It was dark and his skin was warm. I arched under him and spread my legs reveling in his weight upon me.
My clothes were twisted around me and unceremoniously pushed away until the parts necessary for connection were exposed. I couldn’t see him, his face was obscured in darkness, but he felt familiar. A little.
He spread my knees with his and I let him push into me. His floppy brown hair bounced a little as he began to move and I closed my eyes and felt him inside of me. Something was missing, but I knew if he just moved a different way, stayed with me, I could get where I needed to go. But instead he stopped and pulled out.
I curled up and covered myself.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“I know what you want me to do and I don’t feel like doing it,” he said matter of factly.
“What?” I was incredulous that a man would openly admit to being so withholding.
He repeated himself, not kindly: “I don’t feel like giving you what you want.”
My gut clenched and pooled with the embarrassment of rejection. “Get the fuck out,” I whispered. “Just go!”
He shrugged noncommittally and rolled off the bed and disappeared into the dark doorway. I sat there bereft and befuddled. I had been filled and ready for pleasure only moments before it was taken away.
And then I woke up.
I blinked into the pre-dawn darkness and thought about what my brain had just conjured. The Neighbor would never do anything like that, though the past three weeks has certainly felt as though I’ve had the rug ripped out from under me much as the dream Hy had done to her. Maybe that’s why my subconscious gave my rude lover long brown locks instead of his shaved head: it wanted me to know the difference between them.
I have successfully survived one week without him.
I have stayed busy and away, true to my heart and open, and committed to a daily check-in with myself. We talk every other day or so because I want to and need it and because Peyton needs it. For now.
For now it’s also simple.
Neither of us are doing anything except hurting and our long, open talks with lots of tears are cathartic for us. We cried in each other’s arms when I told him I was proud of him for ending this when I couldn’t.
I want to be his friend and I need him to be mine; maybe we’ll make it happen, maybe we won’t. Right now I think that depends entirely on how long we can hold out for sex because at some point we will be forced to go find some and that will change everything between us. I feel like I’ve swallowed a bucket of rocks whenever I think of it, not unlike the stark loneliness and disappointment I felt in my dream this morning.
Another man’s hands and mouth on me, another cock, another mind wrapped around my own. It’s all slightly repulsive to be frank. And I feel desperate on occasion to think of TN’s specialness, our chemistry. How the fuck do I find that again??
But I don’t want to get ahead of myself.
It was during the break when Noodle and I were talking one night. This was before the hammer had come down and no one, least of all me, knew what the fuck was going on. She was being cautiously optimistic while I was being pragmatically negative when one of us said, “Doesn’t he know the grass is brown everywhere??”
We laughed because we’re both well aware of just how fucking hard relationships are and there’s no such thing as green grass anywhere in the damn field of love. “That’s kind of sad, isn’t it?” I asked.
“No,” she said, “Because brown doesn’t mean dead, it means it’s winter, it’s laying low. Wheat is golden brown before a harvest, before it reaps great rewards.” I got her point.
Relationships are difficult, brown if you will, because they take near constant effort to maintain and a willingness to let it be seasonal. If all we ever had was spring, we’d never get to harvest, but that’s a little like what TN seemed to want from us. He was unwilling/unable/un-something to go through the seasons with me and if it wasn’t going to be green then he didn’t really want it. My threshold for pain was much higher, apparently.
I told him last night that if we could ever figure out how to really be in each others’ lives then I would want to try, but the truth is neither one of us could crack open to the other. Yes, I was demonstrative and hopeful, but I was also packed safely away while he was a million miles the other direction and wriggling on a hook in total discomfort. Despite my love for him and my desire to figure shit out I remained a safe distance away from him, too.
It’s thinking about him wanting to do it for real with another woman that makes my belly churn with despair. I imagine he’ll figure it out one day, but I won’t be around to benefit. Hopefully by then though, I’ll have found a new man with killer sack skills, a pretty and delicious cock, a decent savings account, a career he loves, an easy way with Peyton, an open heart, and a love and devotion for me.
It’s a tall order, I know, but I never thought I’d meet anyone like TN, either.
For now I’m committed to celibacy for at least another month, possibly two. The idea of being sexless makes me hyperventilate, but I’m trying to be reasonable. I am no longer starved for male attention like I was when I left my marriage; I know I’m desirable, a great catch, sexy. I have all of you to thank for that.
I think I’ll be leaning on my Internet Boyfriend quite a lot in the coming weeks and months. I want to be measured and smart about this time in my life, channel the sexual energy into something more useful than desperate texts to uninteresting and uninterested men.
I also have to remain calm and remember I have nothing to prove anymore and this pain and loneliness may actually light my path. I don’t know why my journey in life thus far has included so much rejection, but I’m determined to figure it out and I believe that if I ignore this latest pain and loss I will only be prolonging this interminable loop of failed love.
I might end up happier if I try.