On limerence & limoncello
Limerence is an intense, all-consuming state of involuntary romantic infatuation, characterized by intrusive thoughts and an overwhelming desire for validation and reciprocation. Limoncello is a vibrant Italian lemon liqueur, intensely sweet and tart, that tastes like sunshine in a bottle.
Both can be incredibly intoxicating.
This month has been a study in contrasts between the men who warmed me from within, like a shot of golden limoncello, and a man who left me drunk on unrequited desire, spiraling toward that awful, familiar place of limerence—a feeling that burns through you.
Elevated Dating is meant to be a refuge from the messiness of vanilla situationships and the complexities of conventional relationships—a safe space for a time-bound, no-strings-attached encounter where we can explore our desires and get our needs met. But that freedom depends on clear boundaries. When the lines begin to erode and expectations start to blur, limerence can ignite—and even the sweetest arrangements can turn sour.
We are human—built to love, designed for attachment, and wired to bond with our intimate partners. Catching feelings is hardly a failure; it is often the inevitable risk of repeated intimacy and sexual connection. So how do we navigate that reality without allowing it to undermine the very freedom we came here to enjoy?
Five Golden Principles
It helps to keep these five Golden Principles in mind:
🍋 Donation Up Front. “Money” is symbolic. The gesture of giving and receiving it acknowledges the value each of us brings to the table while establishing the basic premise of a Companion/Admirer relationship: we will enjoy a set period of time together, then part ways without further demands or expectations.
I never expected to find myself lost in a maze of confusion about that invisible contract. But a certain man bedazzled me enough that I agreed to his request to handle the exchange electronically, on the back end. That small exception became a crack in the container.
Our encounters began to feel so seamless, so organic, that somewhere along the way, the transactional nature of our arrangement seemed to fade. I began to think of him less as “a client” and more as an FWB.
I lowered my guard. I loosened my rules—for him. And that’s when the trouble started.
🍋 Text With Intention. I love texts and emails. I love witty banter and the exchange of ideas from behind the comfort of a screen. I love words. But comfort is a beautiful prison.
I left traditional dating apps like OkCupid and Tinder behind because I was collecting a menagerie of penpals—men happy to send a steady stream of “Good morning” texts and flirt throughout the day, but never actually make it to the point of meeting. I wanted more than a digital connection. I wanted something real. I wanted a man in the flesh.
A text can deliver an immediate dopamine hit—the little thrill of being chosen. But when it turns out to be little more than a bid for attention, a sham date request, or a way to keep the connection alive without actually showing up, anticipation can quickly turn into disappointment. And then a feeling of deprivation can set in.
Limerence thrives on that cocktail of hope and uncertainty.
My newly forged FWB became a repeat offender, texting outside the lines of scheduling our next date. His words kept me emotionally engaged, my desire simmering, my hopes rising—only to be dashed when no plans materialized. Every text became a little reminder of him, an invitation to imagine what might happen when we were finally together. It fanned the flames of physical desire, and when passion has nowhere to go, it can become almost excruciating.
🍋 Avoid the “L” Word. Love is a powerful word. If the intention is to keep things light and uncomplicated, steer clear of any words that even remotely hark back to that emotionally loaded word.
My favored friend called me “Luv,” rather than the more typical “Sweetheart”—the convenient term of endearment for polyamorous men who can’t keep all their ladies’ names straight. He once playfully asked whether I considered him “beloved” or “infamous.” I answered honestly—I presumed him to be both: a beloved heartthrob and an infamous heartbreaker.
In another text, he wrote, “All I have is my desire to make love to you”—words I found mildly infuriating and seductive in equal measure.
I wanted to be desired, certainly, but I also wanted the language and the reality to match. Words can awaken hope. They can lure us into building a story the actions never promised. We fill in the blanks. We assign meaning. We start believing.
Be mindful of language that speaks to our deepest longings. Sometimes a pet name or romantic phrase can be evocative enough to make the imagination start writing checks the relationship never agreed to cash. Be careful not to toy with hearts.
Words matter. Especially the ones whispered when we’re naked enough to believe them.
🍋 Resist Future Faking
Italy is an art lover’s paradise, a foodie’s dream, and a people-watcher’s delight. I’ve been twice and could return a dozen more times, never tiring of its allure.
Two years ago, on August 25, 2024, I opened my door and in walked a man who, like Italy, seemed endlessly enticing—each encounter offering something new to discover. Handsome, clever, and rich, with an adventurous spirit and charming disposition, he seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence.
Earlier this month, I woke to his greeting and a photo from Rome. In a moment of excitement, I asked him to bring me a small token from Italy—a souvenir magnet, citrus-scented hand soap, or, ideally, limoncello in a boot-shaped bottle.
That photo painted the loveliest picture in my mind. Suddenly, I could see myself there: kissing someone special in front of the Trevi Fountain, walking cobblestone streets hand-in-hand during the golden hour before sunset. I could envision myself on a European vacation—with him.
I’ve been promised the moon and stars by plenty of men who never delivered. To his credit, he promised me nothing beyond a good time in bed.
But the guardrails had collapsed. With every ping of my phone, I hoped it was him. It never was. By the fifth day of silence, I was ashamed that I’d let this man live rent-free inside my head for so long. By the seventh, I had convinced myself he had either gotten engaged in Italy or recently married and was on his honeymoon. That script became unbearable.
On the eighth day, I blocked him.
I had Future Faked myself.
🍋 Exit With Grace (and Silence). I fucking hate goodbyes. Please—spare me. When an entanglement has run its course, resist the temptation to send the breakup text, the “just checking in” text, or any other breadcrumb that reopens a door you've just closed. No postmortem is needed for a relationship built around impermanence. Not every ending requires an explanation. Sometimes the most graceful exit is to do nothing.
Predictably, the man who inspired this nearly 2,000-word essay evaded the block by contacting me from another number. His apologies sounded sincere, but I know the pattern well.
Some men will move mountains for the chance to deliver one final blow of rejection in person. They don't just want to end things—they want to witness the impact of ending them, hoping for a front-row seat to the tears, devastation, and disorientation that comes with a “breakup.” I can see it coming a mile away.
But we don’t have to play a game we never signed up for. We can choose not to participate in dynamics that destabilize us. And we don’t have to let someone else dictate the terms of our emotional exit.
If you no longer wish to see me, then I never want to hear from you again. Simply step away quietly. Let the silence say what needs to be said.
““Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all.”