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.]

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

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Sinful Sunday