I emailed The Neighbor.

I emailed The Neighbor two nights ago.

I’d had a glass or two of white wine, there was a late Spring chill in the air, Sinatra was playing on the record player.  Every sock drawer had been organized, every bill paid, all the laundry folded.   There were no hanging chads in my life, so to speak and it was as if suddenly I had nothing else to do but email him.

So I did.

As my fingers slid across the keys it was an out-of-body experience.  Was I really doing this?  It’d been a year and a half since we’d seen each other, more than two since he dumped me.  Why was I doing this??

Even as I wrote I knew it was an awkward stream of consciousness.  “I’m genuinely curious to know if you’re great or struggling.  After two long years apart I continue to work hard to trust and be open.  I basically trust no one; it’s almost a joke.  So, I guess I’m admitting to you that I’m not great.”  But I didn’t care and hit Send anyway.

The next morning I did a game recap with surprised friends.  Ann and Meredith were supportive, but both wanted to know what my hopes were.  Why now after all this time??

I had a toothbrush in my mouth when it hit me: breaking the silence I imposed upon us was for me.

My stoic acceptance of his decision to end the relationship without so much as a discussion about it, my reluctant agreement to be friends because that’s what he needed, my heartbreaking realization that I still loved him and had to say goodbye, my stifled, private rage at discovering a trail of lies and blatant dismissal of everything I’d ever wanted, my enduring pain at seeing his car every day and sustained, low-level anxiety of running into him while at home.  I did all of that alone — he bore not one ounce of the burden, not for one second — I kept it all.

It seemed to me during our few times meeting as friends in the 9 months after we broke up that whenever I let my pain become evident, let it slip out ever so slightly, he would cringe.  Whether it was from guilt, fatigue, or disdain I have no idea, but I was intent on buttoning up more tightly for two reasons: 1) I didn’t want him to have anything of me and 2) I didn’t want to hurt him.

As I wrestled with the leaching reality of abandonment and betrayal I believed that responding to it would be losing something.  I didn’t want him to get anything from me ever again — not one calorie of energy — even the pain, sorrow, and stifling lack of trust he left behind.

And even though he absolutely deserved to see the lacerations of his lies upon me I didn’t want him to feel badly.  That would be a direct link to my issue with ever being open about my real feelings about someone or something.  If my feelings hurt or upset someone then they are implicitly wrong, right??

And now it seems that what I did was create a void where all that feeling had no where to go but to me and so I have festered.  I have fucked, flaked, fought, and floundered until I am completely and utterly uninterested in not only men in general, but even sex.  Why bother when every time I let a dick get near me it literally disappoints me?  Think about the double entendre there.  It’s intentional.

He replied today, overly friendly to be honest.  How dare he call me his pet name after everything he’s done to me?  Should I list them all for you or just hyperlink like crazy??  The point is, the tone of my note was not familiar, so why respond to it in such a way?  It wasn’t appropriate.

He said he was saddened to hear of my trust issues because he can relate due to his own.  Not that he was saddened to hear it because he clearly contributed to them.  But because he can relate.  Well, awesome.  Thanks.

He gave me a better email to use and invited me to text, but I no longer have his number and I don’t yet know what to say to him.  I feel a volcano of emotion about to erupt, that needs purging.  I want him to know what the last two years have been like for me with his odd internet stalking of my AFF profile, seeing his goddamned car every goddamned day, and the anxiety of a run-in I carry with me despite my best efforts to exorcise it.  (It’s possible had I never run into him and his girlfriend at the gym that the threat would have ever crossed my mind, but it did and so it does.)

Some will think this is a huge mistake; I’ve already gotten closure, moved on.  It’s been two years! they’ll say.  Others will think there never was closure and this is a good path forward; Show him, girl!  Tell him!

But what do I need from this?  I didn’t write the first note expecting anything in return, but what I got was friendly in tone and communal.  It wasn’t bad.  But there was a sensitivity missing, a subtle nod to what that must have taken for me to finally write.  His response wasn’t somber enough.  This man broke me and he replied to me like a long-lost close office mate whose 9-5 life he once shared.

I’m still contemplating all of this.  What I want to do is not at all clear.  That stupid 150 word email has begun to peel a long-suffering scab atop a festering wound and I feel like a stranger in a strange land.  I only know how to be controlled and at a protective distance.  How do I do this whole This is the truth deal?

I hope there are still some who read me; any words of wisdom are more than welcome.  I need help.  I am at a complete loss.  But maybe this will be the end of it?

 

I have dreams that come true.

Good lighting. Who knew?

I’m sitting at an outdoor cafe dappled in shade, a cigarette dangling out of my mouth.  I have on a white v-neck shirt and a black and grey striped cotton skirt, high-heeled wedge sandals and a black bra.  My new short bob is gently blowing in the breeze and my stylist will be hearing from at least 3 of my friends since she worked her magic on me last Saturday to memorialize my heartbreak.

I have a sequined work bag and a large navy purse tossed on the picnic table and notebooks strewn about.  I ran into a colleague earlier and went and said hi.  Shook his hand and made nice, long eye contact with his cute, nerdy (and sadly married) friend.  I’ve made some phone calls, done some research.  Fidgeted.  I look like somebody, I’m sure, but feel like nobody.  And I can feel my naked pussy expel its juices on the hard bench beneath my bottom.

I am ready.  It’s the second day of my cycle, the worst week of the month for me.  I’m like a mare in heat.  I pulse, I drip, I devour with my eyes, my sashay, my curves.  I want cock.  And bad.  And how lucky am I that I no longer have one at my immediate disposal?  Ah, sarcasm.

I have a second date tonight with Alex.  Our first date went swimmingly enough.  He’s rough around the edges, lanky, suggestive.  Not overly handsome — like I like my men — but self-assured and goddamned funny.  We laughed so hard I cried and he kissed with passion and verve.

I plan on going spelunking in his pants at the bar tonight.  I will not have sex with a man who isn’t big enough to fill me up.  I tend to have better luck than most women when it comes to attracting well-endowed men, though, so I’m not too worried.  Hate me, call me shallow, call me whatever you want, but I have a deep well and an even deeper need to be filled up and split wide open and that can only happen if he has a baby arm between his legs.  I don’t discriminate based on height or skin color, but I do on cock size.  Sue me.

When I ended things with Troy I never thought I’d find anything remotely as amazing as him as a lover.  He worked my body like an instrument and he was the master musician.  He made my body do things I didn’t know it was capable of, taught me to control it and to wield its new tricks.  I mourned and searched for months for a replacement.  Enter, The Neighbor.

The boy next door with a giant cock and the innate skill to learn and grow with me.  I feel like a shallow little asshole for missing that more than anything right now.  Yes, he’d become my closest and best friend and I miss that desperately, but we’ve begun the slow march to repairing that.  The sex, however, I have lost, and my heart and pussy are bleak at the prospect.

When TN came over the other night, at his initiation, and I told him everything about 4 am girl he spanked my legs and I told him not to touch me.  It was too thrilling.  We barely flirted, but my pussy clenched and pulsed at the memory.  My breasts jiggled under their white v-neck, my thick, curvy legs peeped out of little ruffled pj shorts.  It wasn’t my plan to be dressed so when I saw him next.  It just happened.

The last morning we were together I told him about a dream I’d had that night.  We were rolling around in his bed, tangled in sheets, when I felt something slither on my legs.  I reached down and pulled out a black and red silk  nightgown; lacy on top with spaghetti straps.  “What’s this??” I’d asked.  Dream TN looked innocent and said he didn’t know.  Then he’d called the owner of the nightgown and she’d come over.  She’d invaded our sacred space together to retrieve her intimate garment.  She was disheveled and messy.  I felt nothing but disdain for her, no jealousy.  Dream Hy thought, “Hmm, I have nothing to worry about.  He can have her.”  She spoke in a British accent and revealed herself to be a huge mess.

The real TN laughed and promised me nothing like that would ever happen.  He was buried to the hilt inside of me and I was on top of him.  My ejaculate had pooled into his navel and I was splashing it on him as we laughed at the ludicrousness of my dream.  Only, it all really happened.

Sunday night 4 am girl spoke to me in a British accent for 20 minutes.  And she’d invaded our sacred space in more ways than one.

He asked me what else I’d dreamed about.  “Jesus Christ, Hy.  When am I going to die??”

We laughed amicably and then I told him about my dream from the other night.  “It was like an Escher drawing.  We were on our stairs, trying to avoid one another, but we couldn’t get away.  Then you caught up to me, pushed me against the wall and took me.  Fucked me hard.”

He visibly cringed — it’s too soon to talk about, but I was glad to see his visceral response to my dream — and I assured him that the feeling was good.  “It was like we were protected, on our balconies or something.  I think we might be able to do it again,” I ventured.  And I meant it.

After all the hurt, all the betrayal, all the heartbreak I don’t want him.  But I want his cock.  I need cock.  My wet, needy pussy needs it.  “I know I’m naive, but I’m not naive enough to think it’s a good idea right now.”  I assured him I didn’t want him now anyway, but maybe, later, one day.  “Maybe.  The TN in a month-and-a-half might feel differently,” he offered.

After Alex tonight I am to see Matt tomorrow, a man I cancelled on a few weeks ago.  I met him on AFF and know he’s well-endowed and he has a sick sense of humor, which I like.  Kevin also showed his face a day or two ago and his dick is prettier than most.  If only his lean 26 yo body could keep up with my soft 36 yo one.  He often complains his abs hurt for days after we fuck, “You’re more athletic than most, Hy,” he once said.  I told him to shut the fuck up and do more situps.  And Friday, I have another second date.  Josh.  We met for lunch on Friday and he’s tall and lanky too and has a quiet self-confidence I hope translates to some good, hard spanking in bed.

I told TN of my dates and he seemed slightly taken aback.  “You sure don’t waste any time, do you?”

“I can’t be alone.  You know that.  I need something to do.  And look at you.  You fucking had a girl over within hours…”

I told him I wouldn’t be his friend if/while he dates 4 am girl.  He didn’t argue and didn’t disclose that they were together, either.

So I’ve made my decision.  I’m going to rush headlong into the arms of men.  I need them.  It’s part of who I am, what I am.  Sex is cathartic for me.  It’s healing and painful and glorious and for those minutes I’m tangled and panting and being impaled I am above everything else.  It’s my meditation.  Some people need a bell, a chime and some incense.  Well, I need a naked, slobbering, sweating and thrusting man.  It’s that simple.

And since I’ve lost my key mediation partner in all of this I will have to hunt down some replacements.

Fuck me.

Please.