e[lust] #77

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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.]

Sometimes you have to climb the stairs twice.

Hy heartbroken in TN's underwear

Forty-one weeks ago I didn’t know what would become of us. Today, I know.

By now he’s climbed the three flights of stairs and found the brown paper bag at his door.

On top, neatly folded, is his Iowa sweatshirt.  Beneath it: a bag of his sex toys and lube, 20 or so movies, a blue patterned plate, a blue plastic cup, three pairs of socks, and one pair of underwear which I wore when he had asked for a break from me.

I curated this bag of things carefully; it’s all his.  Not gifts to or from me, nothing sentimental.  I briefly included the black velvet ribbon we used to signify I was in charge and our last dominoes score card he’d signed because I’d won, but I pulled them out.  The score card got tossed and I’m saving the ribbon for the next man.  It was always mine.  This is a simple return of goods.  I am not in that bag.

A week ago tonight I went to the gym to catch my favorite class.  It’d been a few weeks since I’d gone, but it’s like coming home.  The regulars say Hi, the instructor teases me, pushes me to limits I didn’t know I had, and the familiar smell of old sweat and disinfectant signifies it’s time to work.

I’d brought The Neighbor there with me long ago.  He’d quit his gym, joined mine, and began coming to this class with me.  We stood side-by-side for a year, to the instructor’s right, close to the mirrors.   Eventually he stopped coming with me, but I’d kept on and remained in my spot.  Cee-Cee knew I was “Hy on the Right.”

I walked in and caught a glimpse of a man with a familiar build on the far end of the room.  Pale, beardless, bald.  Surely it wasn’t…

“What are you doing here?” I asked stupidly.

It’d been two months since I’d seen him last.  He looked like a ghost: whitewashed without his dark beard, his light eyes bled into his impossibly light skin and shiny white skull.  “Um, working out?”

I was nervous.  We maneuvered around each other, got our gear.  I wondered if he’d set up in his old spot.

I dropped my things and looked behind me.  He was in the other half of the room.  With a woman.

They stood close to one another and talked familiarly, as couples do in the awkward fishbowl of a room filled with mirrors and strangers.

I looked around them.

Their steps were set up of identical heights (two higher than he used to use, but the same amount as hers) and they were set closer together than what non-couples typically do.

I felt like throwing up.

She was roughly my height, slightly slimmer build, small breasts.  Her dark hair barely shoulder length, her eyes brown.  Nondescript.  She’d make a good spy.  When she passed me once in class she looked through me as though I were just any other class member.

I spent those interminable 45 minutes hidden behind a dozen people away and one row up, though regrettably not far enough away to miss that when he should have faced my half of the room to do exercises he instead chose to face her.  The one kid in the marching band who’s lost his way.

After class she waited for him and as I left the room and walked out the front door he was waiting for her as she loitered around a display.  As I drove out of the parking lot I saw them talking near some cars.  Thelonious Monk spattered on my stereo as if to remind me of breaking glass.

I could hardly breathe.  My mind reeled  The code did not compute.

My phone chimed.  It was him.

“Didn’t think you’d still be going to that class!  That was a one time deal for me – just wanted to see it again”.

I didn’t respond.  I haven’t responded.  I’ll never respond.  Fuck you.

He is now in possession of what belongs to him, as am I: I have my heart and a little dignity.  His text sorta kinda apologizing without saying the words sent a message: Hy, run.  Run as far away as you can get from him, from this hurt.

This morning I set the grocery bag in my passenger seat and took Peyton to school then went and worked out.  When I got back home his car was gone.  I climbed to the third floor and set it in front of his door.  The cologne I’d bought him lingered in the cold foyer.

I set a little note on top, “Just the last of your things” it read.

On my way back down I felt the prick of tears.  I swallowed and sat in the car, drove up the hill and continued to sit outside my building.

After almost exactly 10 months since he ended things and 14 months after I should have, it was now finished.

I walked up to my apartment and sat some more.  I sat for hours not moving or thinking.  Heavy, worried, I felt disconnected from the process in general, like I was watching from the outside, peeking in through my own windows.  Something didn’t feel right.

It was time to get Peyton from school, but before I drove through the gates beside his building I detoured and double-parked in front of his stairs.  I ran up, two at a time.  The bag was still there, though the air was clear of his cologne.

I grabbed the crisp piece of paper off of “Iowa,” and turned on my heel.  Instantly, my face broke into a wide grin.  I bounced down the stairs, the sun on my face.

Striding to my car I crumpled it and let it drop to the grass, defiant.  A reminder, like bird shit on a window, that even if you forget they’re there they’ll still do their bird thing to survive.

Finally, I felt light.

 

 

I am lustful.

It crawls through my veins like poison, this burn, this viscous lust.

Once a month at the trough is a cruel joke.  Three times in a lone weekend whips it into a frenzy.  It is not slaked.  I am an ocean with no shore, my waves crash against nothing.

I am untouchable in too many ways.  I haven’t thought of him in days, weeks maybe.  Too many hours I’ve forgotten what I wanted with him.

Closeness, to breathe his breath, to hold my hand on his warm, broad chest, the spring of curls beneath my palm to softly remind me of our differences.  To awaken with the sun caressing his face, his icy blue eyes softly gazing at me behind his lashes, our days laid out ahead in a lazy trail of orgasms and fucking brunch.  To feel the sandpaper stubble of his shaven head and the odd giddiness of adult love.

His absence has allowed for light, but I choke on my independence, my fear of that same closeness I longed for with him.  I am at once repelled and drawn toward the false hope of intimacy.  I want to argue, but have no one to rail against.

I taste my thirst for a man in my tears, in the wetness between my legs.  It spills out of me, this urge to put another human being deep inside of me, to lose myself in the power of his drive, the punching of his hips.  I drown in its depths, even as it singes the pathways to my heart.

Please, someone, put me out of my misery.

Take it.

 

Click the lips to see who else is playing along for Sinful Sunday:

Sinful Sunday

The hurt is like bad cologne.

I wrote yesterday that it’s been nearly a month and a half since I last spoke to him.  Every day past the month mark is uncharted territory, a new scar on my heart.

So, tonight, I visited a profile of his I stumbled upon online some time this summer.  He’d written it when we were together because it says he’s 29 in the text (we were together from 27-30) and that he’s “single and employed.”

I went back there tonight to remind myself of the pain, the marrow-slicing deceptions I lived through with him and why I am better off alone and away from him.

And then I think, “If he came back to me, hat in hand, willing to be honest and come clean and work on whatever hurdles we had I might…”

I might do something.

I might yell, I might sob, I might even throw something — at him, but mostly at me — for being so trusting and so loving and so still in love with a man whom I didn’t really know.  I might take him back.

I read others’ pain, Charlie’s in particular, and I feel her words as if they’re my own.  This sense that I have only myself to blame because he was always up front with me: he never wanted to make us real or lasting.

And once we fell in love — at least I hope he loved me — I suspect he did what he had to do in order to remain separate and distinct from me and so he opened or maintained online profiles claiming he was single.

My wounds over accidentally discovering these things are not healed, indeed, they appear to be as deep as ever; I am leery of men and of people in general.  Couple this with my recent experiences of being catfished and basically abandoned, months worth of awful dates and the hundreds of insignificant texts and ridiculous emails I’ve had to wade through and I am drowning in the waters of dating duplicity.  I don’t know if I can ever trust again.  And that breaks my heart all over again.

I was once proud of my ability to trust in the face of adversity.  Now, I scoff at it.  What a silly woman I was.

I scroll through my phone and cringe.  Cocks with big, meaty hands wrapped around them — some of which I don’t even recall — mixed in with my angel’s face, my family, my dog, peppered with more of my iniquity, my tits and ass.  I feel dirty and desperate, powerful and prideful.  I don’t know what I’m doing.

I read an old post of love and lust between us and I question its reality while I heavy-handedly wipe my tears away.  Were his words true or were they convenient?  Did he ever love me?  That question sits on me like stink on shit.

I told him I found his profiles left sprinkled on the internet this summer.  He became angry with me.  I told him they were public profiles and I was curious, I needed to see.  He said he’d never pry at my profiles.

“I need to be hurt so I can move on,” I explained.

“I avoid them because it hurts,” he replied.

“Well, that’s how we’re different.”

The night I told him I could no longer have him in my life he said he might call me despite my rule not to, “Just so you can hang up on me.” I felt hopeful he might, but the truth may be closer to that of me never seeing or hearing from him again. It wouldn’t be unlike the others who slipped out of my life this year, The Russian, The Soldier.  It’s what I expect.

With each passing day I lick my wounds and try to be hopeful and confident, but I am more or less reminded that the men I meet don’t tend to find me all that important beyond my “perfect fucking nipples.”  How many times have I heard the refrain, “I wanna suck on your gorgeous tits”?  Enough, already!

I have tried dating too soon, not at all, and at the right time, but I am only exposing myself to more emotional vandalism.  Tinder and Bumble increased the tempo with which I had to swat away impertinent comments about my looks or willingness to fuck or brought me quintessentially unavailable men.

I found a sexy, smart, striking fellow who spoke attentively to me for hours and drove me home where we made out in the cramped cab of his little pickup only to have him text me the next morning to tell me has a girlfriend.  Fucking great.

Adult Friend Finder passes my way men who want to drink my piss to help with their allergies or men whose drive for sex is so great they seem to forget that there is an actual woman attached to my vagina.

“Why can’t you call me?” the no-name, pushy man asked me last night after sending me washed-out and glistening pics of his erection.

“Dude, because I can’t.”  FUCK. OFF.

I wonder how he’s doing in all of this.  His car is often gone now that he’s a man-about-town.  On the one-month mark my stomach clenched to think he was languishing on some woman’s couch, happy and lazy, periodically getting up to fuck her, to love her.  Not leaving.

That’s the thing: he was always leaving me.  Every day, every week, every month.  Always leaving, always having an eye to get back to whatever it was he was doing at home.  I tried to focus on all the time he did spend with me, but I knew he’d rather be at home.  He’d say, “Hy, I spend more time with you than anyone else on the planet — you’re my favorite person — but yeah, I’d always rather be at home, you know that.”

I am better now that I have shut the door, but I am left with the locusts that made it past the barn door and I struggle to keep them from destroying what I have left inside of me.  I’m trying not to be eaten alive, yet I am the nectar to their greed.

This is not a call for platitudes, simply an honest acknowledgement of the tatters I now seem to call Me.

I want to believe that his feelings for me were real, but as our relationship shrinks into the distance of my life I am left with the humiliating idea that it might have been my desire for it to be true and not reality.  A small, sharp thing to hold in the palm of my hand that I might keep in my grip, to not believe in anything so much again.

I have hidden so much of my pain because I am embarrassed by it.  I want to be stronger and more rational, but the truth is I am not either of those things.  I loved a man very deeply who did not return my feelings in kind and that kind of wound breaks a person, her belief in hope and herself.

I am working on repair, on mending my broken spirit and heart, but I worry that they will not make a full recovery.  Perhaps I will carry the memory of it all with me like a limp and be functional, but obviously different.  Perhaps I will struggle to love again, but never achieve it.  Or perhaps, I will just sit here quietly alone and wait for things to knit back together.

And thanks, strange dudes I don’t know, but I don’t give a fuck if you think my tits are great.  I’m trying to remember it’s what’s underneath them that’s most important.

 

I’m cold.

hy_sweatpants

It’s been one month and 12 days since I last spoke to him.  Each day worth more hours than just the little twenty-four they claim to have.

I walk away, stridently, towards my own life separate from us and while my foot has been light, my heart has been an eerily still and empty box.

My past set loose, the ribbon slips through my fingers, I look forward.

It’s cold here, just a little chilly.  I wake wedged between warm, furry bodies.  I wish there was yet another.

I am reset, back to normal.  No longer feverishly starved and searching, just blundering, stumbling.  A little too free.

hy_sweatpants

Click the lips below to see who else is playing along:

Sinful Sunday

I said goodbye to The Neighbor.

The tissue I used to wipe my tears is a damp and twisted Q and my face is streaked with tears and black mascara.  I’m crying; little sobs escape my lips like hiccups.  It’s pathetic.

He’s gone.  Like, really, really gone.

He cried and his voice was a whisper as I convulsed on the other end of the couch not even an hour ago.

“The thing is,” I said immediately losing control once we sat down, “this isn’t working for me.”

“What isn’t?” he asked.

“Our friendship.  It’s too painful.”

I told him everything.  Everything I’ve written here over the past several months, how hard I’d fought to make our friendship ok, how painful it was to see him change and grow without me, how difficult it was to realize that our breakup friendship wasn’t all that different from our dating one, how it felt on his birthday, how it felt last night, everything.

The pain was overwhelming and my cries tumbled out of me.  His face crumpled and his voice evaporated.  He stood and walked to the kitchen sink, emptied his water glass.

“What are you doing?” I asked between sobs.

“I’m leaving.  You don’t want to be friends with me anymore.”

I wouldn’t let him leave. “How would it have felt to you if I had gotten up and just left you that morning you told me how you felt?  That you didn’t want to be with me anymore?”  Tears streamed down my face.  “You don’t leave now.  You stay.”

And he did.

And then he cried more and we cried together, apart.  Again.  All over again.

He said he understood and wants to support me in any way he can, but it sucks — God, how it sucks.  I balled like I’d just seen my dog run over and wondered aloud why he couldn’t just want me back.  It was a weak moment for me.

“Hy,” he said not unkindly, “you have to get over that.”

My sobs stopped as I processed my last hope being dashed against the rocks like a bottle of nothing.  I lifted my face from my hands, took a breath, and looked at him.

His eyes were filled with tears and bright red.  I held his gaze until we broke it together.  I know he loves me, but not the way I need.  Not the way I want.

We agreed he wouldn’t contact me and I wouldn’t contact him until and unless I felt I was fully recovered.  When I can imagine him with another woman and not want to vomit will be my Litmus test of recovery.  I have little hope that will happen inside a year or two at the least.  Maybe never.  I don’t know.

He said he had no idea how I’d been feeling, but felt badly about it nonetheless.  “I’ve been fearing this moment forever,” he said.  “but now it’s finally here and I know I’ll be ok, but it’s terrible.”  The last few words were but a whisper again.  My feelings for him and his fears of me ending our friendship don’t appear to have a connection in his mind.

“I knew that this would be harder on you, Hy.  I’m TN-Bot 3000, remember?  I don’t feel things.”

I felt sad.  Like the Tin Man with no heart, The Neighbor knows there’s something missing from his make-up.  I wanted so badly to close the distance between us and hold his hand as he admitted his hollowness, but I remained rooted to my cushion.

I told him that he could contact me under two conditions.  One, if he wanted to get back together and try again — he chuckled.  I smirked — and two, “In case of an emergency,” he filled in for me.

“Yes, absolutely and always.”

“I also reserve the right to call you and you can hang up in my face,” he added.

I shrugged noncommittally.

At some point short of an hour it became obvious I had nothing else to say.  “I’m going to go now,” he announced softly.  I nodded assent.  “One last hug goodbye?” he asked.

“Of course.”

He put his shoes on and turned to me with open arms.  I was already crying again when I walked towards him and wrapped my arms around him.  His chin rested on my shoulder and his arms held me close.  I could feel him shudder as he cried and I could hear his whimpers, too.  “TN,” I said choking on tears, “this is awful.  I’m so sorry.”

He squeezed me and said, “I know.  I’m sorry, too.”

We broke apart and he handed me the cat who was attempting to escape.  “Thanks,” I said and then he slipped out into the night and past my welcome mat.

“Bye, TN,” I said gently behind him.

And then I shut the door.

I can still smell him.

I bet the carpet is still warm where he was sitting.

We hugged by the door, tightly.  “Did you have a good birthday?”

I played it cool.  “Good enough.”  I smiled.

“Well good.”

He let himself out and looked over his shoulder to say goodbye again.

“Bye,” I chirped.

The sobs came as I turned the second lock.

I wished that he’d forgotten something so he could see me like that: raw and hurting.

With every touch, every innuendo, every nice fucking thing he did and said tonight I wanted to break my face open and weep and let the torrent of emotion run out of me like hot diarrhea.

I told him I didn’t know him anymore, that he’s not the man I knew.  “You do yoga now, you hike, you wake up before 9 am.  You swore you’d never do those things.”

He shrugged and said I’d known a different version.

When I told him I was concentrating on inviting people into my life who treated me like I was important he said he was doing the same.  I left it alone, vibrating with fear that he was alluding to a new woman.

At the chef’s table, with the heat of the kitchen on my face and bubbly rosé in my hand, he told me again how he’d gone to hot yoga this morning with one of those people, someone who was positive and hopefully a new value to his life.

I finally took the bait.

“A girl?” I prodded gently.

His face blanched a little as he saw my meaning.  “Yes, but not like that.”

I didn’t believe him for a fucking second.

There’s a woman out there who has convinced him to wake up early on a Saturday morning and go to hot yoga.  I couldn’t even convince him to go to breakfast with me at that hour in 3 years of knowing him let alone fucking yoga.  I don’t care if he wants to fuck her or not.  It’s yet another example of how I wasn’t important enough to him on some elemental level.

I felt my chest constrict and my face fall.  “It’s also why I hang out with you,” he quickly added.  “You’re also a positive influence on my life.”

I stared at my drink infusing the liquid with my pain, leaching it out of my body like a magic spell.  I couldn’t fall apart there.  I nodded and smiled vacantly, but he seemed to buy it.

He’d stared at my breasts all night and flirted.  I looked good: thick, healthy, bouncy.  Men ogled me everywhere we went.  In the parking garage, the waiting area, the mini-mart on the way home.  My breasts felt heavy and I’d cum multiple times throughout the day with a sadness wedged between my legs alongside the vibrator.  I wanted him to reach out to me so badly, to touch my face, to cup a heavy breast, to feel his warm fingers on my neck and his sweet breath on my lips that I feared it was obvious.  But he kept his distance for every minute of the night.  Not one slip; a calculated, iron grip reigned supreme.

We played another game — one I’d win — once back home.  Naturally, he was tired.  I waited for something to shift, for a new attitude to indicate he wanted me back, wanted me, something daring, anything, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words that burned in my throat.

“Is it natural for you yet to not touch me?” I wanted to know.  “Do you not love me anymore?”  But those words never left my lips.

My plan all along has been to treat myself with this last night together with him, as friends and former lovers, and to take my emotional temperature after.  How did I feel?  Was it excruciating?  Was it bearable?  If it was excruciating, I promised myself I would exorcise the source of my pain, but even thinking about saying goodbye to him forever guts me, draws me inside out and wrings me out.

I feel trapped between complete heartbreak and hope.  I miss him, I still love him, I still want him, but I don’t want that old relationship.  I want this new man wrapped around the good man I know he could be.  The shady, distant man I knew can go fuck himself.  The idea of him with another woman is so repulsive it proves that what I’m doing with him today is not a friendship.  I’m sleeping on our grave.  It’s a lie.

I can’t go on like this.  I can’t expose myself to this level of pain over and over.  I would advise anyone I knew to cut it off, but taking my own advice seems impossible.  Never seeing him again is raw loss, a primal wound re-exposed to the light that I can’t imagine bearing.  But I don’t see any other way through this.  My tears make it impossible to see.

I had the most excruciatingly wonderful night tonight.  He did everything he knew I loved.  We played games, he took me to a fancy restaurant, we played some more.  We talked about our lives as safely as we could.  He touched me here and there in a friendly platonic way.  It felt like lightening.

A sadness hung around us when I hugged him goodnight.  I don’t know if it was mine or his.  Maybe both.  Surely he knows this is hard on me.  Or maybe he doesn’t.  All I know is I can’t keep going.  I just can’t.  I have to end this.  The most sensitive parts of me are becoming blackened bits of shit.  When the tears are dry I’ll cry some more.  Love is the most important thing in our little lives.  I feel its truth in my marrow; it’s not true for him for me.   It’s time to scorch the planes of my aching heart and let it rebuild anew.

I didn’t know I could hurt even more, but I seem to be an endless pit of despair for unrequited love.

That must mean it’s time to say goodbye.