It’s been 2 years.

January 27th, 2015 I wrote about our last time together.  Only thing was, I had no idea that’s what it was.

It was a tender moment between us — good sex, spectacular sex — and it wiped out the doubt and worry I lived with about him and had me hopeful for our future.  I contemplated what we did next with our relationship, moving it forward.  I was the girl who got all dressed up for the dance and her date had entirely other plans.  Somewhere else.

And then, the day after I wrote the words he walked into my house and left me.  Technically we ended it 2 weeks later, but the truth is he left me the night he said he wanted a break.  Perhaps it was the last time he was buried inside of me; a real goodbye fuck.

In the weeks that followed we cried together as I begged him for a reason why.  “I don’t know, Hy.  I just don’t want to be in a relationship,” he’d say wearing a sad, heavy face like a drama mask.

Spring turned into summer and our meetings were less tearful and more reorienting.  “If we’re going to be friends, then you can’t hide things from me, TN,” I’d gently lecture.  “I don’t want details, but friends tell each other when they’re dating someone.”

“Don’t worry.  I’m not dating anyone, I promise.  I have no interest.”

He was working out early in the mornings by then, bootcamp at dawn.  I couldn’t get him up before 9 am when we dated.  He’d said he wasn’t a morning person and never would be.  He did yoga, was kayaking, even hanging out with his workout crowd.

My birthday was in late summer and the night he took me out to a fancy dinner to celebrate he complained about how tired he was because of the hot yoga he’d done in the morning and when I pressed and asked if he was doing it for a woman he claimed it was with “just a bunch of middle-aged women” from his bootcamp.  “Don’t worry.  I’m not dating,” he’d added unprovoked.

The next day I ended our friendship amidst his protests and angry, mournful tears.  I was still in love with him and watching him change into the kind of man I’d always wanted him to be right before my eyes was too painful, a slap in the face of my ill-conceived sacrifice to accept him as he was.  What a fucking idiot I was.

That fall, a mere weeks after saying my final goodbye, I ran into him with a woman at my favorite gym class.  A class that I had introduced him to and which we had attended together for a year.  She was pale and pretty and he struggled to ignore me even as he paid her every ounce of his attention.

A couple of weeks later I stumbled on his Facebook page filled with pictures of him with the same dark-haired woman.  I was devastated.  Everything – everything – he had told me about himself was a lie.

Apparently he was the kind of man who went out to parties and concerts and yoga.  He dressed up for Halloween and brought her to his work events.  He was snapped kissing her and beaming a 100-watt smile at the camera with her in his arms.  And he allowed her tag the ever-loving-shit out of him on Facebook whereas I was forbidden from giving even the slightest hint of our association with each other on social media beyond friendship.

I was glad I had preemptively ejected him from my life based on not only my ongoing feelings for him but the deeply held, but as yet unproven belief that he was lying to me.  (Posthumously and accidentally discovering hidden profiles seeking alternative sexual relationships with women during our active relationship helped cement my feelings about him lying.)

I was left in shreds.  Barely myself.  I limped along month after month of 2016 fully free of him in my life, but was repeatedly reminded of his existence — both because he remained in our complex and because about every week or so he would visit my Adult Friend Finder profile, deliberately leaving a visitor trail.

Once.

It’s now nearly two years to the day he abandoned me out of a troubled left field and I still — still — miss him.

I miss our easy rapport, our shared politics, our chemistry, our love.  And by far most of all — because I’m beyond and round the bend of the other things — I miss his fucking cock. 

Since we’ve split I’ve had 20, 30 more and not one has come close in making me feel the things he did.  Bones was an approximation, David was massive and fat but didn’t have the curve and length, Remington never let go despite having a lot to work with.

Everyone else had curves, lengths, and girths that just didn’t compare and despite my best efforts to refocus, let go, really enjoy and embrace what was in front of me I was left with a bitter aftertaste which was decidedly not TN.

Regardless of the shape and size of the penis — truly — the bottom line is no one has fucked me like he did, like he could.

He was a maestro with our bodies, perhaps I was, too.  Playing each other like seasoned musicians.  Eyes shut, feeling the chords, the notes, and the symphony in our bones.

Even that last meaningful night when he had assuredly decided he was leaving me and was completely checked out.

I can’t help but ask myself how is that even possible?? How can two people have that level of connection and pleasure while one is utterly gone?

I am ashamed and deeply humiliated at my gullibility and inability to move on.  I’m afraid that no one will be able to supplant the memories with new and better ones.  I’m scared I’m stuck.

Two motherfucking years and I have what feels like nothing to show for all my work, all my suffering, all my tearful, painful meanderings through the tangled paths of my heart.

I’m ashamed to share the depth of my broken-ness, of my mistrust, my longing.  No one can penetrate the fortress I have built around my heart except for those whose proximity and viability are null.  Men equal danger.  They cannot be trusted.  They don’t listen to me, they use me, they are not safe.

Therefore I will use them, chew them like bubblegum and rub my mound on their parts until my juices burst and runneth over and the sticky-sweet bubbles pop on my puckered lips.

Twice.

I wonder if he ever thinks of me.  In general.  I know he must considering he visits my AFF profile regularly, but I mean in real life.  Does he have anxiety about getting his mail?  Driving in and out?  I’m long since past all that, but the ghost of his cock lingers in my psyche, my pussy, my heart.

I have fucked everything that walks in an effort to replace him and to heal and all to no avail. I’ve hoped love would find me and now I’m hoping to find love.

The only thing left to try at this point is not fucking at all except I’m failing at that, too — of course — but I’m hanging in there with the hope and the will to push forward.  If I found someone like him once, surely I can find someone like him (but better) again.  Right??

At least the thought helps me sleep at night.

 

I’m free.

I have officially admitted to myself that I would like to find love.  I have ceased taking on any new men.  I have changed profiles to fit the new standard.  I have spoken with men on the phone.  I have written lengthy reply emails.  I am also unprepared.

There are so many layers to my life that I believe opts me out of any sane man’s world.  Hy, my need to expose myself, my writing, my kinks.  Do you know of any guy who wants to partner up with a woman who’s into triple digit lovers now, who shares intimate details of her sex life and thoughts, has thousands of Instagram followers for her alter ego, and who is comfortable living a double life for as long as necessary?

The special thing about Luke is that he met me as Hy first.  The hard part is done.  He accepts me for who and what I am.  The real life aspects are all just a bonus — my career, my child, my life — but going the other direction feels like rubbing a cat from tail to head.  It’s just awkward, unfulfilling, and might get you bitten.  In other words: hard.

I feel trapped by who I am and by my fear of rejection.

Nothing has happened — everything is calm — it’s just a waiting game now to see where all these trails go with the men currently in my life.  The lawyer, the martial artist, the sub PhD, the sweet Lothario, the sugar daddy, the dom, the mother lover, the special ops guy, the baby soldier.  The handful of others whom have yet to make a stronger impression.

Love enters our lives, right?  We don’t force it to happen, yet I find myself not willing to change much about my own self in order to find it.  Giving up Hy and this writing would be a colossal mistake. Giving up on my desires and wants and curiosities, too.  My deeply felt connections.  They’re all me, after all, and if I hide one aspect from a potential mate it feels disingenuous, like a charade.  I only want a man who wants all of me and not one layer less.

I’m terrified to discover I’m as alone as I feel, but there’s only one way of testing my theory and it isn’t cocooned in my little fuck-buddy-bubble.  It’s out there.

And so I wait in my gilded cage.  A longing woman behind her own self-imposed bars who watches the world with sad, old eyes.  Who sees the youthful couples plunge headlong into lifelong promises of love and babies, the lucky others hold tight to their nice-smelling, kind and strong, matching pieces, and the rest who bump along either indifferent or longing, like me.  Perhaps I’ll figure a way out on my own.  Perhaps someone will show me the way.

No where to go.

 

When the mood hits, strike: Looking for love

The crowd pulsed around me and I felt the chant.

“Ten!  Nine!  Eight!”

I clung to the Prosecco bottle and my glass, careful to spill not one drop.

“Seven!  Six!  Five!”

Tina’s little idea for me to be her date for the night had panned out well enough.  I’d curled my hair into beachy waves, stuffed myself into a dress which had to eventually be swapped out, and gone out with low expectations.

“Four!  Three!  Two!”

Her two friends, a couple, bounced next to us, their glasses held high among all the other gold, silver and bronze liquids sloshing in the air.  I hadn’t talked to anyone but these three all night long.  Except for the stranger who bought me a bottle of Prosecco, whoever that was.  Thanks, dude.

And then the big climax.

“Ooonnnneee!”

The room exploded with little horns and cheers and the band banged on their instruments as kisses rippled through the room from strangers and friends.

We left shortly after — having drained 4 bottles of bubbles — and walked happily, loudly home in the dark.  I like to think cars honked cheerily at us as we meandered home, but I doubt any driver would be trying to attract attention past midnight on New Year’s Eve.  But the mood was jovial, full, warm.

I awoke at 7 in Tina’s sister’s bed alone, but for Tina’s sister’s cat, Pierre.  I was fully dressed and the Spanx which cut into my thighs were my wake up call.

On the drive home I thought about the last several of my New Year’s Eves.  I was married on New Year’s Eve exactly eleven years ago.  We threw an epic party that my friends and I still talk about fondly.  We’d chosen that night because of the disaster which New Year’s seems to always become and now we wouldn’t have to ever worry about it again!  Ha.  Oh, naive, Hy!

The first New Year’s alone was spent with my very closest friends.  The Neighbor was not yet in my life, though he must have been nearby celebrating.  The next I’d invited him to come over while I stayed with Peyton, but he went to a party instead.  The next we shroomed together, the following we went to dinner and I discovered more hurt and betrayal, and the last one together we spent like rags drying on a line: dismal and limp with my friends.  He’d break up with me 3 weeks later.

The next, alone and completely heartbroken still, I spent with Ashley.  She and I had played softball with TN and she knew him well.  Saw his struggle, mine.  Our love, our colossal collapse.  But it was dark and singular and sparklers still make me nervous from growing up in a drought state and I couldn’t enjoy their hissing, spinning, maniacal screams into the treetops.

This year was different, though.  Although alone, completely and totally, I was surrounded with energy and a wild abandonment.  There was no sorrow like the first.  No longing and yearning and disappointment like with TN.  No settling for plans.  Just a decision to enjoy myself.

I spoke to no one — except the generous stranger — and didn’t want to.  My goal was to feel alive, to feel full, to feel beautiful and strong.

This year, I have decided, I am going to attempt to achieve something I have never tried to do before: to find love.  And not to stumble upon it, to luck out in finding it, but to actively and intentionally seek it out.

I will follow the trails of some men I’ve met under the “old regime” to their ends, but in the meantime I have hit pause on my AFF* profile — as well as my other pursuits — and reopened OKCupid in order to achieve a better platform for real conversation.

As of January 1st there are no less than 5 men who have wowed me with their words, good looks, and yes – desires for a long-term relationship.  The amount of effort required in culling the herd of potential boyfriends is vastly greater than that needed to find a fun roll in the hay and I am already completely exhausted.  Coyness is seen as a brush off; I must actually respond in kind!

But, I’m also determined to change my life.

I’ve long been afraid to let myself do something like this, to set goals.  Fear of failure, frustration and the overruling feeling that it’s futile have all kept me away, but at 41, I can no longer say my current methods work all that well.  I have been plagued by mostly mediocre sex all year long and I realize that more emotional effort is required to get things right.

I’m not going to “Just enjoy myself until I find something more serious.”  I’m going to look for the serious… and hopefully also enjoy myself.  I might not even kiss on the first date.  (Go ahead and scoff.  I just did.)

Happy New Year, Internet Boyfriend!

Here’s to a year of love.  We all need a little.

 

 

 

 

 

*TN still checks out my profile every week or so.

I’m not all ice and black heart.

Luke and I have been talking every single day for weeks now and it is this lone connection that reminds me I have a soft, gooey center beneath my icy demeanor.

For almost two years now my world has been a landscape of slate and black.  Jagged, torn edges that have left me bereft and alone.  The Neighbor’s abrupt departure from my life shone a light on how I have avoided intimacy my entire life, how its light scorched me like the sun upon a vampire, and in the ensuing months I have bumbled along self discovery and acceptance: I have intimacy issues.

Me, who opens up and shares the most intimate of details of her sexual life with virtual strangers.  Me, who entertains gaggles of friends with her lewd stories and tearful sharings of dead fathers and complicated mother relationships.  Me, who bares her body for tens of thousands of pairs of eyes and who elicits both hateful and lustful responses in equal measure and weathers them all with unapologetic and not not disdainful aplomb.

Yes, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:

I’m a motherfucking mess.

Man after man — 14 this year alone, I think, plus the handful that I haven’t mentioned — have added to the bleak illustration of my life, some post-apocalyptic land where even the lightening bug’s glow is dim.   None have given color, none have inspired.  I have been free of a muse for too long, drained of inspiration and weighted down by the pressure to impress and be loved by the masses, but I am feeling color seep back in.  Because of him.

We may never meet.  We may never touch.  We may never taste one another, but what has happened is a tiny little fire has been lit inside.  The tiniest, just ever so, like the little diamonds in the slim band upon my finger.  It is there.  I can feel it.

I am no longer filled with dread when I think to write and the words spill out of me much like school children down the sidewalk after school: freely, with some joy, and with purpose.

I tease him about talking to me — he’s far too sweet for the likes of me.  “You’re a smooth talker,” he replies.

“Tell that to me when you’re between my legs,” I say.  “Then I’ll believe it.”

He persists in smearing color on me.  “You’re a great person.  You need to appreciate that.  I know there’s a big heart within that ice block,” he laughs.  Then adds, “For the record, you’ve never seemed as cold as you think.”

I’ve been cast a bright line to the old palette I used, rich in color and light.  His kindness, his ever-present warmth, his sweetness.  After years of grey to see this sliver of color I find myself almost afraid.  Afraid to reach for it, afraid to believe in it.  But I can’t deny that it’s there.  That little ember, ever so small, lit within me.

And I can almost breathe again.

 

My little diamonds.

My little diamonds.

You’d never guess.


Honestly, you probably wouldn’t expect this to come from the woman that is me you’d see on the street or in the grocery store.   The woman with her hair tangled in her purse strap fumbling with her phone.

I’m just your average woman, quite plain, mostly unassuming.  You might notice me if I bumped into you because I’d be sure to apologize, but I’m otherwise remarkably forgettable.

You’d never guess I was capable of a photo like this.  You’d never guess what lay beneath the clothes and social graces.  You’d never guess who I really am.
You’d just never guess.

And I like it that way.


I dream.

I dream of waking up and feeling strong and secure, knowing I will make enough money to provide for me and my baby.

I dream of health and no mysterious ailments which — if I am to believe WebMD — mean I am either perfectly fine or dying a protracted, miserable death.

I dream of a love which wraps me in its arms day and night, yet allows me to fly whatever strange Hy course I need.

I dream of friendships so strong I am never afraid to lean on them, to see the tears in their eyes as they hold me close having rushed to my side when I shared my need.

I dream of a future with less fear, less desperation, a time when I truly believe everything will be ok because it is.

As of today, I am only close to one of those dreams.

Taking responsibility.

💔

Today it’s grey and drizzling outside and my head aches from the fender bender with a Jeep Wrangler up my backside on my way to take Peyton to school.  But it’s nothing compared to the ache in my chest.
At 4 am Sunday morning I awoke to ghoulish, choked noises from outside.  I ran to my window and peered towards the dark wood line.  I saw a cat-sized grey animal walking calmly in the shadows, but the noises had stopped.  

I raced outside and began to call for Faisal, my sweet, fat cat who loved to be outside and whom I’d let out at midnight when the dog needed to pee.  I called and called and listened for more noises, a rustle in the brush, but nothing.

My sad iPhone light illuminated only the density of the undergrowth.  It was cold and I gave up.  There was nothing more I could do at 4 am.

When the sun was fully up I put on long sleeves and a hood and trudged up into the woods looking for his remains, but calling his name all the same.  Branches and leaves crunched beneath my boots and the hood kept my hair from being dragged by the web of branches I ducked between while calling and calling.  Still no baby cat.

A couple of hours later I brought the dog and Peyton with me.  We hiked over the territory I’d covered earlier and farther in the opposite direction until it seemed we’d gone far enough.  This time I’d left the hood at home and my hair caught in the jagged net of branches and I almost welcomed the petty cruelty.  I deserved it.

Back next to our building we scoured the boulders Faisal patrolled and as each minute passed my heart sank further.  “Pey,” I said with a quivering voice, “I don’t think he’s ok.  I think a coyote got him.”

Peyton didn’t want to help me look at first, but I insisted.  “He’s our baby, we have to look,” I explained.  All geared up in rescue attire my human baby struck out with me wondering aloud if the noises I had heard the night before were Faisal crying for help.  I agreed that it probably was and hid a sob.

It’s been almost 36 hours and he hasn’t returned and I have lost all hope.

I cried all day yesterday and couldn’t sleep last night.  I’ve researched if cats are coyote prey, how they hunt, where they eat their kills.  I know to look for vultures circling.

At 3 am last night I poured over my Instagram account – my other one – and clicked on the hashtag I used for him and my other cat.  You see, “Faisal” is two cats; my strict No Personal Details Policy made them into one, but there’s literally no Faisal now, not figuratively or literally.  The “Faisal” I lost this weekend was the animal that made my little menagerie a family, the only creature everyone agreed they loved.  The dog, Peyton, the other cat, me.  We adored him; he was the glue.

If only I hadn’t let him out, I keep thinking.  If only.

But I know I can’t blame myself.  Peyton said I should blame the animal that took him, that I was only doing what Faisal wanted, and that I shouldn’t be ashamed.  I cried harder at the pureness of empathy coming from that little body and held my baby close.  We cried together.

My feline baby loved to be outside, but he rarely was out at night.  The night I opened the door never to see him again I was deliriously tired, painfully discombobulated.  Had I been in my right mind I might not have let him go out when the dog did.  But I did and here we are.  Perhaps it was inevitable.

After I looked at all the beautiful pictures of my lost kitty — the ones of him buried in my neck or loosely draped across the couch arm or stretched out in a sunbeam or being licked by the dog — I wondered about my surviving fur baby.  They were so bonded and the other half of “Faisal” lived in the sunshine of the other.  

And so I found myself researching if cats grieve, how soon is too soon to get a new cat, should I get a new cat?  Next, I was on a local shelter website looking and wondering what the fuck I was doing.

My entire life my cats have gone outside and survived; this has never happened before and I am gutted.  Yet at the same time I think, But he loved it out there, and I step back a bit from the recriminations.  It’d be like never allowing Peyton outside of the house for fear of death, never letting my child fly on a plane without me or ride in a car with someone else.  Life is death, isn’t it?  

We can plan for everything and still have what we love taken away, it’s the way of things.  We’ve gotten so used to never losing anything we’ve forgotten how commonplace and natural it is, how much a part of living grief is.

As the mother of an only child I have to choke down my stark raving fear almost daily – What if something happens to my baby?!  I wouldn’t be a mother anymore.  I don’t even notice that I do it anymore, it’s just a part of my DNA now.

Living a full, wide life, though, is what I do, it’s how I’ve always done it and I guess I extended that philosophy even to my cat.  You wanna go outside, lil’ buddy?  Ok, you go roll in that dirt with your bad self.  It’s not unlike how I give myself permission to do as I please, to suck all the cocks, to fuck all the men, to fall for a man who isn’t mine, to expose myself online over and over again, to laugh loudly and wrap myself in hedonism.

I never shirk the responsibility of my choices; I own them.  In theory, I’d much rather live in a bigger world like my little Faisal did — on his feline terms — than in paralyzing fear in a shrunken world.  Losing him, though, is quite a price to pay for such freedom and frankly it seems like too big a toll at the moment. 

I’m filled with doubt about everything now; maybe I’m doing it all wrong.  Life, love, career.  Maybe I should play it safer, slower, so I don’t end up with hair tangled in greedy branches on Sunday mornings with tears in my eyes or with random condom wrappers under my bed.

Despite being utterly hopeless, I will make signs and put them up around my building and at the mailbox on the off chance someone snagged him and decided to ignore his giant black dog tag with return instructions.  

My only thought left on this is that he heard me calling for him and knew I was there for him, even if I couldn’t save him.

And that hopefully I also won’t need saving someday.

 

 

 

 

I think about quitting.

Writing.  This.  You all.

I feel like I have nothing to share, nothing to say that’s worthwhile or interesting.  My life as Hy is one gigantic flaccid penis: I came months ago in resplendent spurts and opalescent arcs and now I’m flat, dry and flaky.

I’m over.

I don’t have anything current to say, no interesting story, no new perspective.  I’m still proudly flaunting my middle-aged tits, I still occasionally have interesting sex stories to tell, sometimes I have an opinion on things, but generally speaking, I don’t have anything new to say.  Not really.

I’ve made incredible friends, done incredible things, but this isn’t my job.  I have a separate career that I have to keep safe; I can’t even tell you all what it is, though I long to.  God, how I wish you all knew what I did.  I wish I could marry the two sides of me – finally – and flourish in all the Hy/Me glory I imagine is waiting for me.

I am at a crossroads which feels less like a point in which I choose right or left and more like a place in which I choose to continue or not.  I’m not sure I want to keep going.

But when I think about my life without Hy I gasp.  Literally and figuratively.  I’m not at all sure how that would work: I don’t know who I am.  Am I Hy, the body- and sex-positive writer, and advocate, The Sharer of All?  Or am I Me, the professional ________ who ______ and _______ and _________s?

My blogging friend, Livvy, wrote recently about the divisions she experiences in her professional and personal lives and I related strongly, viscerally even.

“It was while I was standing there, squeezing this stranger’s penis, that I began thinking about quite how narrow the dividing line between what is sexual and what isn’t can be, and how blurring that line can be complicated and potentially dangerous.”

I don’t squeeze penises in my professional life, but I “squeeze” other things, and I’m so tired of keeping my lives at odds.  I feel that this life as Hy in particular could benefit greatly from my other life; its openness, its specific familiarity with my heart and trials.

It’s the fear of Hy’s impact on my professional life that keeps me from even breathing a whisper of the real me to you all.  I’d like to think you’d embrace her — I’m actually certain you would — but I don’t trust a single one of my career colleagues to protect Hy.  Why would they??

I spent a portion of tonight with The Artist, just as friends.  I laughed so hard I cried because he likes to send me fucked up videos of him in masks set to flutes and REM.  I like being friends with him.  On his plant-infested balcony I talked endlessly of Luke and how I’m head over heels for him, a man I can never have.  I got to be all of my self in a pseudo-anonymous way while sitting on that third story balcony and I liked it.  A lot.

Maybe that’s what I need here.  Maybe I need a pseudo-anonymity that helps me marry the two sides of me better.  I don’t have much going on in terms of unrequited love (Luke is returning all my feelings in truckloads) and I’m not fucking much.  I feel boring and shriveled up.

I have an entire other life I’m trying to maintain and grow.  This isn’t my life.  It’s who I am, but it’s different somehow.  It’s just a facet.

I owe Girl on the Net a guest post — a year in the making at this point — and I can’t bring myself to create it.  It literally haunts me.  God only knows how others who’ve been blogging for as long as me do it.  I’m losing my will to write, to create.  It all feels false and odd and off.  I’ve been struggling to find a balance and I’ve achieved a place of non-guilt, but I truly don’t know what to do next here.  The apathy I’m experiencing is intense and sticky, pervasive.  I feel mired down, like when that beautiful stallion drowns in the swamp in Neverending Story.

I have jizzed all over my blogging life in big, pearly globs I am satisfied, scared, tired, lost — and above all else — bored.

When I wrote before about new goals and new summits I felt somewhat energetic.  Today, I feel depleted.  All I want to do is curl up in Luke’s arms and purr my happiness into his delicious skin.  Close my eyes and feel him press his heat against me, hear his voice, feel his lips, consume his very essence.

If I take a break will I have anything to return to?  My five-year anniversary is creeping up as quickly as my numbers of visitors are dropping.  You guys are sick of me, too, apparently, and I don’t fucking blame you.   I am no longer viable, no longer interesting.  Nothing is happening!  Do I care??  Does it matter??  Why do I write?  Who am I writing for?  I don’t even know anymore.  So many questions…

I am lost, yet calm.  I’ll be ok, you’ll be ok.  I’ll figure this out one way or another.

Suggestions welcome as always.

 

I’m prime.

Forty-one.

Never gave it much thought, really.  Forty was rough, hopefully this year will be better.

My body has changed; my pics prove it.  So do my slightly tighter underpants.  My life has changed; my stress levels prove that.  And my heart has changed too.

It’s darker, farther away.  I don’t feel badly about this.  I feel safe, focused.  I know what I need to do and finding love just isn’t it.  

I’m good without it.  Alone and independent.  How can I say I don’t need anyone without sounding jaded or hurt??

The truth is, I don’t and I’m not.  I’m just very, very clear.  

I only need me.  And my baby.  Ok, and the goddamned animals, but that’s it!  Wait.  My sister, too.  I definitely need her.  

But all my friends?  The ones who half ass the friendship?  Nope, don’t need them.  The men who come and go as they please?  Nope, definitely don’t need them, either.

Forty was the year I realized how alone I am.  Maybe 41 will be the year I start to really move on and gain steam.  Make enough money, new friends, and stellar decisions.  Maybe 41 will be my year, the year my body loves me as much as I love it and the year I let it all go.

Here’s to 41.  

I don’t feel like writing.

It scares me, this lack of enthusiasm for the blog.  

I just wrote about making new goals and striving to achieve them and instead of inciting me to action I feel pushed away.

I think I’ve indentified part of it: it’s less fun for me, more stressful.  My standards for what I put here are extremely high and it takes me up to 5 hours to write a thoughtful, moving piece when it used to take me an hour or two.

I could blame life changes for that, but I don’t think that’s it; I’m more easily distracted and I don’t feel as welcome in my own space.  

I’ve gone and fucked this up somehow.

To combat this, I’ve decided that I will write more, not less.  Lower my standards for a post and fucking play here again. 

Play with my words, my body, you.

 I used to post lots of nothing — lots — and it felt like a playground, like swinging high above the treetops, spinning faster than a top.  I could do anything I wanted, have any voice, share my thoughts and ideas without worry that there was a hole in my argument.  

I want that back.

So, to kick that off here’s a random nude pic of me.  Raw, real, and [barely] exposed.  Just like I used to be, just like I want to be: playful and seductive, playful and here.