Last night around 6 I heard a knock. It was The Neighbor.
He was wearing his new clothes and looking dashing. I said as much and asked him what the occasion was. “No reason. I just wanted to show you.
“So, Saturday,” he paused for emphasis. “What do you want to do?”
I sat back down on my couch, a foot tucked under me. I had asked him if he’d like to spend Saturday night with me Wednesday afternoon. I’d had to prompt him a day later for a response, but it had been in the affirmative.
“I have no idea,” was my answer.
“We’re gonna do three things. One,” he held a finger up, “catch; two, a movie; and three, fuck.”
I threw him an enormous grin and bounced a little on the couch. I’ve been dying to play catch with someone for weeks! And, well, the other stuff is obvious.
I asked him how his week had been. “Long,” he said.
“What are you doing tonight?”
“Softball, then I have to make vodka gummy bears, cake balls, and an apple pie.”
“Holy shit! Well, if you want some company while you bake, lemme know. I’m happy to watch you and just hang out.”
“Ok, I might take you up on that.”
I got up to walk him out and found myself against the door jamb of my entryway eye-level with a few days of growth on his white skin. I could feel his heat.
“You’re right, it is sort of reddish,” I observed.
“You sure this looks ok?”” he asked indicating his upper lip. He’s self conscious for some reason, but has been growing it out more frequently because I enjoy its feel so much.
“Yes,” I assured him. “You don’t look like a Colombian drug lord. It’s sexy.” And because it’d been a couple of days since I’d seen him I put my hand on his bulge and began to stroke. “This is pretty sexy, too.” I squeezed harder and felt it grow.
“God, it feels like forever since I’ve seen you, but it’s only been since Monday!” He laughed at first, but then agreed.
“It is Thursday.” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Maybe we should fuck tonight.”
“That’s an idea. Peyton isn’t here. We should take advantage of that.”
“Yeah. It’s my ex’s custody week.” His crotch steadily grew under my petting.
“You know, I’ve never gotten a blowjob before while baking a pie.” Our eyes locked; my gaze transmitting excitement and approval.
“Yeah, you could add it to your bucket list then scratch it right off.” We laughed and walked to the front door.
“Well, have a good night,” he said.
“You, too. Lemme know if you wanna hang out later,” and the door clicked shut.
At almost 11 pm I realized I had his sugar canister and texted him. You can’t bake without sugar, after all.
My phone’s ting-ting startled me awake at 12:45 am. I was on my couch, an SVU episode on the tv.
Drinking right now. No hanging out tonight 🙁
I texted back, “Awesome. Have fun,” though I was seething. I felt totally disregarded, forgotten, and overlooked.
His response was,
This group of people is soooo awesome
I was speechless. And always one to not make waves I swallowed my hurt and anger like I do semen and diplomatically replied, “Sorry I missed you. I was looking forward to watching you bake. Another time perhaps. Be safe.”
However, an hour and a half later, I’d convinced myself that I had played it too cool, that I should be more honest with him about my feelings and so I texted him once more trying to sound put out, but rationally so: “I stayed in tonight because I wanted to hang out with you, you know. I could’ve gone out like you instead of waiting around like an asshole.”
But the truth of the matter was that I was more than just “put out.” He obviously remembered his plans with me otherwise he wouldn’t have texted to say we weren’t going to hang out, but to wait until nearly 1 am to tell me hurts my feelings. I could have found something else to do, but our light verbal banter and innuendos kept me tethered to home base.
Thirty minutes later, long after I’d fallen asleep he texted:
Not my fault
I’ve started a dozen responses to him, but instead decided to just write; to pour out my frustrations here so that my few remaining weeks with him might remain conflict free.
I’m afraid of starting an argument we can’t finish; I’m afraid of losing my control over the situation; I’m afraid he’ll just say, “Hy, we shouldn’t hang out anymore,” when I want desperately to be the one who says that.
Mostly, I realize, I am still afraid of being who I am because of possible rejection. Even after all this time of working on myself, changing my life, committing myself to self-care I’m terrified of saying, “Hey, you hurt me. Make it right, please,” because I have been let down by so many in the past.
“You expect too much, Hy,” beats in rhythm to my own heart.
I wish so badly that he’d said, “Oh shit, Hy! I’m so sorry! You’re right. I’ll make it up to you Saturday,” but instead he’s relying on the tentativeness of our plans and pointing a finger at me. It’s my fault I assumed it’d manifest into an evening together. I mean, I’m pretty delusional to think our conversation meant anything, right?
I’m taking a big risk by posting this, but this is where I am the most blind and weakest in relationships: do I have a right to feel this way? He seems so certain I don’t and I don’t want to frighten him away with an end date for this affair so rapidly approaching.
You might feel my dilemma.
As of this moment, Friday morning, I’m going to let it lie. We have iron clad plans for Saturday. I can talk to him about it then. Or not. Maybe I’ll take my licks to help remind me of my courage when I finally end this, like pebbles in my pocket, and just grin and bear it.
Or maybe, he was right. It really wasn’t his fault.