There’s a dating site for each of your needs.

Isn't this how everyone writes?

Isn’t this how everyone writes?

As I sit to write I’m overwhelmed with where to start.  Do I share with you the potential sugar daddy with whom I’ve connected?  Or my explorations into the D/s world?  The guys I found on AFF to fuck my brains out?  Or the all the men who reject me on Match?  The men who froth at the bit on IG and Snapchat?  The deep and meaningful emails I receive from kindred spirits?

For every want I have I have an outlet and it’s distinct from the rest.  You may think my assignments are personal, but I’ve met enough men who spread themselves across the multiple platforms for similar reasons to know I’m not alone.  I can’t say I like hung men on Tinder any more than I can say I want a boyfriend on Adult Friend Finder; it doesn’t fit the audience and it elicits the wrong responses.

Each site has a specific target audience:

  • eHarmony: serious relationship to marriage; deep, hearty stuff
  • Match: same ^^
  • OK Cupid: serious relationship to casual and fun, poly and open expansion relationships, hookups; moderately intense
  • Plenty of Fish: same ^^
  • Tinder: hookups, casual and ongoing friends with benefits; light and fluffy
  • Bumble: same ^^
  • Adult Friend Finder: hookups, kink, swinging, ongoing friends with benes, specific sexual preferences; intense and focused, yet light
  • Seeking Arrangement: hookups, ongoing friends with benefits, financial wishes; intense and focused
  • Collar Space: kinks, D/s, BDSM, darker side; intense, focused, serious

These are my categorizations, obviously, but I think most would agree with me that this is the basic break down.  I admit to anomalies.  I have friends who got married off of OKC and some who had years-long relationships off of AFF.  There’s no accounting for just how you meet someone and to put blinders on to opportunity would be just plain silly.

I’ve long been clear on the silos of intent for most of these sites, but the sugar daddy site, Seeking Arrangement, was the real recent challenge.  It wasn’t until I sat beautifully full of white wine next to a big, brawny country boy who wants to be my benefactor that the last piece fell into place: on that site I could be honest about my financial situation.

On AFF I can shout to the rafters my love for giant cock; on Tinder I can be obtusely flirtatious; on OKC I can hint at my yearning for something deeper; on CollarSpace I can announce my authority and stake my claim; and on Seeking Arrangement I can say that I am in need of some help.

What I find so interesting about all of this is that of all things that I admit across these different platforms —  my kinks, my heart, my hopes, my sexual needs — the most intimate is my need for money.  To say I don’t have enough feels like admitting to a personal failing, like it’s Dickensian England and I’ve somehow brought this upon myself by virtue of my bad bloodlines.  My father was, after all, a terrible human being who lost a few fortunes in his lifetime.

But the kind man whom I sat entwined with last Tuesday, and who would eventually fill me with his happy jizz in the parking lot like we were rutting teens, held my fears gently and wouldn’t let me look away.  “Hy,” he said.  “I want to help.”  I was unable to offer more than a tearful head nod.  It’s all too humiliating, but why is that?  I’m not tearful when I sit across a man I meet on AFF and say I love giant dick; bashful, perhaps, but humiliated, no.

In fact, when I think about it, admitting to my kinks and my sexual needs are the only things that don’t make me shudder and shy away.  Breaching this one frontier — financial — has put an even finer point on it: I don’t do intimacy.

I don’t admit to needing love.  I don’t admit to wanting love.  I don’t admit to having needs.  I allude to them on all those sites where it’s appropriate, but I’ve been utterly unable to make any relationship launch because the truth is I’m completely and utterly unfit for a relationship at the moment.  I trust no one and myself most of all; I am incapable of choosing trustworthy people and so I will choose to remain alone and get my intimacy needs met via sex and sex only.  It will be interesting to see how a financial relationship affects me since that’s more intimate than sex to me.

I’m not satisfied with this long-term, but I am aware that this is my current status: intimacy isn’t possibly and that’s ok.  I’ll keep working on it and chipping away as I always do.  But admitting it is the first step.

To be clear for those of you who might be wondering, the kind of sugar daddy relationship I seek is one that isn’t based on money.  I want to find a wonderful friends-with-benefits who also happens to check in on my financial status and help me out when necessary.  I want a man whose money is inconsequential to my feelings for him and thus far, I feel like I’ve found that in this country boy.  He’s sweet, funny, sexy and totally and completely into me.  He also happens to be married, which is fucking perfect (see above intimacy issues).

One of the most appalling and humbling things about Seeking Arrangement is the used car feel of it.  Men messaged me and kicked my tires, asked humiliating and inappropriate questions about my libido and sexuality as if they were staffing up for their penis and when they saw my private photos of my face I never heard from them again.  Apparently, I didn’t measure up.

Of course, those men opted themselves right out of my life and that’s ok, but with the exception of the men on Match, I have been found highly attractive on the other sites matching with beautiful men of all shapes and sizes.  But not on SA.  There I was found wholly lacking, apparently.

On CollarSpace I roll up my sleeves and put my Domme-y pants on.  I have been praised for my no-nonsense profile and many have been eager to make my acquaintance.  Nothing has panned out beyond some heavy texting with one and a brief text-fling with another.  I am extremely cautious there.

And as I flex my muscles I’ve learned what it means for a man to theorize about his submission, but be unable to execute even the smallest of submissions.  If a woman you so desperately want to dominate you gently directs you to respond to texts in a timely fashion, you do so.  You don’t ignore her for 24 hours.  That vanilla shit doesn’t fly.

The sub with whom I’ve been texting regularly for several weeks seemed incredible at first — he was experienced, eager to help me learn, beautiful, hung, intelligent — but he suddenly balked hours before our first meeting and proved it was too good to be true.  Under the kind tutelage of my Fairy Domme-mother, Ferns, I told him my desires again and fought the urge to compromise in such a way that I would lose everything I actually wanted.

I said to him:

And I’ve thought about it. Here’s what I want: a sexy af friend I can trust AND have fun with (an occasional drink, board game, day by the pool). If you decide you’re on board with that, then let me know. I’m not really interested in investing in a back and forth waiting (and hoping) for something to change if you’re not.

It’s terrifying to attempt to dominate only to have your submissive partner pull the rug out from under you.   The Neighbor was a master at that and I am ever watchful for a repeat performance.

Coming up with that response to the sub was tantamount to my new dating elevator pitch.  It’s how I feel across the board and I am set free from the back and forth and negotiations I once found myself tangled in.  Do or do not.  There is no try.

On AFF I have found many attractive men who like my pitch.  The most recent, Poppy, a tall, coffee-with-lots-of-cream colored man built like Adonis, met me on a Tuesday night.  He had a winning smile and a way with winks that won me over.  We fucked like animals for a couple of hours and he promised he’d host next time.

It’s almost easier on AFF than anywhere else to be myself.  I can mention the D/s stuff, my kink for male bi-play, and even admit to having a broken heart.  Being non-monogamous isn’t scandalous, nor is it a beacon for one-night-stands.  It’s like the catch-all of the dating world.

I’ve met men there who are just re-entering the dating world and who have played there for many years.  They quickly learn the dating economics of a sex site and are appreciative of a well-spoken, confident, real woman.  The number of bots and scams they intercept in any given day speaks volumes to who the real customer is.  On AFF, we all seem like comrades.

On Match, much like SA, I am repellent.  Men I find attractive look at my profile and don’t respond to my winks or likes.  How ironic that when it comes to either being sufficiently attractive or relationship material I fall so short.  Trust me, the irony is not lost on me.

I have another 4 and a half months to suffer through before my membership expires.  I have zero hope of meeting anyone I’m interested in there.  Partly because the men who message me aren’t attractive to me and partly because I have come to fully realize my unfitness to be a partner.

Tinder has wrought much pain, frustration, and general male jokery.  I’m a fetish for the under 25 set, a challenge for the under 30, and a fine piece of ass for the under 40s.  It’s a melee of false promises and aggressive and ridiculous come-ons.  My screenshots are proof of that.  Occasionally, I meet a comparable man, such as the pretty blond artist who suavely invited me back to his place at the end of our date.  I declined that night, but we will reunite at some point soon.

Bumble is no different, but there I get the added bonus of being rejected when I reach out as the rules there state the woman must make the first move.  Ok, whatever.

On those sites I am known as me, the mother of Peyton, a school-aged child, a professional, a dog and cat lover.  They know I cuss a lot and love to cook and, if they’re lucky, get to experience the underbelly of my public persona, the naked and writhing one.

Not everyone will have the next categories in their lives, but I have yet even more: My Instagram and Snapchat followers as well as my blog readers.

In the past I made a conscious decision to not get too involved with virtual folks who know me as Hy.  It was partly part of the anonymous mechanism, partly to keep a separation of church and state.  Plus, how could that work?  The world is a very big place and I’m not interested in a love affair from Abu Dhabi.  But lately, in the last year, I have broken down my walls and connected with many people from my Hyacinth world

I made a handful of female friends on IG who have been very influential over the past several months and I have a couple of male friends whose tumescence are always welcome messages, as are their friendly words.  They know my face and my city and I am hopeful that if ever our paths cross we can finally hug hello.

I met Ben through Snapchat, though I am realizing more now than ever, what a freak chance that was.  The app isn’t conducive to lasting connections; words and pics literally disappear in moments.  The fact that I noticed him is a fucking miracle.

Lastly, the readers who email me via my blog email are the real MVPs.  They open up about their lives, share their insights, hurts, and journeys with me.  They don’t want anything in return, just to share, and I find myself often wishing they were local mates, men and women I could hug and touch and comfort.  I hope they know how much they mean to me even if we never become more than just lighthouses to one another.

I must speak to 100s of people every month in some capacity or another.  It’s overwhelming.  At the moment I’ve shut them all down except for the occasional peek into CS and AFF; I’m focusing on just three men: Country Boy, The Artist, and Poppy.  Plus any stragglers who might pop up in text that I’ve forgotten about.

I remember a time not too long ago — 20 years isn’t that long ago, right?? — when the idea of speaking to, let alone fucking, more than one person was basically unheard of.  I’d meet a fella somewhere and all my attention would be focused on him until I knew whether or not it was going to work out or not.

Sometimes it took a week, sometimes it took 3 months, but I never doubted that I was the only woman in this man’s life, nor he in mine.  I don’t know when distraction and inundation became the name of the game.  I’m not ungrateful for the diverse opportunities to find the exact thing that I’m looking for, but it’s just too much, like listening to 5 radio stations at once and trying to enjoy yourself.

I’ve been plugged up all summer, emotionally and creatively, in large part due to the intersecting highways of dating channels.  How can I keep them organized or portray the juggling act I perform each day in such a way that it resonates?  How can I express my enjoyment in my aptitude?  The challenge my life presents?

This way of life isn’t for everyone.  It’s loud and busy, but I know which stations to turn down, which knobs to fiddle with.  Currently it’s relatively quiet and peaceful, my phone is often black and when it’s alight with words they’re welcome discourses with quality people.

And at the very least I’m nothing if not organized.

Hy with her coffee 2

Cuz it’s definitely how I write.

I am on occasion plagued by mediocre sex.

On my couch, exhausted, wrapped in nothing but my new pink, silk robe I sat. The man whom I’d just fucked was likely the first person to see me in it.

I looked to my right, into dark brown eyes and said with a sigh, “I love you.”

Our gazes locked.  We blinked.  I felt safe and accepted.

“I’m so glad you can’t talk,” I added.

The dog lowered his head to his paws and blinked some more.

“No, really.  I’m so glad you can’t talk.”

 

The dog has seen me with 3 men in the last 5 weeks or so. He missed the one in a hotel on the north side of town.

Each tryst filled with promise instead fell flat.  Or soft, as the case may be.  Or uninspired.  Whatever: wholly unsatisfying.

Mediocre sex doesn’t mean I didn’t cum.  It doesn’t mean I didn’t have chemistry or titillating conversation.  It means I never lost myself.  It means something didn’t work right, either me or him or both.  It means I went through the motions and worked hard after the fact to make him feel ok because I felt like he deserved a pat on the back since a hug and a quick goodbye would have been too obvious.

When I was in London with Ben we stuffed his meat in me as much as we could in 36 hours.  Not only did we have chemistry and a special connection, but his deliciously big cock worked like we wanted it to and I was able to completely lose myself in the act itself.

The act where I fell down a rabbit hole of pleasure and felt like my skin was lathered in peppermint in a cool breeze and my insides turned out, my body covered in salty sweat, tears in my eyes, my face pink and blotchy, and mascara smeared to my temples.  That’s great sex.  That’s magical sex.

It’s what kept me bonded to The Neighbor for so long and it’s ironic because that feeling, while bonding, is the epitome of letting go, like being bound by a gossamer thread.

But I have not been having that kind of sex.

Ben was the last great sex I had.  Before that Bones was ok — not fantastic, not horrendous.  His big dick took center stage, though he wasn’t the most creative lover.  There was Remington, The Welder, Captain.  As I push the calendar back my memory fuzzes.  There was Petya and The Soldier, David, TN — always TN, the man who blew my mind, body and heart to smithereens.

Try as I might I can’t seem to shake him from the number one spot.  It kills me, digs my heart out with a spoon, that he is still one of the most spectacular sex partners of my life.  He’s not alone, though — Troy shares the honor to a large degree — but the fact that our sex was so incredible from day one and continued to be pretty pussy-fucking awesome until the very end feels more like a curse than a gift.  No one ever stands a chance.

The men I’ve dallied with recently were good men, decent fellows by all accounts.  One was an Eastern European man I met on AFF who drove 3 hours to see me.

He took me to a very nice dinner, we flirted over drinks, and we kissed gently on a rooftop.  I marveled at his beautiful naked body back at his hotel, but he struggled to stay hard and instead of switching to focus on me he was obsessed with his erection instead.

I became a live Fleshlight as he pumped into me and sweat dripped from the tip of his pretty nose onto the bridge of mine.  He complained I was hard to make cum.  I ignored the passive insult and kept my legs spread willing him to get hard enough to cum.

I sucked him, I jerked him, I performed as if this were the best night of my fucking life.  Eventually he came on my tits and we were done with it.  I politely — and quickly – said my goodbyes and left.  He wanted to see me again, he said.

Another was a tall glass of water I met on Tinder.  After our first date he came clean about having a girlfriend, but we remained friends nonetheless. When he came over during a rainstorm one day he had mechanical issues, but we made out and his enthusiasm was contagious so I let him titty fuck me and spray me with his hot ropes of jizz as a consolation to a real fuck.

When I invited him over months later to go swimming we rolled around like puppies, but I was dismayed to see his cock was hiding from us again.  However, he didn’t miss a beat and immediately went down on me and with deft fingers and mouth made me cum like a geyser.

The next night, a beautiful blond man from AFF came over.  Nervous, yet virile, we flirted slowly all night over a game of Scrabble.  I soundly beat him and then he ripped my shirt off and sucked on my nipples until I cried out.  His cock refused to show up, but like my tall glass of water from the afternoon before he immediately switched to his hands.

I came with my vibrator pressed against me while he finger-banged me from behind and he jerked off all over my white, upturned ass and back.

And most recently I met a man who’d pursued me for a year on various dating platforms.  It wasn’t until we crossed paths on Match that I relented to his date requests.  He was confident and sexy and when I found his lips on my neck in my kitchen I was impressed with his moves.

Then things began to unravel: we lost a condom in me and, unbeknownst to me, he had cum and not knowing this I continued to try to get him back up which created greater frustration in me and possibly embarrassment in him.

If a man makes no noise or motion whatsoever to indicate his orgasm, how on earth is a woman to know the show is over??  It’s infuriating.  It’s  like sitting down to watch a movie and the very next thing you know it’s over, you’ve missed the show entirely, and your date thinks it was the best movie he’s ever fucking seen.  Fucking bullshit, man.

None of these men are bad men, none of them are even necessarily bad lovers, but what happened between us was royally mediocre, the pinnacles of mediocrity to varying degrees, and it’s highlighted how much I miss great sex.  The kind where I am transported to a field of poppies in the sky and can’t walk straight the next day and where I smile secretly as I think of the filthy things that we did to one another.

I’ve admitted to dialing it in before, but I didn’t any of these times.  I was game, I was on fire, I was fucking ready to be fucked to the moon, but for whatever reason shit went sideways and with each one it was a Whoopee Cushion blart instead of angels crooning.

I don’t have the answer to any of this.  I don’t know how to make sure I have great sex or how to even avoid the bad.  It’s all a crap shoot.  If you know the answer, please share (not really).  For the time being, I’m just going to cuddle up with the one male in my life that I know is a sure thing: the dog.

 

 

 

 

 

 

You go on a date filled with another man’s semen.

Needless to say, Date #1 today was quite eventful.  

Bent over my front seat, the passenger side door opened to provide side privacy and a giant, naked cock rammed inside of me as I gripped the console and he kept modestly pulling my skirt down over my bottom and panties which were shoved to the side as if that would save my virtue or something.

I can smell his cum and feel it ooze out of me even as I park outside the coffee shop for Date #2.

I don’t dare to hope that this or #3 will hold a candle to him, but you never know.

Being stood up is fucking shitty shit.

Today sucks and for different, yet related ways.

First, it’s The Neighbor’s 32nd birthday and last year feels like this morning somehow.  And second, I was stood up on Saturday by someone I liked and trusted and even today it feels like a raw, stinging slap in the face.

Though I am making strides to distance myself further from TN, it’s still a struggle.  Last year we were broken up and his birthday spent together was painful, awkward and titillating, not unlike a red, angry blister on ecstasy.

A couple of months later I ended our friendship and embarked on a TN-free life in pursuit of a man who actually valued me, but clearly I’ve failed in that endeavor.  It’s been an interesting 10 months.

That brings us to two days ago when I was treated with no respect and little regard.  I don’t have control over others; I thought I’d chosen well enough, but I was very sadly wrong.  I feel sucker punched.  I have never in my entire 20 years of dating ever stood someone up.

Not a guy I’ve never met before and certainly not someone I had met previously.  Clearly everyone doesn’t operate by the same moral and character code as me.  They do whatever the fuck they want whenever they want because they can.

He didn’t text me when I asked if he was en route 30 minutes after our agreed upon time, nor did he respond when I texted close to an hour after our date to confirm that we were actually meeting at 8.

I can’t guess what happened, but I can tell you with 100% certainty that there are only 2 reasons why not texting me back would be acceptable:

  1. death or serious bodily trauma or;
  2. a phone is lost or broken.

But this young man turned down the offer of my address because he said he remembered where I lived, so ostensibly he could have shown up if it were #2.  And I’ll feel badly if it’s #1, but the odds are slim to none that something tragic befell him.  Let’s be real: he was just a dick.

In a world of disposable dating, why do I have to extend any slack in the line??

With TN we fought a lot about his tardiness.  I would have dinner timed and  he’d call 5 minutes before he was supposed to arrive to say something had come up at work.  He thought he was being sensitive.  My risotto or fish never agreed.

He demanded my understanding and I his, but we were in a committed relationship so it seemed reasonable.  But for a 3rd date?  Is it reasonable to extend blind understanding and empathy at the expense of one’s dignity and self-worth?

When I have shared my upset in the past with a man at being treated like this I’ve been called inflexible, told my standards are too high and that I’m seeking “dating perfection.”  I’ve also been called old and demanding, as if to infer I don’t know how the kids these days date.

The details of the interactions are immaterial, but what’s important is the overall belief that if I insist on effort I am high maintenance and rigid.  But here’s the thing, for a first date, yeah, you better make a fucking effort.  In fact all my dates better have some work behind them because I will be working for them, too.

I’ll have cleared my schedule and protected your time slot (I turned town two sets of friends for that date Saturday night), I’ll eat the right things so as not to be gassy or have an upset stomach (yes, I do that), I’ll clean my fucking house, shave my entire fucking body, moisturize and shower, buy various sizes of condoms to accommodate your dick, make my bed, stock my fridge and even put my phone on silent once we’re together.

And yet somehow texting me to let me know that something has changed or come up is too much effort.  TN could barely keep me in the loop and I was supposedly a major part of his life.

Well, thanks a fucking lot for that, you fucking dick wad.

In 20 years of dating I have never mistreated another human being in that way.

I’ll admit to being distant and letting things die on the vine, or not returning feelings, but I have never not been where I said I’d be or not done what I said I’d do.  It’s counter to who I am: I am a nice fucking person whose word means something.

Dating has become this vicious, self-serving, distant act.  We do what we want when we want.  We rely on our phones to implant a wall between us and those we’re actually trying to get to know.

We don’t want to seem too eager, too clingy, too insecure, too caring, too into it, too ______.  God forbid we show any genuine excitement about anyone lest we reveal ourselves to be drooling, humping idiots with no self control or caché.

I have spent literally hours upon hours of my life dissecting text with and for my friends. What does it mean if he doesn’t text you after a sexual encounter?  a first date?  Should you send the first text?  reply immediately?  What happens when punctuation suddenly shows up when text was fast and loose before?  Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.

I treat a man I’m talking to with the same respect and social courtesy as I would a friend or family member who’s texted me; it removes any thought on my part.  It gets tricky when the interactions become dating-specific, like the post-fuck text.

In those instances I err on the side of who I am.  What feels natural?  To text or not to text, that is the question!  There’s no right or wrong answer there considering we’re all our own Litmus test; if he doesn’t like what I’ve texted when I’ve texted it (or didn’t text it) then that’s valuable information moving forward and if it ends there, well, then we clearly weren’t meant to be.

Everyone plays it so cool we forget the message we send is I don’t care about you.  Maybe there’s some truth to that, but what if it’s on a scale?  Like, I don’t care about you that much, but I still care somewhat?  Obviously, there’s no way of knowing the intent since it feels the same on the other end regardless.  We all really fucking suck at communicating.

For you Gen Xers out there, like me, do you remember when all we had were landlines?  I would come home from work and toss my keys into the bowl next to the answering machine and would be filled with a pleasant rush if I had a flashing number blinking at me.  Someone had thought of me!

They’d left a message with real words and the only way for me to let them know I got their message was to pick the phone up and call them back and use my own voice.

Chats took effort and focus; I couldn’t do anything else but think about and talk to the person on the other end.  My mother, my friends, the men I’d met.  It was a simpler time despite it requiring more effort on everyone’s parts.

Ben is the last man I’ve “chatted” with and one of the only ones over the last several years.  I’d like to think it sets him apart in some ways.  But I could be wrong; I seem to be wrong regularly.

My Saturday night date was a sweet young man — or so I thought — and it doesn’t help that other men I care about have been infuriatingly silent for far too many days on end, as well.  Nor does it help that today is TN’s birthday and all the memories of him are kicked up.

I’m worn out and down and frustrated and lonely.

I have extinguished the frantic pace with which I was devouring men and all but ground to a halt.  I have been picky, patient, and persistent and yet it has not yielded what I’d hoped: a shield against bullshit.

The truth is, dating sucks no matter how you do it.  Whether you’re a man-eater or  cautiously optimistic and highly selective.  There’s nothing I can do to protect myself: dating is dangerous, period.

My feelings are hurt from Saturday and I’m left scratching my head at how I could have been so wrong about him; I never would have thought he’d do something like that.  And I am bereft — still — at the absence of The Neighbor.  Yes, even now.

The other irons I have in the fire don’t seem to be panning out and so it’s back to the drawing board.  I’ve spent my entire weekend basically on my couch or poolside doing literally nothing of any interest.  I’m not proud of that.  I fear loneliness is slipping between my ribs and weaving its way towards my heart.  I feel frozen in time.

I don’t remember the last time I felt this way, adrift and aimless.  Sad.

Treating a person with disregard, a person whom you ostensibly want to get close enough to lay with, is an odd cross of messages.  I want to penetrate your body, but I refuse to acknowledge your humanness.  It makes no sense and no wonder we all act like crazy people in this random, ridiculous march to coupling.

Had he only texted, “Hey Hy, got super drunk with friends earlier today. Can’t make it tonight,” I’d have been pissed, but grateful for the note.  As it stands his continuous silence is humiliating and embarrassing.  Not only was my judgement off, but he clearly doesn’t think I’m worth even the littlest amount of effort to be treated with kindness.

TN’s continuous stalking is humiliating in its own strange way: he wants to keep tabs on me, but not in a meaningful way.

I look forward to the end of July.  This has never been my favorite month.  It’s TN’s birthday, the anniversary of my father’s death and my friend Sara’s suicide.  My grandmother’s birthday falls on Sara’s death and I can’t think of her without thinking of the pain my friend felt.  I put my cat down after 15 years of togetherness on the 6th.  The anniversaries are on the 4th, 6th, 8th, and 9th.  It’s a brutal time of year for me.

I always try to be kind to myself at this time; there’s nothing worse than self annihilation when you’re hurting.  Unfortunately, I don’t feel all that successful.  I’ve been glued to the couch and my computer and have been pumping my veins full of wine.

I guess the hurt will pass, as will all the memorable days, and I’ll get back to normal me.  Quiet, lonely, normal me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Avoidance.

Hy at night in shadow

Shadows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hy in the morning in the sun

Sun.

 

A summer with no men.

Before Peyton started kindergarten my life was set by the sun and moon.  Alarms factored very little into my life.  I led a charmed, though albeit unemployed life for years.

Things changed drastically the spring before school started.  I wasn’t making ends meet and so took a second job that required I arrive by 7:30 am.  It felt like hell on earth.  That fall I quit so I could take my own baby to school and ever since I’ve been a slave to drop-off and pick-up and after-school commitments with our summers chock full of camp commitments starting by 9 am.

This summer we’ve decided to cut way back on all of it.  My ex will take care of his weeks and I’m responsible for mine and since money continues to be tight I can’t afford camps and Pey is dragged to my office on short days and dropped off at my parents’ on long ones.

However: NO ALARMS.

No goddamned alarms kicking me out of slumber.  No groggy morning routines.  No interrupted afternoons.  No stolen pockets of time.  No bedtimes.

And it is fucking glorious.

I'm certain the animals were judging me as I did this.

I’m certain the animals were judging me as I did this.

This is the second week of summer vacation and my first week without my baby.  Each morning I awake gently, early still.  I stretch, I let the dog out, I lay back down, I take pictures of my 40-year-old body and think, Not bad.  I research how to make the perfect French pressed coffee.

And then I sit at my kitchen table with the window open behind me and I write and catch up and read my friends.  My bottom was sticking to my cheap plastic Ikea chair so now I sit on a cheap Ikea lambskin.  It’s like a dream come true.

I’m already trying to figure out how to incorporate this into my life come fall.  I struggled to find time to write during the school year; the only time I had free was in the evenings or an hour or two during the day but I found myself worn out and empty.

Was it Hemingway or London who’d get up at 5 every morning and write for two hours then just chill the rest of the day?  I know that’s when I’m my most creative and relaxed and I feel like a motherfucking winner if I allow myself to write in that space.  And yet, I rarely do.

I get distracted by my phone, IG, sexting (if I’m lucky), crap around the house, whatever.

At the Tate with Ben we wandered into the room with some Picassos and Dalis.  He was impressed — this wasn’t what he was expecting to see that day — then wandered into another room with art by people we didn’t recognize.  “You know what makes this art?” I asked him.  “The fact that these people say it is and work so hard to put it out there.  If they didn’t, it’d just be a hobby.”

I’ll never be a lauded author, but I know this is more than just a hobby.  I’m a writer, a poet, an artist.  This summer I want to reconnect more deeply with what makes me tick, what drives me.  It used to be that I floundered aimlessly.  Lately I still flounder, but I have an idea of where I want to go.

It’s been 3 weeks since London, since I allowed anyone to enter my body.  I’ve shared kisses twice since I’ve returned, but I am in no rush for more.  The thought of anything less than what I experienced with Ben shuts me down.  This summer, I have a feeling, will be one with many early mornings at my kitchen table and quiet nights alone.  I need to catch my breath and embrace the writer in me anyway.  I don’t want this to feel like a hobby.  I want it to feel like motherfucking art.

This could end up becoming the summer of no men.

 

 

 

Sometimes it’s a strange path to learn to trust.

I pinched my eyes shut and silently moaned with embarrassment.  I didn’t think I could do it.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said.  His English accent made it seem more official.  “God, so beautiful.  Yes, just like that.”

I adjusted the laptop between my bare legs and my naked pussy and looked down the length of my pale body.  The screen was of him, his large erection and stroking hand, his dark grey eyes riveted on me and then, near the glowing green light of the camera, a smaller box of me.

In it my legs formed a sort of low-M where the downward point was the dark line which drew up from the bed to my center to end in more darkness.  I thanked God I couldn’t see it with more definition.

Above that a smattering of short hair, a soft belly, two mounds of jiggly flesh and beyond that my blonde head peeking down at all the action.  I groaned my discomfort even as his words spelled out enthusiastic approval.

He asked for me to spread my lips for him.

Humiliation isn’t the right word for how I felt.  Yes, there was certainly some of that, but I couldn’t locate the source.  There was also shame, embarrassment, worry, flagrant bashfulness.  I have made it a policy of mine to never send pics of my pussy unless and until I deeply trust the man which means 3 men have gotten pictures of me.

It’s not because my pussy is extra special — though, of course it is! — it’s because I am awash with such emotions it becomes devoid of fun.  I have to beat down half a dozen complicated feelings just to send one pic of my vulva.  It’s an exhausting endeavor.  But here I was, legs splayed, all my bits on an iPad in London with a rapt audience of one.

Two hours earlier I’d come home alone from a pleasant enough date with a man who was a big believer in thin pants and no underwear and wanted to just be alone.  It was a boon to find Ben online and awake at 2 am his time.

He was naked in bed with his big cock in his hands.

“Hello, Hy!” he said.

Our smiles were big.

Soon I had stripped down for him and swiveled the laptop around so I could stand and twirl for him.  I felt silly, out of control, and struggled to remind myself that he had seen me in real life, that I had nothing to hide.

“You are so gorgeous, Hy!  Look at your body!”

I squinted at the little square of me and didn’t see what he did, but I believed how he felt about it and pushed on.

“Bend over for me,” he said.

I giggled nervously and did as he asked, my panties around my ankles.

“More, bend all the way.  Please,” he urged.

I bent more and felt my face turn red from embarrassment.  I thought about how differently boys and girls are with their sexuality.  Even after years of trying to reprogram myself I found myself a slave to my earliest insecurities about my body, such as there’s such a thing as a “good angle.”

Men* have proven to me time and time again that they don’t believe in a “good angle,” they adore them all.  The ones where my ass looks “bad” or my pussy looks however-a-pussy-isn’t-supposed-to-look or my tits hang long and torpedo like.  The assumption I carry there is clearly faulty — that there’s a “right” way to look — so when Ben asked me to contort my body in ways in which I couldn’t control the visual outcome I had to trust his tastes… and him.

I had to trust that he wouldn’t say, “Oh fuck, stop it! That’s horrible!” which is the other side to the “good angle” belief.  I had to trust that he wouldn’t judge me.  I had to trust he was enjoying himself.  I had to trust that he was being honest.

At an extremely formidable age, on two separate occasions years apart, boys I liked and trusted ripped the rug out from under me and I have only just recently begun to realize that though I felt at the time I had moved on and not let it affect me that it became an important part of my programming when it came to men: They are not to be trusted.  Ever.

So even before I began to make questionable choices in mates, partners, and lovers, I already had an infected belief.  How self-fulfilling that has been I can’t quantify, but it has surely affected me deeply and profoundly.

I can get naked for a lover in person, because I believe my charisma will overcome any physical limitation or shortcoming they might discern.  I can suck them till their eyes cross and get him to lose himself inside of me, but what can I do an ocean away?  I can’t make him not see me.  I have to trust him.

And so it came to pass that I was spread wide with his watchful gaze on me and his kind, lustful words emboldened me.

I grabbed the Godemiche dildo Adam and Monika had given me at Eroticon — the longer one, of course.  Still bashful I squeezed some lube on it and began to work it in as Ben moaned his approval.  I added the buzz of my Hitachi and the boom of my orgasm laid me out like a pancake.

“That was fucking hot, Hy.”

“Next time we’re together, I’ll do that with you in me,” I said breathlessly.

“Good.”

“I want to go again, though I really wish it was you.”

“Me, too.  Do as I say then.”

He told me to slowly push the dildo in and out.  It was complicated and naughty and I felt like at any minute someone would burst through my door and catch me while I had an open laptop between my legs, my left hand operating a giant and magical dildo, and my right hand pressing a Magic Wand on me.  But no one did and Ben coached me to go deeper.

I did.

Then faster.

And I did.

Yes, he liked that very much.

The orgasm came up and fucking punched me, turned me inside out and left me like a wrapper beside the dumpster.  I yelled out and began to sob.  I clenched and bore down on the cold ting inside of me as the waves tore through my body.

I heard Ben’s voice in the distance beyond my cries.  I convulsed and shivered and felt that keening, soulful pain I always feel with this kind of orgasm; something is just out of reach.  This time, it was literally him.

I turned off the wand and gently pushed the dildo out, swung my legs over and pushed the laptop to the side, and tried desperately not to cry with very little success.  I didn’t know how this would translate and didn’t want to completely lose my shit when he couldn’t hold me or see all the nuance in my sobs.

“I’m sorry,” I said.  “That was really intense.  I haven’t felt that since…” I searched for the last time.  “Since TN.”

It was a strange sensation to have that intense of an orgasm with a dildo and not a man and though I did love the dildo very, very much, the truth is it was Ben.  His voice, his energy.

“You did that to me,” I explained in case he was thinking I had just given myself the greatest orgasm ever and he had nothing to do with it.

Spent, I asked him what I could do so he could cum finally.  It had been nearly 2 hours since I’d stripped down and we’d begun our camming fun.  “I don’t think I can cum,” he said, disappointment in his voice.

“Well, try, please.  For me.”

Roughly 25 seconds later he was showing me the globs of white he’d shot onto his belly.  “Oh shit!  It’s in my hair!” he laughed.  “And on my chin!  Oh my god!”  We laughed at how wrong he’d been.

We said our sweet goodbyes and hung up.  I washed the dildo and wrapped it in a cloth and put it back in my super fancy cardboard sex-box, put the lube away.  I felt raw and sad, distantly happy.  I had a moment of panic that what if he’d recorded it?  What if he’d try to sell it?  Or hurt me with it?  But quickly realized it was my old pain rearing its ugly head.  Ben would never do that.  I trusted him.

I found the panties I’d discarded over the side of the bed as if I’d had an in-person encounter and crawled under the covers.  I fell asleep dreaming of a sweet British man and hoping I was starting a new trend: to trust again.

 

*I say “men,” but I can expand this to all lovers I’ve ever had, male or female, and I certainly can attest to feeling similarly about all the lovers I’ve ever had.  I think they’re all stunning in their unique ways. 

London crows and London kisses.

On the curb outside Departures I bent a little to hug him.  His arms opened like wings and wrapped tightly around me; we held each other fast.

“I’m going to miss you, Ben,” I said.

“I’m going to miss you too, Hy.”

I leaned in for a kiss and and breathed him in.  This might be the last time I’d ever taste him.  I thanked him again for everything he’d done for me and walked away.

I had barely gone through the automatic doors when the tears started.

::

I cried in the line to get my ticket, as I ate my toast and texted with him, as I searched for my gate.  I cried as I pressed the keys on my laptop and reached deep inside of me for words that would do him justice.

To know that this human being exists fills me with hope, with faith in humanity.  I knew he was different — which is why I accepted his offer of hospitality though he was a stranger — but I had no idea how much he’d touch me, move me.

Tears rolled down my cheeks and my mouth quivered as I texted:

I can’t believe how sad I am to leave.  You are such an incredible person and man and I can’t believe how lucky I am to have met you.  Hi, Ben, I’m Blanche Devareaux.  It was lovely to meet you.

An hour later he texted back and I cried yet more as I told him how grateful I was, how special he was, how I truly hoped we could see each other again one day.  “You are so beautiful,” he replied when I told him of my tears.  “Just everything.  You’re amazing.”

The thing about this young man is he glows and quivers with light.  He’s suffered heartbreaking loss and health issues as a child; is fiercely loyal to friends and family; has chased his dreams and caught them.  His life is nearly exactly as he wants it.  Relatively speaking, he’s a very happy young man and it was like nibbling ambrosia to be with him.

As we drove in to the airport my last morning a 747 came in for a landing, low and massive.  “Look!  Look at that beautiful girl!” he exclaimed.  “That’s my baby!  That’s exactly what I fly!”  Sheer joy bubbled in his voice.

From the moment we met we talked, laughed and teased.  On train rides, through emptied bottles of wine, on car rides, while naked, in London.  We never stopped.  I wanted to share everything I could possibly share, to show him who I really was.  I wanted him to know me.

I listened avidly as he shared tales of adolescent debauchery and of his recent, heart wrenching loss and I asked endless questions about flying.  I might never fear a plane ride again now thanks to him.

The first night on his couch I sat with my feet on his lap and wondered about later, about how we would fit together.

He was built like a jockey, a beautiful little bird with dark grey eyes with inner rings of gold and blue.  “Greyzel,” I said to him, though more accurately they looked like some precious stone polished and mesmerizing.

Exhausted from my magical weekend in Bristol — and particularly my day of travel — I ground down to a stop.  “I’ve got to sleep, Ben,” I said apologetically.

In his bed, with his slender arms wrapped around me and his lithe body pressed against my backside, I felt safe.  Warm, welcome, unbelievably happy, a woman with her face turned up to the sunrise.

“I can’t believe you’re really here,” he said and squeezed me and nuzzled closer.

“I know.  Me either.”

His hand stroked my hip and he nibbled my neck.  My body flared awake.  

We kissed and tangled and pulled our clothes off.  I gripped the hot meat jutting at me and he groaned.  He moved to mount me, but I stopped him.  

We laughed when I dug my EroticonLive condoms out of my bag and we had to choose between glow-in-the-dark, dots-and-lines, and some other one which seemed normal.

We ripped open the third package and laughed again.  It was black.

And we laughed yet again that once on we could only get it down half way before it was too tight and too short.

Dots and lines it was.

We moved like old friends reunited and I held him close as he first pushed in.  Long, deep, eternal.

His warm touch thrilled me and I kissed him as if this were our last night on earth.

He didn’t cum that night, but he would the next morning when I took him in my mouth.

“How far down can you go?” He whispered, my mouth and hand full of his cock.

To answer I dove down and got to within an inch of his pubis, but it took some effort.  He was too big.

“Holy fuck,” he said.

I continued my work and slurped and sucked; the hair caught in my hands began to knot.  I kept going.  

He tensed then and shoved my face down and reared up into the back of my throat with a cry.  I choked and swallowed then gently released him.

He shivered as I climbed up to lay beside him.  We dozed intertwined like a braid for hours.

That night on the train home — after a day spent at the Tate, crossing three London bridges in my pursuit to buy Union Jack souvenirs, a kiss on the Tower Bridge near where the crows used to pick flesh from the bones of the punished, and eating fish and chips at The Hung, Drawn, & Quartered pub — I rubbed the hot bulge in his pants, openly daring anyone to bother to look.  No one did.

It grew handsomely large and I told him again how much I was enjoying my time with him.  In total it would be only 36 hours.

Back on his couch I opened the little box of condoms we’d bought on the way home and rode him, my black-haired steed, naked and golden.

I bounced and flounced and poured my breasts into his hungry, eager mouth.  He came with a beautifully noisy cry.

Upstairs I sucked on him again and pressed his hips down into the mattress with my arm and — knowing how much he loved to bury himself into my face — impaled myself on him.  

He dragged me up and kissed me.  I asked him why he’d made me stop.

“I don’t want it to ever end.”

I crawled back down and slowly brought him back to me.  His milk tasted of sunshine.

I flopped down next to him and listened as his breathing steadied.

“I want you to cum too, Hy.”

I showed him how to hook in and slam me to climax.  My ejaculate sprayed on the both of us as he slapped my mound.  I squirmed away panting.  

“I’m going to ruin your bed!  You have to stop.”

“I don’t fucking care.”

He went at me again and watched my face intently.  I cried out and released into his palm.  Once, twice, three times.  My orgasms an English daisy chain of pleasure.

Spent, I begged him to stop and pulled him on top of me and held him there memorizing how he felt.  How this felt.  I never wanted to forget.

We fell asleep on a towel.  I dreaded leaving the next day.

This young man, 16-and-a-half years younger than me, unlocked something in my dark heart.  I want this, this thing I felt with him during our short time together: utter and complete acceptance, passion and appreciation, friendship.  

I want a man like him who wants his own independence and respects mine but still can’t wait to see me because it’s not an everyday experience, because I’m fucking special.  I never want to feel taken for granted ever again, not after this.  It’s like I’ve seen how the other half live.  I’ve been eating dry cereal when I could have been eating filet.

I want a man who is proud of my writing and life as Hy, but who also loves and appreciates me.  Ben gave me a glimpse of the future I want.

The morning dawned too soon and I curled into him and pulled his arm around me.  “I don’t want to go.”

“I don’t want you to.”

I ripped off another condom and he finished in me doggy style as we cried out our orgasms together.  Tears pricked the backs of my lids.  This might very be the last time I’d ever be here.

We’d talked the night before about seeing each other again.  His status as a pilot means that he could come see me almost any time for any length of time.  Neither of us can imagine not continuing our friendship, but it’s not realistic to think it will be like this always.  I recognize the magic of the moment and love it even more for that, but of course want more of it.

In the car on the way to the airport I wanted to tell him with my own voice who I really was, but I never got the chance as we animatedly shared yet more of our lives with one another.  Plus, I didn’t want to cry in front of him.  I might not have stopped.

Strapped in and headed home I cried again and choked back sobs as I watched London recede into the distance.  A little bit of my heart forever there, happy and safe with Ben, my beautiful little grey-eyed  bird.

I would cry the entire flight home.  

I’m done being the Cool Girl.

Last night Bones got lost in a book and forgot about me.

An hour plus after he was supposed to arrive he finally pulled his nose out of his pages and texted me back, “lol I’ve been studying.  Sorry.”

This was after he’d said he’d “try” to make 8:30, but had some reading to do for a job he was gunning for.  I’d said ok.  At 9:30 I hadn’t heard a peep from him and texted him.  I texted again at 9:45, “WTF??”

“Kind of caught up in this book,” was his reply after his little lol text.

“So you just wasted my time, basically” I replied.

And then, “I’ve been waiting around for over an hour and not a peep from you!  Not like you and totally not cool  Book or no book.”

He apologized, said it was a dick move, etc.  We went back and forth, me asserting myself and my anger.  “Tonight sucked,” I wrote.

“I was distracted and lost track of time…”

And then he said, “You’re absolutely right.  This new job is super important to me and my career.  I was heavily focused because of that.”

I told him again it was a dick move and then scoffed.  “Hey, don’t do that to me.  I had no way of knowing how important studying was to your career – but I’d have been more than understanding if you’d just rescheduled because you needed to focus.”

He admitted that was true.  He asked me how he could have made it better when I told him I was going to bed because it was obvious he wasn’t going to try.  “Well, the second you realized what you’d done you could have apologized and said you’d be right over with a bottle of wine.”  He agreed with that, too.  But nothing happened.  I’d wasted an entire kid-free night.

I’d spent my precious time on a man whose value of me (and my time) were nil.

Yes, he apologized, yes he admitted it was shitty, but I can’t get that time back.  Nor did he offer to reschedule or make it up to me in anyway.  An entire evening was lost.

I’ve been impotently raging against this devaluation for years by means of not being disrespectful.  I am always available when I say I am, I never forget a commitment, I’m not late or get lost in a project and lose track of time.  That has never happened to me in my entire fucking life and therefore I can’t extend any kind of understanding to others.  It’s simply unacceptable.

I set alarms on my phone if I’m worried I’ll lose myself in something because I value people’s time.  In fact, I don’t do things I’d rather be doing (such as writing) because I’ve made a commitment to someone, someone who hasn’t actually earned a goddamned thing from me — and that’s on me.  If there was ever anyone who gave the milk away for free… well, it’d have to be me.

I’m not bashing Bones — he fucked up, big deal, moving on — what this has demonstrated to me are two things: 1) I devalue my own time, and 2) being the “cool girl” only hurts me.  Gone Girl, anyone?

I am a single mother; I take Peyton any time my ex travels for work or leisure and I pick my baby up from school every day of the week even on my ex’s custody weeks and stay busy until he’s done with work around 6.  The divorce decree says we have 50/50 custody, but we don’t — it’s more 75/25 — therefore my free time is extremely rare and highly valuable and yet I treat it like I have a ton to give.

I have to stop saying yes to every heavy breather with a hardon who asks me out after 5 lines of text; they haven’t earned it.

The last time I was child-free I had 6 dates in 7 days and the accumulation of my efforts was one above-average date where I came under his slamming hand, a dud, road head and an awkward fingerbang, a mis-fire, a drunken chat, and date number two with Mr. Magic Hands.  In other words: nothingI could have been writing, is all I hear when I look back on it.

If I don’t value my time, then why will anyone else?  This is somehow connected to my eternal hope for a connection, to never say No because maybe the next guy will be a great connection, a great love.  But it’s gone sideways.

I find myself saying yes to complete strangers, men who’ve only met the standard of catching my eye and not offending me.  The bar can’t get much lower at this point.

Which brings me to my second realization: Being the Cool Girl doesn’t affect the outcome.

Have you ever tried to fill a bucket with holes with water??  Yeah, that’s the Cool Girl effect: useless.

It’s also the same effect as trying to make someone else happy or to control a situation.  The outcome will almost always be that the one who’s trying to make the things better will end up exhausted with no better outcome than had they done nothing.  The bucket will remain empty and leaking.

As Gillian Flynn writes, “Cool Girls never get angry; they only smile in a chagrined, loving manner and let their men do whatever they want. Go ahead, shit on me, I don’t mind, I’m the Cool Girl.”  I’ve always been afraid to be honest about a man’s bad behavior.  Telling Bones he was a shit was monumental.  I’m not the Cool Girl anymore; it only exhausts me.  I’m leaving the bucket dry.

I can’t make someone respect me or my time, I can only act in a reasonable fashion (don’t misinterpret this as “in a cool way”) to their treatment of me.  That doesn’t mean pretending I’m not pissed or disappointed.  That takes 10 times as much effort on my part as it does to behave authentically and say, “Hey, man. That was shitty.  Fuck that.”

The difficulty for me arises in the foreignness of this behavior.  I have never been able to be truthful about my upset with anyone, almost ever.  Not my family, not my friends, not my exhusband.  Certainly not my boyfriends and definitely not my lovers.

Being that honest and vulnerable equates to emotional death to me: I am wrong, I am unworthy, I am not good because the person I’m sharing this with will say it’s so.  I truly am an easy going person — I rarely take things personally —  but I’ve taken it too far.  I’ve set it up where no one has to work to earn my time and when they disrespect me I act as if I’m unbothered, neither of which are even remotely true.   My time is valuable and I am bothered.

So when I told Bones that my night sucked it wasn’t just me pointing out the obvious (that he was a dipshit) it was me saying I’m not going to work so hard to make bad behavior ok anymore; I demand and expect more.

I don’t expect to ever see him again, quite frankly — or 4 of the 5 men from the other week – and even though it bums me out, I can’t honestly feel real loss about it.  How can I??  He’s given me no reason to care other than feeling self-conscious about my battered ego.

I have told a couple of other men in my orbit that my time is valuable and I’m not interested in chasing them down and that’s a new approach.  Some have ignored my message and others have promised they understand.  I’m not holding my breath about any of it; their behavior is irrelevant.  It’s about what I do.

Truthfully, I don’t give a fuck anymore.  It feels as though the cross-ties have been unhooked and I may walk freely now, do as I please.  I am no longer interested in pretending and no dogs are in the fight.  Call me, don’t call me, but I’ll figure out some personal line in the sand and when we cross it I’ll do the next thing I need to do.

Haven’t heard from you about our date tonight despite texting to confirm a few hours in advance?  Well, I’m just going to find something else to do.  You don’t show up when you say you will?  I’m leaving.  You take 3 days to respond to a question?  I’m going to delete our thread and forget about you because that’s how you deal with bad behavior.

I would never put up with a friend doing to me what Bones did last night or what any 100 other men have done to me over the years.  No question, absolutely not.

There’s got to be some effort, some benefit to me sharing myself with them beyond just some raw hope that they’ll come around to my side and treat me like I’m valuable.  Like, real effort.

I’d like to meet someone who’s put some sweat into getting me there and keeping me there.  I don’t even want a fucking relationship, just someone who’s respectful.  I had no idea that was nearly as impossible as finding love.

I can’t quite reconcile the amount of positive attention and heartfelt letters I receive almost daily online from Internet men claiming they’d worship me if they only had the chance with the amount of real life men who ignore me in equal measure.  The dual reality is almost too much to bear.  Which am I?  Special or not special??

My only conclusion is that people everywhere – men and women alike – are being overlooked by those nearest them due to some strange proximity phenomenon: we never seem to want what we can have and can’t see what’s right under our noses.

Regardless, I am no longer interested in low standards or seeming cool. The bar is going to be raised up and I’m going to be as uncool as the situation warrants.  I expect this to feel at once terrifying and liberating.  At the age of 40 you’d think I’d be past this point of resistance, but you’d be wrong.  I’m just now breaking it down.

 

 

 

 

I told him I’m Hy.

His sphincter clenched around the middle knuckle of my index finger as I stroked the hot, puffy flesh inside.  He moaned and I pushed in all the way.

His wrists and ankles were bound to the bed with various scarves I’d kept in my trashy cardboard sex box.  I hadn’t tied anyone up since The Neighbor.

I nestled myself up between his long, pale legs and sucked on his great big hardon, cupped his balls, reveled in the spasms happening around my buried finger.  My eyes closed and I lost myself, drunkenly, to servicing this young, supine man.

The details of the evening are generally blurred, but altogether hedonistic.  I climbed up and rode him every which way, let him watch my bottom bounce on him, helpless to touch my warm, writhing body.  I kissed him everywhere and nowhere, whispered filthy nothings in his ear, and bore down on him in darkness until I exhausted myself.

We stood next to my bed and I took the long fingers of his right hand and gently showed him how to hook into me and beat my pussy until she wept.  I filled his hand almost instantly and he was pleased with himself, I was pleased with him.

He loomed above me, the movement from his pumping arm shook the bed, and I waited below until I felt the hot streams of his cum spurt across my closed lids and open mouth.  That was fucking hot.

Remington had resurfaced roughly 10 days before, single and available once again.  Our first date last summer ended with his fingers in me with my back against my car.  Dog walkers passed by unimpressed.  We’d tried to meet up again after that, but failed to launch.  And then he got a girlfriend.  “Well, when you guys break up, hit me up,” I’d said.  He hadn’t forgotten.

Our reunion was sweet; I was surprised by how good-looking he was.  A Malibu Ken doll sort of man, 25 now (not 24!), 6’4″, lean, dorky glasses that somehow intensify a man’s hotness.  We talked for hours and caught up and when one more drink would have tethered us there for the night I invited him to my apartment instead.

On my couch we talked some more until I could bear his flashing smile no more.  I leaned across and kissed him and was instantly reminded of that hot summer night in the street.  His hands crawled all over me and I straddled his lap, my breasts in his face.  He groaned and pulled one out and I let him suck and bite until he got it just right.

I led him to my bedroom, lit a candle and asked him if he had any condoms.  “Do you have any Magnums?” he asked.  Well, well, well!  As a matter of fact, I do!

Deep inside of me he moved and crushed me to the bed, filled me up.  We passed out in a heap even as his snores kept me up half the night.

The next morning the cardinals sang me awake and I accidentally brushed against his massive morning wood.  “Mmm,” I said.

“Mmhm,” he answered, nearly comatose.

I stroked it harder and told him to put on a condom and backed up into his big spoon.  I came, he came, I got up to make us coffee and we spent a pleasant hour or two together while he tried fervently to blink back the morning.

At my door he bent down to kiss me goodbye repeatedly.  “Let’s do this again,” he said.

“Yes, definitely,” I answered.

A week later I texted, “Hey!  Wanna hang out tomorrow night and drink in my hot tub then fuck the shit out of each other?? lol.”

His reply: “That sounds like a great idea!!”

That was the night I found myself drunkenly defiling him like a horny teenager.

I’d gone back and refreshed my memory of our first date together; he was curious about submission, something I had forgotten about him.  We met at a dive bar and he brought his guitar.  It sat beneath his legs like a sleeping dog as we joked and flirted.

When it was time we climbed into his convertible and raced back through the chilly night to my place, though our hot tubbing plans were foiled by large orange cones warning us of broken concrete and black, rancid looking water at the bottom of the tub.  We sat on the poolside chairs and drank wine instead.

Remington is different: he’s an artist, a virtuoso.  A musician who almost can’t enjoy music anymore unless it’s the product of another great artist.  As I recall, his profile on AFF spoke of his ability to find rhythm, harmony.  He’s trained most of his life to achieve his success and is on the brink of the next big chapter: a full ride to a very prestigious masters program in the fall.

As we talked over the course of our two dates I found myself longing to talk about my own art, of Hy and this blog, my writing.  I wanted him to know I knew — even if in the smallest of ways — what it was like to need to create something.  There was also something about his obsession with his own talent, his drive to succeed that spoke to a greater understanding about self-expression.  I knew he wouldn’t judge me.

The decision to tell him that not only do I have a sex blog, but that I am Hy, was an impulsive one.  As he spoke about his achievements I felt an all too familiar pull to share my own successes — a feeling I’ve spent 4 years repressing.  But I am tired.  I’m tired of the double life, the hiding, the allusion to my talents but no proof of their existence and so I decided to unhook my armor and open wide.

Click here for a litttle Snapchat Hy and Remington movie.

“So I have something I want to tell you and it’s a really big deal.”  We sat on the couch, hips to knees pressed against each other, the B.B. King station playing on Pandora, spent from our raucous fucking and just barely clothed.

I explained to him the danger of telling anyone what I was about to share (“It could ruin my career.”) and the significance of me sharing in the first place (“I have never told anyone like this before.”).

He listened with rapt attention and poured us yet more wine.  Good, I thought, that’ll make this less painful. 

When I was done he said, “What’s my name on there?”

“Remington.”  He remembered the joke from our first date about “Remington Steele.”

“Ok, do you say where I live?”

“No.”

“Then I’m ok with it!”

His smile took up half his face.

“Would you like to see what I wrote about our first date??”  I felt shy, expectant.

We sat on my couch and together reread our first encounter.

“Wow.   You’re really good!” he said when he was done.  I preened.

We scrolled through more recent posts and he saw the Top 100 logo.  He was duly impressed all over again and I blushed.  It felt like I had finally stepped out from the shadows into the sun — I was free! — and after years of hiding Hy from people in my life this moment stood out.  Yes, it was risky, but the bondage had dropped from my limbs, even if only for a short time.

I explained to him my ethical codes for writing about men on the blog.  “Since you know about it, I won’t post anything without your knowledge and you always have the right to veto.”  He nodded.  “But don’t worry, I won’t write ‘shit’ about you, just my feelings and stuff we do together.”

He took his guitar out of the case and played for me and the dog until it was time to sleep again.  I floated on Cloud 9 and sipped on red wine with my breasts hanging out like a true reveler.

The next morning he had to get to work by 10 and so we dragged ourselves out of bed by 8:30.  I made us breakfast and he got things ready for work.  I still felt comfortable with sharing with him, but in the glare of the day I wondered how much he remembered about Hy and the blog.  What if it had been lost in our cups?  Should I bring it up and remind him??

I’ve spent the last few days since our debauched evening feeling reclusive and busy with other men.  I’d told him I had 5 dates this week in order to illustrate the value of my time, not brag (he didn’t seem to hold it against me), but the distance from this young man who knows my deepest, darkest secret has been well-timed even if coincidental.

As each day goes by I feel more exposed, more vulnerable.  Not to attack or even judgment, but simply to the elements.  I do not share all the facets of my person with anyone.  People either get Me, the woman with the career and child, and the open-mindedness about sex and relationships (very humdrum, by all accounts) or they get Hy, the writer, the photographer, the exhibitionist, the lover of sex they can never have (which seems to be highly exciting to most).  No one gets both and I’m not even sure Remington will, that’s entirely up to him.  After all, TN had access to both, but didn’t want to read Hy because he felt it was too personal to him.  Perhaps Remington will be the same, I have no idea.

Not only that, but what if it was a mistake?  What if he tells everyone he knows it’s me??  Or even just one person that’s the worst person to know?  That’s the more deeply seated fear that prevents me from telling even my closest of friends that I’m Hy.  It’s not that I don’t trust them, but maybe they’ll tell their best friend in the strictest of confidence and so on until just one wrong person knows and decides to blow up my fucking life.  I can’t expect people outside of my therapist to not share their lives with those they trust, can I??

Ideally my worries will be moot and he and I will have an artist’s appreciation for what the other does; we will get to paint on the canvases of one another’s bodies until he leaves town and nary a thought to public revelation will be had.

All I really want to do, though, is fuck the ever-loving shit out of him until he’s in another time zone.  I wish I weren’t so complicated.

Hy and Remington on the couch

He gave me permission to put this on my Instagram.