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.

I finished the letter.

And now I don’t know if I’ll send it.

The world seems to be crumbling around us and I can’t be bothered to focus on my anger today.

Instead I’m focused on surviving, trying to pay rent, being healthy, my baby, just living.

But I’m ashamed to admit that a part of the reason I didn’t immediately hit send once I’d proofread it three times and signed my name is because I’m afraid of hurting him.  Even now, two-and-a-half years later, I’m afraid of saying something that will hurt him.  And I’m afraid he’ll say, “No, Hy, you were the asshole.”  But I’ll have to handle it, I want to handle it, I need to handle it.

He’s probably thinking that this is the beginning of us being friends and it’s that misinformed expectation that causes me pause.  I held no punches and described what the last couple of years have been like for me, which have not been pretty.  God, why am I so afraid of hurting him??  All I’m doing is sharing what my life has been like in the wake of our relationship, his lies.

I’m afraid of being wrong.  That’s all it is.  I’m afraid he’ll say, “None of that is true and none of your feelings matter,” just like I was always told as a child.  I have zero experience telling someone they’ve hurt me and getting a sincere and heartfelt apology back and this is even scarier because I don’t have a relationship with this man anymore; I don’t expect an apology, but I suppose I do expect a retaliation.  And I’m ok with that.

I am not expecting him to help me move on or bring closure. 

I’m doing that, that’s my job.  The creation of this letter is purely for me to send it, not for me to receive something back.  I am responsible for me, he’s not.

It would be a dream come true, though, if he came at me on his knees and confirmed all my suspicions of lies and deceit.  It’d be poetic because there’s something sick about having a gut feeling things are off, but being told you’re crazy and not to worry only to discover later you were absolutely right when your boyfriend of 3 years walks out on you one day.  A lot like that paper cut on your tongue as you suck a lemon.

It’s late and I have an early start tomorrow.  I wonder how the letter will read in the light of a Monday morning.

Friday, June 2nd, is Boobday!

hy_tits_banner

I’m on Day 12 of the Whole30 and I’m almost past the headaches.  It’s funny how for weeks (possibly months) now I’ve been reliant on wine to wind down after a long, stressful day.  I don’t even think about it now.  I just chill and have some nice peach iced tea.  The mornings are infinitely more pleasant without the vestiges of alcohol to muddy my start, too.

I’m sore constantly thanks to Orange Theory.  Like, so sore I can barely sit on the toilet or walk up stairs.  I remember when I was an athlete in high school and the first couple of weeks of swimming were pretty brutal.  But we all got back into the swing of things eventually and that’s what I’m waiting for now.  I may be 41, but my heart is still in the game.

I had yet another horrible first date with a handsy, creepy Frenchman (I’ll post about that soon) but also some really great sex with a new guy who’s so nice it hurts, but whose overall aesthetic isn’t really my style.  I’m focusing on all the orgasms I had, though, and not all the hair that was in my face.

I’ve written a draft email for The Neighbor.  It’s not finished yet.  I’m still thinking and feeling it out.  A reader left an incredible, heartfelt comment this morning with a nothing short of mind-blowing quote by Mary Oliver: “Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.”

Love you all with all my debauched little heart.

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:

Pretty much my mood always lately.

NOT my tits:

Sandy has curves.

 

 

 


I emailed The Neighbor.

I emailed The Neighbor two nights ago.

I’d had a glass or two of white wine, there was a late Spring chill in the air, Sinatra was playing on the record player.  Every sock drawer had been organized, every bill paid, all the laundry folded.   There were no hanging chads in my life, so to speak and it was as if suddenly I had nothing else to do but email him.

So I did.

As my fingers slid across the keys it was an out-of-body experience.  Was I really doing this?  It’d been a year and a half since we’d seen each other, more than two since he dumped me.  Why was I doing this??

Even as I wrote I knew it was an awkward stream of consciousness.  “I’m genuinely curious to know if you’re great or struggling.  After two long years apart I continue to work hard to trust and be open.  I basically trust no one; it’s almost a joke.  So, I guess I’m admitting to you that I’m not great.”  But I didn’t care and hit Send anyway.

The next morning I did a game recap with surprised friends.  Ann and Meredith were supportive, but both wanted to know what my hopes were.  Why now after all this time??

I had a toothbrush in my mouth when it hit me: breaking the silence I imposed upon us was for me.

My stoic acceptance of his decision to end the relationship without so much as a discussion about it, my reluctant agreement to be friends because that’s what he needed, my heartbreaking realization that I still loved him and had to say goodbye, my stifled, private rage at discovering a trail of lies and blatant dismissal of everything I’d ever wanted, my enduring pain at seeing his car every day and sustained, low-level anxiety of running into him while at home.  I did all of that alone — he bore not one ounce of the burden, not for one second — I kept it all.

It seemed to me during our few times meeting as friends in the 9 months after we broke up that whenever I let my pain become evident, let it slip out ever so slightly, he would cringe.  Whether it was from guilt, fatigue, or disdain I have no idea, but I was intent on buttoning up more tightly for two reasons: 1) I didn’t want him to have anything of me and 2) I didn’t want to hurt him.

As I wrestled with the leaching reality of abandonment and betrayal I believed that responding to it would be losing something.  I didn’t want him to get anything from me ever again — not one calorie of energy — even the pain, sorrow, and stifling lack of trust he left behind.

And even though he absolutely deserved to see the lacerations of his lies upon me I didn’t want him to feel badly.  That would be a direct link to my issue with ever being open about my real feelings about someone or something.  If my feelings hurt or upset someone then they are implicitly wrong, right??

And now it seems that what I did was create a void where all that feeling had no where to go but to me and so I have festered.  I have fucked, flaked, fought, and floundered until I am completely and utterly uninterested in not only men in general, but even sex.  Why bother when every time I let a dick get near me it literally disappoints me?  Think about the double entendre there.  It’s intentional.

He replied today, overly friendly to be honest.  How dare he call me his pet name after everything he’s done to me?  Should I list them all for you or just hyperlink like crazy??  The point is, the tone of my note was not familiar, so why respond to it in such a way?  It wasn’t appropriate.

He said he was saddened to hear of my trust issues because he can relate due to his own.  Not that he was saddened to hear it because he clearly contributed to them.  But because he can relate.  Well, awesome.  Thanks.

He gave me a better email to use and invited me to text, but I no longer have his number and I don’t yet know what to say to him.  I feel a volcano of emotion about to erupt, that needs purging.  I want him to know what the last two years have been like for me with his odd internet stalking of my AFF profile, seeing his goddamned car every goddamned day, and the anxiety of a run-in I carry with me despite my best efforts to exorcise it.  (It’s possible had I never run into him and his girlfriend at the gym that the threat would have ever crossed my mind, but it did and so it does.)

Some will think this is a huge mistake; I’ve already gotten closure, moved on.  It’s been two years! they’ll say.  Others will think there never was closure and this is a good path forward; Show him, girl!  Tell him!

But what do I need from this?  I didn’t write the first note expecting anything in return, but what I got was friendly in tone and communal.  It wasn’t bad.  But there was a sensitivity missing, a subtle nod to what that must have taken for me to finally write.  His response wasn’t somber enough.  This man broke me and he replied to me like a long-lost close office mate whose 9-5 life he once shared.

I’m still contemplating all of this.  What I want to do is not at all clear.  That stupid 150 word email has begun to peel a long-suffering scab atop a festering wound and I feel like a stranger in a strange land.  I only know how to be controlled and at a protective distance.  How do I do this whole This is the truth deal?

I hope there are still some who read me; any words of wisdom are more than welcome.  I need help.  I am at a complete loss.  But maybe this will be the end of it?

 

Sometimes, we should remain lost.

Lincoln loved me when I was an innocent 18-year-old girl.

His love burned bright and inexorably for months as I struggled with his attentions.  I couldn’t understand why this handsome 19-year-old boy liked anything about me, but he clung tightly.  His letters came regularly, his beautiful cursive unmistakable.  His words inked so tenderly my young heart often broke as I read for I was confused and uncertain about my own.

He had no car, so I would drive to the shipyard where he’d be waiting for me, the giant Navy ship he called home loomed heavily behind him like a sleeping mountain.  He’d pick me up and squeeze me and I’d sigh not with pleasure, but with impatience.  I wished he didn’t like me so much.

Our little misbegotten love affair ended when my little sister caught him reading a letter I had written, but never sent.  A note which captured a vulnerable moment wherein I contemplated loving him.  His earnest search for me in that letter caused me to evict him from my life instantly and without remorse.  I crushed him irrevocably that day.

Years later I hunted for him online.   Little tidbits of information he’d told became the only leads I had.  He was from Texas somewhere, I had his last name, he’d been in the Navy.  I poured over people-finder and high school class websites, but to no avail.  And then Facebook happened and there he fucking was.

I found him married, with many children through different marriages and configurations and discovered that he had lived 60 miles away from me for 5 years until he’d been restationed to somewhere in the south (via the Army this time).

We quickly caught up, but it came to a screeching halt one day when he announced that his wife was uncomfortable with him talking to me.  My husband understood my excitement and had blessed my discovery that Lincoln wasn’t dead.  Apparently, Lincoln’s wife had very different feelings about me.  And so, amid his many apologies, we said goodbye again in 2008.

In 2016 I became curious about him again and re-found him on Facebook.  I was no longer blocked from his account and messaged him, fingers crossed.  He was instantly receptive this time: he and his wife were separated and he was now 80 miles away, not several states.

We texted and talked on the phone round the lock for days, a virtual love-fest of lost innocence and crossed signals.  Our youthful romance figured prominently for him throughout his life and explained his wife’s misgivings of me.  I apologized for being such a broken girl.  He revealed he had been a virgin, too.  Our words were tender touches, two blind people rediscovering their surroundings with gentle explorations, every sense at attention.

Tearfully one night I revealed my double life.  He said he accepted me no matter what and was proud of me.  I shared the blog and Hy and everything I had ever done.  Still, he accepted me.  We set a date to meet.

He was a card-carrying biker now, literally a member of a national biker club with initiation rights and rivalries; the whole nine yards.  Tattooed all over, short, brown beard with a handlebar mustache, a Harley-Davidson hog his only form of transportation.  He looked formidable in my doorway, leather vest covered in biker paraphernalia, but his big bear hug was just the same.  And my immediate response to pull away was the same, too.

We reacquainted ourselves as adults side by side on my couch for the duration of a single drink.  I called a Lyft and we headed out to my favorite bar.  I didn’t want to just sit and drink at my house, the bedroom around the corner.

We laughed and flirted for hours.  The sun set and tears flowed as we finally said the things we’d always yearned to share.  I felt like a star-crossed lover, pulled away from a sweet tenderness I’d never again know.

Back home on my couch, we kissed.  His plump, soft lips were the same, his sounds, too.  I mounted his lap and he suckled my breasts — a move far past the Second Base of our youth — and I rubbed his crotch.  But I couldn’t go further.

I dragged him to bed, pulled the covers over us, and we fell asleep.

In the morning, I awoke to his big arm flung over my waist, his belly smushed warmly against my back.  I felt trapped.

He murmured and wriggled closer to me and I held still, but wanted to run.  His sweetness felt foreign, wrong.  I didn’t deserve it.  We got up and I made us coffee.  He had to head back to the club for a meeting that afternoon.

I was nervously distant and felt as if I could see the pain on his face, but it’s possible I only suspected to see it.  It was me at 18 all over again.  We hugged and kissed goodbye and the last I saw of him was the menacing skull and cross sewn on the back of his leather vest.

Over the next few days he’d call in the mornings to see how I was and we continued to text.  The intensity of our reunion clung to me like old perfume.  How could I fit him into my life?  I ate men for breakfast and Lincoln was no piece of sausage.  But I wouldn’t have to figure anything out.

One day, the texting didn’t happen.  I checked in and his answer was cursory.  Another day passed.  Again, barely a response.  And then he said we needed to talk.

My stomach dropped.  “Only one other man has ever said that to me,” I told him.  “And then that man left me.”

“Things are complicated,” he said.

A day or two went by without any other word and I guessed that he was reconciling with his ex and we could no longer be friends.  “Am I right??”

“Yes you are. Did some soul-searching. I appreciate your friendship but this is the path I choose.”

I burst into tears and tried in vain to get him to reconcile with her and still be friends with me.  He refused.

“I can’t believe this… I mean, of course you have to do what you need to and I support that, but… fuck.  This hurts.  Not gonna lie.”

“I know and I’m sorry. But I have to make her and my son my priority. Not just over you but the club and everything else.”

“I get that, I just don’t know why you can’t do both: be in my life as a friend and make her a priority but, ok… I guess now it’s my turn to have my heart broken, huh?  I wish you the best, Lincoln, and I’ll always be here for you.  I’ve got to go – need to pull myself together before I head into work.”

And his final words to me:

“Take care.”

He unfriended me on Facebook and has remained silent since, just as he said he would.

I doubled over and sobbed.  Lincoln seemed to be my lifeline to so many things.  The innocent girl I was to the wanton woman I am, the past to the future, from Hy to Me.  And he had chosen something else outright over any of it in even the slightest form.

I cried for a few more minutes, took a deep breath, and brushed myself off.  I had lived most of my adult life without him thus far; there was no reason I couldn’t easily go on without him for the rest.  But now the story is sad for far more reasons than youthful misgivings and childish anger.  Now I’m sad because I know I have truly lost him — forever — and I wish I had never found him again.

Soul searching, indeed.

 

 

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

I’m hiding.

I’m hiding from myself and what I know I need to do.

I need to drink less, stop all the horrible men, focus on my body, my baby, my work.  More.  Not as something to do, but as something to be.

I cried today on my new blue couch as the man with the same name as The Neighbor, the non-drinker who took me to breakfast many weeks ago, told me he missed me.

I had just told him I wasn’t up to seeing him tonight.

I can’t.

I don’t have it in me to poke beyond the failed morning we shared after a night spent playing pool and me drinking more than I needed to prove I wasn’t self-conscious that he wasn’t at all.  I don’t have it in me to give of myself, to his sweet attempts to connect and build a real friendship with me.  I feel my insides churl at the thought of anyone reaching me.  Least of all him and his soft, apologetic way.

The other day I let slip my iron grip and browsed the library of photos of my beautiful ex, the one who left me, The Neighbor.  I fell headlong into pictures of our long, three-year liaison, our passionate affair.  His giant, beautiful cock jut out from his thick, pale thighs in photo after photo and I sat still with tears in my eyes longing for what I felt with him.

This afternoon after I came twice to a submissive’s texts of obedience I was triggered to look for my old submissive’s gift: a video he once sent while I was in California.   A video of him cumming to me, calling out my name as his hand, a Caucasian blur on his giant erection, created an arc to and from the black lace panties he’d somehow procured while I was away.  “Fuck me, Hy.  Fuck me,” he panted “I’m gonna cum, Hy,” and then his body jerked and cum spurted onto his taught, furry belly as he moaned my name one last time.

But I couldn’t find it so finely buried deep in the tombs of my email.  It appears to be as gone as he is.

I feel as though I am festering, deliberately mistreating myself with booze, men, and inactivity.  Instead of moving or creating I sit, nearly comatose, binge watching this show or that.  Sex and the City, Golden Girls, Masters of Sex.  Each a parable, a lesson in human sexuality and society in its own right.  Be daring, be open, be free, be happy.

But I am none of those things anymore.

I am scared and alone and above all else lonely.  I am trapped between worlds and between decisions and I don’t know which way is the right way.  I am in some sort of stasis, my heart trapped in this place of low and sustained pain as if a pen were driven into it; not so far as to be fatal, but far enough to make every movement painful.  I don’t even fantasize about life without the pain.  That almost doesn’t seem possible.

But this – this feels like the moment before I choose to do something.  This paralysis surely predates movement and traction.  My psyche is merely gearing up for the heavy work, right??  For making the choices I know I need to make.  The tough, “This is the right thing to do,” shit.

Because if the thought of a kind man coming over because he cares about me and wants to get closer reduces me to tears then I do have work to do.  And lots of it.

Don’t look at me.

 

Sinful Sunday