always hungry for more and more.

Finally, the man whom she loves in her memory is the man who has her in daydreams, nightmares as well as every waking second she doesn’t keep herself busy enough.

Every time she’s with someone like that — someone new, someone old, someone not him, either side by side or her lying underneath — she can’t help but trace memories right back to him and soon enough it starts to bleed.

Like there’s a sharp knife hidden somewhere inside her and it quietly cuts her open again. Then it bleeds and it hurts. But it doesn’t just hurt, it’s also disgusting and frustrating because she has no idea how to get him out of her system, and sometimes she doesn’t even want to.

She desperately wishes that it was him who was staring into her eyes and whispering that he missed her so fucking much. She imagines what it’s like to be held by him once more time and feel truly feminine again.

She believes her femininity is born for a purpose and that’s to take care of a man who she loves and needs her femininity.

She misses burying her face in his chest, feeling the weight of his body on hers and like in his arms, she’s finally home and never wants to leave again. Now her bed is empty and so is her life.

A woman who has loved might have loved one, two or all of these men. But from times to times, these three men happen to live in one body, have one name and leave her all the same.

And when these three men are indeed one man, the man who she loves blindly, passionately with all what she’s got, the man who promised to be but is no longer here, it’s the woman who has no choice but to carry with her the deepest wound, never knowing if it’s ever healed.

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