I’m free.

I have officially admitted to myself that I would like to find love.  I have ceased taking on any new men.  I have changed profiles to fit the new standard.  I have spoken with men on the phone.  I have written lengthy reply emails.  I am also unprepared.

There are so many layers to my life that I believe opts me out of any sane man’s world.  Hy, my need to expose myself, my writing, my kinks.  Do you know of any guy who wants to partner up with a woman who’s into triple digit lovers now, who shares intimate details of her sex life and thoughts, has thousands of Instagram followers for her alter ego, and who is comfortable living a double life for as long as necessary?

The special thing about Luke is that he met me as Hy first.  The hard part is done.  He accepts me for who and what I am.  The real life aspects are all just a bonus — my career, my child, my life — but going the other direction feels like rubbing a cat from tail to head.  It’s just awkward, unfulfilling, and might get you bitten.  In other words: hard.

I feel trapped by who I am and by my fear of rejection.

Nothing has happened — everything is calm — it’s just a waiting game now to see where all these trails go with the men currently in my life.  The lawyer, the martial artist, the sub PhD, the sweet Lothario, the sugar daddy, the dom, the mother lover, the special ops guy, the baby soldier.  The handful of others whom have yet to make a stronger impression.

Love enters our lives, right?  We don’t force it to happen, yet I find myself not willing to change much about my own self in order to find it.  Giving up Hy and this writing would be a colossal mistake. Giving up on my desires and wants and curiosities, too.  My deeply felt connections.  They’re all me, after all, and if I hide one aspect from a potential mate it feels disingenuous, like a charade.  I only want a man who wants all of me and not one layer less.

I’m terrified to discover I’m as alone as I feel, but there’s only one way of testing my theory and it isn’t cocooned in my little fuck-buddy-bubble.  It’s out there.

And so I wait in my gilded cage.  A longing woman behind her own self-imposed bars who watches the world with sad, old eyes.  Who sees the youthful couples plunge headlong into lifelong promises of love and babies, the lucky others hold tight to their nice-smelling, kind and strong, matching pieces, and the rest who bump along either indifferent or longing, like me.  Perhaps I’ll figure a way out on my own.  Perhaps someone will show me the way.

No where to go.

 

I still have hope.


I have been sick for most of 2016. It began in January with a fever of 103 and is ending with laryngitis and tight lungs, the diagnosis of which will be determined this afternoon in the doctor’s office.

I am exhausted.

I have lost my muse, my cat, by many accounts even my dignity — let’s not even discuss the White House — but I haven’t lost my hope.

I hope 2017 is better than ever.

I hope that little ember I feel continues to grow.

I hope my heart continues to swell with love and light.

I hope to grow my bank account.

I hope to build stronger bonds with my loved ones.

I hope we fight to keep the world progressing.

I’m not hiding anymore pretending to have it all figured out. I’m struggling, working hard, fighting back. Everything has burned to the ground, but there is new life. It’s the way of things.  I’m still alive.  I’m still doing the things I love.

I gripped the balcony railing on the 21st floor as the owner of the condominium buried his face in between my cheeks. The city lit up below me and the cold breeze swirled around us, his wet tongue and puffs of breath hot on my skin. His moans of pleasure matched my own.  I imagined it was Luke and smiled.

I enjoy men in new ways, brighter ways now. There are no ties which bind, no words that bond. I am free as a bird and light as a feather.  This is fun again and without the stench of desperation flogging me on.

He had me keep my boots on when we came inside and made sure I noticed the sliding closet doors which were mirrors when I undressed and laid down.

He was hard and felt good; he loved my pussy, came quickly, and promptly fell asleep. I did too.

Just before dawn I crept out of bed and opened the blinds which faced east and watched the rose gold light spill into downtown like phantom lava. The reflection on the buildings sparkled and where the light met the night was a beautiful dark hue of blue, like my eyes in the dark I imagine.

I redressed and woke him up to say goodbye. “I have to take care of the dog,” I explained to his unasked question.  He’d mentioned earlier in the night that he wanted to have champagne and brunch with me.

In the long elevator ride back down I looked at my reflection. I saw a woman who never stops looking, who never gives up. I saw her hope.

I also saw a woman who lives her life as largely as possible.

This year may have tripped me up and beat me down with all its curve balls, but it hasn’t erased the core of me: an artist, a lover, a good woman.  I am tougher than 2016.  I am still here and I’m not going anywhere.