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.  

Sometimes I feel like this is all I’m good for.

.

Fears of abandonment overwhelm me as my heart beats at me from within.

Say the perfect thing, all the right words.  It’s all your fault if it goes sideways.  If I get it just right he will stay. 

He will stay because I cast a spell of words on him that made him want to wrap it tighter around his soul.

He won’t have a choice then.  He will remain because I made it happen.

But that’s not real because he does have a choice.  He always does.

And so do I.

I can choose to look myself squarely in the eyes and allow that woman to be herself and believe that she is worthy.

If I am not honest about who I am and am instead busy building intricate webs to keep my target close I am hiding.

I am not real.  I am not me.  I am lying.

The truth is I am so much more than my sex.  I am all the truer words I speak, the beautiful ones I create and share.

I am more than sorcery.

I’m just not sure I can convince anyone else of that.  Possibly starting with myself.

 

 

 

Being the sane one in an asylum does not make you crazy.

It’s hard to talk about my wonderful night last Wednesday with Mr. Young, the sexy dad from the birthday party, without wincing.

It’s gone completely sideways since then and I spent most of yesterday in tears.

At the pool surrounded by chubby, drunk sun-worshipers, in my car running errands, watching Golden Girls, talking to amazing, patient, incredible friends.  I couldn’t stop the flow of emotions.

I felt worthless, unlovable, all the while being eternally fuckable and disposable.   Something shifted.  Our banter was gone, he bailed — as I’d suspected he would — on tentative plans we’d made for no good reason I could discern, ignored sexy pics I sent and generally stopped engaging.

At the time of writing this he has seemingly ignored my last text for more than 24 hours.  A text wherein I expressed disappointment and understanding about him cancelling our plans and some hope that we could reschedule.  He chose not to reassure me or reschedule.

I didn’t want to fall down this rabbit hole, but the last 24 hours found me here anyway.  Did I say something wrong?  Was I wrong?  Did he not want to fuck and have two orgasms?  Did he not want to devour each other on his couch?  Did we click too much?  Did he not want me to show enthusiasm about a next date??

His kisses were searing and perfect and his sense of humor and openness disarmed me and hooked me hard.  I wriggled on the line.

We talked on the phone every day he got back from his high school reunion last weekend and couldn’t wait to see one another.  When our Monday night plans to meet got foiled we were immediately back at the drawing board to make it happen.  Nothing was going to stop us.

I met him in real life, opened up, we have mutual friends beyond the mom-friend we share, and everything beyond were spot on (politics, life, sex, relationships, outlook, art, and on and on and on).  This was not supposed to happen with him.

What I expected was a continuation of what was happening before I undressed under his hungry eyes, prior to sinking slowly, deliciously down onto him and him cumming and cumming and cumming.  I didn’t think his second orgasm would throw a wrench in things, but it was after it that the record scratched.

I forgot my bra in my discombobulated departure — it was late, we’d been drinking, I was high on the experience — and awkwardly texted him about it the next morning.  He didn’t say, “Don’t worry, I’ll bring it when I see you Saturday.”  He hasn’t said a lot of things thereby saying everything.  I’m writing off the bra.

This is not an example of yet another woman making a mountain out of a mole hill.  I am a master at interpreting human behavior and there has been a change.  My default is to assume it was me, but after attacking myself for being too easy, unlovable, and a raging moron I am now at a more peaceful place.  Things are not actually in my control at all times.  Sometimes, shit happens.

Everything I wrote the other day remains true, which makes this tough fall down feel ultimately beatable instead of impossible.  I am dusting off my skinned knees and beginning to rise.  I got knocked down, yes, but I get up again.

For instance, I feel patient, not desperate; I’m going to sit this one out for a bit until I feel like I’ve recovered enough to step back on the field and ask him what’s happened.  And that’s new: me sharing that something wasn’t right for me.

His actions have been painful to endure, but I don’t ascribe any nefarious motivation to them.  Something happened, I’m just not privy to what and I don’t need to waste a second more of my time trying to read his mind.  I need to process it and move on.

We weren’t [securely] attached enough for this to feel anything but very wrong.  We’d barely gotten to know one another.  You can judge me and say I fucked him too soon, but what’s the point?  Next guy I might wait a month or two and it still might not be right.  I can’t take it back.  I thought it was the right thing to do.  I wanted it.  He wanted it.  But clearly, it wasn’t a good idea.  I see that now.

So here I sit with a big mixed bag of emotions: three weeks of excitement and hope about a man I could see easily incorporating into my life; a night of fantastic fun, fucking and frolic; followed by days of confusion and icy distance.

Maybe our story continues.  Maybe he’ll come out from under his rock and tell me something that draws me back in, that makes this all go away.  Or perhaps our paths no longer cross.

Whatever the outcome I feel immensely reassured at my resolve and clarity.  I know without a doubt which way is the right way for me and it isn’t on my knees begging for attention.  Nor is it to pretend that this didn’t hurt.  It’s standing tall and expecting a certain level of care.  No exceptions.

It stings like a motherfucker, but I’ll be ok.

 

 

*Blog post title care of a kind Internet Boyfriend.

 

A new normal.

I started a post Wednesday afternoon and wrote:

I’ve had sex a grand total of 10 times with 8 men in 2017.

I went back to pick up the thread today and realized I need to strike through those numbers.  It’s now 12 times with 10 men.

The post was going to be all about how I’ve slowed down, how my insatiable thirst for men and their dicks, licks, and tricks had all but subsided.  But then Wednesday and Thursday happened to me.

In the span of 24 hours I had sex with a sexy dad I met at a birthday party for a mutual child-friend a few weeks ago, lived out one of the hottest fantasies of my life with my massage therapist while on his table and clock, and spent an evening filled with laughter and a little lust with a 6’6″ ex-con whose open candor disarmed me completely.

A post about slowing down doesn’t exactly fit.

But I’m not up to my old tricks, either.

Six weeks ago I wrote to The Neighbor, started a(nother) Whole30, and began working out 4-5x a week at Orange Theory.  Not drinking freed up a lot of my energy and dedicating myself to my fitness recalibrated my priorities.  I also did some heavy lifting with TN.

I wrote another letter, revised it, sent it, and he responded.  All while 100% sober and focused on myself, while sticking to my guns (and standards) with the men I’ve been attempting to date.  I feel like a completely different person.

One of the most important things I’ve just learned is that when I make choices that ultimately harm me — be they drinking too frequently, not caring for my body, or not facing the demon of a bad breakup — it fucks me up.  I suspect it would fuck up any human being.

Confronting bad men and kicking them out of my house when they yell at me, not dating someone whose beliefs are at odds with mine, cutting off contact with someone who assaulted me and telling him why, eating better, exercising.  All of these things have helped me to feel like I’m valuable and once I feel I’m valuable it doesn’t matter what other people think of me anymore, does it?  And their attention is no longer such a crucial aspect of my life.

Take me or leave me, but I know I’m worth effort, compassion and love no matter what you do to me.  And the very newest trick I’ve learned is that you have no place in my life if you don’t fit that criteria.

No more excuses or second-guessing.  I don’t care if this is your first ever Tinder date or that you remember things differently from me.

And so I rolled around with Mr. Young while his baby slept in the other bedroom and his kisses made me melt into a shimmering puddle of desire.

And then after 90 minutes of what can only be called a sustained post-coital response to his deep and connective touch I asked if I could touch my massage therapist and he said yes.

And then the felon arrived exactly on time and opened up about his time in prison in a way that touched my heart and I felt nothing but admiration for him, even as we lay wrapped in each other’s arms after he eventually lost his erection in a puff of his frustration, regret and embarrassment.

There’s also The Hippie, a tall, gentle, pot smoker with a daughter on the opposite custody schedule as me.  His magically curved cock is a delightful ride; his fuzzy face and deep eyes are safe.

So I’m not slowing down; there is just a new normal.  A wonderful new normal.