Sleeping With Him
So I used to date this guy in college. He was a football player and he slept over from time to time. And it was kind of an issue for me because he was massive. Six-foot-six and 300 pounds of muscle. Ladies always think they want a man to be a cuddler, but at times cuddling with him had me in fear for my life.
I mean, his arms were like tree trunks. He could have easily smothered me.
Seriously, we measured and they were the size of my legs. Well…my legs then. My legs are probably a bit thicker (and his arms are probably a bit thinner) now. But his biceps really were as big around as my thighs.
Imagine having one of those shoved under your neck…
And his body was so HOT. I don’t mean sexy hot (although, to be fair, it was that too), I mean hot like a FURNACE. And it would be under the covers with me every night sweating and touching me. And his hot breath would be pulsing out of him and blowing wet and warm onto the top of my head.
I like to be a little cold when I sleep. Not a good situation.
When we shared the bed I always felt like I was trying to get away from him, desperately searching for one inch of cool sheet to lay on. We would start off the night cuddling — because that’s nice. But eventually I would get hot and try to roll away from him. And I would be free.
For a moment.
It’s like he could sense in his sleep that I had moved and he would roll toward me. The heat of his body and the weight of his arms would wake me up and I would roll further away. Then he would wake up and the process would repeat itself.
Eventually I would wind up at the edge of the bed or squished against the wall and I would have to climb over his big body to get to a cooler part of the bed. And he would then roll toward me again. We would spend the whole night inching from one side of the bed to another and I would keep climbing over him.
Suffice it to say, I didn’t get much sleep.
Seriously, I know how it feels to be the cuddle-toy of a giant. I mean, I started feeling sorry for teddy bears when I saw them hanging limply at a child’s side — the kid’s grubby arm looped around the poor things neck.
I started couching it if I could get away without him noticing.
When I think back on it, it doesn’t seem like we shared a bed that often. Although, the bed I had right after college did somehow wind up with large, football-player sized dent in the middle of it. But it’s not like he slept over every night. And, looking back, I can’t imagine it was often enough to have created any sleeping patterns for me.
But I think it did.
The pattern: I miss him every night as I’m trying to fall asleep.
The relationship wasn’t the greatest, and he sure wasn’t the perfect man for me, but every night, when I’m trying to fall asleep — alone in my bed — I miss him. Not like a longing to be his girlfriend again, but I actually miss his physical mass. I guess five years worth of sleep-overs can change a girl.
And, despite the fact that we didn’t share our bed (well, usually my bed) all too often over those five years — or all too well when we did — my brain got used to him being there, and now tells me each night that something is missing behind me…
His broad chest.
Something is missing on my hip…
His big hand.
On my shoulder…
His tree-trunk arm.
Under my head…
On my neck…
I do like not sweating for hours each night. And I like being able to go to bed and sleep the entire night because he isn’t coming to bed at 3 a.m. and trying to have sex with me. And I do like not being awakened each morning by a massive erection stabbing me in the back (although sometimes that was nice).
But I do miss him. Especially the way we fell asleep.
He would slip his hand — that huge hand that felt like it was as big as my back when he would give me a hug or a back rub — he would slip it inside my pajama pants if I was wearing them, and inside the waist band of my panties and rest it on my hip.
Usually my right hip because I would be laying on my left side with my back against him.
He would rest his big hand there, give the area a quick squeeze and then with a deep sigh say “good night” in a sort of mumble into his pillow and the back of my head.
And I miss it.
Now I usually stuff a big pillow behind my back at night. And I fall asleep with my own hand on my hip. And I wish there were someone to mumble me a “good night.”
And every now and then I’ll pile a few pillows on top of myself just to add some extra weight. I miss the tree trunks after all.
I miss sharing my bed — the good parts anyway. And I miss sharing it with someone who knew me well enough, cared for me enough and was comfortable enough, to actually rock me to sleep some nights. Not like I was a baby in his lap. But while we were spooning. Just a slight jostle for a few minutes to get us both into some sort of rhythm — the same rhythm — and then to sleep.
Last night I rocked myself to sleep.
I miss sleeping with him.