A lot has happened: Bullshit no longer accepted here

I’ve been looking forward to this moment for weeks, this desire to sit down and write.  Like hunger, the posts still form in my mind, but my body remains far from this place of catharsis and raw sharing, this rich meal of creativity.  The reason why finally occurred to me the other day: I’ve been processing.

The other morning after dropping Peyton off at school, dressed in leggings and a hoodie and sporting two long braids and virtually no makeup, I met a man for a non-date at a nearby greasy spoon.

We met on AFF and though our politics, desires, and physical characteristics match up there was one glaringly obvious mismatch: after a 20-year marriage he is looking to play the field and I am not.

We confirmed the bad timing in an email or two, but he seemed to like me enough to ask me out for coffee anyway.  I agreed because the idea of meeting someone new without the threat of decisions about sex or having to figure out anything beyond enjoying his company seemed like a welcome breath of fresh air.

We chatted over an omelette, brisket hash and black coffee until he had to leave to catch a plane; two straight hours of life stories flew by like 5 minutes with an old friend.  It was the first time I’d been able to be unapologetically open with anyone new.  Nothing was at stake.  I didn’t regret one word, one move, because I wasn’t playing a game.  I wasn’t trying to win him over.

I spoke openly and brazenly, held nothing back as I might with any friend.  It was listening to myself sum up the last 2+ years of my life that I it all came into clear view like Neo finally seeing the Matrix for the first time.

The first year after The Neighbor left me and we attempted friendship felt like I had a bag on my head in a hallway filled with razor blades.  I was blind and in unbelievable pain.  I wanted only to be filled up with cock and my mind blown, but the closest I ever came was with two men — each of whom were just flashes in the pan.  Little did I know what a boon that year would actually be.

I ended the friendship the end of the first year and started year #2 completely TN-free and although it was definitely the best thing I could have done for myself, the rest of the second year could be defined as pure shit from every angle.  My finances were in the toilet along with my emotional and physical health, dicks lasted all of 2-3 minutes as did my interest in them.  My approach to life was simply to survive, not conquer.  It was a shit show with only one little bright spot.

So here I am in the third year, the year I have reclaimed as my own.  I announced to myself and the world in January that I was switching gears, that I was ready to let someone in.  I changed my dating profiles and started to screen for similar relationship goals.  It hasn’t gone well.

I knew it’d take work and time, but I will bashfully admit that for some unknown reason I believed in my heart of hearts that I was the only obstacle to finding love and that once I removed it I would drown in all the feels from all the men.  Go ahead.  Laugh.  I sure as fuck am.

Surprisingly, there are a lot of obstacles out there to finding a good mate.

For one, being vulnerable is tough.  I find myself trying to find that fine line of self disclosure and TMI.  When they ask me about my last relationship what the ever-loving fuck do I tell them??  Do I mention how I was *this close* to dumping him, but then he followed me to my current apartment complex and he still lives there?  Do I mention all the deceit and denial and distance?  That he continues to stalk my nudie profile?  Or do I just say, “It’s been a little over 2 years,” and leave the impression that I’m not still really fucking fucked up about it?  The difficult part of it is that I need someone to be gentle with me because I’m still so very. fucked. up. about it.

Two, turns out I can fuck a Trump supporter, but I can’t date him, and there appear to be a bunch of them in my age bracket.  It’s not because I’m a sore loser.  It’s because I vehemently disagree with his policies, his choices for heads of state and agencies, and on a purely party-line argument, I want the choice to do with my body what I will.  I don’t think these anti-abortion men realize that if I’m forced to have their baby, they’re forced to fork over a shit ton of money for it, as well.  I also don’t know how I’d introduce a Trump voter to my extremely liberal family.  My sister would vomit on her shoes as she clutched her brown babies and black husband closer.

And three, men are just simply shits.  Like Rex who strung me along with days worth of texting and phone calls and long conversations about what it was I was looking for during our 4 dates only to eventually ghost on me like a 23 year old; or Mr. Panties who when I said I didn’t want to have sex that night saw it as a challenge and was relentless until I caved, bragged about his 9″ dick (it wasn’t), and who, while I was dressing by the light of my phone the next morning, had a pair of women’s underwear inside workout pants on the floor by the bed and didn’t know to whom they belonged; or Devon, he who didn’t ask me any questions, who fucked me for our second go-around on our second date in the dark pre-dawn, but the morning before our third date texted to say he “Just wasn’t feeling it,”; or Trey, the big, muscled gym trainer who tried his best to get me to call him “my king,” as he pressed me against the wall of his Amerisuites room roughly 3 hours after we met; or Joe, the single father who worked weeks at a time on oil-rigs in a nearby state who came after 10 minutes (with an 8 minute blowjob) and never got hard again and so we just left it there forever; or the 21-yo (who’s now 23) who was supposed to just be fun, but after fucking for 20 minutes his mom called and ripped him a new one for forgetting to pick up his little brother.  He left to get him and was supposed to come back, but his worry his mother wouldn’t pay for his Spring Break if he left the house again overrode any desire to spend the rest of the night with me; or lastly, Logan, the sweet 28-year-old who I brought home after our first date and let him stick his giant dick in my ass, but who after he fucked me on our second date went to his car to grab his phone at 2 am and just never. came. back.

This isn’t an invitation to pick apart my choices or try to figure out why these men have done what they did.  Some of those men were supposed to be strictly for fun and others I was legitimately gathering data to see if he was a possible mate.  I have found that my needs for cock do not diminish just because I’m attempting to feed my heart  — it’s confusing — but what happened with Logan, being treated like so much trash after many hours of talking and building what I thought was a little friendship only to be literally cast aside…

My cage is rattled.

I have had some pretty horrible things happen to me at the hands of men over the years ranging from benign neglect to all out sexual assault.  I’ve been lied to, cajoled, begged, ignored, and relentlessly pursued, and all of it felt par for the course to one degree or another — even the assaults — but to be left by a lover whom moments before had been buried inside of me as if I were an empty plate he had no more need for… that fucking hurt.  That got to me.

It was the final experience of the past 2 years and 3 months that finally drove it all home: I am worth so much more.

I am worth the effort of someone to get to know, to take time away from other things to spend on me.  My pussy is worth as much, as well.  It isn’t up for grabs anymore just because it’s weeping with need.  Together, my fucking pussy and I, we are an incredibly valuable being deserving of far more currency than I’ve been charging.

I don’t want to fuck anyone just because I can or just because I need to feel something between my legs.  I don’t want to fuck a cluster of cells.  I want to fuck a man, a person, someone who is real to me.  Someone whose heart I can feel beat beneath my ear and whose cock pulses in time because we’ve decided to share it together.  Because he’s earned it.

This shift in me saved my pussy and me from fucking a Trump supporter the other weekend.  BJ was a dashing, funny, charismatic man whom I met on Coffee Meets Bagel.  We’d met for drinks on Friday and it had been a B+ date (he lost credit for talking about his crushingly beautiful ex-girlfriend and not walking me to my car).  The next day while wine tasting with friends, he became effusively day-drunk and wanted to see me again.  Immediately.

After royally pissing off my girlfriend by naively telling him where we were because he was on the other side of town he and his friend joined us.  It didn’t turn out badly.  He was affable and fun and I invited up to my apartment after drinks.  I also told him I wasn’t interested in sex.

We made out like lustful teenagers, but he respected my wishes and we slept curled up together fully clothed.  He in his t-shirt and shorts and I in my pajamas.  The next morning we cuddled and laughed in the soft morning light and I coquettishly rubbed on his bulge and imagined what it’d feel like to be inside of me.  But our hands remained atop all fabric.  By 1 pm, after more napping and canoodling we agreed it was time for me to take him home.  It was right about then I discovered he voted for Trump.

I groaned and felt a visceral clench around my gut.  “Does this mean I have to walk home?” he joked.  Apparently he had decided to ignore my “I’m allergic to Trump voters” line in my profile.  He said he didn’t know why.

I searched my soul for days after and came to the conclusion that he and I could never be more than friends.  Much like having a hard-line religious difference, I have realized my political beliefs in this election climate are as close to a faith as I have ever had and he and I appear to believe in very different things.  And it was with this realization that I felt the full benefit of waiting to know someone before I let them put their blood-stuffed body part into me: I got to walk away from the night unscathed and with all my emotional money; I had spent nothing on being with him.

There are still two sides of me — the professional, mommy, daughter, sister me and the dissolute, sexed-up, hungry, wild me — but each of them are a little bit wiser now.  The public-facing and the private Me’s have finally realized that all men will have to do some work to get either of them and that bullshit is no longer accepted at this establishment as a means of payment.

 

I am a hopeful, jaded bastard.

Unless he’s married, I think about a future with everyone I ever come into contact with.  Without exception.

It started in the 4th Grade when I began writing my name with a boy’s last name all over my Ked’s and knee-less jeans.  It progressed to doodling dozens of combinations of my first and their last names in math books, on binders, and backpack straps.  My skin often bore the proof of my interest, longing, and hope.

As I messily stumbled into dating as a young woman, I ditched the sketches and instead envisioned our life together, his and mine, intertwined with seamless balance, love, and passion.  It was grandiose — and a joke.  He’d buy me flowers just because, grind my coffee and bring me a steaming hot cup as I sat on our balcony and listened to a morning aviary serenade.  We’d lay on our backs in the grass and laugh at the passing pirate ships and Groucho Marx visages.  He’d make plans for us to visit my sister or his brother and we’d steal away for passionate moments in broom closets at family gatherings giggling into each other’s panting, open mouths as we grappled to get him inside of me as quietly and quickly as possible.

Of course, this has never come close to occurring in my life — not even remotely — but there’s still this hopeful little girl in me that thinks it’s possible.  Somewhere, buried deep inside a jaded, wily, crushingly charming 40 year old woman sits a little upturned face hoping her daddy finally comes through for her.  Except, he never does.

I sit across from all of them and bat my lashes, do my snake-charmer’s dance, and wonder if we’ll have chemistry.

When my interest is piqued, I lean in and give the signals.  Sometimes, I steal the kiss.  Sometimes, he does.

Our lips touch, I smell his skin and taste his lips and hope that when I hear the clatter of his belt buckle it will be a prelude to my orgasms.

I lie in his arms and run my hands over his rising abs, fondle his damp, plump cock and catch my breath.  Is this what it’ll be like in 10 years together?  Will we still set one another on fire like this?

When he stoops to kiss me goodbye — all of them, every one of them — I think, “This could be the story we tell people of how we got together.”  Of course, all he sees is a red-cheeked buxom woman, likely barely draped in clothing saying something unbelievably nonchalant.  Cool.  Oh, so cool.

When he doesn’t text the next day, or his texts become less frequent, it feels like little tiny knives slashing at my skin.  Bearable, but unpleasant.  But we felt so good together, I think.  We have chemistry, a shared outlook on life.  We should try to be together, shouldn’t we??

When he doesn’t respond to me, cancels, otherwise disappears, the tiny little knives cut deeper and like some kind of regenerating alien life form, my skin resurfaces itself that much thicker.  Each. and. every. time.

The number of tiny little cuts I’ve incurred over the years, particularly the last 5 since leaving my husband, are immeasurable.  Slash here, slash there, stab, jab, rip my fucking heart out. Buh-bye, Hy.

My readership and social media reach has grown in tandem with my dichotomous outlook of hope and despondence.  The first 8 hours are a blissful, blinding promise, followed by days or even weeks of realization that I was horribly wrong about him, everything.

I never meet a man with the intent to see him only once.  I certainly never fuck a man with that intent, either.  I meet with him because maybe this time the beginning of my new story will gain traction.  I write with cellular conviction that perhaps it will happen again, that they will become a leading figure in my life, but I am proven wrong repeatedly, doggedly.

My sister says I lead with my sexuality.  I don’t know how on earth she came to this conclusion seeing as she doesn’t know jack shit about what I do or who I am, but the woman isn’t wrong.  I know I do.  I can’t bear to lead with my heart.  It doesn’t interest me.  Let’s connect at the loins, then talk.  Or don’t.  I get it.

I’ve recently met and slept with two men.  Both younger, one immensely so.  One was a bad lay, for lack of a better description.  I fought for the chemistry, focused on his 6’6″ frame and long, curly hair wound through my fingers, and let him try to push his half-hard cock inside of me.  He came on my back, rolled off, and left with a chaste kiss.  I haven’t texted him since, nor he me.

Prior to the pitiful coupling we shared I imagined him reaching for things in the kitchen cabinets.  Nothing elaborate, but my mind’s eye had him there in a safe, domestic scene nonetheless.

The 21 yo was nervous, beautifully hard and round with muscles.  He said I was gorgeous and taught me slang and we laughed at the great divide.  Back at my place he removed his head band and leaned in for the kiss.  We peeled off clothes and marveled at each other in the flickering candlelight.  He twisted and bucked inside of me and I sucked him off — twice — after which he lay still, in a daze, and proclaimed it the best night of his entire life, everything he’d ever hoped for.  I’m sure I didn’t have much competition.

The following day, I texted good morning and told him I smelled like him, and in the place where once a chirping young man resided only the insect variety took up residence: crickets.  My fantasy for him included tying him up and reddening his bottom as I stroked his pretty young cock, teaching him the ways of women, how to do things Hy’s way, of stealing moments after work in furtive bursts of sexual abandonment.  But that can’t happen if he’s decided to never speak to me again for whatever 21 yo reason he may have.  It fucking sucks.

Twenty-one, 41, it doesn’t matter.  If you sit across from me I try to fit you somewhere in my life, my hopeful future.  As hardened as I’ve become there’s still this tiny little sliver of hopeful light fighting to burst through the fog.  My expectations, though deeply, irrevocably embedded in reality, still encase a woman who only wants to be seen, then wanted, then cherished by someone, someone who will see past all of this and still love me for who I am beyond my wanton, wild ways.

But maybe that’s a pipe dream.

I very rarely take a disappearance personally, perhaps only one in many years.  He has his own shit going on, I tell myself.  It was a great night, be happy with that.  I wasn’t invested anyway.  We don’t owe each other anything.  But I am a little sad, nonetheless; I’ve been at this for so many years I’m tired.

I am hired muscle blindly swinging at love and life.  Maybe someday I’ll land a punch and won’t have to erase that last name from my binder, maybe someday I’ll actually have someone to reach my grandmother’s special plates for me and remember I like my coffee black and hot as fuck.

Or maybe I will always be an enchanteur trapped inside her own spell of delights, alone and sought after, but never caught.