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.

I’ve lost interest.

I’m angsty and lonely and restless.  My hair is clean and my skin soft.

I itch, but cannot reach the spot.  My body is a broken beautiful vessel, mine to abuse and worship in equal measure.

I’ve seen a lot of men this week, a lot of naked bodies and blood-filled organs.  I’ve felt their urges, their demands on me to fulfill unrequited desires.  Desperation clung to a couple, curiosity on another, friendly fun on a fourth.

I flipped through my phone looking for one soul I wanted to spend time with tonight and the only person whose name I could come up with was my own.  Even the girlfriends I texted who ignored me were pale seconds to my own company.  Fuck them anyway.

So off I go to the bar alone again.

There I will sit, unbothered, freshly bathed, willing and able in a bubble no one can see.  Utterly alone surrounded by humanity.

The $100 I received in the bleary 7 am hour yesterday after a date as a little thank you gift will fund my escapades tonight.  Perhaps I’ve moved my sex life forward in a new direction.  I didn’t feel badly about taking the money.  Have I turned a corner I was unaware was there?

How does anyone ever have interest in someone?  I’ve forgotten how.  Completely.

Feeling detached.

Despite eating like it’s my job, I’m feeling good.

I had a revelation this week about intimacy, false intimacy, specifically.

All these years I have struggled with how I am treated because I felt like there were connections, real things occurring between me and the men in my life.  And they were happening, I just called them the wrong things.  

I called them trust and respect and intimacy.  I should have been calling them hunting, playing, and gorging.  

We did the dance of lust and curiosity, girated and slobbered on one another.  Pulled hair and smacked flanks and spent hours cultivating a persona with 26 characters and a few vegetable emojis until our fingers were exhausted and our bellies full of pursuit.  Until we were over as quickly as we started.

I’m wondering how I could have been so wrong for so long, to expect so much of the right answer from the wrong equation.

First of all, how can anyone get to know me if all we do is text then drink in a dimly lit room bathed in each other’s pheromones?

Secondly, they haven’t done anything to earn my trust so why am I so surprised when they’ve broken it?  I hand it out like candy in Halloweeen night like the daddy-hungry little girl that I am.  

I have expected something from nothing, for a rose to bloom out of granite. 

So now I’m on my way to meet a man I hardly know and I don’t care about.  He’s from a neighboring city and used the word “laconic” to describe himself.  He’s 5’7″, good looking, charming as a Labrador and he will suffice for tonight because the truth is… I think I’m ok with nothing right now.

The rose can come later when it makes sense to grow.  Right now, all I want is to feel the honesty of cold, hard rock.  

It happened three times this week.

Three different times, three different men texted to tell me they could not keep their commitment to meeting with me.

Two gave me a couple of hours notice.  One gave me minutes to inform me he was painfully tired and could only have a couple of drinks.  I told Mr. Young we could skip it and he took the option.

If you need a man to leave you alone, just call me.  Let me at him for a week or two and he’ll never bother you again.

I promise.

Just call me Man DDT.

I walked to my favorite bar after I got my bra back from Mr. Young. Wasn’t gonna waste a shower.

Sometimes I feel like this is all I’m good for.

.

Fears of abandonment overwhelm me as my heart beats at me from within.

Say the perfect thing, all the right words.  It’s all your fault if it goes sideways.  If I get it just right he will stay. 

He will stay because I cast a spell of words on him that made him want to wrap it tighter around his soul.

He won’t have a choice then.  He will remain because I made it happen.

But that’s not real because he does have a choice.  He always does.

And so do I.

I can choose to look myself squarely in the eyes and allow that woman to be herself and believe that she is worthy.

If I am not honest about who I am and am instead busy building intricate webs to keep my target close I am hiding.

I am not real.  I am not me.  I am lying.

The truth is I am so much more than my sex.  I am all the truer words I speak, the beautiful ones I create and share.

I am more than sorcery.

I’m just not sure I can convince anyone else of that.  Possibly starting with myself.

 

 

 

Being the sane one in an asylum does not make you crazy.

It’s hard to talk about my wonderful night last Wednesday with Mr. Young, the sexy dad from the birthday party, without wincing.

It’s gone completely sideways since then and I spent most of yesterday in tears.

At the pool surrounded by chubby, drunk sun-worshipers, in my car running errands, watching Golden Girls, talking to amazing, patient, incredible friends.  I couldn’t stop the flow of emotions.

I felt worthless, unlovable, all the while being eternally fuckable and disposable.   Something shifted.  Our banter was gone, he bailed — as I’d suspected he would — on tentative plans we’d made for no good reason I could discern, ignored sexy pics I sent and generally stopped engaging.

At the time of writing this he has seemingly ignored my last text for more than 24 hours.  A text wherein I expressed disappointment and understanding about him cancelling our plans and some hope that we could reschedule.  He chose not to reassure me or reschedule.

I didn’t want to fall down this rabbit hole, but the last 24 hours found me here anyway.  Did I say something wrong?  Was I wrong?  Did he not want to fuck and have two orgasms?  Did he not want to devour each other on his couch?  Did we click too much?  Did he not want me to show enthusiasm about a next date??

His kisses were searing and perfect and his sense of humor and openness disarmed me and hooked me hard.  I wriggled on the line.

We talked on the phone every day he got back from his high school reunion last weekend and couldn’t wait to see one another.  When our Monday night plans to meet got foiled we were immediately back at the drawing board to make it happen.  Nothing was going to stop us.

I met him in real life, opened up, we have mutual friends beyond the mom-friend we share, and everything beyond were spot on (politics, life, sex, relationships, outlook, art, and on and on and on).  This was not supposed to happen with him.

What I expected was a continuation of what was happening before I undressed under his hungry eyes, prior to sinking slowly, deliciously down onto him and him cumming and cumming and cumming.  I didn’t think his second orgasm would throw a wrench in things, but it was after it that the record scratched.

I forgot my bra in my discombobulated departure — it was late, we’d been drinking, I was high on the experience — and awkwardly texted him about it the next morning.  He didn’t say, “Don’t worry, I’ll bring it when I see you Saturday.”  He hasn’t said a lot of things thereby saying everything.  I’m writing off the bra.

This is not an example of yet another woman making a mountain out of a mole hill.  I am a master at interpreting human behavior and there has been a change.  My default is to assume it was me, but after attacking myself for being too easy, unlovable, and a raging moron I am now at a more peaceful place.  Things are not actually in my control at all times.  Sometimes, shit happens.

Everything I wrote the other day remains true, which makes this tough fall down feel ultimately beatable instead of impossible.  I am dusting off my skinned knees and beginning to rise.  I got knocked down, yes, but I get up again.

For instance, I feel patient, not desperate; I’m going to sit this one out for a bit until I feel like I’ve recovered enough to step back on the field and ask him what’s happened.  And that’s new: me sharing that something wasn’t right for me.

His actions have been painful to endure, but I don’t ascribe any nefarious motivation to them.  Something happened, I’m just not privy to what and I don’t need to waste a second more of my time trying to read his mind.  I need to process it and move on.

We weren’t [securely] attached enough for this to feel anything but very wrong.  We’d barely gotten to know one another.  You can judge me and say I fucked him too soon, but what’s the point?  Next guy I might wait a month or two and it still might not be right.  I can’t take it back.  I thought it was the right thing to do.  I wanted it.  He wanted it.  But clearly, it wasn’t a good idea.  I see that now.

So here I sit with a big mixed bag of emotions: three weeks of excitement and hope about a man I could see easily incorporating into my life; a night of fantastic fun, fucking and frolic; followed by days of confusion and icy distance.

Maybe our story continues.  Maybe he’ll come out from under his rock and tell me something that draws me back in, that makes this all go away.  Or perhaps our paths no longer cross.

Whatever the outcome I feel immensely reassured at my resolve and clarity.  I know without a doubt which way is the right way for me and it isn’t on my knees begging for attention.  Nor is it to pretend that this didn’t hurt.  It’s standing tall and expecting a certain level of care.  No exceptions.

It stings like a motherfucker, but I’ll be ok.

 

 

*Blog post title care of a kind Internet Boyfriend.

 

A new normal.

I started a post Wednesday afternoon and wrote:

I’ve had sex a grand total of 10 times with 8 men in 2017.

I went back to pick up the thread today and realized I need to strike through those numbers.  It’s now 12 times with 10 men.

The post was going to be all about how I’ve slowed down, how my insatiable thirst for men and their dicks, licks, and tricks had all but subsided.  But then Wednesday and Thursday happened to me.

In the span of 24 hours I had sex with a sexy dad I met at a birthday party for a mutual child-friend a few weeks ago, lived out one of the hottest fantasies of my life with my massage therapist while on his table and clock, and spent an evening filled with laughter and a little lust with a 6’6″ ex-con whose open candor disarmed me completely.

A post about slowing down doesn’t exactly fit.

But I’m not up to my old tricks, either.

Six weeks ago I wrote to The Neighbor, started a(nother) Whole30, and began working out 4-5x a week at Orange Theory.  Not drinking freed up a lot of my energy and dedicating myself to my fitness recalibrated my priorities.  I also did some heavy lifting with TN.

I wrote another letter, revised it, sent it, and he responded.  All while 100% sober and focused on myself, while sticking to my guns (and standards) with the men I’ve been attempting to date.  I feel like a completely different person.

One of the most important things I’ve just learned is that when I make choices that ultimately harm me — be they drinking too frequently, not caring for my body, or not facing the demon of a bad breakup — it fucks me up.  I suspect it would fuck up any human being.

Confronting bad men and kicking them out of my house when they yell at me, not dating someone whose beliefs are at odds with mine, cutting off contact with someone who assaulted me and telling him why, eating better, exercising.  All of these things have helped me to feel like I’m valuable and once I feel I’m valuable it doesn’t matter what other people think of me anymore, does it?  And their attention is no longer such a crucial aspect of my life.

Take me or leave me, but I know I’m worth effort, compassion and love no matter what you do to me.  And the very newest trick I’ve learned is that you have no place in my life if you don’t fit that criteria.

No more excuses or second-guessing.  I don’t care if this is your first ever Tinder date or that you remember things differently from me.

And so I rolled around with Mr. Young while his baby slept in the other bedroom and his kisses made me melt into a shimmering puddle of desire.

And then after 90 minutes of what can only be called a sustained post-coital response to his deep and connective touch I asked if I could touch my massage therapist and he said yes.

And then the felon arrived exactly on time and opened up about his time in prison in a way that touched my heart and I felt nothing but admiration for him, even as we lay wrapped in each other’s arms after he eventually lost his erection in a puff of his frustration, regret and embarrassment.

There’s also The Hippie, a tall, gentle, pot smoker with a daughter on the opposite custody schedule as me.  His magically curved cock is a delightful ride; his fuzzy face and deep eyes are safe.

So I’m not slowing down; there is just a new normal.  A wonderful new normal.

 

I’m feeling good.

There’s a spike in my desire to post and take pics.  

I could say it’s entirely due to sending the letter or I could say a month of working out, being sober, eating right, working hard, and some really nice sex with a really nice man have also contributed.

Or maybe it’s all of it.

He wrote back.

Suddenly, I’m filled with words.

I admit my stomach dropped when I saw his name in my inbox.  I didn’t expect to hear from him that quickly, let alone at all.

I had held no punches, pulled back the curtain to reveal my years of suffering.  Before I’d hit Send, my finger had wavered over the button, unsure.  I knew it would hurt him and that wasn’t what I wanted, but I pressed it because of my pain.  I had to at least attempt to stop the flow.

His response was short, curt almost.

He had misinterpreted my very first shot across the bow as an olive branch as I had feared.  I thought I’d been very clear of my confusion in writing, but perhaps his hopes overshadowed my words.

He asserted his memory of our history was “different” from mine and said he didn’t want to argue over it.

He will be moving out the beginning of October, “so there won’t be further cause for you to feel anxiety about possibly running into me after that.”

He then suggested that it was best we didn’t communicate anymore and he would no longer be responding to my emails (as if I were wanting a dialogue).

I had sat down to read, but as I finished I realized I’d held my breath and my heart was racing.  I let it out and with it the wall began to crumble.  A tear sprang to my eye, but quickly dried.  I was pleased with the response — he seemed shaken, which means I got through to him — but also sad.  He didn’t address one thing other than to say he has a different memory “of our history,” whatever that means.

And I knew I’d hurt him.

I felt vindicated, but equally ashamed.  Proud and embarrassed.  All this time, though, he has believed me to have happily moved on, free of guilt or responsibility.

Then the anger came in large, indignant swells.

What do you mean by you “have a different take on our own history”??  Did you not come over to my house one day and say you wanted a break?  Did we not then not discuss a single thing?  Did you not then dump me?  Had you not denied anything being wrong for you for the entire preceding year whenever I’d asked?? 

As I drove home I fact-checked my own memory.  No, all those things had happened.  I didn’t know what he was remembering differently from me.

Perhaps it was my claim that him dating that woman from the gym overlapped with his insistence he was happily single and wanted to remain that way.  No, I fact-checked that the moment I’d seen the images.  They began around August/September, clearly at odds with his false claims.

Maybe it was that I knew he’d lied about other things which I didn’t list?  He doesn’t know to which I’m referring so he can’t possibly refute my belief there.

I had attached the very first and last screenshots of his AFF visits.  He didn’t mention that either, but perhaps he believes AFF just randomly listed him in my visitors.

The only thing he addressed was my anxiety, which to be honest I’m thankful for.  I now have something to look forward to in regards to him for the first time in 2 1/2 years.

He could have said so many other things, really grown up things.

Things like, “Jesus Christ, Hy, I am so sorry that I hurt you like that.  You’re right, I should have told you so much sooner, I just couldn’t muster the courage and I didn’t want to hurt you; I hoped my feelings would change, etc,” or “I’m sorry for looking at your AFF account.  It’s been hard not being your friend and so I periodically check in on you in hopes you’d know I was thinking about you.  I won’t do it anymore,” or “You’re right, I did lie to you about wanting to date other women because I was afraid I’d lose you.  I really fucked that up,” or even, “I can see how it looked like it over-lapped, but it was just really close timing and I even surprised myself by dating her when I thought I wasn’t into dating.”

But he didn’t.

He doubled down and shut down.

My version of events likely fly in the face of the story he’s told himself so he can sleep at night.  It’s his very human right to remember things differently, but now it’s my turn to sleep.

I wrote the letter for me, not expecting anything in return, but what he did give me has lightened my heart immensely.  He knows how I feel – possibly for the first time ever – and that’s all I needed.  I just needed him to know.

I sent it.

I sent the letter – a revision of the first – that neatly explained the things he knew nothing about.

  1. His abandonment of me has really fucked me up.
  2. I know he’s a liar.
  3. His proximity by virtue of remaining in our complex causes me great anxiety.
  4. I don’t appreciate him openly viewing my AFF profile.

I kept it as short as possible – and narrowly focused – so that my message would be received.  I wanted him to know that his choices hurt another human being, and hopefully not irrevocably.  I wanted him to know that I was still in pain due to all of the aforementioned things and, most importantly, I wanted him to know that I was making a choice to no longer hide or hold onto them.   I needed him to know.

I’ve set them down and I’ve backed away.  What happens next is entirely up to the Universe.

Thank God I see my therapist later today.

Here’s to moving the fuck past all this shit.