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"  It was 3 o&amp;#039;clock in the morning. I woke up without an alarm. Dustin was leaving.  The sinking anticipation of departure; I hate it. When I stirred, so did he, and he tightened his hold.  &amp;quot;Did you have any dreams?&amp;quot; he asked on the way to the airport. &amp;quot;Yes,&amp;quot; I said, &amp;quot;but I can&amp;#039;t remember where we were.&amp;quot; We. It was a dream about us. It&amp;#039;s happening in those terms now.  Before he left, Dustin and I had spent every moment of the weekend together. We fought and made love every single day. Not necessarily in that order.  On Friday, we were sitting at the bar of a downtown restaurant, a few drinks in, when we started arguing about a blood orange tart I&amp;#039;d stayed up late preparing for him. I&amp;#039;d told him about it and he didn&amp;#039;t remember, but he was trying to convince me that he&amp;#039;d never once forgotten anything I&amp;#039;d said. Of course you have, I said. I&amp;#039;ve forgotten plenty of things you&amp;#039;ve told me. He persisted: But I remember everything you say. Name one thing I haven&amp;#039;t remembered. And so on until we got back around to the blood orange tart, which is when he finally recalled that he&amp;#039;d forgotten about it, but by then I felt defeated. I had to get up and go to the bathroom to end the argument.  When we got home, I tied him up, which freaked him out, then I blew him, which relaxed him a little. Somewhere in the middle of this, he fell asleep. He woke up a few minutes later and finished inside me. I did not come. Saturday morning, I baked the tart, and he told me that it was the best one he&amp;#039;d ever had. We had sex. He complained about how I &amp;quot;never come anymore,&amp;quot; which isn&amp;#039;t true, but I knew what he meant. We had a long talk, real talk, about me and sex and women&amp;#039;s bodies, and he got so overwhelmed that he had to nap it off. Afterward, we went for a meandering stroll through the rain, pausing here for a jumbo slice, stopping there for scallops that tasted so good we forgot about our puddle-soaked shoes. In bed that night, he thought he might go down on me. Too soon. Too much pressure. That attempt ended \u2014 I suppose it didn&amp;#039;t begin, really \u2014 in a spasm of giggles. He was waving a flashlight and shouting about mons pubis and shortly thereafter we had our backs to each other.  Dustin called it an emotional rollercoaster of a weekend. It was one in which we had shifted from tenderness and good humor to annoyance and woundedness and back all the way around again.  We had been trying to talk about sex, but were finding out that it&amp;#039;s not so easy. It&amp;#039;s when we are exposed in front of each other, with our outsize desire to please, our apparent ignorance about our needs, that we find it impossible to say anything without hurting one another.  Sunday: We talked again, under the sheets. I had a genuine cry, he looked genuinely shocked, and then we made up. I came. He did too.  How do you know you&amp;#039;ve met the man of your dreams?  For me, it was when I realized that we were hashing out the terms of sexual satisfaction, and jousting over a goddamn blood orange tart, and we were doing it even though it sucked, because we knew we were going to emerge on the other side together. And the thing is, I preferred it, to be right there, smack in the middle of that stupid fight, than to be anywhere else.  Read Helin&amp;#039;s earlier &amp;quot;I&amp;#039;m With Him&amp;quot; columns: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, and Part 8. Photo credit: Theresa Mershon/Tara Rice "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.cosmopolitan.com/sex-love/news/a18784/date-diary-10/>