I’m going to bed early.

I texted Rex late yesterday afternoon.  He had just finished the last ride of the weekend and was on a high.  He’d had an incredible weekend on his bike in the middle of no where and it had exhausted him, he said.

He texted today to say good morning and I sent him a couple of pictures of Peyton making us breakfast (literally the closest thing to breakfast in bed I’ve had in my entire life).

Then the day dragged on.

My back aches from my pelvis to my chest, my body feels contorted, my heart feels dark and heavy.  I am physically miserable, psychically stalled.

Thank God I have Peyton tomorrow, Valentine’s Day.  The single most excruciating day of the year when you are forced to remember your relationship status by every person wearing red to work for their Happy Hour V-Day dates later in the day.

I’m going to bed early.

It hurts.

 

 

 

Febraury Photofest

He loved the pot roast and I slept alone.

“I’m not feeling it between us.”  He made a back and forth motion with his hands at chest level.  “I think you’re very beautiful — very — fascinating, intelligent, really funny, but I just don’t know if it’s there between us.”

I sat beside him, about 18 inches away, a wine glass in my hand.  I looked away, swallowed.  I felt trapped and helpless, foolish.  Of course he doesn’t, I thought.  Men never want me.

I’ve spent the last couple of days fighting that voice and it’s left me low and energy-less.  I hate that voice.

Since none of this is happening the “normal” way for me I have been out of touch with things.  None of our dates have lent themselves to anything more than a brief goodnight kiss.  He’s responsible and has dogs and has left after every one and declined to come up after another when we instead sat in his car outside my building where I worked really hard to convince him I didn’t actually care about dick size, only the size of a man’s heart.

On the couch I continued my case, “I want to get to know you, Rex, I want to unwrap you and discover the man inside.  To learn about you.  I find you interesting and kind and sexy.  I want to keep learning about you.   You intimidate me because you’re so grown up and accomplished; I’ve never dated an adult before…”  My voice sounded desperate and clingy to my ears, but there was nothing to do.  It was all true.

I looked away again when he didn’t respond and he said something about me shutting down.  I dragged myself back up to the surface.  “You’re right.  I am.  I’m trying.  This is just so hard for me.”

I looked at him, my face an implacable mask.  He said he couldn’t read me.  I told him that was the point.

I have never felt something slip through my fingers the way that evening did.  He licked his plate, but was passing on me it seemed.

“What are you thinking?” I asked.  He said he didn’t know.  “Well, do you know what I’m thinking?  I’m sitting here wishing I could kiss you.”

He looked surprised.  “Go ahead,” he laughed.  “You should always kiss me if you want to.”

I leaned over on my knees and kissed his warm lips.  His hands stayed below my hips, perhaps on my thigh.  He began to talk.  I asked him if he wanted me to stop.  He said, No, but I felt like I was forcing myself on him.

I pulled away and he followed me, kissed me more.  I breathed him in and waited as my hands roamed his neck and jaw.  Nothing.

“I have to get going.  It’s a work night.”  It was 10:30 when the failure really sunk in.  Either there was just no chemistry between us or my strange flailing the previous two weeks had set the stage for this.

“Do you think you knowing about Hy made us both think we were more connected than we really are?” I’d asked before I’d kissed him.

“No!  Definitely not!” he jumped to say.  “I don’t think that at all.”

We stood up and I walked to the kitchen to send him home with leftovers.  He kissed me again at the island and it was intense and sweet, but still stopped short of full-blown passion.  I don’t know why.

He dipped down once or twice for more and I eagerly met his lips, but he seemed already halfway out the door.

I handed him his baggies and tinfoil-wrapped pot roast and walked him to the entryway and told him I was free on Saturday if he wanted to hang out again.  There was still so much more to say and explore, right?  The kissing was good, wasn’t it??  I didn’t know which end was up, perhaps more talking and spending time together would sort it out.

“Ok, sure.  I might be going out of town for a bike trip.  I’m not sure.  I’ll let you know.”

We kissed again and he left and I crawled into bed with the animals.

It’s Saturday night now and I didn’t hear from him about going out of town or not.  I assume he did, but perhaps not.

::

I went on a date with a man recently who was incredibly eager to meet me.  He leaned in at the bar as I sipped my glass of Chardonnay and his hand occasionally grazed my thigh.  I had no doubt of his attraction for me and I felt the chemistry buzz between us as I imagined what his body would feel like over mine.

We parted ways with a steamy, but appropriate kiss against my car under an abnormally warm winter sun, and I drove away contemplating chemistry and connections.

Another night I had a date with a different man who really liked me.  It was our second date (the first was coffee a week before and his eyes lit up when I walked into the Greek coffee house).   He texted me nervously the morning after because he was worried he might have said something that put me off, but the truth is as I sat across from him sipping cider under a chilly moon I couldn’t muster an attraction.  I tried, but it just wasn’t there.

There was nothing he said that made that happen.  It just was.

And as he kissed me and earnestly held me close my heart sank because I felt nothing in return except his soft lips and nicely groomed whiskers.  I had to tell him, like Rex told me, that I didn’t feel it between us and if Rex feels as little for me as I did for that other man then that hurts.  Not a lot, not a little, but somewhere in the middle like when you studied really hard for a test, but still only got a B-/C+.

I really wanted this thing with Rex to be an A.

The person is undesirable to most while the body desirable to all.

 

Febraury Photofest

Waiting and waiting and waiting.

Date #4 is upon me and it’s pot roast night.  

I’ve spent the morning cleaning and deciding on my final recipe.  Mildly agitated, slightly excited.  I am so very, very out of my element.

It’s been more than 15 years since I’ve had 4 dates and no sex.  I’ve seen his beautiful body only on a screen as he has mine.  

I haven’t touched or tasted; I haven’t felt or followed my fingertips to any delicious nooks and crannies.  I feel blindfolded in an art museum.

I don’t know what is expected of me once dinner is done because I’m certain sex is not on the menu for tonight.  “I don’t do casual sex,” he told me on date #2.  

I’m not even sure I know what that means.

So I wait and follow and see what’s next.  He’s the lead on this.  Not me.  

I hope my pot roast is edible.

Waiting.

Febraury Photofest

I’ve been caught as Hy.

As I drove home from work for lunch he texted to say he had something to confess.

We’d had our first date the night before at a swanky downtown restaurant.  He was tallish, lean, bald.  A very snazzy dresser.  A good looking man whose arm ink peeked out from beneath the cuffs of his tailored blazer.

I sipped on champagne and he on sweet whiskey and as we shared our small plates we chatted about our dead pets, nudity vs. nakedness, and failed marriages.  I ranted about never allowing a man into my life that wasn’t loved and accepted by my child.  He ranted about not sending him emails at work unless the certified letter didn’t return first.

It was a really nice date topped off by a polite kiss or two and a twinkle in my eye.

What could he possibly have to confess??

“I have followed your blog since we first met at AFF.”

My stomach dropped and my eyes widened.  I was at a stop light and felt suddenly jittery.

We’d “met” on AFF well over a year ago and only recently reconnected via OKCupid where he’d pointed out the older connection.  “Small orbits,” he’d called them.

“Wait, what??” I texted back.  “What blog?”

He texted the URL.

Fuck.

Immediately I thought back over everything I’d said the night before, how I’d carried myself, how I had appeared.  Had I measured up?  Did I sound genuine?  I talked about my missing cat and my exhusband, mentioned dating my neighbor — all things that are in this blog.

Well, at least he knows I wrote the truth, I thought.



My first impulse was to post the screenshots and share, but I pulled up short and asked him for his permission(I cannot ethically post about anyone here without their permission if they know it exists.  If they don’t know, it’s none of their business; I have to protect myself first.)

“Blue pill or red pill, Mr. Orbit?” I asked him.

He said he trusted me and then we sent each other photos of our animals because I guess that’s what you do when you’ve been outted as your alter-ego and the world hasn’t caved in on you and the handsome man on the other end of the secret seems to like you anyway.

And so here we are: Uncharted territory with a Hy/Me hybrid blend and a man I’m going to call Rex.

He didn’t listen.

See right through me.

It was the third time it stung and hurt in rhythm to his thrusting digits that night.  I told him to stop, but his long fingers kept moving inside of me.  He’d pushed things farther than I’d wanted all night long and now we were naked on my bed.

“You’re hurting me!” I said and pushed at the arm and wrist connected to my body.

“Stop!” I said again, firm and angry.  “You are hurting me!!

He pulled his hand out and kissed me drunkenly.  “I’m sorry,” he said.

I explained to him how to touch me and let him restart.

It hurt again.  I cried out again.  I yelled at him to stop again.  I pushed his hand away again.

He wanted to fuck then, but I said no.  He pouted and begged, kissed my neck and touched my pussy.  The wine fuzzed my brain and it was much too dark in my room to clearly see that he needed to just go away.

I let his touch calm me and when he slithered down to put his mouth on me I held my breath.  “Do not suck on me,” I said.  “It will hurt; I’m too sensitive.”

He sucked.

“Don’t suck!” I said again and pushed at his shoulders.  He didn’t budge and continued to suck.  I felt my labia pulled away from my body by the suction and I hated it, that awful, tugging sensation.

“Stop it!  Stop it!  Stop it!”  I shouted.  “I just told you not to suck!!!”

I told him to lap at me.  “Like an ice cream cone.”

I wasn’t  there anymore.

I was in a black space with no exit, thick and viscous.  My arms and legs were mine, but they weren’t free.  This man was doing these things to me that I was supposed to enjoy, but I wasn’t.  It hurt, it pissed me off, it felt pointless, I felt lost.

It finally ended somehow and I was submerged in upside-down darkness and only wanted him to leave.  He wanted to stay the night.  “No, you need to go home.  My mom will be here at 8 in the morning.”

He pouted again and recoiled from me.  As he gathered up his clothing he complained they were wet from my ejaculate.  I told him to shut up, incredulous.

Because I’m a woman and trained to be polite I hugged him goodbye, but he was terse and walked out stiffly.  Several minutes later he texted to tell me how much he liked me.

Late the next morning he texted to say he’d left some things behind and that he’d had an incredible night with me.  I’d found his boxers already, but he’d also left his work keys.  I searched the couch hoping they weren’t there, but they were: two shiny silver keys on a ring, a big one and a little one, much like my delusion and self-respect.

I haven’t told him they are here.  He wants to see me again.  I don’t want to.  Keys or no keys.

I don’t know how to proceed.  Do I tell him how I remember the evening or do I just say “Sorry, this isn’t going to work out for me.”  I want to disappear and not think about the disaster that was my Friday night, erase it completely from memory.

I wonder if I could be wrong about everything, that maybe I was begging for it.   Maybe I did sometimes, I don’t recall that clearly.  Never mind.  It doesn’t matter.  It will soon be rolled into the other stories I have of nights similar to that one.  Of being over-powered by their desire and choosing the path of least resistance and saying, Fine, ok.  I’ll do it, when truthfully, I don’t want to, but am too scared to say No only to have him say Yes we are because then it really is bad.  And scary.  And my fault.

I am clear that No means No, but when a drunk woman is half naked on your lap and her hard limit is your hand in her pussy, but it’s ok to suck on her tits I get the confusion.  I understand the risk, I understand the world I live in.  It’s not set up for me to have hard limits if others are soft.

I blame myself for not having the guts to kick him out the second I felt it was sideways.  Instead I tried to salvage it, make his mistake and boorish behavior ok so it wouldn’t be a scary assault, so he wouldn’t see he’d gone too far and reached a vulnerable place in me – both literally and figuratively.  I let him stay and I attempted to make the night mine, not his, and all I really accomplished was confusing him and hurting me.

And now I have his keys to remember him by.

 

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.

So many friends with benefits.

“I’m here.  Tell me No if you can’t.”

I read David’s text and squealed with both fear and anticipation.

“Fuck. Ok.  Only if you’re really here,” I wrote back.

Seconds later he was through my door with his hand wrapped around my neck holding me on my tip toes, his mouth oddly gentle, his tongue soft and sweet.

My towel dropped to my feet when his fingers dug inside of me as if searching for a lost object.  My legs trembled and I gushed into his hand; my juices made a long trail down my legs to the crumpled towel below.

I hadn’t heard from David in months and we hadn’t seen each other since October.  Last year we met in April when I was still completely heartbroken over The Neighbor.  His big, fat cock and transgressive style of fucking were welcome distractions as I limped along away from TN.  However, pillow talk between us — or talk in general — was not very rewarding.

I found myself wrapped up in ridiculous arguments or defending my thoughts and feelings about personal matters.  I eventually went to some lengths to avoid such arguments, but after a disagreement about dogs of all things, I gave up even trying and accepted that we were better lovers than “friends.”

Over time our schedules intervened and we saw less and less of each other and last fall he witnessed me a hot, sobbing drunken mess.  The Soldier had stood me up that night and I’d spent a retched day with an old high school friend and being sexually harassed by him and his knuckle-dragging friend s we day drank.

David came over and pounded my pussy as hard as my heart hurt and spent and used I cried as I knelt over his splayed knees.  His cum mixed with my tears.  I was embarrassed to be so exposed in front of this big, hard man, but there was nothing for it.  It happened.

In January he texted to say his New Year’s resolution was to fuck me in the ass.  My response was something along the lines of, “Good luck with that beer can dick of yours and never seeing each other.”

We texted once or twice more this year until early last week when he reached out again and then Friday when he asked if I were home.

I have no hard feelings towards David.  That’d be like being upset with a wild animal for being wild.  Our friends with benefits relationship is one of mutual satisfaction and convenience.  It doesn’t involve sharing feelings or activities — a ridiculously boring hiking date proved that one — it’s sex and sex only.

I went to my friend’s birthday party with David’s cum dried all over my tits and when the breeze shifted it wafted up to my nostrils mixed with my perfume of hyacinth.

He came on my in great gobs because I begged him to.

After he’d licked me from top to bottom and worked me with his hand again.  After he’d pushed me forcefully to my knees and told me to lick his tight little asshole.  After I’d suckled his balls and choked on his massive piece of flesh and heard him croon, “That’s a good little slut.”  After he’d turned around and spread his cheeks for me and jerked himself as he purred at my warm, wet tongue on his hole.  And after he’d thrown me back on the bed and hitched my ankles up on his shoulders then flipped me around and wailed on my flanks as he buried himself in me.

After all of that he came on my face and tits and neck.  I slumped up onto the bed and laid there with him until it was time to get dressed for the party.

David was there for all of 30 minutes.

How different a “friend” he is than The Artist.  Though similar in age and height as David, he is worlds apart energetically and emotionally.  He’s sensitive and sweet and we have lengthy conversations about life and love and Domination and submission.  He is a neophyte dom himself and also a writer.  He wants to go to writers workshops with me and read my work.  He wants me to critique his.

I’ve resisted sharing Hy with him; he’s too loose, too wet.

Our first night together was drunken and fierce(ish).  His cock curves away from his body and when he mounted me from behind on my squeaky couch I burst into orgasm instantly.  That was his second orgasm of the night and my umpteenth.

We’ve texted consistently throughout the weeks and gone to dinner twice.  I am open with him about my other other lovers and I know of a couple of his.  I like him, though quickly learned that my sexual volume is much higher than he thinks his is.  Despite being dominant I am even more dominant; a moon in a planet’s presence.

Our hookups have been hot and quick.

There was the time he came over and though he promised to fuck me when he walked through the door we ended up chit chatting at my kitchen island for 10 minutes before he grabbed me and fucked me on the counter top.

And the other time I blew him for a minute or so and I had to choose to let him blow his wad right then or let him fuck me.  I chose the latter.

Or the other time I let him spank me until his erection returned and he jizzed all over me.

I have coached him and supported him as a friend would — I enjoy the mentoring space — and I have even spent time guiding him on what to do with his other FWB when he asked.  We are solidly “friends with benefits,” but the benefits are beginning to be in his favor, not mine.

Sunday morning he texted, “Hey I’m feeling pretty sad still and I don’t think I’ll be able to get off if we have sex. It’s up to you if you still want to hang out. I’m just not feeling up to fooling around hon.”

“What are you sad about?”

“Still bummed over that girl you know?”

“Ah, I see.  Well, as much fun as it would be to hang out with you while you’re bummed out by another woman, I’m really ok just chilling alone.”

His response was a favorite of mine:  :/

I’m not interested in being a shoulder cry on about someone else while sex is on the table.  Shoulder cry on as just friends?  Yes, 100%.  As a lover who doesn’t get fucked?  No.  That would wring me out because that doesn’t feel all that good.  There’s no benefit there; I’m just being used.

Talk to me and ask for advice about a death, a shitty boss, a bad day, bad friends, your mother and also fuck the ever-loving shit out of me?  Yes.  Complain to me about another woman and not fuck me?  No.  Absolutely not.  I expect my lovers to have their shit together.

Part of being friends with benefits is the suspended belief that we’re all we have for the time we spend together.  It allows it to be fantastic while practical and uncomplicated.

Bumping around with these two make me miss Ben in a wistful, fantasy way.  He’s been busy lately.  So, so busy.  I don’t remember the last time we spoke but the time I showed him my pussy has long since passed.

“Yes, Hy.  God, you’re so beautiful.”  I can hear the words perfectly now, like a moment frozen in time.

We talk still about a visit, but as each week goes by I have less hope.  There’s a story line for us in my mind that we will see each other for years until we no longer are willing or able.  Long distance lovers with a bond across the sea.  No one ever gets mad at each other and time and space are natural wedges between us so reunions are passionate and snorted into our bodies like so many lines of cocaine.

We become high on one another until the crash of departure.  We are perfect because we are virtual strangers and dream fuck buddies.

Our coupling at the beginning of the summer is as fresh in my mind as if it happened yesterday.  I can feel his body on mine and his thick flesh pushed against me as it slid deep inside.  His timbre smooth as were his hands which rested on my hips as he pumped into me like a little stallion.

Sometimes I think we should leave well enough alone with the dream.

My other friends are virtual.  Men whose words and kindness reach through the ether.  Their voices are unknown, their scent and taste a mystery.  I don’t know the feel of their crush.  One or two want to come see me.  Less than that are welcome to.  Besides, once you close the gap and touch me it seems to become a game of loss.

How much longer until it’s run its course and the benefits are gone?  FWBs is a short game, no matter what kind it is.  It’s a filler, a distraction, a fun ride until you find the mini-van you want to buckle yourself into forever.

After all these years I’ve finally figured out that friends with benefits means truly having no expectations beyond the moment of the ride, that moment he’s inside of me.  Gah, that fucking magical moment of being filled by another human body. What a joy that is!  What a gift!

If I could I’d have a hundred friends with benefits of all kinds.  The ones only good for sex, the ones who are mooshy and eye-rolling, the ones who are dreamy and perfect and everything in between.  Men are fascinating, exhausting, thrilling creatures and I want to gather them all up and give them pats and kisses and wag my ass in front of their drooling faces.   I’ll manage any loneliness at weddings and birthdays on my own.

What I really want to do is play, to shove the biggest piece of cake in my mouth, swallow it, reach for more and wait for the next knock on my door.  I wonder who it’ll be next time.

 

I am a fisherman.

Here, little fishies...

Here, little fishies…

I imagine looking out over a harbor, the morning light gentle, the scent of the bay cold and familiar in my nostrils.  I hike my suspenders over my shoulders and step into my dingy.  I have to check my lines; one group of crab pots after the next, the water gently choppy, the sound of the boat engine a buzzing throttle beneath my hand as I steer.

I stop, pull the lines.  They’re heavy.  The little creatures inside move in what looks like slow motion.  I pull them up, open the cage and shake them out into the bottom of my boat, toss the pot back in the water and move on to the next.

It’s second-nature to me, these motions.  It’s part of my life, who I am.  I measure them silently in my mind.  Chemistry, cock, charisma.

I check 3 lines every day.  My AFF, Seeking Arrangement and Collar Space.  Each day I find creatures in my pots.  Each day I am overwhelmed with the vetting process.

SA continues to be a brutally unrewarding place, but I also continue to be in a desperate financial situation so I stay on in hopes that I’ll find that one man who can save me financially as I work furiously in real life to solve for it on my own.

Will, the sugar daddy of ill-manners, and I no longer speak.  He behaved even more badly in regards to how I spent “his” $100 and I told him it was fucking bullshit.  I don’t know what he expected from me, but a sugar relationship wasn’t it.  He thought $100 bought something.  Yeah, groceries and gas, asshole.

Collar Space is a tender spot for me.  I am inundated with thoughtful, sexy emails from submissive men, but I am deeply reticent after my most recent experience of being abandoned after a vanilla-esque scene.  I can’t put myself back in that position any time soon, though I yearn to.

I am still speaking with the first sub who reached out to me back July, but I’m tired of the “How are you?” texts and don’t have the energy to move it further along.

AFF remains my happy place, but last I checked I had five times as many new emails than usual.  Apparently late summer has caused the tide to shift a bit and suddenly I am more desirable than ever.  I haven’t had the time to sift through all the possibilities there either; the men just lay at my feet, arms and legs waving at me.

My harvest is immense, but my appetite is low.

In a week it will have been one year since I ended my friendship with The Neighbor.  One year since he was in my house.  One year since we sobbed together.  One year since he held me in his arms.

To this day every man I am with is measured against him, our chemistry, his cock.  I can’t stop myself.  Every time I pull a line and haul a man aboard I wonder if it will be as good with him as it was with TN.  When I invite him over and into my bed I pray I’ll feel what I always felt with him.  When the man leaves I hope to desire him again.  When he speaks I wish to be interested.

Though the answer to all of those things is typically No and I throw him back, head to the next set of pots.  The sun on my face, the salt on my lips.

Line after line I pull.   Tirelessly, not unhappily.  Always looking, always measuring, always the fisherman.

 

 

Money ruins everything.

“Can I see your ID, Hy?” he said suddenly.

“My ID?”

“Yeah.  Lemme see it.”

I dug in my wallet and handed it to him, his thigh pressed against mine in the horseshoe booth. He fumbled with something then pressed it back into my hand.  There was a $100 bill there now.

The tears I’d been holding back for the last thirty minutes sprang to my eyes.  What a relief!  We could finally talk about money now, I thought.

“I want to show you something,” I said and pulled out my phone and opened my banking account.  A little working wheel spun as we watched together.

Checking: -$88.83

Savings: $3.22

“You have no idea how badly I needed a little help,” and then with tears streaming down my face I explained to him the nightmare experience I’d been having with my bank and credit card over the past four days and how I had only $50 in my wallet until that moment.

I felt relieved, safe.  I don’t believe in white knights, but maybe I was wrong.

Will and I met on a sugar daddy site, a place where men seek [usually] discreet relationships with women who, in exchange for whatever kind of relationship everyone is comfortable with, receive monetary support.

The way the site is set up the SDs report their net worth and yearly incomes and what monthly expenditure they’re willing to provide.  The money ranges from “negotiable,” which has no value listed to “minimal” (a $1000 a month) to “high” ($10k a month and up).  Will listed his net worth at $2 million with a $250,000 yearly income, and as with most SDs had chosen “negotiable” as his desired support level.

When we first connected online I wasn’t interested, but his confidence and sense of humor won me over.  He asked why someone as beautiful as me was on a site like that one and I opened up to him like a cheap novel spilling all the dirty details.

How my divorce and staying home to start a family then start a new career had devastated my finances; how I sold stock, cashed out some of my 401k, and take on any and all side-work outside of my regular job I can possibly get in order to cover my bills; how I now make enough money to owe the IRS, but not enough to live off of; and how despite all that, my monthly expenses went up $1000/month last fall and I’ve been struggling to make ends meet ever since.

He told me he was impressed and reassured me that I’d done everything I possibly could.  I liked that this stranger’s sentiment countered my deepest fear of being a colossal failure.  “Life is hard sometimes, Hy,” he’d said.  “I’ve been there.”

When we met after three weeks of emails and texts I hadn’t planned to let him slip bareback into me while bent over my front seat, but I was overcome with passion.  We’d talked for hours and sipped our drinks in a plush hotel lobby and he assured me that he wanted to help in any way he could.  Later that night he’d text me “Don’t sell yourself short.  I can help you in so many ways.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but was encouraged nonetheless that he might be my fairy godfather of finances in this desperate time.

Accepting help from anyone in any form is difficult for me and asking for money is even more revolting; the situation in general puts me on my heel and while talking to potential SDs I felt raw and vulnerable discussing what they’d get from me in exchange for essentially being on their payroll.

Will had set himself apart quickly by not treating me like an object and so far everything he had said and done backed that up.  Everything was falling effortlessly into place: We liked each other.  I genuinely wanted to sleep with him.  He genuinely wanted to help me.

I stared at the $100 bill wishing my life were different, but feeling relatively lucky all the same; it was humiliating, yet overwhelming, a little hopeful.  I might really make it through this with his help.

I had cried en route to meet him, fearing rejection and humiliation at having to finally bring up our financial arrangment, but it was all for naught.  It was going to be ok…

And then, it wasn’t.

“You know, Hy,” he said as I closed my bank app and set down my phone.  “I’m so glad you waited to tell me about your situation until after I gave you the money, because had you opened with that, had you led with needing money, I’d have given you the $100 (because I’d already set it aside for you last week) and walked out and never spoken to you again.  That’s really wonderful of you because now I know you’re genuine and more importantly, you know I’m genuine.”

I couldn’t believe my ears.

The next hour the tears continued as we debated the logic of his words.  “I don’t know why you insist on being upset and ignoring my compliment!” he argued.

“It’s not a compliment, Will, because I was only lucky just now.  I came here knowing I would have to ask you for help because I’m so desperate and you’re telling me that had I done that you’d have walked out on me without discussing a thing with me and that’s shitty and wrong.  You have no idea how hard this is for me!”

“But why is it ok to ask me for help and none of the other guys from the other sites??” he asked angrily.

“Because,” I said between sniffs, “I already told you, those other sites aren’t set up to discuss financial situations.  Seeking Arrangement is!  I can’t tell men I meet on AFF, ‘Hey, I need help with my bills this month,’ they’ll think I’m a fucking prostitute!”

He talked to me slowly and calmly, like I was the village idiot; I shut down.  Nothing I said could convince him of my vulnerability or how what he said was so belittling, disempowering, and outright appalling.  A woman he met on a sugar daddy site is not allowed to discuss her financial situation with him first lest she piss him off and he take his ball and leave.  Screw you, Hy, for having needs and making them known to me before I asked.

I absentmindedly watched the bartenders do their busy work and wished I were somewhere else.

He reminded me that we’d only met twice and to have some perspective when I couldn’t stop crying. But how could I possibly stop the river of emotions that had spilled over the dam?  Humiliation, degradation, guilt, rage, helplessness, embarrassment, sorrow, fear.  Each one a torrent in its own right.

I felt deflated as I sat beside his bulk.  Something had just been bludgeoned between us, the little flame of hope and friendship was now a black, pulpy mess.  He was mad that I seemed to be deliberately missing his magnanimous attitude towards me and I was crushed that I was treated like an ingrate with no agency.

Numbly, I let him walk me to my car.  He made an inappropriate joke about fucking me by my car again.  I kissed him and tried to flirt, but I felt broken and listless.  I sobbed on the way home and opened a bottle of red wine.

Deep into my cups I reached out.  “I’m free Friday after all.”  He laughed and said he wished he was fucking me right then.

I felt lost.

What was I doing??  What was I trying to salvage?  This is not the arrangement I seek, to hope that the guy I’m seeing will toss me some cash because he’s in a good mood.  If I were financially stable, that would be fucking amazing, but I’m terrified each month that I won’t be able to pay my bills and I had made that abundantly clear to Will.  I want a friends with benefits who understands his cherry to the situation sundae is money as I understand my cherry is discretion and companionship.

Money is a delicate, powerful thing and it reminds me of anthrax.  It rips families and friends apart, destroys business partnerships and marriages; I’ve been reduced to tears because of it all week.  Money isn’t everything, but when you don’t have enough it’s all-consuming because it equals survival.  Money equals safety.

One thing that has become abundantly clear to me through all of this is I am wholly unprepared for how other people feel about their money as it relates to me.  Will became defensive and dismissive because I suspect he feared I was only there for his money and the irony of where and how we met appears to be completely lost on him.  It appears I wasn’t cut any slack.

In that booth with him, weepy eyed and defeated, I watched helplessly as he moved away from me, my tears and ingratitude driving him away and I felt even more sorrow because in that moment I realized that I had somehow also hurt him.  I didn’t hear from him the entire next day.

Clearly, neither of us are fit for this sort of arrangement.

There’s a dating site for each of your needs.

Isn't this how everyone writes?

Isn’t this how everyone writes?

As I sit to write I’m overwhelmed with where to start.  Do I share with you the potential sugar daddy with whom I’ve connected?  Or my explorations into the D/s world?  The guys I found on AFF to fuck my brains out?  Or the all the men who reject me on Match?  The men who froth at the bit on IG and Snapchat?  The deep and meaningful emails I receive from kindred spirits?

For every want I have I have an outlet and it’s distinct from the rest.  You may think my assignments are personal, but I’ve met enough men who spread themselves across the multiple platforms for similar reasons to know I’m not alone.  I can’t say I like hung men on Tinder any more than I can say I want a boyfriend on Adult Friend Finder; it doesn’t fit the audience and it elicits the wrong responses.

Each site has a specific target audience:

  • eHarmony: serious relationship to marriage; deep, hearty stuff
  • Match: same ^^
  • OK Cupid: serious relationship to casual and fun, poly and open expansion relationships, hookups; moderately intense
  • Plenty of Fish: same ^^
  • Tinder: hookups, casual and ongoing friends with benefits; light and fluffy
  • Bumble: same ^^
  • Adult Friend Finder: hookups, kink, swinging, ongoing friends with benes, specific sexual preferences; intense and focused, yet light
  • Seeking Arrangement: hookups, ongoing friends with benefits, financial wishes; intense and focused
  • Collar Space: kinks, D/s, BDSM, darker side; intense, focused, serious

These are my categorizations, obviously, but I think most would agree with me that this is the basic break down.  I admit to anomalies.  I have friends who got married off of OKC and some who had years-long relationships off of AFF.  There’s no accounting for just how you meet someone and to put blinders on to opportunity would be just plain silly.

I’ve long been clear on the silos of intent for most of these sites, but the sugar daddy site, Seeking Arrangement, was the real recent challenge.  It wasn’t until I sat beautifully full of white wine next to a big, brawny country boy who wants to be my benefactor that the last piece fell into place: on that site I could be honest about my financial situation.

On AFF I can shout to the rafters my love for giant cock; on Tinder I can be obtusely flirtatious; on OKC I can hint at my yearning for something deeper; on CollarSpace I can announce my authority and stake my claim; and on Seeking Arrangement I can say that I am in need of some help.

What I find so interesting about all of this is that of all things that I admit across these different platforms —  my kinks, my heart, my hopes, my sexual needs — the most intimate is my need for money.  To say I don’t have enough feels like admitting to a personal failing, like it’s Dickensian England and I’ve somehow brought this upon myself by virtue of my bad bloodlines.  My father was, after all, a terrible human being who lost a few fortunes in his lifetime.

But the kind man whom I sat entwined with last Tuesday, and who would eventually fill me with his happy jizz in the parking lot like we were rutting teens, held my fears gently and wouldn’t let me look away.  “Hy,” he said.  “I want to help.”  I was unable to offer more than a tearful head nod.  It’s all too humiliating, but why is that?  I’m not tearful when I sit across a man I meet on AFF and say I love giant dick; bashful, perhaps, but humiliated, no.

In fact, when I think about it, admitting to my kinks and my sexual needs are the only things that don’t make me shudder and shy away.  Breaching this one frontier — financial — has put an even finer point on it: I don’t do intimacy.

I don’t admit to needing love.  I don’t admit to wanting love.  I don’t admit to having needs.  I allude to them on all those sites where it’s appropriate, but I’ve been utterly unable to make any relationship launch because the truth is I’m completely and utterly unfit for a relationship at the moment.  I trust no one and myself most of all; I am incapable of choosing trustworthy people and so I will choose to remain alone and get my intimacy needs met via sex and sex only.  It will be interesting to see how a financial relationship affects me since that’s more intimate than sex to me.

I’m not satisfied with this long-term, but I am aware that this is my current status: intimacy isn’t possibly and that’s ok.  I’ll keep working on it and chipping away as I always do.  But admitting it is the first step.

To be clear for those of you who might be wondering, the kind of sugar daddy relationship I seek is one that isn’t based on money.  I want to find a wonderful friends-with-benefits who also happens to check in on my financial status and help me out when necessary.  I want a man whose money is inconsequential to my feelings for him and thus far, I feel like I’ve found that in this country boy.  He’s sweet, funny, sexy and totally and completely into me.  He also happens to be married, which is fucking perfect (see above intimacy issues).

One of the most appalling and humbling things about Seeking Arrangement is the used car feel of it.  Men messaged me and kicked my tires, asked humiliating and inappropriate questions about my libido and sexuality as if they were staffing up for their penis and when they saw my private photos of my face I never heard from them again.  Apparently, I didn’t measure up.

Of course, those men opted themselves right out of my life and that’s ok, but with the exception of the men on Match, I have been found highly attractive on the other sites matching with beautiful men of all shapes and sizes.  But not on SA.  There I was found wholly lacking, apparently.

On CollarSpace I roll up my sleeves and put my Domme-y pants on.  I have been praised for my no-nonsense profile and many have been eager to make my acquaintance.  Nothing has panned out beyond some heavy texting with one and a brief text-fling with another.  I am extremely cautious there.

And as I flex my muscles I’ve learned what it means for a man to theorize about his submission, but be unable to execute even the smallest of submissions.  If a woman you so desperately want to dominate you gently directs you to respond to texts in a timely fashion, you do so.  You don’t ignore her for 24 hours.  That vanilla shit doesn’t fly.

The sub with whom I’ve been texting regularly for several weeks seemed incredible at first — he was experienced, eager to help me learn, beautiful, hung, intelligent — but he suddenly balked hours before our first meeting and proved it was too good to be true.  Under the kind tutelage of my Fairy Domme-mother, Ferns, I told him my desires again and fought the urge to compromise in such a way that I would lose everything I actually wanted.

I said to him:

And I’ve thought about it. Here’s what I want: a sexy af friend I can trust AND have fun with (an occasional drink, board game, day by the pool). If you decide you’re on board with that, then let me know. I’m not really interested in investing in a back and forth waiting (and hoping) for something to change if you’re not.

It’s terrifying to attempt to dominate only to have your submissive partner pull the rug out from under you.   The Neighbor was a master at that and I am ever watchful for a repeat performance.

Coming up with that response to the sub was tantamount to my new dating elevator pitch.  It’s how I feel across the board and I am set free from the back and forth and negotiations I once found myself tangled in.  Do or do not.  There is no try.

On AFF I have found many attractive men who like my pitch.  The most recent, Poppy, a tall, coffee-with-lots-of-cream colored man built like Adonis, met me on a Tuesday night.  He had a winning smile and a way with winks that won me over.  We fucked like animals for a couple of hours and he promised he’d host next time.

It’s almost easier on AFF than anywhere else to be myself.  I can mention the D/s stuff, my kink for male bi-play, and even admit to having a broken heart.  Being non-monogamous isn’t scandalous, nor is it a beacon for one-night-stands.  It’s like the catch-all of the dating world.

I’ve met men there who are just re-entering the dating world and who have played there for many years.  They quickly learn the dating economics of a sex site and are appreciative of a well-spoken, confident, real woman.  The number of bots and scams they intercept in any given day speaks volumes to who the real customer is.  On AFF, we all seem like comrades.

On Match, much like SA, I am repellent.  Men I find attractive look at my profile and don’t respond to my winks or likes.  How ironic that when it comes to either being sufficiently attractive or relationship material I fall so short.  Trust me, the irony is not lost on me.

I have another 4 and a half months to suffer through before my membership expires.  I have zero hope of meeting anyone I’m interested in there.  Partly because the men who message me aren’t attractive to me and partly because I have come to fully realize my unfitness to be a partner.

Tinder has wrought much pain, frustration, and general male jokery.  I’m a fetish for the under 25 set, a challenge for the under 30, and a fine piece of ass for the under 40s.  It’s a melee of false promises and aggressive and ridiculous come-ons.  My screenshots are proof of that.  Occasionally, I meet a comparable man, such as the pretty blond artist who suavely invited me back to his place at the end of our date.  I declined that night, but we will reunite at some point soon.

Bumble is no different, but there I get the added bonus of being rejected when I reach out as the rules there state the woman must make the first move.  Ok, whatever.

On those sites I am known as me, the mother of Peyton, a school-aged child, a professional, a dog and cat lover.  They know I cuss a lot and love to cook and, if they’re lucky, get to experience the underbelly of my public persona, the naked and writhing one.

Not everyone will have the next categories in their lives, but I have yet even more: My Instagram and Snapchat followers as well as my blog readers.

In the past I made a conscious decision to not get too involved with virtual folks who know me as Hy.  It was partly part of the anonymous mechanism, partly to keep a separation of church and state.  Plus, how could that work?  The world is a very big place and I’m not interested in a love affair from Abu Dhabi.  But lately, in the last year, I have broken down my walls and connected with many people from my Hyacinth world

I made a handful of female friends on IG who have been very influential over the past several months and I have a couple of male friends whose tumescence are always welcome messages, as are their friendly words.  They know my face and my city and I am hopeful that if ever our paths cross we can finally hug hello.

I met Ben through Snapchat, though I am realizing more now than ever, what a freak chance that was.  The app isn’t conducive to lasting connections; words and pics literally disappear in moments.  The fact that I noticed him is a fucking miracle.

Lastly, the readers who email me via my blog email are the real MVPs.  They open up about their lives, share their insights, hurts, and journeys with me.  They don’t want anything in return, just to share, and I find myself often wishing they were local mates, men and women I could hug and touch and comfort.  I hope they know how much they mean to me even if we never become more than just lighthouses to one another.

I must speak to 100s of people every month in some capacity or another.  It’s overwhelming.  At the moment I’ve shut them all down except for the occasional peek into CS and AFF; I’m focusing on just three men: Country Boy, The Artist, and Poppy.  Plus any stragglers who might pop up in text that I’ve forgotten about.

I remember a time not too long ago — 20 years isn’t that long ago, right?? — when the idea of speaking to, let alone fucking, more than one person was basically unheard of.  I’d meet a fella somewhere and all my attention would be focused on him until I knew whether or not it was going to work out or not.

Sometimes it took a week, sometimes it took 3 months, but I never doubted that I was the only woman in this man’s life, nor he in mine.  I don’t know when distraction and inundation became the name of the game.  I’m not ungrateful for the diverse opportunities to find the exact thing that I’m looking for, but it’s just too much, like listening to 5 radio stations at once and trying to enjoy yourself.

I’ve been plugged up all summer, emotionally and creatively, in large part due to the intersecting highways of dating channels.  How can I keep them organized or portray the juggling act I perform each day in such a way that it resonates?  How can I express my enjoyment in my aptitude?  The challenge my life presents?

This way of life isn’t for everyone.  It’s loud and busy, but I know which stations to turn down, which knobs to fiddle with.  Currently it’s relatively quiet and peaceful, my phone is often black and when it’s alight with words they’re welcome discourses with quality people.

And at the very least I’m nothing if not organized.

Hy with her coffee 2

Cuz it’s definitely how I write.