I am an average looking woman. I am neither tall, nor short, fat, nor slim. I’m no genius, but I can read people; I have a sharp wit, but prefer to turn it on myself. I am generous, but discerning; loving, but terrified. I am broken and weird and over-sexed.
I can’t figure out why nearly every man I meet wants me.
It makes me uncomfortable on the one hand and preen on the other. I can’t figure myself out.
It’s a ridiculous, stupid, embarrassing thought to have about myself. “Too many men want me. It doesn’t feel special.” It’s my delicate ego barking against the dogs on the other side of the fence saying, “You’re not looking close enough! You don’t know me! You’re stopping at the little I give you! Go deeper! Please! Make me work for it!”
When I see a man’s eyes light up when he sees me I am bolstered by my effect on him, but when he fails to ask me anything about me, I am disheartened. I didn’t do anything to earn his appreciation. I can’t help that he likes the way I look, that my shape and coloring plug into his groin and caveman brain. That’s not me — that’s just pure dumb fucking luck.
Where is the man who wants to know how I got to be me? This woman eagerly sitting in front of him with a quick smile and easy rapport waiting for someone to want her. The real her.
The Neighbor set himself apart from the very beginning because he wanted to know about me. Why I was the way I was, where did I come from, why I did the things I did. I reciprocated with as many questions as I could possibly think and we grew closer, we fucking bonded.
But with man after man, date after date I’ve filled my brain with trivia: his mother was a nun, he’s from Canada and doesn’t miss it, he wanted to be more challenged, nothing was keeping him there, his ex-wife was bad with their money, he fell in love with his ex’s kids, tennis saved his life as a teen, he loves being in love, he comes from a big family, he spent a year in India.
I ask, I prod, I listen. I draw them out and into me. I make them feel special, even down to the littlest detail, because I truly believe they are. But I leave myself in the wind.
I tell the same stories over and over because I am rarely asked to share. I interject snippets about my past as I can. He tells me a story about saving a dying squirrel because I asked him about his life on a ranch and I share a similar good Samaritan story, not because he was interested enough to ask me, but because I was desperate for him to know something of me.
Even beefy, but nerdy the other day didn’t ask me any questions. We talked mostly about him. As it is with most of my dates. And yet they all want me. Sure they do. I make it easy. They like the way I look and they get to talk about themselves for several hours in the company of someone who laughs easily and may or may not blow them at the end of it all.
What would really make me feel special is if someone said, “Hy, what makes you tick?”
Seriously. That’s it.
I may or may not answer it realistically, but it would be a start. Something new and having nothing to do with my pussy or my breasts.
My Internet boyfriend sees the real me, all of me. I force it down his throat. I am unavoidable here, but out in the real world I am hidden in the open. I don’t feel special. A pair of big breasts and a white smile aren’t special. They’re bait.
So how do I switch them out for me? How do I get a man to come close enough to hear me — know me — without having them trip down my cleavage and get lost in my pussy?
This is inexorably related to my not trusting those who want me; how rejection feels like real love to me. Maybe I’m looking at this all wrong and all these men really do want to get to know me, but my walls are buttressed with fear and confusion.
It doesn’t help that TN won’t leave me alone and I am left with my dick in my hand: he knows me, yet doesn’t want me. Do I really want a man to know me? That hasn’t yielded results either.
You’re reading the musings of a woman so mind-fucked she’s dreaming her own life to better results.
He invited me on vacation with his family. We had separate rooms, but I was with him in his. We hung out, bonded, it was intimate. He requested some time alone so I happily complied. In my own room, I put on a big, floppy hat and a bikini then thought I’d invite him to join me at the beach. I walked back to his room and his door was ajar. He was under the window on a trundle bed with his finger up to his mouth in a Shh sign. I looked to my left and on one of the double beds was a woman sleeping on her stomach, her brown locks resting on her bare back. It was her. But he’d wanted to be alone! And she was here! He pantomimed that I please be quiet so as not to disturb her. I shouted at him to fuck off and slammed the door. Slammed my own hotel room door and attended to my dying cat as he pounded on my door to let him in. Again I told him to go fuck himself.
And then I woke up.
We haven’t spoken about Tuesday night. We watched a movie at my place Friday and Saturday nights. 4 am girl has no idea he’s been watching movies at my house; he’s been careful to keep that bit of information from her while she’s out of town. We have behaved. No hugs, absolutely no touching. Then, Sunday night was different. It was the second night that TN and I were involved with a severely mentally ill neighbor of ours and I had to call 911 both times. Downstairs Neighbor was with me.
I kept her calm, talked to her, made her feel safe Saturday. She trusted me as she said her boyfriend was invisible and crawling with bugs. Sunday, she was mad at me. Blamed me for her previous night and for being Denise’s sister. I was careful not to agitate her, but I told her I was calling for help again.
The sick neighbor was hauled away kicking and screaming, strapped down onto a gurney by 8 rescue workers. Her shrieks bounced off the building and skittered across the treetops, the red and blue lights flickered on our sad faces.
I’d done the right thing, but I was gutted. Hearing her screams, seeing her struggle. It was too much. I went home to bed, alone. Downstairs neighbor pulled me into his friendly arms before he went home to his apartment. Later, TN texted me, then knocked. I opened the door and he pulled me into his arms. He held onto me for many moments. It felt so right. We cuddled on the couch, then he asked to use my vibrator on his leg.
We went to my room, I drifted off. He finished massaging his leg then began wrestling me. It was weird and exalting and wholly inappropriate. I should have shoved him off of me and told him to go fuck himself, but I hadn’t yet had my dream. The real Hy wasn’t ready. He pinned me down, pinned my wrists, spanked me. I laughed until I thought I was going to pee my pants. I wanted it, yet hated it simultaneously.
I was flooded with confusion: the moon shone red in the sea and the mermaids swung from apple trees.
Finally, I pinned his arms over his head and he reached up and snatched a nipple in his teeth. The cloth of my tanktop did little to protect me. It hurt and I couldn’t pull away. I released his wrists and he grabbed both breasts and shoved them into his mouth. I was frozen. A horny mare, any angry bear, a fearful, timid rabbit.
So I only let out my breath. He sucked and nursed on me, pulled the fabric aside and filled his mouth with my softness. His moans music to my ears. I told him we couldn’t do this. He asked why. I said, “Because we don’t have sex anymore.”
“But this isn’t sex.”
He grabbed the vibrator then and pulled me up to my knees, switched it on and pressed it between my legs. His eyes bore into mine as he put his free hand on my throat and watched me climax and shudder, my hands on his shoulders. We never kissed.
He lay back down beside me with our legs entangled, our breathing heavy, our minds elsewhere, my heart in tatters. Everyone wants me, no one wants me, he doesn’t want me.
I walked him to the door, kissed his cheek. He left.
I am a walking contradiction with a bad attitude and a wet pussy. So fucking help me.