I treat my pseudo-boyfriend to my breasts daily: barely awake breasts, lusty lunchtime boobs, sexy snack time tits, breasts while shopping, chatting, working. I supply cleavage to this man like a dealer with a soft spot.
He said he liked to play with sweater puppies. Naturally I spoke on their behalf, “And they like getting played with. Wanna give ’em kisses later tonight? Like at 10?”
He sadly couldn’t commit, “I may not have time,” he texted. “But I’ll be in touch later tonight.”
I smiled and moved throughout my day wondering why he insisted on vague responses. I attended meetings, mothered, made a creamy thyme risotto for me and my little one.
My last meeting, with Peyton in tow, caused us to climb the stairs at a little past 9 pm; a long day for us both.
I read books and snuggled and kissed, started a fire, removed my bra which had been doing its best to deflate my right breast with an errant underwire, and changed into my own pajamas.
I texted The Neighbor again. “No puppy-kissing tonight. But if you want to just hang out, I’m down.”
I was surprised by his swift response, “I’m at work :-( Why no puppy-kissing, though?”
I couldn’t ignore the truth: I was simply not in the mood. But instead of responding with that, I sent him a picture of my breast bathed in firelight.
“What the fuck?!?! Why can’t I have that??”
I smiled wickedly and tapped out the truth. “Oh, I dunno. Just tired. Got a long, busy day tomorrow. :)”
The other piece to this is that if I am to remain safe from myself I have to deny him, deny us. I must become unavailable so I may be available to other things: quiet time, my career, my baby, my sexual escapades with different men.
I am launching a new Hyacinth, one more like the old. This one will be a “cheater,” though no vows or promises have been made. This one will protect her home and body for herself and her young lover, but will use the world and others as her sexual game preserve and her prey, respectively. Two lives, one woman.
And then I sent him another shot of me bare-breasted in front of the crackling fire. I felt bad for him working so late. “You can come over and lay with me in front of the fire. Maybe kiss the puppies if it’s not too late.”
But he’s still stuck at work and sent a picture of a very sad man saddled with headphones glowing under fluorescent lights. “It’s gonna be a long time still,” he texted.
It’s just as well.
The thing is, I want to get to a place with him where he can’t hurt me. Not believing in forever is the theory, but the practice is much different. I don’t want it to sting when I learn he’s made Thanksgiving plans and didn’t include me, though he hinted at us spending it together before. It’s pointless and it will corrode the shine on what we’re doing with each other now.
In a couple of weeks, we’ll have been together for a year. In another year, I suspect our affair will have ended completely and I will be in another quagmire with a different man. It’s the cycle of things.
I’ve learned, suffered, loved, hated, laughed and cried rivers. It’s been a lively life the last year. Colorful and passionate. It’s been brilliantly stupid and wickedly smart. I’ve learned I crave a certain amount of abuse and rejection: it’s my greatest failing and my biggest embarrassment. It’s still a lesson. I know I make it seem all pretty, but really, I’m just a fantastically huge idiot.
Regardless of all of it, I’m going to keep sending sweater puppies to my man-puppy. It makes us both feel better.