Not His Anymore

A kiss, a shift, and the man who helped me reclaim my body

It’s hard not to want to kick this off with a Sex and the City-esque line.
“They say to get over one man, you need to get under a new one.”

But this story needs to be sweeter—because it was.

He was a friend for a week in La-la-land, and then he became my soft return to something more. My first time with someone new. Honestly, it might sound ridiculous, but it felt like losing my virginity all over again. I was exposed. I hadn’t been with anyone except my ex-husband for fifteen years. Someone who had known my body so well he stopped really looking at it.

This man? He looked. Deeply. Kindly. With calm, deliberate intention.
He paid me compliments that felt real; like they were about me, not just what I looked like.
And there was no pressure. Just energy. Safety.
A subtle kind of sweetness I didn’t realise I’d been craving.

There were moments when we were out—when someone got too close, a bit too familiar—he would step in. Quietly. Nothing dramatic. Just a calm presence, a glance at me to check I was okay. The kind of subtle but powerful protection that made me feel seen and cared for.

He wasn’t trying to consume me. It wasn’t that kind of gaze. He looked at me like someone he wanted to adore.
It was a little cheesy, maybe—but it worked.
He made me feel special. Cherished. Beautiful.

We hung out as friends at first; no expectations, as a group with our mates. But something shifted after a few nights.
Little moments alone. A slow build of energy.

At one point, he gave me a compliment that made it unmistakably clear this wasn’t just friendship anymore.
It wasn’t crude or overconfident. It was intentional. Measured.
A gentle way of saying, “I’m open if you are.” And in that moment, I realised I was.

Later that night, in a hidden warehouse in downtown LA, on a dance floor under a chandelier in a red room, he kissed me.
It felt cinematic and absurd and perfect.

His kisses were respectful. Intentional.
There was no pushing, no pressure. Just warmth.

I’d made it clear that I wasn’t going to hook up—and he didn’t flinch. Just nodded, said he understood, and still insisted on making sure I got home safely, since our friends were heading off in different directions. He taxied me back to my beachside hotel (forty minutes out of his way) and walked me to the door without trying to come in. Just a quiet gesture from someone who wanted me to feel looked after, comfortable.

But I wasn’t ready to say goodnight just yet.
I asked if he wanted to stay for a quick smoke, maybe a chat.

So we sat for a while in an upholstered room just off the lobby of this charming little boutique hotel.
And we kissed again—old-school style.

He looked me in the eyes, said sweet things, and made me feel safe.
Desired.
Myself.

That was all I wanted.

I floated back to my room, giddy and slightly stunned.
Was I really free already?
Was it really that easy?
I kissed a boy—and I liked it.

The next morning, he messaged. Then again in the afternoon.
He wanted to see me.

I wasn’t sure. The teenager inside me wanted him, but I needed some space to digest;
a massage, the sea, air, time with friends.

But by 7pm, I texted him back.
I’d join him for dinner.

We ate. We talked. And then we got in a taxi together.

I wasn’t tipsy. I wasn’t running from my feelings. I was sober. Clear.
And still—I wanted to go.

That felt bigger than the kiss.
Choosing to move forward, fully present.
No performance. No Haze.

When we were alone, it was exactly what I needed:
Sweet. Safe. Sexy.
A kind man reminding me how good it could feel to be touched by someone who wants you to feel comfortable, wanted, excited.

I’d given myself two months to be deeply sad—and six months to be a little messy.
After that? Time to evolve.

I didn’t want to be reckless. But I also didn’t want to skip the steps.
I needed to know I could do this again.
Be single. Be seen. Be touched.

And it wasn’t just about sex. It was about something deeper:

It was about discovering that I could want someone else—genuinely.
Not out of rebellion or loneliness, but because I felt drawn to him.
Because I felt safe enough to want, and open enough to feel it.
And as sad as it may sound, I needed to be reminded that I’m still beautiful.
That someone else could want me; someone sweet, eligible, filled with life, who seemed to genuinely find me interesting.
There was this part of me that felt I needed to confirm I wasn't just someone’s leftovers, used up and tossed out.

If I were going to write a thank-you letter to any of the men who’ve crossed my path since the divorce, it would be to him.
He didn’t change my world.
But he reminded me I had one.
One that wasn’t just memories.
One that was still mine to shape.

He somehow gave me the space and security to feel empowered, to feel I could handle the dating world when the time came.

It’s funny—when you get married young, you don’t rack up much of a “body count.”
Just one man. A lot of times.

So letting someone new into my space, letting them that close…
it felt wild. A little surreal.
Like, people really do this?

But I did, I let someone get close and it was special.
Respectful and i’ll just keep shouting the word. I felt safe.

A small chapter added to my story, but one that meant everything.

Not because I wanted to suddenly sleep with the world. (Honestly, these legs are pretty tightly welded for a woman who’s currently writing about sex and dating.)
But because I needed to know I could.

That my body wasn’t my ex-husband’s anymore.
That I’d wiped the claim off my wrist—and off my heart.

I wasn’t his.
I was mine.

And I was moving forward.
No matter what.

How was your first time with someone new after a long time with someone familiar? Can you remember the first time someone saw you—not for what you’d been through, but for who you still are? Or how about made you feel safe, really safe in their presence? Tell me more!