All the Chrises.

And the Robs, Dans, Mikes, Johns, Bobs, Davids, Kevins, and Troys.

Man after man, dick after dick, miss after miss.

Last summer it was a project of mine to cull my contacts and I found I had multiple pages of the same man’s name, a list in black and white of my apathy, hunger, and disdain.

  • Chris
  • Chris Car
  • Chris Chuck
  • Chris Cool
  • Chris Doo
  • Chris Eastside
  • Chris Magnum
  • Chris Mindsome
  • Chris Pander

With the exception of 3, I have no memory of those men.

There have been 6 “Chrises” in my life recently, each terribly memorable and forgettable simultaneously.  The Chris who ghosted on me after we fucked under a bridge and all night in my bed.  The Chris who apologized at 8:30 at night on a day we’d planned to go out that he wasn’t up to it.  The other Chris who admitted he was not attracted to me despite behavior that sent mixed signals.  The Chris who… I can’t remember who he is or was.  Another Chris I can’t remember.  And then a Chris from that list, one I actually do remember, just texted me last night.

I’m doing this wrong if I can’t remember men.

Not only that, but I can’t remember the dicks I have in my phone.  Fleshy and hard, in bathroom mirrors and surrounded by crumpled pants or sheets.  I find myself scrutinizing one on occasion trying to place it.  Whose is this??  What time of year was it sent?  What was going on in my life then?  WHO IS THIS???

Inevitably, the questions go unanswered and I click my phone off.

I recently went out with an old lover who texted me 2 years after our last date.  The last time we were together I struggled with my lack of interest in our sex despite our easy rapport while clothed.  I called myself a shitty lay and wracked it up to my own poor performance.  Our second date shattered that theory: he’s not that good in bed.

And he’s delusional about his penis size.

“I love being the skinny white guy with a huge dick,” he said while we sipped whiskey cocktails earlier in the night.  I thought maybe I’d remembered him wrong, but no, he has about an average length penis that is quite slender.  It felt like a sneeze that never swept through me.

Of course I came — lots  — but that’s just lucky body composition on my part, not his skill or passion.

At one point I was on all fours, ass high in his dimly lit room, with his mouth on my little starfish and nothing else.  Not his hand or arm.  It felt odd, like I was floating in space with a warm, wet alien attached to me between my ass cheeks.

“Where are your hands??” I asked almost irritated that I was even having to ask.

“One is on my dick,” he answered.

“Where’s your other??  Put it on me, please!”

I felt a soft palm press against my hip.  I grit my teeth until he’d had his fill.

There are so many Chrises in my past I stopped chronicling them here.  I’ve stopped a lot of things here since The Neighbor left me.  I lost my muse, my joy in sex and discovery, nearly my interest in writing.  I have been beaten to a pulp in the dating arena in round after round and have felt overly responsible about protecting my dates from their own miserable, sad, ridiculous, or embarrassing behavior, but I don’t want to do that anymore.

From now on I’m going to write about all the Chrises and their delusions of grandeur.

And all the Robs, Dans, Mikes, Johns, Bobs, Davids, Kevins, and Troys.  Not out of spite or revenge or to make them look bad, but because their stories are mine, too, and I’m tired of protecting them when there is a story for me to tell.

There’s much more going on here than I’ve let on.  So much more.

 

A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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4 thoughts on “All the Chrises.
  1. “protecting my dates from their own miserable, sad, ridiculous, or embarrassing behavior, but I don’t want to do that anymore.” And who will protect the reader from yours? Why is everything in your life the fault of someone else? Why are the Chris’s and the Rob’s and the Mark’s, the Dan’s and the Mike’s and the dozens of other men with whom you’ve had sex responsible for your unhappiness? Having followed your blog for a good six months, you share a good deal of that responsibility yourself. And your desire to expose all of their ‘delusions” is most certainly based on revenge, spite, and the desire to make them look bad because that is what unhappy people do.

    1. I have lots of choice things I could say to you, but instead I’m going to point out that these men’s identities are protected and no harm is being done to them. If they misbehave or are awful to me, do I owe them anything? As author of this blog, my online account of my dating life, I say NO, other than total anonymity.

      This blog is about me sharing my experiences and what this post is about is NOT to give myself permission to be an asshole – because I would never – but to give myself permission to tell the whole truth which I have been withholding so as to not make them look bad.

      Admittedly, as a first-person writer I am most concerned with the facts as I see them, but I am also genuinely concerned about the men I date coming off as bad people which is why I have censored so much of what has transpired between us. Of course I am not blameless – I’m pretty clear on my dysfunction in life – but what I aim to do in the future is lift the censure so I may feel free again.

      If he has hurt me by X behavior then I will share it. If I have been an asshole, I will share that too.

      You say you’ve read me for 6 months, but it sounds like you’ve not enjoyed yourself. If that’s the case then I suggest you stop. Or if you insist on continuing then may I recommend you read more of me (and you will thereby be “protecting” yourself from “my own miserable, sad, ridiculous, or embarrassing behavior). Your judgment and anger seem displaced for this blog and my readers, but as always, I appreciate feedback, even the kind I disagree with. – Hy

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