Slow intimacy currently turns me into a complete maniac and i refuse to apologize for it.
tonight proved it again. J showed up around 9 and we accomplished exactly nothing until 3-something a.m. (the clock on my wall actually works, shockingly). we parked ourselves on opposite ends of this hideous green couch that still carries the ghost of 2019 weed smell. i kept waiting for someone to lunge, or at least hit play on something, but nope. we rambled about his mom’s unhinged facebook memes, my irrational terror of G-train rats staring into my soul, how rain sounds sexier at 1 a.m. than at 4 p.m. long stretches of silence floated between us and, weirdly, neither of us tried to murder them with small talk.
why slow intimacy feels like i’m unlearning every dating reflex i own
we all chase the fast-forward button, right? swipe, match, send the risky text, bang, regret, block, cry in the uber home. i ruled that kingdom for three solid years. the body count doesn’t embarrass me—what embarrasses me is how empty every single one left me. slow intimacy flips the whole script. you choose to marinate in the tension instead of microwaving it.
the night i nearly self-destructed the entire slow intimacy experiment (classic me)
two fridays ago, same couch, same useless lavender candle. another epic silence hit and my brain blue-screened. so naturally i blurted, “so are we hooking up or what” like a goblin who never evolved. cringe doesn’t even cover it. he just looked at me—those gentle eyes that make me want to scream—and said, “we can if you want. or we can keep doing this.” i wanted the floor to swallow me whole. lesson learned: rush slow intimacy and you murder the magic on sight.
dumb little habits that actually help me practice slow intimacy
- i banish my phone to the kitchen (harder than quitting iced coffee, fight me)
- i ask “what’s the weirdest thing your brain cooked up today?” instead of the linkedin basics
- i let silence stretch until my fridge hum becomes the third wheel
- i limit myself to micro-touches—handing him the good mug with both hands, fixing his hoodie sleeve when it bunches weird
slow intimacy straight-up sucks sometimes, fight me
last wednesday i full-on ugly-cried in my bathroom at 1:42 a.m. because he didn’t send a goodnight text and my brain launched into apocalypse mode: he’s over it, he hates me, burn the apps, adopt 17 cats. spoiler: he fell asleep reading a physical book like some kind of time traveler. slow intimacy forces you to sit in that insecurity soup instead of banging or ghosting your way out of it. zero stars. terrible for my mental health. but then he woke up and sent the sleepiest voice note—“thought about you first thing”—and i nearly yeeted my phone across bushwick from pure feelings overload.
look, i’m still a walking disaster. cold pizza scent owns this apartment, my socks never match, yesterday’s mascara lives under my eyes like a permanent badge of chaos. but this slow intimacy thing? it finally makes me feel seen instead of just used.
if the microwave-romance era exhausts you, try it. next time you actually like someone, slow the hell down. let the quiet breathe. rest your knee against theirs for ten extra seconds. watch what happens when you refuse to sprint to the finish line.
it’s 4:28 a.m. now and the birds outside can shut up. J just texted “your rat story still has me deceased” and i’m grinning at my phone in the dark like the biggest idiot alive.
links i actually referenced while spiraling (for credibility or whatever):
- https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/the-state-our-unions/202208/the-rise-slow-love
- https://www.estherperel.com/blog/rituals-of-connection
- https://psycnet.apa.org/record/2024-56892-001 (the delayed gratification study, paywall but the abstract slaps)
