Avoidance.

Hy at night in shadow
Shadows.

At this point in time I fully admit to avoiding some things.

My fitness, for one, not to mention my creativity, my mental health, and my peace of mind.

I feel like I’m floating on a little raft of seaweed just past where the waves swell and form.  I can see the beach with my towel and my things, but my senses are consumed with salt, long, low pulses of waves crashing, and the tickle of the sea.

Peyton flew unaccompanied to San Francisco for a couple of days during my most recent custody period then went straight to my ex’s upon arriving back home.  Today they all leave by car for a family vacation and won’t return until mid July.

My phone remains mostly quiet except for my frantic checking of world news.  The list of heartbreaking things seems never-ending lately; it’s been a particularly brutal late spring for the entire world.

Knowledge is power, but it’s also paralyzing.  I feel overwhelmed as a member of our global society and even in my own little life.  Tributaries of thought and feeling merge into a raging river only to split off a few miles away.  I have a clear idea of what I need to do, but then remain sedentary.  Not taking care of my body is the main signifier.

I stain it with alcohol and lack of movement, my dietary choices aim to hurt, not nourish.

Yet meanwhile in the other parts of my life I am dedicated and driven.

My work continues to bring me significant pride and satisfaction and my Summer of No Men (or really, Summer of Very Few Men) has brought a sense of calm and balance I have never felt before.

I blocked The Neighbor from being able to view my AFF profile and with that single keystroke the weights attached to my ankles which threatened to drown me were gone.

He remains in my complex, but the sight of his car somehow bothers me less.  My empty, boring nights are a result of my choices and I feel empowered even as The Good Wife and a bottle of Casillero del Diablo keep me company.

I chat with Ben on occasion and have a couple of other irons in the fire, but they’re on low heat and I like that just fine.  My standards for a date seem impossibly high after London.  I want someone to look at me and think, “Fucking shit I’m a lucky man!”  Not, “She seems ok for now.”  Effort means everything to me now.

My avoidance of my physical and creative health is the natural reaction to my career and dating health.  I have yet to master all aspects of my life simultaneously and that has been a lifelong pattern.

If I’m working out regularly and my diet is on point, then I am making risky decisions with my heart.  Slacking at work?  Then I’m probably drinking less.  It’s like squeezing a balloon that won’t pop: it just squirts out somewhere else; I can’t hide it.  At least I haven’t had a cigarette since December and that seems unlikely to change any time soon.

The biggest question I’m trying to answer is why do I have this deeply driven need to balance smart, healthy decisions with their opposite?  Why can I not allow myself to revel in all the sun?  Why must I always be cast in shadows?

The immediate answer that comes to mind is I am not comfortable with that level of success and/or happiness and I’ll admit to that; it’s what I am working so hard to change.  I want all the sun.

The second I hit Publish today I will feel better.  It’s a very caring thing, writing, and I have been actively avoiding things I know will make me feel better.  It seems I want shadow in addition to all that sun — perhaps I need it, I can’t tell the difference — but I’m trying to honor the pull nonetheless and not beat myself up about it.

I’m supposed to see Remington tonight, a reschedule from the weekend, but I’ve asked if we can move it to tomorrow.  I’d like to see him in an old friend sort of way, but I’m content if it doesn’t happen.  Not quite ambivalence, more like acceptance.  That’s a sunny thing.

I’ve skipped lots of opportunities to work out this week, though.  Shadowy.

I’ve focused on my work and goals.  Sunny.

I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine every night.  Shadowy.

I’ve been highly selective about the men I interact with.  Sunny.

I haven’t written all the things I want to say: good v. bad sex, UDP (unsolicited dick pics), the strangely dangerous and beautiful world of IGShadowy.

My hope is that while my little one is away for so long I will get my sea legs and stop floating, overwhelmed by the current and unmotivated to move.  I’d like to honor my quiet mornings and my need to write.  The summer is short, though the heat is long, and I have to get my shit together.

The cicadas are chirping.  It’s time to get started.

Hy in the morning in the sun
Sun.

 

I was wrong.

He didn’t move out this weekend.

His fucking fancy black car is still there, mocking me.

My heart lurches when I pass him on the street, though I’m invisible to him in my new and unfamiliar car.  Lucky him.

I dread seeing him when I run to get groceries and have scathing, vitriolic conversations with him under my breath as I stride angrily through the heat from my car to the produce section.

“You should never have followed me to my complex.”

“You lied to me about who you were.”

“You are a cruel, selfish bastard for invading my home.”

I think twice about getting my mail.  Do I look good enough if I run into him?

I think twice about walking to the office.  Will he see me?

I think twice about visiting the gym behind his building.  Does he use it?

When I park at the bottom of the hill near his building late at night, laced with wine, and with a virile, good-smelling man I wish he could see me saunter up the hill.

When I go to the pool with my little string bikini I worry he might be there and even worse, be with someone who looks better than me.  Because that’s somehow important to the small woman in me.  I’m reduced to thinking looks matter.

The bottom line is, I was wrong.

I got his apartment number wrong — it’s not actually listed on our website — and it feels like he’ll never leave.  I have no idea when it’s going to happen.  There is no relief in sight.

I am trapped in Purgatory and forced to face my mistakes every morning, noon and night.  I ignored all the signs and focused on my love for  him.  His thoughtful sweetness, his throbbing sex, his delicious distance.  I have no one to blame but myself and when I once had power in the situation I no longer do.  I can’t make him go.

I struggle with the word regret.  It feels like I’m admitting I got nothing from my choice when that’s not true.  I loved that man madly and deeply.  I proved to myself I was capable of magic with another human being.  I unearthed parts of me I didn’t know existed.  How could I possibly regret that?

The regret I feel is for ignoring my gut that summer before he moved here — something was seriously amiss — and though I have no actual proof my sleepless nights and early morning searches for GPS trackers were enough for the jury of my heart.

I wish I knew why I felt those things, I certainly wish I hadn’t, but I did and I neither tried to prove or disprove them.  I simply put one foot in front of the other in total denial and love and hope and resistance.

And now I’m afraid to check my mail.

Because I was wrong.

 

Sometimes you miss the one who hurt you the most.

In the depths of my fears I think of only one voice and feel only one set of arms around me as the storm slams against the shutters: his.

I long for his calm words, his thoughtful response, his bulldog ways.  When I was broken he rushed to my side.  Always.  He was my safe place.

It’s been one year and 4 months since he showed up to my house to stay the night and instead asked for a break from me; 8 months since his tear-streaked face left my home for the last time; 6 months since he brought his new woman to my gym class;  5 months since he clutched her in photos and kissed her smooth, smiling cheek; and two days since he last looked at me online.

The knot of suspicion I carried with me like a baby clutched close to my chest left when he did.  I celebrate its absence, dance on its grave each time I breathe with a lightness which eluded me when he was close and yet I pine and I miss.   I miss him.

I am ashamed.

I am embarrassed.

My longing proves my weakness, my failure.  The seasons have changed and I have not.

I have raged against the machine of men clamoring to get between my legs and bellowed at the one or two who have dared to acknowledge my heart.  I have no safe place, I am unmoored and I have no one to blame but myself.

I hate that I miss him still, this soft and sad part of me.  It clings to me like the scab that it is and I want it to be gone, to peel it away with a long, low sting to reveal the fresh pink of health below.  But maybe there is no health beneath all of this.  Maybe I will always be lost and stubbornly stuck in the rot of my life.

::

The gale of confusion and impersonal betrayal I experience in my dating life has worn me down to a bloody stump; doubt in men has seeped into my consciousness and it scares me.  If I lose hope then who am I?

I scour the transcripts of my interactions searching for clues and force myself to put one foot in front of the other only to admit to my own subterfuge.  I am abnormal, extraordinary.  I turn an innocent afternoon of get-to-know-you into a mastermind game of deflection and redirection: do not get to know me, get to know what I’m willing to give you.

Sex is safe, I am not.

::

He will be leaving my life soon.  All the way in the way that the internet can afford us, anyway.

I will no longer be subjected to his fancy black car parked neatly near his building.  Checking my mail will be an ordinary event: I will no longer feel compelled to open the little brass door only if I am sleek and beautiful.  Walking to the office, to the pool, living my life in my little square block will become an empty theater.  My audience and potential critic will be gone.  Not that he probably cared anyway, I’m sure.

Longing for his support when the clouds have blocked the sun is an outright betrayal of myself, of my determination to heal and move on.  I recognize I have no control over how I feel and that this is [obviously] part of the process but I am moved to tears nonetheless.  Why have I found nothing to fill the void he left behind?

I still feel the spring of the curls on his chest beneath my palm, the scratch of his beard on my face, his beautiful cock buried deep inside of me, his taste.

This is an extraction.  Nothing will grow back.  I’ll have to chew around it.

On occasion I find myself in that filthy sess pool we call Facebook.  I slap myself with knowledge I have no right to know and grind on happy thoughts, toss darts on the board of Good For Him.  I walk away stiff-legged and raw, armed with ammunition to continue my quick clip away.  Thankfully.

This cycle of need, burn, and retreat is like the earth around the sun: there’s a summer when it’s hotly uncomfortable and a winter when I am cold and distant.  How many times do I have to go around him?  How many seasons must pass before I break loose and no longer taste him?

The gift of hindsight left a present at my feet: I have never loved anyone as much as I loved him.

When I loved him, when the loving was a thing I did every day, it became a part of my fiber and when it was stripped away I was left bereft.  A tree in the dead of winter, naked and bare.  Starving for a spring that has yet to come.

Instead storm after storm and a longing for a man who didn’t want me, who never wanted me, pounds at me.  I foolishly throw myself to the wolves hoping one of them will recognize me instead of devour me.  I own that.  But I must rest.  I must stop.

I must surround myself instead with my other anchors.  The batwomen and sisters I rely upon, the one or two or three men who encourage me to be sensitive, the sister who now knows that I write and is proud of me.

To look at me you would never guess at my continued heartbreak.  To read me you might not guess it either, but it’s time to be honest. It’s true: I am still heartbroken.

I still feel his absence.  I still wish that things were different, that someone, anyone cared about me, but most of all him.  I am terrified of attempting to find someone new.  In fact I feel wholly ill equipped to do so.  I am a big, fat faker.  I only go through the motions because I derive some sick purpose out of it.  I am a masochist to a frustrating degree.

::

Longing and heartbreak are the same as it was a thousand years ago.  I am blathering on about nothing, as usual.  I wonder what their advice was then all those long seasons ago.

 

 

 

 

I’m reminded of him.

I should have been writing, but took pics instead.
The morning after.

As my heart and I move further away from The Neighbor I feel the loss of the most special thing we shared: our chemistry. 

Together, in the middle of a dark and swirling relationship the two of us shone bright.  We fucking sparkled like goddamned diamonds.  Noodle saw it first hand, as did all my real life friends even if not that up close and personal.

I re-read old posts of our times together and I think, That was me?  That was us?  We did that??  It almost doesn’t seem real.

I was so madly in love with the feelings I had when I was with him it’s hard to sort out if it was the man I loved or how he made me feel.  It’s irrelevant now, seeing as how we’ve been over for more than a year, but despite the countless hot as fuck encounters I’ve had since our breakup, none have connected to me on the cellular level like his energy did with me.  And I miss it like a motherfucking limb.

Missing it means I’m reminded of him when I come close to it.  Missing it means I’m reminded of him when it’s a far cry from what I remember.  The feelings I had with him are an ever-present spectre in my life and I am confused and sad.  It’s so hard to detangle the feelings from the man, from our stupid, sad “relationship” I constructed out of nothing but tenuous hope and sheer will power.

Bones came over for dinner last night.  I made us lobster risotto with a homemade lobster stock and an arugula salad tossed with olive oil, salt and toasted almond slivers.  We flirted in the kitchen and he was more open.  He grows funnier each time we see each other.  It was easy and sexy and he joked about the workout he’d give me later since I’d missed my morning class.

His willingness to come over and spend time with me is so different from most men, certainly from TN, that it pulls up the hurt I felt for years to spend time with the man I loved.  If that isn’t irony, I don’t know what is.  TN is long gone from my life and a happy, pleasant, eager man is right in front of me and who can I not help but think of??  It’s embarrassing, frankly.

On my couch, brownies eaten with guilty smiles, I leaned in for a kiss.  He is by far one of the best kissers I’ve ever encountered in my life and I’ve never looked forward to a makeout session with anyone like I do with this short, muscled man with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Before long I was on his lap naked, save but for my black lace panties, and breasts shoved into his smiling face.  I unbuckled his pants and pulled his big cock out and pulled the crotch of my panties to the side and pushed him in and rode him like a mustang and goddamn it if the fucking couch didn’t make as much obnoxious noise as my bed.

We laughed and I panted and squirmed around the shaft in my middle.  He hit my thighs gingerly and I told him to hit me harder.  He did and I smiled, but it wasn’t hard enough, not like what he used to do.

I raised up off of him and his wet cock flopped on his belly.  “C’mon,” I said and pulled him up behind me and led him to my room and bent over the bed, feet wide.

He buried himself in me from behind as I gripped the bedding for purchase and locked my knees against the bed frame.  Stars burst up through my limbs and rolled over my shoulders and through my skull.  I lifted my feet off the ground and suspended myself on the edge of the frame, the perfect height to his as he slammed into me.  He wedged his thumb into my asshole, his moans of pleasure mixed with the squeaks of the bed and my cries.

I came again and little sobs tried to escape.  I held them back, the similarity to what I felt with him too much to bear in the moment.

I begged him to cum but he pummeled me instead.  I climbed up on the bed and he followed me.  Two bumping, humping pale figures serenaded by a rudely moaning bed.

I called him baby, moaned about his big cock, my orgasms, general nonsense.  My words incoherent at best, muffled groans at worst.  He pulled out and tipped me over and lay beside me.  I panted and closed my eyes.  My hands tingled like the were pressed on the tips of needles.

I pulled my Hitachi out from under my pillow and swung my legs over his.  “Come here,” I instructed and pulled him towards me, his cock bobbed in agreement.  His motions were confused.  He didn’t know what I wanted.  This was a favorite thing for me to do with TN and I hadn’t done it with anyone since him.

We reconnected and he pushed in deeply, thrust a few times for good measure.  I clicked the wand on and pressed it bare against my skin. He began to move and he lit me up from within as the wand drilled down from without.  I climbed and burst into flames in under a minute and his hips ground into me, so different from him whom I made hold still.

Sobs bubbled up and two tears, one from each eye, squeezed out and pooled in the shells of my ears.  I came dangerously close to the feelings I had come to seek with him every time we were together.

I threw the toy away and he swung my leg around him to nestle between my thighs.  His face was alight with a smile and I closed my eyes so as not to connect.  I never look into a lover’s eyes.  Just, never.  Even with him, I’d flutter my lashes and only peek at his intense, icy gaze.  It was no different with Bones’ dark blue stare, it was like peeking at the sun; I simply can’t bare it.

Still not writing.
Should have been writing about all of this.

His smile was the same, though.  That grin of total power when I began to toss my head from side to side as his gigantic cock filled me up and choked me from the inside of my belly.  He slowed his tempo when I begged him to speed up, just like TN would, and he watched with pleasure as I began to twitch and choke on sobs that refused to be kept at bay.

Legs over his shoulders, folded up under him, wrapped around him.  He murdered my pussy until I was a rag doll and tapped his shoulder for respite.  He stopped and rolled off.

“Are you going to cum?” I panted.

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Will you jerk off on me?”

“I will certainly try.”

Again, so much like him.

He got up and found some lube and stood over me beside the bed.  I put the toy on me again and came quickly watching his hand make a dark blur of his groin.  Instead of finishing on me he climbed back on top of me and fucked me until we were exhausted.  Still no orgasm for him.

Unfazed — or deterred — I crawled between his legs and sucked and slobbered on him until I heard his voice tremble and his breathing jerk, his thighs tense.  He cried out as I gobbled down his cum and wiped my lips on my arm.  TN couldn’t do this for me for an entire year.

I climbed up and lowered down into his arms.  We kissed and smiled and fell asleep shortly after, comfortable in each other’s presence.  I didn’t have to say goodbye wrapped in a robe or see him slip out into the balmy night.  I got to fall asleep to the sounds of his breathing and feel his occasional twitch into slumber.

When the storm the weather men had predicted hit 3 hours later we awoke and moved closer to one another then fell back asleep.  When the dog cried to be let back in he got up and opened the door for him.  When we overslept we laughed and put pillows over our heads and slept for yet another hour together.

When the growling in my stomach forced me from bed I finally put on my robe and got up to make myself some coffee.  “Would you like some?” I asked not at all expecting him to say yes; he never did.

“Sure.  I’d love some.”

Then later, an almost sheepish request for me to make him an egg sandwich before he left for work.

We sat at my kitchen island drinking black coffee and sharing old pictures of ourselves from high school.  I didn’t particularly like that he was scrolling through his phone instead of talking to me, but I suppose it’s just more information to have about him.  He likes to check The Chive while he eats breakfast, apparently.  Maybe all men do this?  I have no frame of reference.

It was a little past 9 when he gathered up his things and kissed me goodbye.  My heart felt still, neutral.  Neither full, nor empty, just waiting.  As he passed around the corner into the morning light I thought about the clench in my chest every time The Neighbor would leave, the pull to wish him back into my arms for yet another minute, another hour, another night.  I don’t know if I’ll ever feel that way about another man again.  I don’t know if I’m capable anymore, frankly.  Or maybe I’ll just never meet another man whose chemistry is such a match to mine.

Either way, the stillness makes me believe I am either healed or broken, both of which I’m ok with.  What continues to be a struggle is that feeling of loss, either of what we had or what I wanted to have.  It’s like the fading of a scar: eventually, I’ll have to squint to see it, but for now, it’s still visible — he’s still on my mind — and I don’t know how to make that stop except to keep moving forward without him.  Just keep on moving.  Without him.

 

Definitely not writing.  It's been harder for me lately for some reason.

Trust is as blind as love.

[Ed. Note: This was originally written in the summer of 2014 and languished in my drafts for a long time until I accidentally re-published it in February of 2016.  I kept hidden some of the uglier misgivings I had about our relationship that final year.]

I don’t exactly have rave reviews for the beginnings of my relationship with The Neighbor; I’d rate it higher than mediocre, less than stellar.  I felt jerked around, he felt pressured.

Even from that weak launch point, we’re still really good at being sensitive to each other and open, chemistry, sex, and enjoying and accepting one other.  Where we’re weaker is is more complicated and harder to put my finger on.

First of all, I have roughly two years under my belt of never really knowing where I stood with him.  I could see and feel things, but he never confirmed my suspicions that he loved me.

When that finally happened back in December it thrust us on the Relationship Train, but it’s often felt like I haven’t had a chance to pack for our trip.  Or maybe unpack, as the case may be, because I boarded that train with a buttload of baggage. And that baggage happens to include mistrust.

He lied to me about his intentions with Vanilla Ice and 4 am girl (aka Pisspants) for reasons which seem to run the gamut of avoiding discomfort (with Vanilla Ice he preferred to fib to me rather than just be upfront despite my insistence at that time that I wanted honesty from him if he dated someone besides me) to a longstanding desire to date Pisspants (and he was rendered helpless to stop himself from giving it a go with her).

Those are obvious reasons to earn mistrust, but what’s along side each of those is the two years’ worth of actions that never matched up with his words.  He insisted that he didn’t want to date someone like me, to commit to a mother, a divorcee, someone so much older than him.  He felt as though Peyton was a liability at one time.

I can make a good argument in his favor that all of that was one long defensive move on his part to protect himself from doing something he thought he didn’t want to do, a rookie mistake, but it still hurt.  I learned to trust his actions, but dismiss what he said to me, and now that both his words and his actions match up, I’m struggling to believe any of it.  I don’t know how to be happy, after all.

Secondly, he feels stifled by me, watched and like he has to be overly careful with what he does for fear I’ll become upset.

Yesterday I stumbled on his AFF profile and I naively clicked on it (he was the first name in the chat feature when I opened it).  It was old, I could tell, but what wasn’t old was his age.  He’d gone into the body of his profile and updated it some time in the past 10 months — a period of time in which we had agreed to be faithful to one another.  He also was looking for a partner “with the ability to be discreet.”  Those things didn’t jibe for me.

If I felt like he wanted to be with me, really believed it in my bones, I might not bat an eye at this, but I don’t, so I did.

We hashed it out last night and he insisted it was anal-ness that caused him to update his age and he didn’t have anything to say about the discreet thing.  Those details aren’t really the issue, anyway.  What’s the issue is that when I noticed those things I became upset.

I’ve painted myself into a corner here.  I wasn’t looking for it, but I found it and I clicked on it — I am so making a shirt that says DO NOT CLICK ON IT EVER.  I pissed him off royally because he feels as though he has no internet privacy.  He gives me total privacy with my blog, for instance, but he’s leery of being active on AFF or Fetlife for fear I’ll find out somehow.  I don’t know what he’s afraid I’ll find, but that’s a whole other issue.

The bottom line is that I believe I’ve forced him to be in this committed place with me because I told him I loved him and he reciprocated.  We’ve never talked about what we wanted and where we’re going and even though his actions continue to tell me he wants to be with me — and his words match — I struggle mightily to believe in the happiness that’s at my door.

And when I find shady shit it proves to me that I was right all along and he doesn’t truly want to be with me.  He feels as though my actions may prove self-fulfilling as I drive him away with my paranoia.

Funny thing, that.  I feel as though I’m being honest, not paranoid.

The fact that he’s out there online in an ambiguous way with old profiles which read as though he’s single doesn’t help.  I’m not apologetic for that, though he thinks I’m making a mountain out of a molehill.  His anger makes me more suspicious, quite honestly.  Best defense is a good offense and all that.

But I can’t protect myself from being hurt.  I just can’t.  He could be the most faithful man on the planet — as was my exhusband — and he could still devastatingly injure me.  Being suspicious and mistrusting is futile.  Either I love and look forward or I fear and I stumble.  I can’t do both.

So, I choose to love and look forward.  Everything else be damned.  I know this man loves me.

Trust is as blind as love, right?

 

We talked instead of fucked.

I stood in my darkened bedroom and felt his warm, lithe body pressed against my back.  His hands were impossibly cold.

“Here,” I said pulling them up to my bare breasts bathed in candlelight.  “I have some hand warmers for you.”

He cupped them and moaned, lifted them up and peered at them over my shoulder as he nibbled my neck.

“Oh my God,” he said softly, “they’re fucking huge.”

“I take it you like big tits?” I laughed.

Clark had arrived a little after 9 after his mother’s 50th birthday party.  I was exhausted and questioning the invitation in the first place, but he smiled at me, big and toothsome, and bent down to hug me and I thought how nice it was to see a smiling face.

“Ok, let’s do this Mastermind thing!” He clapped his hands and rubbed them together with an evil grin.

I was glad he had a plan since I had nothing.

His sudden interest in me has reached deep into my pit of dysfunction and pushed me away just so.  When I was a girl the boys who had the right to like me, my friends, the ones who actually knew me, were never given the time of day.  It was too painful, to terrifying.  I had crushes on boys who barely knew I existed.  They were safe; they’d never like me back though I longed and pined for them like it was my job.  As an adult it’s not dissimilar, the feeling is identical.  This itchy, panicky wave rolls through me and sets the alarm system.  I must shut down, back away.

Today I’m trying to connect, open up, allow someone to like me and so I’m ignoring my panic with this young man and facing my fears.

His cold feet played with mine under the table as we stared at the game pieces and half-watched the rest of 9 to 5 from our last date.  I lost a round and he blurted, “Take off your shirt!”  I laughed and said it was too cold now remembering it was supposed to be strip Mastermind.  “Ok, fine, then your skirt!”

He stood me up and pulled it off.

As the game wore on I took my contacts out and wore my glasses.  He liked them.  I told them they went a long way to a sexy librarian fantasy.  “Just a twist of my hair held with a pencil and Bam! There you go!”

When I eventually lost my shirt for real he took my hand in his cold one and led me to my room.  He was in just his underwear by then and I’d already put a brand new strip of condoms on the dresser.

His chilly touch and hot breath in the warm candlelight felt deliberate and surreal.

On my back on the bed he filled his mouth with my flesh and sucked and nibbled as I moaned and arched beneath him.  “I could do this for hours, I think,” he said smiling at me.

“Good, because I have bad news.  I’m spotting.  I don’t think you want me sitting on your face tonight.”

He’d told me the night before that he’d never done that before and I’d said I’d happily oblige, his inexperience and eagerness endearing.

The passion between us was slow, but building, and I wanted it to last.  Last time foreplay was intense and long, but our actual coupling only long seconds.  I love how responsive he is to my touch, my body.  A man who struggles with control is more like me.

I climbed between his legs and gripped his shaft, dove down on him and sucked.  He pushed on my shoulders to stop almost as soon as I started.  I bit his neck and nipples, kissed his flat belly.  He told me no hand.

I opened my throat and let him hit the back of it, just a little.  He moaned and tensed.

I felt his hands on my shoulders again.

“So what if you cum right now?” I asked.  “Will you die?  We can always wait 15 minutes.”

He agreed and put his hands on my head and gently pushed.  He came after very little effort and I smiled as I swallowed his tang and climbed up to lay in his nook.

But the fifteen minutes never happened.  Instead we talked and he ran his fingers up and down my arm and I played with his balls and he pet Faisal and we laughed and got sleepy together.

“I’m really tired.  I don’t think it’s going to happen tonight.”  It wasn’t an apology and I liked that.

We made plans to see each other on Sunday and then he told me not get dressed and walk him out.  He thought that was very funny.

Instead I wore an open flannel and chit chatted with him while he got redressed and thought he was far to0 fashionable for me.  I walked him to the door and we kissed sweetly and he left.  “Bye, Hy,” he said before he disappeared down the stairs. “Have a good night.”

 

I am nothing if not honest with myself.  In the annals of my memory I recall identifying one of the things I really loved about The Neighbor and it was that he rejected me while still being magnetic.  For me, intimacy is inextricably tied to denial and hurt and it is my work to untangle it all.  It’s why I date the kinds of men I do and why I am perpetually in a quandary.

If it were a simple matter I would have stopped back when I was a schoolgirl when I knew it to be true even then.  My barometer isn’t reliable and I second-guess my instincts when things do seem potentially real.  It’s how I ended up married.

Today I’m exploring all avenues and dark corners.  Tonight I have a first meeting with an experienced sub male.  He calls me Miss(tress) when he addresses me and has more toys than your neighborhood sex shop.  I’m at once intimidated and excited.  On Thursday a handsome scientist is taking me to an Irish pub and on Friday I have a first date with a man friends set me up with — a total first.  Technically I’d even call it a blind date because I agreed to go out with him before I saw what he looked like: tall, bearded, with a soft face with something lurking beneath.

And I dreamt of The Neighbor again last night.  I had returned to his house to get my things and his woman was there with him.  My friends were somewhere in the background, as well, and when his woman kissed him inches from my face and he pulled her playfully down on his lap in front of me I yelled and sobbed at his insensitivity.  My friends became dark clouds of disapproval and he shoved her off his lap and tried to talk to me.  I told him he never had the right to lay eyes on me again and I was touched at the hurt it caused him.

I sped away down his dark street sobbing, my heart-broken all over again.

One of these days, it’ll all stop hurting, I’m certain of it.  I’m just not sure when.

I woke up and realized that the one-year anniversary of him quitting us is any day now.  Apparently, my heart remembers more than I do.

e[lust] #77

The Other Livvy Elust Header
Photo courtesy of The Other Livvy

Welcome to Elust #77

The only place where the smartest and hottest sex bloggers are featured under one roof every month. Whether you’re looking for sex journalism, erotic writing, relationship advice or kinky discussions it’ll be here at Elust. Want to be included in Elust #78? Start with the rules, come back January 1st to submit something and subscribe to the RSS feed for updates!

 

~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~

On the Island of Mhowra

Shoulder shaming?

What becomes of the broken hearted…

 

~ Featured Post (Molly’s Picks) ~

You can hear it in my voice.

Fingers – Please Fuck me With Just Them

~ Readers Choice from Sexbytes ~

*You really should consider adding your popular posts here too*
Don’t tell me sucking dick is easy
All blogs that have a submission in this edition must re-post this digest from tip-to-toe on their blogs within 7 days. Re-posting the photo is optional and the use of the “read more…” tag is allowable after this point. Thank you, and enjoy!

 

Erotic Fiction

FFC #7 – TIME TRAVEL : STOCKINGS
Climbing The Corporate Ladder
A Love Letter From The Rebound Champion
Virgin Traffic Stop
A Desire To Be Watched
It’s just sex…
His Gift
Like Blue

Thoughts & Advice on Sex & Relationships

Virginity
V for *ahem* not me
The Lost and Found
Woman in Repose

Sex News, Opinion, Interviews, Politics & Humor

Amy Schumer’s: Sex Acts for Girls
James Deen, rapist?
The Trouble With “Lady Parts”

Erotic Non-Fiction

Camming On Halloween
Fresh From The Shower
Story Of Endless Love, or Just A Cold Cure?
Strap-on Fun
The moment
Bookends (side one)
“Ropes? There are ropes on this bed?”
Gawan: hands and mouth
Tremble

Poetry

Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark
“Longing” – From Coming Together: In Verse
Denial Denied

Thoughts & Advice on Kink & Fetish

Jessica Jones and Choice (Spoilers)
I want to be your submissive slut (sort of)
Memories of wax
Getting Stuck In a Rut and …
Primal Hunger. Owning It!

Blogging

The Whole Picture

Writing About Writing

Writing an Experience
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Friday, December 18th, is Boobday!

hy_tits_bannerBoobday is a weekly meme for us to honor breasts of all shapes and sizes belonging to all types of folks.

This week has been long and weird.  Fuckboys abound, I question myself, my decisions, my trajectory, but I keep going.

The other day I strode down the hill to my car in the chilly morning and saw The Neighbor descend his stairs wrapped in the pea coat I helped him pick out.  My aviator glasses hid my surprise as I didn’t break stride.  He looked up the hill once, twice, three times.

I continued to walk as my heart clamored against my rib cage, my arms hung low by my sides.  I could wave, but chose not to.  Hy doesn’t wave anymore.

A fourth look my way and I turned to my new car, the one he’s never seen before.

We pulled out simultaneously and I followed behind him, triumphant.  I continued to think: fuck you.

Thank you to the wonderful women who submitted pictures for today.  I love you all.

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate: 1) either be one of the first 3-4 people to submit a pic OR (OR, not AND) 2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.  And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts!  This is all about spreading the love!

Hy's anniversary pic
Today is a special day. I’ll explain later.

My tits:

NOT my tits:

MISS DEMEANOR 121815
Meet my friend from IG, @miss__demeanour; it’s her first post!
Looked through the Boobday gallery and they are all spectacular!
I chose this pic because, well, it’s the only one I had everything else was taken to conform with IG guidelines.
::
KIM 121815
Our good friend Kim from South Africa reminds us how long she’s been participating. It seems just like yesterday that she started sharing!

A blast from the past – my very 1st boobday submission from a year ago……..I’ve come a long way since then ;-)

Lotsa love to everyone for the festive season, have a happy time with loved ones xxx

::

KATE 121815
Kate’s lusciousness peeks out at us.

Tired, tired, tired boobies. 😑

Click below to see all the beautiful ladies of Boobday!:

You can hear it in my voice.

I am still in the throes of anger and I began reading my post aloud to myself.  It moved me, made me feel large and strong.

I want to share it with you all.

More of me.

xx

Hy

P.S. You can read the original text on the post, You have a new girlfriend. Good for fucking you.

You have a new girlfriend. Good for fucking you.

I don’t know who the biggest asshole is here.  Me or you.

I thought about this post as I was driving home, cigarette hanging out the window, my jacket zipped up and my breath filling the cabin of my car.

I haven’t written a post like this in too long.  I’ve been measured, even, fair.  Tonight, I am returning to the point of this blog: it is my space to feel.  I owe no one a thing.  You don’t read me; you never did.

I want to send this post to you, from Hyacinth Jones, not me, not “JB,” the woman you nicknamed and kept on the hook from day one, not the woman who loved you and needed you and sacrificed her own better judgment to trust you.  No, you don’t get to ever hear from her again.  She’s fucking dead to you.  She might even be dead to me.

I want you to see an email from Hyacinth and for your stomach to clench.  I don’t give two shits if you ever open it, just knowing you saw my name would be enough.

I’ve already left the brown paper bag filled with your things after you brought that woman, your girlfriend, to my gym class.  I thought I was unreachable, but I was wrong.  You’ve touched me again, goddamnit.

Tonight I was with Hannah, the girl we played softball with who used to dry hump your leg for kicks, and I was telling her the gym story, the story of your colossal insensitivity.  “He looks too pale, washed out,” I told her.  “Not to be mean or anything, it’s just true!”  I always loved you with a beard.

We laughed, like assholes.  Oh, what assholes!

“I’m still friends with him on Facebook,” she said.  “Lemme see if he’s posted any new pics.”

I agreed that was a fine idea; you hate social media.  I’d been banned from tagging you in anything.  There’d be nothing to see.

She pulled you up and froze.

I took the phone from her and there you were with your arm around the woman from the gym.  Smiling, so happy.  Her caption read:

“Thanks for inviting us to your special day!”

So you attended a wedding with her.  I remember the wedding you were in two summers ago.  The one I was excluded from attending with you.

Another picture of you two at a skeeball competition.  “I don’t like going out late,” I remembered you saying.

And then there were the pictures of you in your Captain America costume and she was a Brownie.  “He’s the best guy,” her note claimed.

Lastly, the one that really twisted into my core, the pic of you holding her close and planting a big, smiling kiss on her cheek.  I read the comments as my friend kept saying, “Put the phone down, don’t look!”

I couldn’t stop.  My heart was still, my guts frozen, my breath even.

The comments were cute and then there was yours.  “What a lucky guy,” it read.

You were at a popular concert venue that I wasn’t even aware you knew existed.  Certainly had I suggested going you would have said, “No thanks!” as usual.

Work dinners, workout photos, everything I ever wanted you to do with me was there in photographic evidence with a pale, brunette, smaller busted version of me. Her smile soft, her arms toned.

You are an awful fucking person to never let me go despite my attempts to end things with you, a man who told me repeatedly he didn’t want to be with me, that I was the wrong person, and I am the Queen of Fucking Masochists for somehow believing that your actions spoke louder than your goddamned words.

Lies, all lies, TN. 

You are a piece of shit and I wish more than anything you could know the depths of the pain you have caused me all these years, the pain you still cause me.

I trusted you when you deserved none of it.  You followed me everywhere, cried every time I tried to protect myself and end our fucked up, lopsided relationship.

Three weeks before you planted that kiss on her plain, pale cheek you were crying in my living room because I was ending our friendship to save myself.

“I’ll support you no matter what, but I wish this didn’t have to happen.”

You were already burying your giant cock into this woman by then.  Deeply, with power, with — dare I say it — love?  You were already looking into her brown eyes and forgetting my blue. What is wrong with you that you could never let me go?  That you could never give me what I needed to heal?  To separate myself from you?

“I don’t want to date anyone, Hy, I swear.  Those women are just middle aged ladies from my workout group.  They’re no one.”  Oh really, TN?? This one has attracted your cock and captured your heart apparently.

You are a deceitful, awful man.

Can I print this out and plaster your fancy black car with it?  Can I vomit my pain into the ether and will you smell it?

I see you’re still on AFF.  Nice.  At least you continue to deceive and dally with others even when it’s not me.  Did you like checking out my profile in late September after we weren’t friends [update]two days ago tonight??  I hope you remembered how I felt around you, how I tasted when you dipped your mouth to mine and how I’d weep with pleasure as you slammed your hips against my soft, white thighs.

Her name sounds a lot like mine.  Do you think of me whenever you say it?  Every time you see her smile do you think of me smiling at you while you broke my heart?

The saddest part of all of this is that you were a step up from my husband; I feel irreparably damaged by my own history and choices.  I knew — I knew — this was wrong form the very start.  Now I have to stop the bleeding, I have to halt the self recriminations.  I did what I thought was right, right??  Or maybe I’m just so stupid I deserved your fucked up, stunted self.

You have every right to move on and love and all the flowers-out-your-ass bullshit, but I don’t think you deserve any of it.  Not one fucking ounce.  You were cruel to me, TN.  Motherfucking cruel.  And selfish to the core.  You loved me and you needed me, but more than anything else, you need to not be a bad guy so you lied and hid and kept the things I needed to leave you to yourself.  Then and even now.

At least you unfriended me on Facebook despite me leaving it over a year ago.  One decent thing out of hundreds of shady, selfish ones.

When you got angry at me for ending our friendship you looked at me, tears streaming down your face, eyes red and raw and I thought, “What the fuck does he want from me?!”  That was your opportunity to say, Hy, you’re right.  I’m moving on and so should you.  Instead you did everything in your power to stop me and to make it as painful as humanly possible, but I prevailed and I left you. Finally.

But still: fuck you, fuck her, fuck everything and everyone.

Fuck this fucking shit.

And again: fuck you.

 
[Ed. Note: It’s occurred to me since writing this that he couldn’t have unfriended me if I was deactivated.]