I come from sexual assault: A tale of #Metoo

(Ed. Note: TRIGGER WARNING. The following post may be triggering for some as it contains real life accounts of many non-consensual sexual acts.  Please read with caution.)

My first sexual experience with a boy – a man of 19 when I was a summer shy of 16 – was rooted in assault.  Every touch, kiss, and fondle was coerced from me.

His breath smelled, he sat too close, his fingers hurt my tender skin as he dug his way down into my jeans and then into my body.  He reeked of Obsession.  I refused to let him look at me naked, never took off my clothes, but he managed to snake his hands onto my flesh and they explored my virgin body instead.  In broad daylight all over his parents’ house, exposed and helpless.

He called me every night long past a decent calling time and kept me up until 3 and 4 in the morning.  I dragged myself to work at the pool where we both taught swim lessons and lifeguarded; I shied away from him in public.  I didn’t want anyone to know about us.

I can still taste the kiss he planted on me after his lunch of a big Dairy Queen burger with onions.

One warm summer night my friends and I all dipped into the Everclear stash of Tammy’s drunken, passed out father.  My friends were vaguely aware that this 19 yo man and I were dating, but they didn’t press.  He and Tammy had dated for several months and every night he’d sneak in her bedroom window and fuck her while her father lay passed out on the couch in the living room.

By all accounts, despite being a year younger than me, she had wanted it and him and thus everyone assumed I did, too. Not wanting to appear less sophisticated than her I didn’t correct them.

The liquor stoked a restlessness within me.  He knew I was there and what I was doing and he’d told me to sneak out and come see him.  To do what, exactly, I never considered.  My innocent 15 yo brain could only explore so far before my imagination gave out, romance novels notwithstanding.

With enough alcohol to embolden me I called him and shared my plan: I would steal one of the 16 year old’s cars who was too drunk to notice and drive across town to see him.  But just for a little while.  “Don’t take advantage of me,” I said.

Underage, without a license, I traversed my little bedroom town and parked in front of his house.  He was waiting for me in the dark awning of his converted garage bedroom.

I don’t remember what we said to each other except that I said those magical, protective words again: Please.  Don’t take advantage of me.  I felt light and hot and like a grown up.  Wild and free.  I’d told him not to hurt me so therefore he wouldn’t.

I knew he wanted me – whatever that meant – and that felt like power.

We kissed in the dark, alone and in his bedroom, a place we had never spent time before.  He walked me backwards towards his bed.  His room smelled foreign and faintly like dirty laundry.  Like a musky boy.

The backs of my legs hit the bed and we stopped.  I stopped.  This was enough.  I was done.  But how??

He was not done.

He pulled off my shirt and I crossed my arms over my bra.  He pulled my hands apart and took off my bra.  I had never been topless in front of him and I shivered with embarrassment, a vague sense of wrong washed over me, but… I had put myself here.

He pushed me back on the bed, pulled down my pants and I shuddered with humiliation thinking he could see in the dim porch light that I was wearing my mother’s high-waisted underwear.  He didn’t notice that I was wearing my mother’s panties.

He only wanted them off.

I froze as he slipped them past my straight little hips and off my foot, pushed my knees apart and put his face between my legs.  There.  Where no one had ever been before, where I had not asked, where he had no right to be.

His tongue was hot and wet and acid.  Mortification, horror, fear pressed me deep into the mattress.  I was disgusted that he seemed to be enjoying it.

I pulled him up, told him to stop, and he kissed me as if it were a lovers moment, my first experience ever of tasting myself on a man’s lips and I pressed mine shut and turned away.

He pulled me into his arms to lay on his bed.  I thought it was over.  That he’d gotten what he wanted and I was safe again.  Stiffly I lay against his bare chest.  He was in only underpants.  I didn’t know what to say.

Then he took my hand – I thought he wanted to hold it – but instead forced it down to his groin, to his hot, hard skin.  I snatched my hand away as if it were burned, sat up and couldn’t stop the verbal outpouring.

“I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go, I’ve got to go,” I said.  “No, no, no,” spilled out to nothing as he helplessly watched me find my clothing in the dark.  Retroactive words that couldn’t turn back time.

I was sober now.

He continued to treat it like it was a tender moment between us and hugged my stiff body goodbye.  I walked to the little red Pontiac Le Mans 5-speed and drove back to my friend’s house and cried.

I cried because it was my fault.  I cried because I was supposed to feel differently than this, this despondence, this hurled into space feeling.

I had called him, flirted with him, went to him.

I hadn’t fought or slapped or kicked or said even one word to him to make him stop.

But none of what had happened had felt right — nothing about our entire “relationship” had felt right — but I was raised on dysfunctional interactions with men – you must be so beautiful you stop traffic, so desirable you make him reckless and irrational, so lovely you make him weep.  Not listening to how I felt with him was what I’d been bred to do: what I needed never mattered.

He shipped out the following fall and married a sad creature from our high school.  He occasionally wrote me letters telling me how special I was.  By then I didn’t care.  I no longer wanted to impress him.

A decade or so later, with a divorce and two children under his belt – including a daughter – he apologized for that night.  He avoided calling it assault, but he acknowledged that if I never wanted to speak to him again he deserved it.  My reply was gracious, but lackluster.  I had shrunken it down: It was just a bad night.

I wish I could remember when I named that night for what it was.  It wasn’t right away, I know that.  For years I considered that just another really bad sexual experience, a bad start. “Sexual assault” was too hard to swallow.

I didn’t date another boy until I was in college and those fumbling attempts at sex were consensual, though I was barely present.  I would drink too much and throw myself at these boys and descend upon them fearlessly, my tender heart a million miles away.

I fucked like that throughout my 20s, through serious boyfriends who’d paw at me and beg and wear me down until I finally said yes, through drunken liaisons with hot, willing men in bars whose names I barely knew.

Close to 30 I began to try to marry sex with emotion and embarked on sober sex with a lover or two before I met my exhusband – who was so not sexually charged that I considered him safe enough to open up with.  I had missed the mark again.

Another decade and I left our sexless marriage and was back to heartless fucking and a lot more “bad sex.”

Sex when I didn’t want to have it after a wonderful date.

Oral sex when I had said I didn’t want it.

Being abused by a “so-called dominant.”

Being fondled in public on a first date without my consent.

Being completely ignored when I said “No, not tonight.”

Maybe having sex with the bastard who dragged me across a room filled with people into a dark bedroom, but I can’t remember because I was so fucked up or maybe I just blocked that part out.

The date with the Frenchman who coerced me into his car, into his apartment, and into letting him jam his disgusting, fat tongue down my throat.

The same Frenchman who insisted on pawing me and trying to sneak his hand up my skirt despite my many firm NOs.

The light-weight chef who blamed the whiskey or two he’d consumed on his boorish sexual advances.

I literally cannot count the number of times I have been physically assaulted in my life —  Twenty-five?  Fifty? — let alone count the number of times I have been assaulted by unsolicited dick pics and disgusting “erotic” messages online.  If I had to guess at that combined number it’d have to be in the thousands.

After a couple of winter assaults in 2016 I began 2017 with a date at a swanky restaurant with Rex, a feminist and bleeding heart liberal.  Imagine my surprise when I registered the shock on his face as I told him, “Literally every woman you know has been sexually assaulted.  Every. Woman.”  He should know this already, right??  But, no.

He wanted to know more, why hadn’t I reported anything ever? A bad thing happened to me at the hands of someone else and I should report such bad things. “Because it wouldn’t have held up in court; I know what kind of world I live in. I did X, Y, Z and a jury would find me at fault.”

He had no idea that No didn’t actually mean No to a whole lot of men out there, that women felt compelled to follow through with a situation because she felt responsible, that some women — myself included — did things with her body because it might mitigate potential violence should she try to fully stop her date, that all women understand she bears the burden of proof and if one signal were mixed she has no legal leg to stand on.

I began to feel responsible for the mixed signals I had given.  How would he know if I didn’t say No?  If I didn’t fight?  If I ended up just going along with it because my body responded to his touch?  I was a part of the problem, too, then right?  I was actively contributing to misinformation about sex and women and the miseducation of men.  Wasn’t I?

It wasn’t until this fall, right as the Harvey Weinstein news was crashing down upon us all, that I wondered this aloud to a young man who wanted to connect with me before we embarked on a sexual relationship.

Nate and I sat in his dark Volvo outside my building and he listened to my concerns and he became incensed at my logic.  Incensed.

I could hear the horror in his voice as he realized I was owning the revolting behavior of the men who had hurt me over the years.  “NO, HY.  NO.  MEN KNOW WHEN A WOMAN DOESN’T WANT IT.

“But what if I didn’t want him to know??”

“NO.”

“But what if I went along with it?”

“NO.”

“But what if eventually I just stopped saying No??”

“NO NO NO NO NO.  WE ALWAYS KNOW.”

The windows steamed up from his shouting.  I felt like I had been punched.  Not by him — no, I was in awe of his emotion about this — but by a new reality: those incidents hadn’t just been “bad dates” with ignorant, stupid men, they had been sexual assaults by men who knew better.

They knew they were hurting me.

They knew they were pressuring and pushing me.

They knew I didn’t want to.

They knew.

Just like that 19 yo boyfriend always knew.

I don’t think that this makes every man who assaulted me a bad man and a predator.  It makes him irresponsible, possibly an opportunist, certainly a jerk, but not an automatic menace to society.  That would require more data if we are to be fair.

And a man is as much a product of his socializing to conquer and take sex as I have been socialized to please and give it.  Imagine how different our world would be if we raised our men to give sex rather than take or get it.

Honestly, how the fuck are any of us to know when No is a real-No and a No is an I’m-Supposed-to-Say-This-So-You-Don’t-Think-I’m-Easy-No.  Aziz Ansari is a numbnut dipshit and a perfect example of this and that date personifies my guilt about my role in all of this.

He [willfully] believed all her dodging and eventual capitulations were part of a consensual chase, that it was his role to pursue, but those two poor souls were definitely not on the same date.  She was in hell, he was the romantic hero of his own romance novel.  But he still knew, he just assigned a different meaning to her behaviors.

She was being coy, playing hard to get, and if he could somehow convince her to say Yes then it was consensual.  Score 1 for the good guy!

And she’s thinking, “If I say Yes, then maybe it’ll stop.”  Or, “Maybe it won’t be that bad.”  Or, “Maybe he really doesn’t know and I won’t die if I just do it.”  Or, “I did invite him back to my apartment/go to his apartment/a secluded area/his car so I’ve given the signal I’m interested and I can’t stop now.”

This issue does not lay at the feet of only women to solve.  It is not about us saying No louder or avoiding situations or running away or “just leaving.”  It’s about men understanding that it lays equally at their feet to be honest, present, and responsible.

Men need to question the model of masculinity handed to them, the Patriarchy which tells them once turned on it is their duty and right to satiate their need by any means necessary.

Women must reject what’s been handed to them, as well, this belief that they are solely responsible for what happens to them.  If only she hadn’t worn that skirt, had that drink, said Yes the last date/hour/minute then this wouldn’t have happened to her.

What we’re taught is breathtakingly fucked up.

Once we realize what we’ve been spoon fed we all – both men and women – need a path to redemption.  Men need an avenue to a safe place for growth and forgiveness and women need a route to believe in her inherent human value and her rights to safety with men.

Being violent is only the most obvious assault, but it’s not the only way men force their sexual will on women.  They also intimidate, beg, cajole, plead, manipulate, wear down, corner, argue, and insist upon.

And because he didn’t raise a hand against her he believes he did nothing wrong and the woman who just went against her instincts to survive the encounter is left with a jagged empty space in her heart and a truckload of guilt for bringing it upon herself.

But he knew.

And now we know, too.

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Post inspired by Katie’s, “Not that bad.”

I’m not going to want to marry you.

Or, “You and I will never date.”

Or, “We’ll never be a ‘thing’.”

Or, “We won’t ever be serious.”

Words that never fail to fall upon my ears like long, whispering razors that snake to my bare and beating heart.

Did I ask you to marry me?  To date me, to be a thing?  Have I seemed serious about us???  I thought I was already clear before we ever met that I was not looking for a relationship.

An open woman – one who relies not upon traditional trappings of commitment or even time – is open to all things, not just the few things she actually wants in her life.

There are also uninvited guests in the form of nervous men who think her attitude must be a self-serving [female] plot to entrap him in an unwanted relationship and therefore must be headed off at the pass with a preemptive THIS IS ONLY TEMPORARY I DONT WANT YOU.

I have had countless conversations with these men over the years and struggle to not sound defensive or hurt or some combination of the two, and not because I am either of those things, but how do you respond to someone who says that to you without sounding brittle?

When you’ve learned that after a date or two, possibly a handful, after having had sex that he has already – and unilaterally – decided he must remind you that there is no future together.  That you have not made the cut?

So I say, calmly and with some mirth, “Well of course not.  I don’t want to marry/date/be serious either.”

He* exhales breath he didn’t know he was holding.  “Good, because most women end up falling in love with me.  It’s such a problem.

I laugh, pour him some more wine.  Poor guy.

“You and I lead very different lives, Mr. Man.  You see, when you are kind and decent and the sex is good you have to fight women off; they fall in love and they pursue you with vigor and adoration.  If the sex is good, they think it must be love!  Am I right?”

He emphatically nods and appears relieved that I “get it,” this terrible thing that happens to him because he is a tender, intuitive lover and thoughtfully checks in via text every day despite not wanting a “serious” relationship.

Inside I turn black and pieces of my heart flake off and disintegrate.

“Let me tell you my experience, friend.  When I have great sex with someone and feel a connection I treat him with respect and I want to see him again, naturally, right?”

He nods with complete understanding.

“I make this known to my lover and I am then inevitably seen as one of those women who have fallen in love and must be pushed away.  I can neither pursue a connection nor admit I want one lest I turn into some lovesick idiot who confuses sex with love.”

We sit quietly.  Me uncertain he believes me and he probably thinking I might have the most elaborate trap of all.

I want to deny that I could fall in love, but I no longer bother; it’s absolutely possible that feelings could develop for one of these men because I can both fuck and love* – Sunday to Sunday – but what I can’t seem to do is find anyone who wants to do both with me so I cauterise the flow and keep it discrete.

The only difference between me and one of those “other” women he is so intent on avoiding is that I know in no uncertain terms that when a man says he doesn’t want a relationship he is not worth my energy beyond our tangled limbs and his fat, hot meat deep inside my body.

If he doesn’t see a future with me, then neither will I.

Troy seemed to like to tell me all the reasons why he would never date me, then The Neighbor felt similarly inclined.  Never mind I didn’t want to date either of them – Troy was an asshole and TN made it clear he wasn’t into me – yet they each felt it necessary to ward me off, to draw an X between us, a Protego totalum spell against me.  Fuckers.

I broke up with TN 4 separate times based on his heartless prophecy and yet the bastard just wouldn’t leave me alone.  I allowed him to lead me into a relationship he ultimately never wanted and then one cold January day in 2015 he abruptly left me.  The lies he’d lived having crushed us both to smithereens, me to oblivion.

I will never do that again.

If he says he doesn’t want me I believe him.  I heard his sultry voice, I saw the white teeth which shone while the words flowed out of his smile.  Our knees touched on my couch, wine in hands.  He had come over just to hang out and see me.  Sex wasn’t expected, just talk.  He likes me, after all.

But not that much, Hy.  Don’t be a silly girl and fall in love.  He only wants your pussy, your energy, your you.

Well, I only want his* submission.  And I only want his dick.  Two can play at that game, gentlemen, but don’t cry to me about all the women who fall in love with you.  They’re more human than me, they’re normal people with hopes and warm, beating hearts.  They’re lovely and pure and you’re ruining them with your fantastic expectations of connection without any commitment and feelings.  How lazy and entitled can you be?  Shall we love ourselves for you, too?

I don’t love hearing the words they insist on sharing – it makes me feel sideways and miscategorized – but I appreciate the insight because now I know what to do with him.

In the past I was hopeful that he might be wrong about his feelings about me.  He’d wake up one day with me nestled in his nook, our evening sex perfuming the room and another long lazy weekend planned ahead and realize he was in love despite his best efforts to avoid it because I am just that lovable.

Today I know that’s Hollywood bullshit written by writers whose love lives were arrested while reading either romance or fantasy novels due to their bad acne, overbite, and social anxiety.  The little guy always wins!  Except that is truly fiction.

I believe him now, these men.  He sees nothing with me other than the next hot sexual encounter.  I believe him.

But don’t worry about me.  He is safely sorted in the Do Not Pursue file, to be then neatly refiled into the one called Do Not Maintain.  Should I feel a glimmer of feeling – even the slightest flicker of affection – he will be moved to the Must Remove From Life folder immediately.

And I must admit that satisfaction rolled through me like a drug as those very words spilled out of my smile to land on his ears, wine in hands.

*”He” and “his” is not one man, but many.

**A timely tweet by one of my wives, Girl on the Net, a few days after my smile landed on his ears.

 

 

 

She was poisoned by your utter indifference and lack of human decency.

I’ve been hanging out with a man from my past lately, Chase.  He was one of the first men I went out with after The Neighbor dumped me in 2015 and also one of the few men who was able to weave affectionate play with hardcore fucking.  After 2 or 3 hot, naked dates he faded away in a fog of love with another woman.  Two months ago he reappeared and wanted to reconnect.  He and the woman had just broken up.

I called Chase my sexual brother at the time because his attitude was so open, yet caring.  He flung himself in bed with me as quickly as I did, but also maintained a thread of communication and friendship afterwards.  We went to a movie, we smoked weed on his balcony, we cuddled.  And we fucked.

Upside down and sideways, with spanks and splashes and lots of laughter.  He didn’t judge me, just went along for the ride.

It was over quickly, but he left a good taste in my mouth for the existence of a man who could be like me: wanton, but sensitive.

This past Friday he told me how different I am today from 3 years ago.  “You’re less… hungry,” he said.

And he’s right.  I am far less hungry.

In fact, I border on the disinterested altogether.  My sex drive is alive and well, but my hunger is gone.  I have finally been beaten into submission: I am no longer so eager to spread my legs hoping that this man might be like me only to be cast aside the next day.

My good IG friend, Mrs. XO, said this when I told her his new take on me:

“… I’ve had men say the same thing to me as well.  Like, what happened to that horny af milf?  Ummm, idk.  She was poisoned by your utter indifference and lack of human decency?

I couldn’t have said it better.

I am talking to a handful of other old lovers, as well, ghosts from my past who for whatever reason are back knocking on my door with their hardons.  A date here, a fuck there, a hug like old friends.  I’m enjoying the process, my heart safely cordoned off.  With each of them we’ve already left each other and we survived.  I survived.

I had a reader once, a bright woman who spent much of her precious time reading me and writing to me, beg me to stop hurting myself via men.  She wanted me to take responsibility for what was happening to me – all the hurt and rejection, she said, were my fault because I moved too fast with men and expected too much.

I didn’t agree and we locked horns.  I insisted I wanted to be accepted for who I am.  I wanted to do as I pleased and not be hurt.  She maintained that wasn’t how the world works.

Finally, years after our long email debates part of what she said to me has soaked in: I cannot trust those who have not earned it.  Merely existing in my world is not sufficient proof that you are trustworthy.

And so I am having very little sex.

Chase and I have spent 4 nights together and I have only recently touched his cock while my friend Jack blew him and Jack’s [new] fiancée fingerbanged me to climax.  I could have fucked all three, but my heart wasn’t in it.  Wednesday my date with Lance, a man I met 7 years ago, ended with a peck in his car despite past dates ending with a puddle beneath my bottom.

I wonder what it’d be like to meet someone and wait weeks before having sex, actually make it mean something as a pair with a serious relationship in mind.  The last time I did that, however, I ended up married to the wrong man.  All that “meaning” having clouded my better judgment.  Surely I wouldn’t make the same mistake…

I’ve waited weeks before having sex several times this year, but a relationship was never the end goal, just a D/s dynamic.  And while trust was integral I’ve realized yet again that promises are worthless and even agreed upon patience can’t protect me from abandonment.  Nothing can protect me.

So if nothing can protect me then I need to walk into the flames and accept what comes with truly no regrets.  I’ve said this so many times, each iteration closer to a mindfulness about people and myself.

I don’t regret anyone I’ve ever slept with – I was hopeful with each and every one of them and I was completely myself – but my hope was misguided.  It was based in the belief that they were truthful and like myself – open and eager to connect.  My reader-friend was desperate for me to realize that’s not how the world works, but I was stubborn.

Now I can still be myself, but accept more truly that people are not like me and that things have the high probability of going awry.  Men have hangups and baggage and plans unknown to me.  They have fears and hopes and shame.  Perhaps the timing was colossally wrong, whatever.  The end result to this realization has been this reticence to sex… and an incredible sense of calm.

I’m just chillin’ in my corner of the internet making ends meet, mothering, focusing on my health and fitness, listening to 90’s Hip Hop and rap like it’s my job.  To borrow and tweak Linda Evangelista’s famous “I don’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day,” quote, I don’t get out of bed for less than being treated like a person.

Which means, not surprisingly, I go out a lot less often.

 

 

Anticipation.

I chose my outfit a day early: a black pencil skirt, a slip, a light pink lace bra which would show tastefully through my opaque white blouse.  My cuffs were black as was a strip of silk that I tied haphazardly below the highest button.

In the cool morning light my stomach fluttered as I dressed carefully; slipped on black lace panties, the short black slip, and the rest of the tantalizing draping.  Business appropriate, but with an ulterior motive.  That black silk that rested between my breasts all day will be wrapped around him once the moon rises.

9 o’clock.  Au naturale.  Nothing up his ass or around his cock.  Fresh underwear on if he wears some normally.  Stone sober.  I want him just as he is.

I have inventoried my new toys and laid them carefully on my white bed, their black shapes like a seedy jigsaw puzzle.  I have attached a silk loop at the center head of my bed to the steel frame for the cuffs to be attached to if I so choose to use them and looped two more silk ties in the upper corners to the wooden mattress slats if I eschew them.

I have condoms of all sizes and only a little lube.  I doubt I’ll need it.

My nose is powdered, my pussy spruced up.  I have placed a single hair tie on the coffee table beside a bottle of lotion.  When I am ready, he will tie his jaw-length hair back and my eyes will turn black with desire.  He will remove my black booties and socks and rub my aching feet, his hair tied back while I devour the length of his long body with my black eyes and imagine his heart beating against his muscular chest.

Candles are lit.  The house smells like tobacco and cinnamon.  A Led Zepplin record from my mother’s 1970s collection plays tantalizingly in the low light.

He called to say he ran out of time to buy wine, but he will be on time.  I bought red wine for us anyway.  I can’t stop my heart from beating wildly in my chest nor my pussy to stop thrumming intermittently when I think about his imminent arrival.

He will be here in 7 minutes.

I’m here for it.

My year at a glance, 2017:

I awoke in a strange bed with a beautiful creature beside me.  I made my way to his bathroom and noticed the disarray around me.  Two old, dried contact lenses were curled in the sink.

I returned to him and he held up the covers.  He was an Adonis.  He reached for my breast and I for his cock and it was large, hot, and hard.  I remembered seeing a condom on my way to the toilet and fumbled through strewn clothing looking for it.

He rolled it on and I climbed atop, sunk down, and reveled in the feeling.  His hands cupped my breasts and I watched his washboard abs flex and bend beneath my thighs.

I increased my tempo and came, my hair soft and silky on my own skin making me feel like a goddamned goddess.  I bent forward and let him suckle as he pumped furiously into me and holding me close.

“I’ve came,” he said in his British accent.  “I’ve came…”

It’s been a couple of days and I haven’t heard from him since.

::

I held the little Styrofoam container with my leftovers gingerly in my hand that wrapped around his neck, his hand slid up my skirt like a naughty boy reaching for more cookies.

He pushed my panties aside and began banging against me just like I’d showed him in the last parking lot we’d found ourselves in an hour before.  

Pleasure burst behind my eyes and swelled through my hips as he began banging again only to end up with his face buried against the wet fabric between my thighs with cars passing by.

We may have coffee today.

::

I took his hand and led him down off the trail to the river’s edge where night-runners could no longer see us.  Pushed him back a few feet behind the pylon and fumbled with his buckle.  His maple-colored eyes glinted at me.  His girlfriend never did this kind of thing.  I wondered if he’d tell her when he got home.

I spread the denim open like a book and took out his huge hard cock.  My knees grazed the river debris as I struggled to take him in and keep my slurps to a minimum.  He struggled to keep his moans to a minimum.

He pulled me to my feet and roughly spun me around, hiked up my dress, pulled my panties to the side and pushed himself in.  I braced myself on my own knees, bent like a letter P, and he gripped my hips and plunged again and again.

He ghosted the following day.

::

I woke up sprawled sideways on a strange bed naked, a small man lay next to me, also sideways.  I got up to pee and saw our clothes strewn about the floor from the doorway to the bed.  He had straightened to lay on a pillow and I crawled in next to him.  “Did I eat you out last night?”

“I don’t think so.  You can’t remember either?”

“No.”

He climbed on top of me and I fumbled for a condom to happily discover he had Magnums.  No wonder he’d been so mad at dinner that women judged him unfairly for only being barely 5’6″.  

My hangover sucked every ounce of moisture from my body and therefore that big, juicy cock had a hard time getting in there.  He asked me if I didn’t know my body [and therefore couldn’t get wet].  I scoffed and said, “I’m fucking hungover, dude.”

We gyrated on each other for a while, his eyes closed, mine open and watchful.  I grew bored and asked him to cum on me instead.  His short thighs pinned me down as his hand whipped his cock to attention and he spurted on my chest.  He drove me home and gave me a $100 to avoid a no-show fee at the gym.

He left to watch the eclipse a few days later and is currently contemplating an old relationship.

::

He convinced me to move to my apartment from the nearly empty Cuban restaurant against my better judgment.  His eyes glowed when he looked at me and I felt like what Chicken Hawk saw when he looked at Foghorn Leghorn: 🍗🍗.  We sat on my couch and he lunged at me, his stubble like sandpaper.

“Easy, tiger,” I said.  “I have a date later.”  He laughed and grabbed my breasts, tore at my clothes.  I told him again to slow it down.

His hands were everywhere, his mouth gaping and wet and still abrasive.  I was waiting to feel something, but it never came.

“Wanna see my big dick now?”  Sure, ok.

He pulled out an average sized penis and I sighed.  Maybe it’s not fully hard.

I bent to take it in my  mouth, but it never grew just my boredom.  I stopped and he pushed my head back down.  I told him I didn’t like that.  He apologized and pulled me on his lap and raised my shirt and shoved my breasts in his mouth.  I was no longer participating at this point and shoved him off and righted my clothes.  “Isn’t it time for you to go now?” I asked pointing at my watch.

“Yeah, it is.”

He continues to beg to see me.

::

I don’t usually smoke weed, but this guy lived and died by it.  I took a little puff and waited.  I felt light and giggly.  Down right silly.  We talked on his big pleather couch while his long-haired dog tried to come to between us and cuddle.  I looked at his face covered in an unkempt beard and his head draped in fuzzy hair and wondered what he had beneath his clothes.  His profile had the word “curve” in it for a reason, I’m sure.

We kissed and his beard was too soft, too fine just like his kisses.  He took my hand and led me upstairs, pushed me down on the bed and pulled off my skirt and panties and dragged me to the edge where he knelt and dove down on me.  I told him what to do and he did it diligently, added a finger so I’d cum.

I pulled off my shirt and told him to fuck me.  He stood and undressed, put on a condom and fell on top of me.  I spread my knees and waited for the curve to curl inside of me.  He pushed in, thrust once, twice, three times and I came again.

I was a fish on his hook and his giant beard and curtain of hair couldn’t stop me from climaxing again and again from every which way until he came twice.  I’d never gotten the chance to touch him with my mouth or hands.

::

He lost his erection and slapped his errant penis.  “Fuck you!  Work!” he yelled.  I told him sex was so much more than an orgasm or penis in vagina.  “No, it’s everything,” he said.

He left 5 minutes later and I knew I’d never hear from him again.

::

We hadn’t planned on drinking two bottles of wine on a Wednesday night while his daughter slept in her room, but we did.  And when we kissed I hadn’t planned on it being so perfect.

We moved to his bedroom and peeled each other’s clothes off, reveled in the feel of each other’s skin in the dim light.  His hands molded to me as my mouth tasted him and I blew him as if judges were watching.

I asked if he had any condoms.  He said he was out.  Fuck.

And then he took his hand and gathered all the juice from my pussy he could and slathered it all over his hardon.  Well, fuck it.  No point now.

I climbed on top of him and rocked the cradle of my hips down on to him, imagining drawing a crescent from my ass to his balls and he moaned and writhed beneath me, mouth full of my breasts.  I came and came and then he began to shake and grew stiff.  He gasped for air and it never ended.  He said between gritted teeth, “I’m cumming for a minute, oh my godddddd.”

I pulled off of him and lay beside him and watched him return to his body, a gentle glow seeping back into him.  I massaged his hand until I noticed his dick was hard again.  He fucked me like a dog in heat and when he flipped me over onto my back he lasted mere seconds as I came again.

We crawled back up to the pillows and I lay in his arms.  “What are you doing Saturday night?” I asked.

We never went out again.

::

“I don’t drink, but it’s ok if you do.”

Hours and many drinks later he drove us home.  I drunkenly led him to my bedroom while he soberly participated in what I can only assume was heavy petting.

In the morning, hungover and slightly appalled at myself for trying to prove my comfort with drinking in front of an alcoholic by drinking more than usual, he began to talk.  And talk and talk and talk.  I looked for the sexy in his words but found none.  I thought maybe sex would shut him up, but it only lasted a few seconds and therefore backfired.

The next time we hung out he brought me a female condom.  We never went out again despite his assertion we’d be forever friends.

::

High with attraction and a little buzzed from the beer we kissed and fucked and rolled around.  “Do me from behind,” I said and stood up and bent over, my forearms on the bed.

He adjusted himself to my height and pushed in, fat and hard, his thumb pressed into my asshole.  I came and became wild for more, there was something about this man, this cock that I wanted to feel behind my eyes.

“Fuck me in my ass,” I said.

“I’ve never done that before.”

“Just go slow.”

He pressed and squeezed his huge girth into my backside and slowly began to fuck me as my pussy rained her pleasure down on our feet.  I couldn’t believe I was taking all of him and he was making noises I’d never heard a man make.

When he came he said it was the most intense experience of his life.

The second time we hung out we fucked awkwardly doggy style on my blue couch then moved into my room where he lost his erection.

“I’m going to run to my car to get my phone.”

He never came back.

::

“My condoms are in my car,” he said.  “Go get them.”

“No.  You go get them.”

He pressed me up against the hotel wall and said, “Call my your king.”

I laughed drunkenly.  He had no idea who he was dealing with.

::

“How long have you lived here?” I asked looking at all the boxes and children’s toys strewn everywhere.

“Three years, why?”

And when sex was done in less than 3 minutes I took my leave.

::

He reached for me in the predawn light of my room.  His hulk caused me to roll a little towards him.  I rolled onto my belly and raised my bottom for him.  He climbed atop of me, spread my cheeks and pushed in, almost perfunctorily.

The position was murder on my back, but I didn’t want to complain.  I was hoping to cum.  I didn’t, but he did.

A week later he texted to say he didn’t want to see me again.

::

I jumped up on my kitchen island and let him pull me closer to him.  We kissed and I ran my fingers through his long, Millennial hair, grabbed a handful and pulled his head back to expose his white neck.

“Are you sorry for being an idiot?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Very sorry.”

We kissed deeply and he was very good for being almost 20 years my junior.

I led him to my bedroom and once naked I admired his chiseled body, the long lines, the swells and shadows.  Wrapped up and safe, he plunged into me and I clung to his hardness like a little girl on a monkey gym.

His stamina was breathtaking and I came like a banshee until he came in a bright cry.

And then his mother called and he had to go.  He did not return as promised.

::

I let the hot tub bubbles skitter all over my body as he lifted my rear end out of the water and finger fucked the living shit out of me.  I suppose I squirted as much as the fancy fountains off the side, but it’s hard to say for sure.

Pruny and spent we moved inside where he bent me over lifted my hips to his and jammed his bare cock in me.  My feet dangled and my hands pressed against the seat of the couch.  I came a little.  He came not at all.  And then he told me he was interested in someone else.

He FedExed me my boots two days later.

 

 

I’m having a good day.

I’m running a hair late to work, but I’m otherwise organized.  I look good, feel good, got my baby with me this week.  I’m working out, not wasting time on silly men – just spending time exploring my needs and wants in relation to men.  I’m feeling good.

I’m sure it’s no coincidence that after two years and nine months The Neighbor finally moved away and left my orbit.  I feel weightless, joyous, filled with hope.

I can hardly believe it.

So, in honor of all of this, I’m throwing it back old school and posting a random pic like I used to (before IG).

Happy Humpday, y’all!!

My beloved Niners.

All the Chrises.

And the Robs, Dans, Mikes, Johns, Bobs, Davids, Kevins, and Troys.

Man after man, dick after dick, miss after miss.

Last summer it was a project of mine to cull my contacts and I found I had multiple pages of the same man’s name, a list in black and white of my apathy, hunger, and disdain.

  • Chris
  • Chris Car
  • Chris Chuck
  • Chris Cool
  • Chris Doo
  • Chris Eastside
  • Chris Magnum
  • Chris Mindsome
  • Chris Pander

With the exception of 3, I have no memory of those men.

There have been 6 “Chrises” in my life recently, each terribly memorable and forgettable simultaneously.  The Chris who ghosted on me after we fucked under a bridge and all night in my bed.  The Chris who apologized at 8:30 at night on a day we’d planned to go out that he wasn’t up to it.  The other Chris who admitted he was not attracted to me despite behavior that sent mixed signals.  The Chris who… I can’t remember who he is or was.  Another Chris I can’t remember.  And then a Chris from that list, one I actually do remember, just texted me last night.

I’m doing this wrong if I can’t remember men.

Not only that, but I can’t remember the dicks I have in my phone.  Fleshy and hard, in bathroom mirrors and surrounded by crumpled pants or sheets.  I find myself scrutinizing one on occasion trying to place it.  Whose is this??  What time of year was it sent?  What was going on in my life then?  WHO IS THIS???

Inevitably, the questions go unanswered and I click my phone off.

I recently went out with an old lover who texted me 2 years after our last date.  The last time we were together I struggled with my lack of interest in our sex despite our easy rapport while clothed.  I called myself a shitty lay and wracked it up to my own poor performance.  Our second date shattered that theory: he’s not that good in bed.

And he’s delusional about his penis size.

“I love being the skinny white guy with a huge dick,” he said while we sipped whiskey cocktails earlier in the night.  I thought maybe I’d remembered him wrong, but no, he has about an average length penis that is quite slender.  It felt like a sneeze that never swept through me.

Of course I came — lots  — but that’s just lucky body composition on my part, not his skill or passion.

At one point I was on all fours, ass high in his dimly lit room, with his mouth on my little starfish and nothing else.  Not his hand or arm.  It felt odd, like I was floating in space with a warm, wet alien attached to me between my ass cheeks.

“Where are your hands??” I asked almost irritated that I was even having to ask.

“One is on my dick,” he answered.

“Where’s your other??  Put it on me, please!”

I felt a soft palm press against my hip.  I grit my teeth until he’d had his fill.

There are so many Chrises in my past I stopped chronicling them here.  I’ve stopped a lot of things here since The Neighbor left me.  I lost my muse, my joy in sex and discovery, nearly my interest in writing.  I have been beaten to a pulp in the dating arena in round after round and have felt overly responsible about protecting my dates from their own miserable, sad, ridiculous, or embarrassing behavior, but I don’t want to do that anymore.

From now on I’m going to write about all the Chrises and their delusions of grandeur.

And all the Robs, Dans, Mikes, Johns, Bobs, Davids, Kevins, and Troys.  Not out of spite or revenge or to make them look bad, but because their stories are mine, too, and I’m tired of protecting them when there is a story for me to tell.

There’s much more going on here than I’ve let on.  So much more.

 

I’m on a man diet. For real.

I have purged my life of all the unnecessary noise of men pawing at my door and am only allowing one knock at a time.

After indulging the nihilistic Hyacinth a couple of weekends ago I completely wiped the slate clean.  I got rid of men around the world and at my doorstep.  I stopped engaging with anyone who might not turn into a real life option for love.  I had to realize my own despair while abandoned in a brightly lit hallway to accept my loneliness for what it’s become: overwhelming.

I have made false connections with too many for too long.  So what if we have light, witty banter for a week?  So what if he’s hot?  So what if he’s into me?  And secondly, how do I know anything about this person – beyond those superficial things – in only a week or two that would warrant me giving them my time?  A piece of myself?

Realizing the truth of my “connections” with these men, this false intimacy, has made my decision-making easier than ever before.  I see the Matrix of Dating suddenly and am swiping the bullshit aside like a curtain blocking my view.   I can’t expect something real from something temporary.  No rose will grow from granite, so why would I expect it to?

My diet from men means I’m making healthier choices, not that I have stopped eating sugar – er – men altogether.  Right now I’m nibbling on only one man and though he might not be the healthiest option my approach is sound, the landing should be good.  At least my therapist thinks so.

I haven’t written about him before; he’s young – 14 years younger than me – tall, handsome, fit, hung, submissive, financially secure. sexy, flirty, filthy, engaged in what we’re doing, open and open-minded, not allergic to cats, politically aligned with me, doesn’t want biological children, intelligent, attentive and… lives with his girlfriend of 6 years in a non-hierarchical polyamory relationship.  His other girlfriend of two years lives in her own little poly pod 2 hours away.

And despite the girlfriends, I am extremely excited about him because my choices have been thoughtful and I am applying great restraint to let this unfold gently, naturally.  I want the intimacy to be real.  I also don’t know that the girlfriends will be a problem.  I’ve never tried to date a poly guy before.  Maybe I won’t care; maybe they’ll make it better for us.

Things have been different from the start.  I insisted on corresponding via email and waited at least 5000 words a piece before I used the number he gave me to text.  I made it clear that texting was not for days long conversations that could be had in 30 mins over the phone, but for flirting and possibly pics.  Due to his age, he had a slight aversion to speaking on the phone, but he carved out a little time over the weekend to chat and it was sweet and lovely and I appreciated the effort immensely.  He surprised himself with enjoying it as much as he did (seriously, what is wrong with Milennials – and even some of us Gen Xers – that a phone call feels too intimate when you’re trying to date someone???).  I could have invited him over 10 times during a rainstorm this weekend, but I refrained, and instead set a date two weeks away.  I want to be certain he’s worth my time.

Now we wait eagerly each day for the other’s email and text little mailbox emojis when the deed is done in between sizzling hot pics and sweet chatter perfect for text.

I still check the pots to see if anything interesting has been caught, but ultimately throw them all back in.  No one compares to this glowing young man of summer.  In fact, one man on OKC who spoke to me in lengthy nonsensical, look how funny I am with words! guy just cut me loose because I hadn’t responded to him since Friday.  That’s how most of us should be, actually.   Truth is, I wasn’t interested, which is why I forgot to check my email there.  Sorry, dude, but you did the right thing.

My diet feels like clean eating for my heart.  I love the quiet, I love that Peyton has more of my attention, I love that when my phone chimes I know it’s someone I actually want to chat with, I love that my time is well spent, and most of all I love that this feels right.

I might still be eating bread and brie – a leftover from my time in France – but I’m also hitting the gym four times a week; I feel good.  My Man Diet is similar: I’m making good decisions, but with some indulgences thrown in here and there, judiciously and with care.  Just like any good diet that can be stuck to for the long term it can’t be all about deprivation.  It also has to feel good.

I’ve lost interest.

I’m angsty and lonely and restless.  My hair is clean and my skin soft.

I itch, but cannot reach the spot.  My body is a broken beautiful vessel, mine to abuse and worship in equal measure.

I’ve seen a lot of men this week, a lot of naked bodies and blood-filled organs.  I’ve felt their urges, their demands on me to fulfill unrequited desires.  Desperation clung to a couple, curiosity on another, friendly fun on a fourth.

I flipped through my phone looking for one soul I wanted to spend time with tonight and the only person whose name I could come up with was my own.  Even the girlfriends I texted who ignored me were pale seconds to my own company.  Fuck them anyway.

So off I go to the bar alone again.

There I will sit, unbothered, freshly bathed, willing and able in a bubble no one can see.  Utterly alone surrounded by humanity.

The $100 I received in the bleary 7 am hour yesterday after a date as a little thank you gift will fund my escapades tonight.  Perhaps I’ve moved my sex life forward in a new direction.  I didn’t feel badly about taking the money.  Have I turned a corner I was unaware was there?

How does anyone ever have interest in someone?  I’ve forgotten how.  Completely.

Feeling detached.

Despite eating like it’s my job, I’m feeling good.

I had a revelation this week about intimacy, false intimacy, specifically.

All these years I have struggled with how I am treated because I felt like there were connections, real things occurring between me and the men in my life.  And they were happening, I just called them the wrong things.  

I called them trust and respect and intimacy.  I should have been calling them hunting, playing, and gorging.  

We did the dance of lust and curiosity, girated and slobbered on one another.  Pulled hair and smacked flanks and spent hours cultivating a persona with 26 characters and a few vegetable emojis until our fingers were exhausted and our bellies full of pursuit.  Until we were over as quickly as we started.

I’m wondering how I could have been so wrong for so long, to expect so much of the right answer from the wrong equation.

First of all, how can anyone get to know me if all we do is text then drink in a dimly lit room bathed in each other’s pheromones?

Secondly, they haven’t done anything to earn my trust so why am I so surprised when they’ve broken it?  I hand it out like candy in Halloweeen night like the daddy-hungry little girl that I am.  

I have expected something from nothing, for a rose to bloom out of granite. 

So now I’m on my way to meet a man I hardly know and I don’t care about.  He’s from a neighboring city and used the word “laconic” to describe himself.  He’s 5’7″, good looking, charming as a Labrador and he will suffice for tonight because the truth is… I think I’m ok with nothing right now.

The rose can come later when it makes sense to grow.  Right now, all I want is to feel the honesty of cold, hard rock.