I come from sexual assault: A tale of #Metoo

(Ed. Note: TRIGGER WARNING. The following post may be triggering for some as it contains real life accounts of many non-consensual sexual acts.  Please read with caution.)

My first sexual experience with a boy – a man of 19 when I was a summer shy of 16 – was rooted in assault.  Every touch, kiss, and fondle was coerced from me.

His breath smelled, he sat too close, his fingers hurt my tender skin as he dug his way down into my jeans and then into my body.  He reeked of Obsession.  I refused to let him look at me naked, never took off my clothes, but he managed to snake his hands onto my flesh and they explored my virgin body instead.  In broad daylight all over his parents’ house, exposed and helpless.

He called me every night long past a decent calling time and kept me up until 3 and 4 in the morning.  I dragged myself to work at the pool where we both taught swim lessons and lifeguarded; I shied away from him in public.  I didn’t want anyone to know about us.

I can still taste the kiss he planted on me after his lunch of a big Dairy Queen burger with onions.

One warm summer night my friends and I all dipped into the Everclear stash of Tammy’s drunken, passed out father.  My friends were vaguely aware that this 19 yo man and I were dating, but they didn’t press.  He and Tammy had dated for several months and every night he’d sneak in her bedroom window and fuck her while her father lay passed out on the couch in the living room.

By all accounts, despite being a year younger than me, she had wanted it and him and thus everyone assumed I did, too. Not wanting to appear less sophisticated than her I didn’t correct them.

The liquor stoked a restlessness within me.  He knew I was there and what I was doing and he’d told me to sneak out and come see him.  To do what, exactly, I never considered.  My innocent 15 yo brain could only explore so far before my imagination gave out, romance novels notwithstanding.

With enough alcohol to embolden me I called him and shared my plan: I would steal one of the 16 year old’s cars who was too drunk to notice and drive across town to see him.  But just for a little while.  “Don’t take advantage of me,” I said.

Underage, without a license, I traversed my little bedroom town and parked in front of his house.  He was waiting for me in the dark awning of his converted garage bedroom.

I don’t remember what we said to each other except that I said those magical, protective words again: Please.  Don’t take advantage of me.  I felt light and hot and like a grown up.  Wild and free.  I’d told him not to hurt me so therefore he wouldn’t.

I knew he wanted me – whatever that meant – and that felt like power.

We kissed in the dark, alone and in his bedroom, a place we had never spent time before.  He walked me backwards towards his bed.  His room smelled foreign and faintly like dirty laundry.  Like a musky boy.

The backs of my legs hit the bed and we stopped.  I stopped.  This was enough.  I was done.  But how??

He was not done.

He pulled off my shirt and I crossed my arms over my bra.  He pulled my hands apart and took off my bra.  I had never been topless in front of him and I shivered with embarrassment, a vague sense of wrong washed over me, but… I had put myself here.

He pushed me back on the bed, pulled down my pants and I shuddered with humiliation thinking he could see in the dim porch light that I was wearing my mother’s high-waisted underwear.  He didn’t notice that I was wearing my mother’s panties.

He only wanted them off.

I froze as he slipped them past my straight little hips and off my foot, pushed my knees apart and put his face between my legs.  There.  Where no one had ever been before, where I had not asked, where he had no right to be.

His tongue was hot and wet and acid.  Mortification, horror, fear pressed me deep into the mattress.  I was disgusted that he seemed to be enjoying it.

I pulled him up, told him to stop, and he kissed me as if it were a lovers moment, my first experience ever of tasting myself on a man’s lips and I pressed mine shut and turned away.

He pulled me into his arms to lay on his bed.  I thought it was over.  That he’d gotten what he wanted and I was safe again.  Stiffly I lay against his bare chest.  He was in only underpants.  I didn’t know what to say.

Then he took my hand – I thought he wanted to hold it – but instead forced it down to his groin, to his hot, hard skin.  I snatched my hand away as if it were burned, sat up and couldn’t stop the verbal outpouring.

“I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go,” I said.  “No, no, no,” spilled out to nothing as he helplessly watched me find my clothing in the dark.  Retroactive words that couldn’t turn back time.

I was sober now.

He continued to treat it like it was a tender moment between us and hugged my stiff body goodbye.  I walked to the little red Pontiac Le Mans 5-speed and drove back to my friend’s house and cried.

I cried because it was my fault.  I cried because I was supposed to feel differently than this, this despondence, this hurled into space feeling.

I had called him, flirted with him, went to him.

I hadn’t fought or slapped or kicked or said even one word to him to make him stop.

But none of what had happened had felt right — nothing about our entire “relationship” had felt right — but I was raised on dysfunctional interactions with men – you must be so beautiful you stop traffic, so desirable you make him reckless and irrational, so lovely you make him weep.  Not listening to how I felt with him was what I’d been bred to do: what I needed never mattered.

He shipped out the following fall and married a sad creature from our high school.  He occasionally wrote me letters telling me how special I was.  By then I didn’t care.  I no longer wanted to impress him.

A decade or so later, with a divorce and two children under his belt – including a daughter – he apologized for that night.  He avoided calling it assault, but he acknowledged that if I never wanted to speak to him again he deserved it.  My reply was gracious, but lackluster.  I had shrunken it down: It was just a bad night.

I wish I could remember when I named that night for what it was.  It wasn’t right away, I know that.  For years I considered that just another really bad sexual experience, a bad start. “Sexual assault” was too hard to swallow.

I didn’t date another boy until I was in college and those fumbling attempts at sex were consensual, though I was barely present.  I would drink too much and throw myself at these boys and descend upon them fearlessly, my tender heart a million miles away.

I fucked like that throughout my 20s, through serious boyfriends who’d paw at me and beg and wear me down until I finally said yes, through drunken liaisons with hot, willing men in bars whose names I barely knew.

Close to 30 I began to try to marry sex with emotion and embarked on sober sex with a lover or two before I met my exhusband – who was so not sexually charged that I considered him safe enough to open up with.  I had missed the mark again.

Another decade and I left our sexless marriage and was back to heartless fucking and a lot more “bad sex.”

Sex when I didn’t want to have it after a wonderful date.

Oral sex when I had said I didn’t want it.

Being abused by a “so-called dominant.”

Being fondled in public on a first date without my consent.

Being completely ignored when I said “No, not tonight.”

Maybe having sex with the bastard who dragged me across a room filled with people into a dark bedroom, but I can’t remember because I was so fucked up or maybe I just blocked that part out.

The date with the Frenchman who coerced me into his car, into his apartment, and into letting him jam his disgusting, fat tongue down my throat.

The same Frenchman who insisted on pawing me and trying to sneak his hand up my skirt despite my many firm NOs.

The light-weight chef who blamed the whiskey or two he’d consumed on his boorish sexual advances.

I literally cannot count the number of times I have been physically assaulted in my life —  Twenty-five?  Fifty? — let alone count the number of times I have been assaulted by unsolicited dick pics and disgusting “erotic” messages online.  If I had to guess at that combined number it’d have to be in the thousands.

After a couple of winter assaults in 2016 I began 2017 with a date at a swanky restaurant with Rex, a feminist and bleeding heart liberal.  Imagine my surprise when I registered the shock on his face as I told him, “Literally every woman you know has been sexually assaulted.  Every. Woman.”  He should know this already, right??  But, no.

He wanted to know more, why hadn’t I reported anything ever? A bad thing happened to me at the hands of someone else and I should report such bad things. “Because it wouldn’t have held up in court; I know what kind of world I live in. I did X, Y, Z and a jury would find me at fault.”

He had no idea that No didn’t actually mean No to a whole lot of men out there, that women felt compelled to follow through with a situation because she felt responsible, that some women — myself included — did things with her body because it might mitigate potential violence should she try to fully stop her date, that all women understand she bears the burden of proof and if one signal were mixed she has no legal leg to stand on.

I began to feel responsible for the mixed signals I had given.  How would he know if I didn’t say No?  If I didn’t fight?  If I ended up just going along with it because my body responded to his touch?  I was a part of the problem, too, then right?  I was actively contributing to misinformation about sex and women and the miseducation of men.  Wasn’t I?

It wasn’t until this fall, right as the Harvey Weinstein news was crashing down upon us all, that I wondered this aloud to a young man who wanted to connect with me before we embarked on a sexual relationship.

Nate and I sat in his dark Volvo outside my building and he listened to my concerns and he became incensed at my logic.  Incensed.

I could hear the horror in his voice as he realized I was owning the revolting behavior of the men who had hurt me over the years.  “NO, HY.  NO.  MEN KNOW WHEN A WOMAN DOESN’T WANT IT.

“But what if I didn’t want him to know??”

“NO.”

“But what if I went along with it?”

“NO.”

“But what if eventually I just stopped saying No??”

“NO NO NO NO NO.  WE ALWAYS KNOW.”

The windows steamed up from his shouting.  I felt like I had been punched.  Not by him — no, I was in awe of his emotion about this — but by a new reality: those incidents hadn’t just been “bad dates” with ignorant, stupid men, they had been sexual assaults by men who knew better.

They knew they were hurting me.

They knew they were pressuring and pushing me.

They knew I didn’t want to.

They knew.

Just like that 19 yo boyfriend always knew.

I don’t think that this makes every man who assaulted me a bad man and a predator.  It makes him irresponsible, possibly an opportunist, certainly a jerk, but not an automatic menace to society.  That would require more data if we are to be fair.

And a man is as much a product of his socializing to conquer and take sex as I have been socialized to please and give it.  Imagine how different our world would be if we raised our men to give sex rather than take or get it.

Honestly, how the fuck are any of us to know when No is a real-No and a No is an I’m-Supposed-to-Say-This-So-You-Don’t-Think-I’m-Easy-No.  Aziz Ansari is a numbnut dipshit and a perfect example of this and that date personifies my guilt about my role in all of this.

He [willfully] believed all her dodging and eventual capitulations were part of a consensual chase, that it was his role to pursue, but those two poor souls were definitely not on the same date.  She was in hell, he was the romantic hero of his own romance novel.  But he still knew, he just assigned a different meaning to her behaviors.

She was being coy, playing hard to get, and if he could somehow convince her to say Yes then it was consensual.  Score 1 for the good guy!

And she’s thinking, “If I say Yes, then maybe it’ll stop.”  Or, “Maybe it won’t be that bad.”  Or, “Maybe he really doesn’t know and I won’t die if I just do it.”  Or, “I did invite him back to my apartment/go to his apartment/a secluded area/his car so I’ve given the signal I’m interested and I can’t stop now.”

This issue does not lay at the feet of only women to solve.  It is not about us saying No louder or avoiding situations or running away or “just leaving.”  It’s about men understanding that it lays equally at their feet to be honest, present, and responsible.

Men need to question the model of masculinity handed to them, the Patriarchy which tells them once turned on it is their duty and right to satiate their need by any means necessary.

Women must reject what’s been handed to them, as well, this belief that they are solely responsible for what happens to them.  If only she hadn’t worn that skirt, had that drink, said Yes the last date/hour/minute then this wouldn’t have happened to her.

What we’re taught is breathtakingly fucked up.

Once we realize what we’ve been spoon fed we all – both men and women – need a path to redemption.  Men need an avenue to a safe place for growth and forgiveness and women need a route to believe in her inherent human value and her rights to safety with men.

Being violent is only the most obvious assault, but it’s not the only way men force their sexual will on women.  They also intimidate, beg, cajole, plead, manipulate, wear down, corner, argue, and insist upon.

And because he didn’t raise a hand against her he believes he did nothing wrong and the woman who just went against her instincts to survive the encounter is left with a jagged empty space in her heart and a truckload of guilt for bringing it upon herself.

But he knew.

And now we know, too.

.

.

.

.

Post inspired by Katie’s, “Not that bad.”

Little resolutions.

I resolve to fall back into the safe space of Hy.

To reconnect with myself and the world, to pin threads which span the globe with my words and heart.

I resolve to be more open and brave, to allow myself to make decisions rather than respond to someone else’s.

To do the scary things.

I resolve to inhabit this bag of skin and bones with love and light, passion and purpose.

To roll gleefully in the mud of life.

And lastly, I resolve to just be me. Remember her??

Hy all cozy

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

I’m not going to want to marry you.

Or, “You and I will never date.”

Or, “We’ll never be a ‘thing’.”

Or, “We won’t ever be serious.”

Words that never fail to fall upon my ears like long, whispering razors that snake to my bare and beating heart.

Did I ask you to marry me?  To date me, to be a thing?  Have I seemed serious about us???  I thought I was already clear before we ever met that I was not looking for a relationship.

An open woman – one who relies not upon traditional trappings of commitment or even time – is open to all things, not just the few things she actually wants in her life.

There are also uninvited guests in the form of nervous men who think her attitude must be a self-serving [female] plot to entrap him in an unwanted relationship and therefore must be headed off at the pass with a preemptive THIS IS ONLY TEMPORARY I DONT WANT YOU.

I have had countless conversations with these men over the years and struggle to not sound defensive or hurt or some combination of the two, and not because I am either of those things, but how do you respond to someone who says that to you without sounding brittle?

When you’ve learned that after a date or two, possibly a handful, after having had sex that he has already – and unilaterally – decided he must remind you that there is no future together.  That you have not made the cut?

So I say, calmly and with some mirth, “Well of course not.  I don’t want to marry/date/be serious either.”

He* exhales breath he didn’t know he was holding.  “Good, because most women end up falling in love with me.  It’s such a problem.

I laugh, pour him some more wine.  Poor guy.

“You and I lead very different lives, Mr. Man.  You see, when you are kind and decent and the sex is good you have to fight women off; they fall in love and they pursue you with vigor and adoration.  If the sex is good, they think it must be love!  Am I right?”

He emphatically nods and appears relieved that I “get it,” this terrible thing that happens to him because he is a tender, intuitive lover and thoughtfully checks in via text every day despite not wanting a “serious” relationship.

Inside I turn black and pieces of my heart flake off and disintegrate.

“Let me tell you my experience, friend.  When I have great sex with someone and feel a connection I treat him with respect and I want to see him again, naturally, right?”

He nods with complete understanding.

“I make this known to my lover and I am then inevitably seen as one of those women who have fallen in love and must be pushed away.  I can neither pursue a connection nor admit I want one lest I turn into some lovesick idiot who confuses sex with love.”

We sit quietly.  Me uncertain he believes me and he probably thinking I might have the most elaborate trap of all.

I want to deny that I could fall in love, but I no longer bother; it’s absolutely possible that feelings could develop for one of these men because I can both fuck and love* – Sunday to Sunday – but what I can’t seem to do is find anyone who wants to do both with me so I cauterise the flow and keep it discrete.

The only difference between me and one of those “other” women he is so intent on avoiding is that I know in no uncertain terms that when a man says he doesn’t want a relationship he is not worth my energy beyond our tangled limbs and his fat, hot meat deep inside my body.

If he doesn’t see a future with me, then neither will I.

Troy seemed to like to tell me all the reasons why he would never date me, then The Neighbor felt similarly inclined.  Never mind I didn’t want to date either of them – Troy was an asshole and TN made it clear he wasn’t into me – yet they each felt it necessary to ward me off, to draw an X between us, a Protego totalum spell against me.  Fuckers.

I broke up with TN 4 separate times based on his heartless prophecy and yet the bastard just wouldn’t leave me alone.  I allowed him to lead me into a relationship he ultimately never wanted and then one cold January day in 2015 he abruptly left me.  The lies he’d lived having crushed us both to smithereens, me to oblivion.

I will never do that again.

If he says he doesn’t want me I believe him.  I heard his sultry voice, I saw the white teeth which shone while the words flowed out of his smile.  Our knees touched on my couch, wine in hands.  He had come over just to hang out and see me.  Sex wasn’t expected, just talk.  He likes me, after all.

But not that much, Hy.  Don’t be a silly girl and fall in love.  He only wants your pussy, your energy, your you.

Well, I only want his* submission.  And I only want his dick.  Two can play at that game, gentlemen, but don’t cry to me about all the women who fall in love with you.  They’re more human than me, they’re normal people with hopes and warm, beating hearts.  They’re lovely and pure and you’re ruining them with your fantastic expectations of connection without any commitment and feelings.  How lazy and entitled can you be?  Shall we love ourselves for you, too?

I don’t love hearing the words they insist on sharing – it makes me feel sideways and miscategorized – but I appreciate the insight because now I know what to do with him.

In the past I was hopeful that he might be wrong about his feelings about me.  He’d wake up one day with me nestled in his nook, our evening sex perfuming the room and another long lazy weekend planned ahead and realize he was in love despite his best efforts to avoid it because I am just that lovable.

Today I know that’s Hollywood bullshit written by writers whose love lives were arrested while reading either romance or fantasy novels due to their bad acne, overbite, and social anxiety.  The little guy always wins!  Except that is truly fiction.

I believe him now, these men.  He sees nothing with me other than the next hot sexual encounter.  I believe him.

But don’t worry about me.  He is safely sorted in the Do Not Pursue file, to be then neatly refiled into the one called Do Not Maintain.  Should I feel a glimmer of feeling – even the slightest flicker of affection – he will be moved to the Must Remove From Life folder immediately.

And I must admit that satisfaction rolled through me like a drug as those very words spilled out of my smile to land on his ears, wine in hands.

*”He” and “his” is not one man, but many.

**A timely tweet by one of my wives, Girl on the Net, a few days after my smile landed on his ears.

 

 

 

Friday, December 15th, is Boobday!

hy_tits_banner

Hi all!  For the first time in years I slept until 10 am today.  How is that even possible?!

So, coffee in hand, animals snoozing around me, and the Christmas tree twinkling I’m writing today’s post.  Last night I went out with another old lover for an impromptu catch up session of snark, laughter, and ridiculous compliments.

My hotness, my wit, my curves.

The man was an endless fountain of kind words.

He offered to take me home then sped home in his fancy car.  He walked me up, leaned up on his toes to kiss me passionately, and I said goodnight.  I didn’t feel like fucking him, but instead floated inside on the high of simple human interaction, no penis or vaginas involved.

Today’s offerings include Lola whose Thanksgiving picture got lost in the family melee and Ms. Determined.  If I’ve forgotten anyone else, let me know!  I’m a bit scattered today.

Ok, without further ado… tits!

xx

Hy

 

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

 

My tits:

Chilly mornings and old poses.

NOT my tits:

Ms. Determined’s dark and luscious jugs.

::

I love it when HH shows up with Lo. Two of my absolute favorite writing friends.

Here’s a submission for Boobday Friday, taken today – Thanksgiving. I’m thankful for Lola taking out her phone to look at some sexy guys who sent in cumtributions to her while I did her from behind and took pics of her in the mirror.


She was poisoned by your utter indifference and lack of human decency.

I’ve been hanging out with a man from my past lately, Chase.  He was one of the first men I went out with after The Neighbor dumped me in 2015 and also one of the few men who was able to weave affectionate play with hardcore fucking.  After 2 or 3 hot, naked dates he faded away in a fog of love with another woman.  Two months ago he reappeared and wanted to reconnect.  He and the woman had just broken up.

I called Chase my sexual brother at the time because his attitude was so open, yet caring.  He flung himself in bed with me as quickly as I did, but also maintained a thread of communication and friendship afterwards.  We went to a movie, we smoked weed on his balcony, we cuddled.  And we fucked.

Upside down and sideways, with spanks and splashes and lots of laughter.  He didn’t judge me, just went along for the ride.

It was over quickly, but he left a good taste in my mouth for the existence of a man who could be like me: wanton, but sensitive.

This past Friday he told me how different I am today from 3 years ago.  “You’re less… hungry,” he said.

And he’s right.  I am far less hungry.

In fact, I border on the disinterested altogether.  My sex drive is alive and well, but my hunger is gone.  I have finally been beaten into submission: I am no longer so eager to spread my legs hoping that this man might be like me only to be cast aside the next day.

My good IG friend, Mrs. XO, said this when I told her his new take on me:

“… I’ve had men say the same thing to me as well.  Like, what happened to that horny af milf?  Ummm, idk.  She was poisoned by your utter indifference and lack of human decency?

I couldn’t have said it better.

I am talking to a handful of other old lovers, as well, ghosts from my past who for whatever reason are back knocking on my door with their hardons.  A date here, a fuck there, a hug like old friends.  I’m enjoying the process, my heart safely cordoned off.  With each of them we’ve already left each other and we survived.  I survived.

I had a reader once, a bright woman who spent much of her precious time reading me and writing to me, beg me to stop hurting myself via men.  She wanted me to take responsibility for what was happening to me – all the hurt and rejection, she said, were my fault because I moved too fast with men and expected too much.

I didn’t agree and we locked horns.  I insisted I wanted to be accepted for who I am.  I wanted to do as I pleased and not be hurt.  She maintained that wasn’t how the world works.

Finally, years after our long email debates part of what she said to me has soaked in: I cannot trust those who have not earned it.  Merely existing in my world is not sufficient proof that you are trustworthy.

And so I am having very little sex.

Chase and I have spent 4 nights together and I have only recently touched his cock while my friend Jack blew him and Jack’s [new] fiancée fingerbanged me to climax.  I could have fucked all three, but my heart wasn’t in it.  Wednesday my date with Lance, a man I met 7 years ago, ended with a peck in his car despite past dates ending with a puddle beneath my bottom.

I wonder what it’d be like to meet someone and wait weeks before having sex, actually make it mean something as a pair with a serious relationship in mind.  The last time I did that, however, I ended up married to the wrong man.  All that “meaning” having clouded my better judgment.  Surely I wouldn’t make the same mistake…

I’ve waited weeks before having sex several times this year, but a relationship was never the end goal, just a D/s dynamic.  And while trust was integral I’ve realized yet again that promises are worthless and even agreed upon patience can’t protect me from abandonment.  Nothing can protect me.

So if nothing can protect me then I need to walk into the flames and accept what comes with truly no regrets.  I’ve said this so many times, each iteration closer to a mindfulness about people and myself.

I don’t regret anyone I’ve ever slept with – I was hopeful with each and every one of them and I was completely myself – but my hope was misguided.  It was based in the belief that they were truthful and like myself – open and eager to connect.  My reader-friend was desperate for me to realize that’s not how the world works, but I was stubborn.

Now I can still be myself, but accept more truly that people are not like me and that things have the high probability of going awry.  Men have hangups and baggage and plans unknown to me.  They have fears and hopes and shame.  Perhaps the timing was colossally wrong, whatever.  The end result to this realization has been this reticence to sex… and an incredible sense of calm.

I’m just chillin’ in my corner of the internet making ends meet, mothering, focusing on my health and fitness, listening to 90’s Hip Hop and rap like it’s my job.  To borrow and tweak Linda Evangelista’s famous “I don’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day,” quote, I don’t get out of bed for less than being treated like a person.

Which means, not surprisingly, I go out a lot less often.

 

 

I know part of why I’m not writing.  

Life.  Life kills my boner to write. 

I’m currently sitting at a bar alone and all I want to do is write.  Partly because I’m alone and bored, but also because the energy is filling me up, like foam from the tap.  My mug spilleth over.

I feel more observant, more on point, energized.  For months I have typically felt spread thin.  I’m worn out, sad, hopeful, determined, grinding, slugging through.  It’s a lot of emotion to sort through every day. But I rarely am filled with brimming creativity.  Until moments like this.

When I’m surrounded by strangers, completely ignored. 

 It’s like writing pornography.  I’m so turned on to write.

I was here exactly one week ago today.  One of the many Chrises had texted me and wanted to see me again.  We met here and talked and laughed and drank fancy hipster cocktails before walking around the hipster neighborhood and binging on sake and sushi.

He lathered me in compliments all night long.  My hair, my body, my dress, my ass.  He loved it all.  I was sopping wet with his attention by the end of our night.  Figuratively speaking.

We drove back to his house and smoked “the finest weed you can find in this town!” while I deftly avoided the inevitable.  He’s not that great at sex.  

The first time I blamed myself.  The second time I realized it was him.  But he is friendly to a fault, cute, attentive, a true pleasure to spend time with so I willed myself to relax as he began to touch me.  Softly, timidly, too intimately.

When the licking, whining, cuddling dogs no longer provided enough buffer between us I decided to give it another whirl; the weed had relaxed every nerve and I floated slightly above the both of us.  Let’s do this.  

Upstairs he moaned as I undressed and I savored his sweet kisses.  We moved better together this time, though I still yearned for more, for less thought and more abandon.

I came a time or two, eyes closed willing it to be just a bit better while trying to  immerse myself in what I was actually getting.  And then it was suddenly over.  He’d silently cum and I’d fucking missed it, robbed of even the pleasure of his.

I asked him how he’d like it if I did that.  He got the message.  

We dozed sideways on his king sized bed for a minute or two before I begged off.  

“The dog.”  

He understood.

It was the next night when I was out with another man trying to get into a bar that I realized my ID was gone.

I looked for it everywhere – including my date’s jeans and underwear – but to no avail (though I did find a perky, willing cock).  

A day or two later I called the bar from my date with the Chris and voila!  They had it.

And so here I am, alone, thrumming with creativity and verve, and chatting up a handsome stranger who sat beside me while he waits for his date.

The Chris knows I’m here and will be here shortly.  Maybe this time I can parlay this surge in creativity into more than just a blog post and finally get him to make some noise.

[Ed. note: He said he’d be 45 mins.  Forty-five minutes in I was at 6% on my phone and texted him as much.  He was on another work call, don’t wait on him, sorry. And so I left.  Alone once more and robbed of the will to write yet again.]

Dating is the cruelest of sports: An open letter to the man who ghosted

I am crushed that I am reduced to emailing you what I am about to say, but I feel I need to nonetheless.

I am torn between two warring thoughts about what has happened between us.

On the one hand, I think you are cruel to treat me this way; on the other, perhaps I am a roaring asshole and deserve it.

I have poured over ever sentence, every touch between us that night in an attempt to figure out what I did to cause you to react in such a way to me.  Should I have not blown you under the bridge?  Been so eager to accept your invitation to brunch?  Was it because I wanted to hear you cum?  Because I wrapped my hands around your beautiful neck?  Or perhaps it was when I urged you to suck harder on my nipples.  No, maybe it’s because I used my vibrator?

Or, what my darkest voice suggests to me, it’s simply because I am a person of no value and so of course the beautiful, young man who had spent an evening (plus nearly 4 weeks) whispering sweet nothings into my ear would toss me aside like yesterday’s garbage, today’s biggest regret, because I am worthless.  That is what the dark voice in me says.

This is what I am wrestling with, because surely that can’t be true, and no one could possibly deserve to be tossed aside like that, right?  You have decided to do this; I didn’t bring it upon myself.  For only a matter of hours before you thought I was incredible and told me so. We made plans for Saturday and even Sunday morning.  You talked about taking me camping some time and teaching me to appreciate whiskey.

If I did misstep then why wouldn’t you say, Hy, you hurt my feelings or I didn’t like that so much.  Or even, Hy, I’ve had a change of heart.  At the very least, Hey, I need to talk.  That’s the man I thought you were.

When I have suddenly pulled way from someone it was because the sex was horrendously bad (I remember you saying it was the best – or did I imagine that in my own repulsive brain??) or because he assaulted me (I watched you closely as you closed your eyes and moaned and gripped me tightly, but perhaps you didn’t want to do the things we did) and even then the next day when that sad man would text me and notice a shift in me I would tell him I was no longer interested.  I was humane.

Why, why would you turn away from me like you have in such a heartless manner and leave me to spin in emotional turmoil flipping between rage and sorrow and worry??  Rage at your treatment of me, my sorrow – and humiliation – at being so soundly rejected, and worry that you might be hurt.

I mean, what if you’re in a coma and I would seem like a terrible fool for assuming you’ve done anything to me.  But I am a realist and the most reasonable way to approach this is to assume the answer is the simplest and that is that you have had a change of heart, not that you are injured.

August, I know we only knew each other for a handful of weeks, but I trusted you.  I breathed your breath and tasted your skin and I let myself go with you in both mind and body, beneath you and atop of you, and you have disappeared on me.  Not only that, but I spent hours upon hours of my valuable time writing to you and thinking of you.  How is it that I now find myself in this position?  Why would you do this?

I don’t expect an answer — seeing as you have made what seems to be your final move here with me — but I wanted you to know how it has affected me, someone you held close and who trusted you.  I was so filled with hope about you.

If I did something to hurt you I am eternally sorry, truly; you were like a beautiful beast crossing my path even if for a short time and my days were filled with excitement and hope because of you.  I’m only sorry it’s ending in so much pain and confusion.

– Hy

And yet, as horrible as it may sound, I hope you actually are hurt rather than the alternative because I don’t want any of this to be happening right now.  I wanted to know you for a very long time.  x

I’m waiting nervously.

I never get nervous about first dates, but here I am, battling a fluttering gut and palpitating heart.

In less than 20 minutes he’ll round the corner and I will feel his arms around me as we hug hello.  I will get to fill my nostrils with his scent and feel the vibrations of his own nerves through my fingertips.

I’ve strategically placed my purse on the seat so he must sit as close to me as possible.  I don’t think he will mind.

The hotel lounge fragrance is both sweet and decadent and the staff are politely chatting with one another as bottles clink and ice is scooped.  A gentle, pulsing melody floats overhead.

I’ve shaved my legs and even my pussy, but didn’t wash my hair.  It’s my way to syche out the Universe.  Or confuse it.  I don’t know what I want with this young man tonight.  

All I know is that if I had not shaved my overgrown snatch, he absolutely for sure would have ended up with his face buried in it later.  

I’m on a man diet. For real.

I have purged my life of all the unnecessary noise of men pawing at my door and am only allowing one knock at a time.

After indulging the nihilistic Hyacinth a couple of weekends ago I completely wiped the slate clean.  I got rid of men around the world and at my doorstep.  I stopped engaging with anyone who might not turn into a real life option for love.  I had to realize my own despair while abandoned in a brightly lit hallway to accept my loneliness for what it’s become: overwhelming.

I have made false connections with too many for too long.  So what if we have light, witty banter for a week?  So what if he’s hot?  So what if he’s into me?  And secondly, how do I know anything about this person – beyond those superficial things – in only a week or two that would warrant me giving them my time?  A piece of myself?

Realizing the truth of my “connections” with these men, this false intimacy, has made my decision-making easier than ever before.  I see the Matrix of Dating suddenly and am swiping the bullshit aside like a curtain blocking my view.   I can’t expect something real from something temporary.  No rose will grow from granite, so why would I expect it to?

My diet from men means I’m making healthier choices, not that I have stopped eating sugar – er – men altogether.  Right now I’m nibbling on only one man and though he might not be the healthiest option my approach is sound, the landing should be good.  At least my therapist thinks so.

I haven’t written about him before; he’s young – 14 years younger than me – tall, handsome, fit, hung, submissive, financially secure. sexy, flirty, filthy, engaged in what we’re doing, open and open-minded, not allergic to cats, politically aligned with me, doesn’t want biological children, intelligent, attentive and… lives with his girlfriend of 6 years in a non-hierarchical polyamory relationship.  His other girlfriend of two years lives in her own little poly pod 2 hours away.

And despite the girlfriends, I am extremely excited about him because my choices have been thoughtful and I am applying great restraint to let this unfold gently, naturally.  I want the intimacy to be real.  I also don’t know that the girlfriends will be a problem.  I’ve never tried to date a poly guy before.  Maybe I won’t care; maybe they’ll make it better for us.

Things have been different from the start.  I insisted on corresponding via email and waited at least 5000 words a piece before I used the number he gave me to text.  I made it clear that texting was not for days long conversations that could be had in 30 mins over the phone, but for flirting and possibly pics.  Due to his age, he had a slight aversion to speaking on the phone, but he carved out a little time over the weekend to chat and it was sweet and lovely and I appreciated the effort immensely.  He surprised himself with enjoying it as much as he did (seriously, what is wrong with Milennials – and even some of us Gen Xers – that a phone call feels too intimate when you’re trying to date someone???).  I could have invited him over 10 times during a rainstorm this weekend, but I refrained, and instead set a date two weeks away.  I want to be certain he’s worth my time.

Now we wait eagerly each day for the other’s email and text little mailbox emojis when the deed is done in between sizzling hot pics and sweet chatter perfect for text.

I still check the pots to see if anything interesting has been caught, but ultimately throw them all back in.  No one compares to this glowing young man of summer.  In fact, one man on OKC who spoke to me in lengthy nonsensical, look how funny I am with words! guy just cut me loose because I hadn’t responded to him since Friday.  That’s how most of us should be, actually.   Truth is, I wasn’t interested, which is why I forgot to check my email there.  Sorry, dude, but you did the right thing.

My diet feels like clean eating for my heart.  I love the quiet, I love that Peyton has more of my attention, I love that when my phone chimes I know it’s someone I actually want to chat with, I love that my time is well spent, and most of all I love that this feels right.

I might still be eating bread and brie – a leftover from my time in France – but I’m also hitting the gym four times a week; I feel good.  My Man Diet is similar: I’m making good decisions, but with some indulgences thrown in here and there, judiciously and with care.  Just like any good diet that can be stuck to for the long term it can’t be all about deprivation.  It also has to feel good.

Personal destruction.

The woman’s dark blonde or light brown hair was pulled back in a bun.  Her clothes looked like bed-clothes, something comfortable.  Her words were angry and her movements defiant.  The man ahead of her walked on long legs down the hotel corridor purposefully, swiftly.

My brow furrowed.  What had just happened?

She remained between the two of us as I trailed behind confused and disoriented.  I took a few more steps and stopped.  She turned her back to me, like he did, and followed after him.  He never looked over his shoulder.

In the car ride home I sobbed broken, jagged sobs.  The driver navigated the dark route home, his features dimly lit by the dash.  I put my head in my hands and wailed, uncaring of my quiet audience.  Was this rock bottom?

I’d spent the entire day on my couch after a drunken red wine night and a $100 morning.  Around 4 pm he’d texted me with a picture from a fancy balcony of the beautiful countryside.  “That [city] vibe is hard to beat,” his text read.

A woman from college had come through town and he was at a resort with her.  She was sleeping in the other room while he drank bourbon and smoked a cigarette on the balcony.  He was teasing me, he said.  I told him it hadn’t worked.

Later, drunker, he asked me to come out to see him.  By then I had cleaned some of my house – and myself – and was seated at the end of my favorite bar smiling gamely at anyone who would look.  Two glasses of wine and two cocktails later I accepted his invitation.

After two false starts and a phone call to the front desk I found the bar nestled in the belly of the resort and waited.  My texts had turned from blue iMessage to green text and I wondered if his sleeping suite mate had awoken or perhaps he’d passed out.  I texted again.  Blue.

I waited longer and ordered a second cocktail.  Rye and bitters and an oily orange peel.  My phone lit up.  He had fallen asleep but was on his way down.  I should have left then.

He strode in, toothsome and tall.  A broad, boyish grin split his face open.  We didn’t even hug.  He ordered himself a double something and said, “Lets go outside.  I want to smoke.”

I wasn’t even there.  I felt my body moving and my mouth talking, but I wasn’t there.  I didn’t care to be there; I tried to feel something.  We sat on patio furniture enveloped in  other smokers’ exhaust side by side.  We said nothing and everything.  And still we did not touch.

And then a woman walked through the door and closed the distance between us.  The man stood up without a word as she spewed many at him, at me.  That is when he strode away.

She turned and followed him.

And I followed her.

I don’t know why I did that.  I had nothing to say to her.  I was pursuing him, an answer.  Was this real?  Was that actually happening to me?  Was I even here??

I didn’t follow for very long.  The blue and white flooring opened up at a large corridor intersection and I stopped.  I feared I’d get lost if I kept going, get lost in long hallways and repeating doors and lights and turns and turns and turns.

I felt so alone, so ashamed, so used up.  I’d abandoned myself completely and utterly, made one bad decision after another, and found myself in the untenable position of complete and utter fool.

The torrent of emotions poured out in my sobs, a lifetime of feeling worthless personified in a hotel hallway 20 minutes from home.

I never should have left the couch that night.  I never should have answered his text.  But when someone is hellbent on destroying themselves, there’s little to do but hang on and wait for the morning light.

The morning after is always better and the heart is ever so much a little lighter.