Following through and opening up.

I have put it out into the Universe that I want love.  I have changed all of my online presence to reflect that.  I have written about it here, I have spoken about it with friends, potential partners, my fucking therapist.

I believe the time is right and that now more than ever I am ready, but with all this preparation and declaration I have also been brought face to face with the reality of what and who I am.  And I am scared.  It all seems completely impossible.

I have deactivated my accounts across all dating platforms.  It was getting too noisy and bumping into Rex made me realize that I need quiet in order to do this.  I had a full dance card on Sunday and by Saturday I had only kept two engagements.  Both with him.

He crowded my thoughts all week and other men were distant seconds due to their own innocent ignorance.  Why would I pretend to be only half of me with one of them when I could attempt to be all of me with him given the opportunity?

::

I came across a quote on Instagram today — I’ve seen it before.

He says you are too much.

You talk, laugh, smile, feel far too much.  But baby….

here is the problem:

He is too little to appreciate that it took an entire galaxy

being woven into one soul to make you.

I was married to that man, that little man who made me feel like I was wrong and whose own soul was in a self-imposed box.

I took up too much space on the sidewalk, he said.

I spoke too freely of my opinions, he said.

I shouldn’t need him to say I was beautiful, he said.

My art, my being, my movement through life was unacceptable.  It made him uncomfortable and self-conscious  It took me nearly 7 years to realize that his words for me were really for him.  He was a miserable shell of a man afraid of his own shadow, his own needs, and I had inadvertently married a man who personified my inner voice: I was too much.

I cried when I read the quote.  It felt all too familiar.  And I am feeling fragile today, far too vulnerable.  Telling people I want to be loved feels like peeling away my skin.  I feel raw, weak.  Like I am shivering and helpless and strapped to a tree in the goddamned sparkling snow.

Being honest about what I long for means I must demand certain things of the men I meet and of myself.  Honor and respect, kindness and compassion.  I have not had kindness in my life in so long and even the smallest glimmer of it creates a fracture in my facade.  I am suddenly and completely armorless.

Is this what it’s like for other people?  Normal people?  For everyone else who doesn’t have what feels like crippling issues with intimacy and trust?

It wasn’t long ago that no one could hurt me.  I was on a pedestal far above the fray.  Fuck me, leave me, don’t text, don’t show up, cancel on me, lie to me.  Fuck you, do it.  I’m not here anyway.  It’s just a body and I’m merely feeding it.

But I am no longer hungry for that.  I want to be a human, not that thing I was for so long, whatever that was.  I want to fill my heart.

I want to fill it with a man who knows me.  Whom I can introduce to my baby, my mother, my friends.  Someone who will help me move furniture I struggle to drag from one end of the city to the other on my own.  Someone to fucking care, to tell me everything is going to be ok when I’m not at all sure it will be.  Someone to just hold me, stroke my temple, press his lips to mine and breathe me in.

::

I sat across from that small man, my exhusband, last week and the disdain and resentment in his eyes burned into me.  His words cut and confirmed what I had always known about him: he never liked me.  I let his inner road map route my life because, I’d thought, it’s what I was supposed to do.  The truth is, I should have ended our relationship 2 months in, but his interest in me was mesmerizing despite his criticisms.

Step by step he moved us closer to marriage and all along the way he rejected who I was.  Six years after I closed the book on us I have never regretted escaping his dark cloud, but I have yet to find the sunshine.  I have operated under my own dark cloud of fear of people.  He betrayed me.  He made me promises he never intended to keep and he told me it was my fault.

The Neighbor never bothered to make a promise, but somehow convinced me he was worth having in my life.  Or maybe I was just an fucking idiot and the sex and his daily rejections were my catnip.  I’m open to that possibility.  Looking past and around them my life has been filled with men whom never deserved my energy, yet I gave it freely all the same.

They were safe because they would demand next to nothing from me in return.  I could be safely ensconced in my armor of detachment; they could be easily dismissed for behaving awfully.  Deciding to open up and be myself positions me for love and hurt, but I suppose it’s time to woman up and follow through.

I can either cry about being alone and continue to play child’s games or I can change the game altogether.  Be myself instead of someone else, but the truth is that when you line up all the pros and cons of Hy there are an awful lot of cons to get past first.  I’m not saying the cons are greater than the pros, just that there are many brambles to cut back before someone reaches the castle gates.

I feel like a branch heavy with snow about to break.  Can I really expect anyone to take it all on?  I mean, can I??

And the answer is yes, because if it were anything else then that would mean I had already given up and I have only just begun.  I have only just begun.

When the stars align.

There’s an eerie balance to the universe.  One thing expires, another blossoms; a door closes, another one opens.  People who are closely bonded find themselves on similar cycles of mood, energy, menses, luck.

For me, the stars have been aligning, one by one, to bring me to my knees on the alter of Pull Your Head Out of Your Ass.

I’m finally admitting to myself that, yes, I want a relationship.  

A real thing to nurture and take care of.  I want to be fucking special to someone, not just a fun time — my fun bags be damned.

Admitting that is much harder than you might imagine.

To say I want to be loved shows you that I am soft where I wish to be hard, that I have a chink in my armor.  It means I will have to be honest for a change with both myself and the men I date because right now, I’m a giant liar.

“No, I just want something casual!” I might say laughing, which roughly translates to “I don’t need you to call me, to make plans.  I don’t need you to say nice things or let me know you care.  I don’t need to share myself with you in anyway because you are a blip on my radar, just one vessel of many in my dating sea.”  In other words, I pretend I’m self-sustaining And don’t give a fuck what you do.

But the truth is, I’m not and I do care.  I care very much.

My little relationship with the Bad Texter has taught me that I am capable of developing a connection outside a bedroom and though I wonder that he might not be a good candidate for me in the long run, I’ve decided to practice my truth-telling with him.

I will tell him I am looking for something real and that I’d like to explore that with him.  Because that’s actually the truth, crystal ball malfunctioning or not.

What that means is, I will say that I care about him and that my feelings are ripe to develop and that I want to explore them with just him.  

Well, to be more specific, I want him to date only me.  Baby steps, ok?  I don’t think I could put all my eggs in his basket.  Admitting I have feelings is big enough, thank you very much.

Then I will wait to see how he responds because there are only two things that happen when you tell the truth.  You either hear what you want to hear or you hear what you fear.

I suspect he will tell me he’s not looking for a girlfriend at which point I will kiss him goodbye and thank him for our time together.  He won’t have any idea how his easy-going nature and focus on me helped put me back together, but I will never forget our brief time together.  

I’m tired of lying to myself and everyone else.  It’s time for the truth: I want to be special.

Next step will be to look for a man who thinks I’m amazing.

I have sex once a week.

I made us a bacon carbonara with butternut squash with some fried sage and lemon zest.  An old friend came over, Peyton cleared the dishes and we all read stories until little top and bottom lashes met and Z’s were had.  With a twinkle in his eye, The Neighbor said he’d wait until my friend left before he’d leave.  “Adults gotta have time alone,” he said into my ear.

We aren’t having tons of sex lately.  I think on average, we have sex about once a week.   It’s a strange balance.  Back when we were a precarious couple we fucked non-stop.  Now that we’re solidly together, it’s once, maybe twice a week if we’re feeling frisky. I’m perplexed at the shift.  I’ve read Mating in Captivity and it explains a lot; it backs up much of what we all already know: We like strange.  And then everything else sort of falls into place from there.

Beyond that, we’re in the stage of maintenance.  We’re figuring each other out, fine-tuning all the ins and outs of our needs.  It doesn’t leave much for sexual exploration or deviancy.  I am just so wrung out at the end of each day.  What he does has little to no effect on my sex drive, either.  Whether we’ve gotten along famously or butted heads it makes no difference: I’m just a whooped ass motherfucker.

But last night, it was the old TN and Hy.  The promise of delayed debauchery kept me on track and after the final hugs goodbye to my dear friend we went immediately to my room and lit candles.  We laid on our sides and talked.  Checked in and tenderly touched with all our words the nooks and crannies of our day.

He’d burned his face with coffee that morning when he’d slipped on a step and had a tiny little fan of red below his right eye, right in all the crows’ feet.  I touched it tenderly and he watched me closely.  When I noticed the look in his eye I moved my hand from his eye to his crotch and found a large, warm and swelling mass of flesh.  Yum.

I worked his cock until it was mostly stiff in my hand then moved between his knees and fell on him with my face.  He wanted me to be extra soft, extra smooth.  I backed off the pressure with both my hand and mouth and let his hard warmth slip through my lips and fingers.

“I’ve had enough,” he said.  “I want to fuck.”

“No,” I replied between sucks.  “Beg for it.”

I closed my eyes and let all of him move over my tongue and through my grip.  I could do this forever, I thought.

He was tentative at first, but once he knew I was serious his urgency increased.  “Please, Hy, please.”  I perked up and waited to hear more.  “Please fuck me.”  It was a whisper now.  “Fuck me, fuck me…”

I popped off of him and looked at his pretty, bearded face.  He froze and looked back at me.  A heart beat or two passed.

“More,” I grunted.  And started sucking again.

His pleas became more urgent, more real.  “Please, please, Hy.  Fuck me.  Let me be inside of you.”  The tone was different and drilled down right inside of me.

Finally, I relented.

He sat up and flipped me over on my back, peeled of my panties and butted the head of his cock at my opening.

“Do you want this?” he asked, staring down at me.

I nodded and he pushed inside, deeply.  I held him there with my ankles linked under his ass.  His breath puffed on my neck.

He moved and he thrust.  I clawed at his flanks.  He rocked and I bucked and moans floated to the ceiling.  Mine and his and all the trivial life things slipped away with each slip of sound.

Our tempo increased and the candlelight flickered on his face.  Without thinking I lifted my hands to his face and covered his eyes.  His hips hit me harder.

“You’re so beautiful,” I said.

And he was.  The sinews on the backs of my hands cut lines across the boyishness of his face.  His bowed-mouth fell open with the passing of his breath and it caught each time he pushed inside of me.

“So beautiful,” I breathed again.

He began to hammer at me and we twisted and writhed together and contorted our bodies until I came and came and cried out.

“Grab my neck,” he said.

I switched my hands from his eyes to his neck and watched the veins in his neck pop as I squeezed gently.  He ground into me and his cock swelled as I tightened my grip.  I switched back to his eyes and blinded him again.  He moaned, I moaned, and he slammed into me until I screamed with an orgasm.  He stopped and pulsed inside of me.

I lowered my hands slowly and he opened his eyes.

We looked at each other in the dim light.  His eyes glowed, light and clear.

We grabbed the vibrator and repositioned ourselves.  He pumped his cock with his hand and I rocketed out with orgasms and many bursts of sound.

Then once more.

When we were done he kissed me deeply and we laid together and caught our breath.

“That was good,” we said almost together.

It had felt different, somehow.  Sexier.

He gathered his things and got redressed.  When he left I felt solid, content.

If this is the kind of sex we have once a week, I’ll be perfectly content… maybe forever.  I just hope we can make it happen.

 

 

My dildo nearly killed him.

Stability, like a rock, can sometimes squash creativity.  It happens to all couples.  After the first 6 months routines are instituted, all the right buttons pushed, switches flipped.  Where’s the passion?? we wonder.  Well, I can tell you.  It’s beneath the everyday maintenance and all the layers of intimacy.  That sexy new man is right in front of you, but you have to see his otherness first.

This is a nice place to be.  The Neighbor, always a goddamned enigma to me, has become tenfold more attractive.  I like his mysterious, unfathomable ways these days.  It turns me on. 

I focus on the fact that I simply cannot know everything about him and while I know enough to say I love him and want to stay, I am allowing his strange newness to step forward and surprise me more.  Yes, I know “he’s mine,” but life gives no tidy contracts.  I gotta work for this fool; think about the next big thing we’re gonna do.  The familiar embrace of possible rejection keeps me alert and focused on keeping us both interested in each other.

And so this weekend I planned on tying him up again, something which I haven’t done in far too long.

I heard him come in first, quietly, before I saw his head pop up from my spot on the couch.  “Are you alone?” he asked.

“Yep,” I answered, slightly confused.  He disappeared for a moment and then walked out from behind the room divider buck naked with a nice, heavy chubby cock.

“Good.  I didn’t want to scar Peyton just in case something had changed and you were on kid duty.”  He walked towards my smiling, appreciative face.

“Nope.  All alone,” I answered and grabbed his cock.

He was clipped and clean and I smelled soap.  I wrapped my hand around the base and sat up just enough to take the tip in my mouth.  I looked up and saw him watching me.  “Put your arms above your head,” I said succinctly.

He giggled, but complied and I turned my attention back to his hot meat.  Every so often he would moan and I would look up.  The points of his elbows high in the air brewed something deep down in my center, the soft tufts of hair in the arm sockets, the trail of hair leading to my face.  I lapped and sucked and he said how much he loved my mouth.  When he tried to lower his arms I commanded he put them back up immediately.  He smiled broadly and did as he was told.

When his breathing was labored I stood up and led him into my room. The bed was made and cat on the windowsill.  A clean palette for the mess I was hoping to make.

He asked me to keep sucking from my knees.  “It’s so hot,” he explained.  I encourage him to be vocal about his wants and so I dropped immediately, used my knees to spread his feet a little to bring him lower; up went his arms again.  His passion grew and he lost some control; he wanted to stick it in.

“Not yet,” I said.  “Lay on your back on the bed.”

I went around and got my Box o’ Toys.  “What are you doing?” he asked a little nervously.

“You’ll see,” I replied as I pulled out two silk scarves and quickly tied his ankles to the foot of the bed.  Then I reached in and grabbed my dildo, a massive, beautiful beast of silicone and jelly.

TN's Christmas gift to me

This shit ain’t no joke.

His eyes widened.  “What re you going to do with that?”

“None of your business,” I answered curtly.  “Now keep stroking your cock.  I’ll be right back.”  I left to rinse off the beast and smiled because I knew his strange man-mind was thinking I actually planned to put this up his tight, sweet ass.  I’m not so naive as to think it would even be physically possible — I had other ideas — but I quickened at the thought that he truly didn’t know.

When I came back in I knelt beside him, nude, but for my knee socks, and wagged the thing above him.  “Open your mouth,” I said firmly.  He looked at me and squirmed.  “Do it,” I added.

Struggle played across his face and I delighted in it.  I dragged his left hand between my legs and let him feel my wetness.  He pushed in two fingers as I pushed the dildo past his lips and he took a little taste.  His brow was furrowed with embarrassment and I placed his other hand on my hanging breast as I leaned over and controlled the depth of the cock in his mouth.

He popped it out and asked me what I’d put on it.  Confused I said, “Nothing, just water, why?”

“My mouth is burning a little,” he explained.

“Nope, just water,” I reassured him.  “But do you want to stop?”  He answered by taking it back in his mouth.  I gasped a little and watched, transfixed.

He was an image of sex: ankles secured so he couldn’t move, his hands full of pussy and breast and his mouth stuffed with this big, fake cock.

I let him take the cock from me so I could stroke his real one as I whispered fucking unbelievably hot he was, then I’d had enough.

I climbed up on him and wiggled down, my eyes latched to his face as I watched his performance anxiety melt away and his energies focus on me, not himself.  He was doing all of this for me.  All of it.

This knowledge kicked my hips into motion and I rode him hard as he did a better job of deep-throating that thing than I ever could.  I came in little bursts and squirted like a fountain as  my breasts pulled at my chest as they bounced all round.  Sweat prickled to the surface all over my body and I felt like a live wire.

Exhausted and panting I climbed back off, untied him, and grabbed my Hitachi from up high in my closet.  He looked at me knowingly and I lay down beside him, turned on the wand, and watched him suck my fake cock.  I imagined a real man above him fucking his face and I came loud and hard then went limp.

He set the cock between us with a quizzical look on his face.

“What’s the matter?” I asked, concerned.

“My throat is burning and feels tight,” he said.

“Oh shit!” I exclaimed.

“Yeah, it’s like that feeling when I take Benadryl or Tylenol PM.”  Shit, fuck, damn!, I thought.  He’s deathly allergic to those things!

It’s funny how quickly one can accommodate life’s demands.  Think of all the times a rutting couple has been interrupted by a small child’s cries.  I sat up and asked, “Can you breathe ok?”

“Yeah, for now.”  He stood up and I could see he was checking his own vitals, his hand on his chest.  “It’s really burning,” he added.  “But I feel ok enough.”  He took a big drink of water.

“No, we’re just going to pause here,” his “I feel ok enough,” an implicit go-ahead to keep doing what we were doing.  “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to dress an unconscious, 200lb man for EMS?  We’re going to just chill here for a bit before we do anything else.”

He laid down next to me and I stroked his chest.  “Maybe you’re allergic to the dildo,” I offered.

“What’s in that thing?” he asked.

“I dunno, I suspect silicone?  Are you allergic to that?”

“I highly doubt it.  Wouldn’t I know by now?”

“Probably.”

“Your plan for murder didn’t work today.”

“Damn, you figured me out.  I can see it now: ‘DEATH BY DILDO.'”  We giggled and chortled at that.

“What would you tell the paramedics?”

“The truth!  I’d tell them and the ER docs that I’m a kinky fuck and that you adore me and would do anything for me so you sucked a big fake cock that tried to kill you.  I’d want them to have all the facts.  I’m not embarrassed.”  We laughed and he hugged me.

“Are you feeling better, yet?” I asked, genuinely concerned.  He took another drink of water.

“I think so.”

We rested some more before getting up and going about our day.  I checked in on him later and he said he’d done some research and discovered that silicone allergies are incredibly rare, but that there could be some kind of manufactured jelly he may be allergic to.  “I’m just gonna have to suck that thing with a condom on next time,” he concluded.

“I’d never make you do that.”

“I know, but I’d do it anyway.”  I could feel his smile through the phone and I felt lucky that there are still so many things about this young man that surprise me, namely that he’ll do anything for me, including not be afraid of giant, beastly killer dildos.

 

 

 

I think we’re a real couple now.

Hy and her zipper

Me and my boring ol’ shit.

The Neighbor and I have come through the swamps of change and reality.  When I told him I loved him in December after two years of dating [mostly on] I irrevocably changed our dynamics.  I had the willful kind of naivete that only a love-starved divorcee could have: I told myself I couldn’t live with myself a day longer without him knowing.  What if I got hit by a bus and I’d never said the words?!

So, I said them.

And it was anti-climatic, like an ice cream cone in December.

What ensued were months of struggle for the two of us as we tried to recalibrate our feelings with the patterns we’d established.  Patterns like he came and went mostly whenever he wanted to, he never stayed the night, I never spent any time at his place, I kept him and Peyton separate, I kept him separate from my family and most of my friends, we fucked A LOT and late at night, I was kept separated from his friends.

Let me simplify it even more: we had a glorified friends with benefits situation going on where he got his cake and ate it, too.  I felt like I had a pseudo-boyfriend.  Then the L word came between us and shook our silly little asses all the fuck up.

I love you.

Just like that I expected something different.

Naturally, I drove the changes.  TN, I’m willing to bet, would have been perfectly content to never have changed our arrangement.  The man had it made, after all.  I sometimes wonder if he was just waiting for me to pull the plug on it all and walk away.  He’s just that inert kind of guy sometimes.

The first few months post-I-love-you were sticky and weird.   I looked forward to moving away, to getting some space.  Guilt weighed on me — I shouldn’t want to get away, right??  But I did.  I needed air to breathe, sweet and open.  Now that I’d closed the gap I was hyperventilating; the weight of what we’d done suffocated me.

And what happened?  I moved a minute and a half away because it was the best apartment for the best price.  I sagged at the irony, but embraced the distance nonetheless.  TN started staying over for the first time ever and we both realized that Peyton had come to rely on TN’s visits, too, so now there was a day just for the two of them to see each other.

But I still chafed.  TN was often, if not always late.  He changed plans frequently.  He was weird and vague when answering questions.  I felt off, scared, vulnerable.  Too vulnerable.  And the sex dropped off.  Not a lot, but something about the whole shenanigan just changed.  It was the same thing, different day, and instead of pushing boundaries, we were pushing the clock.  Quick, stick it in before I pass out from sheer exhaustion!

When he moved into my apartment complex my hyperventilations increased.  Did I want to do this??  Was he the right man for me?  I’d slipped back into this weird, my-partner-must-be-next-to-perfect mentality.  His likenesses to my exhusband terrified me and seemed all-consuming.  The sex continued to feel rote.  The occasional blowjob, the requisite orgasms and squirting.  It was nothing to complain about — it wasn’t bad — but my mind was elsewhere.  It was in the courtroom deciding our fate.

And then one day close to the end of summer something happened: I began to be honest with him about my apathy, my fears, my knee-jerk clinging reactions to my feelings of vulnerability.  It’s funny how injecting yourself with some no-bullshit bullshit can really work.

The sex got hotter, our times together more sweet, TN and Peyton began to cultivate a special kind of relationship, too, where my poor little baby finally got someone to help diffuse Mommy’s intensity.  Most importantly, I let go of these traditional ideals of “forever,” I swatted away the notion of “wasting time,” and I embraced the fact that I never had him in the first place so I had nothing to lose — relationship Zen and all that.

I felt free to enjoy him and all his differences for the first time in forever.  That space I’d worked so hard to ascend when we were just fuck buddies was once again under my feet.  I’d climbed Relationship Everest once again.

We don’t have sex as often as we did when we shared a wall and my baby wasn’t in school — I’m just too damn fucking tired at 10 pm when he’s raring to go — but we do other intimate things.  He fondles my breasts, I suck his giant cock, he watches me writhe and cum under my Hitachi, we cuddle like beasts.

I feel like we’re finally in a good place as a real life couple.  For the first time ever.

Not surprisingly, it makes all our old, boring moves in bed all the more gratifying.  The same old fuck is now a potent encounter. The same huge cock stuffed in my mouth as I cum is dirty and titillating. The same grope and squeeze is delicious and sneaky.  When he looms over me with a sweet smile and a smack on my ass it blasts through me like a sunbeam through a misty morning.

I feel that unmistakable lift of love: the birds twitter, the leaves whisper, and the wind whistles to me.  I think of him and I smile and when my eyes land on him I swell with bona fide happiness.  I’m almost afraid to be this happy, but then I ask the all important question we should all ask ourselves, “Why not??”  And then I go right ahead and feel the fucking love.

 

I wish I knew more.

Hy in her moment.

For the first time in a while I woke up and thought of taking a picture… and of writing.

The Present.  We talk about it like we know what it means, how it’s supposed to feel.  I suppose it could be the absence of longing (The Future) and regret (The Past), that feeling of awesome timelessness we felt as a kid with the grass beneath our backs and ever-morphing clouds above us which told an epic story that has always been the backdrop to our lives.  That this moment, while fleeting, is the most real thing in our lives.

I remember distinctly wanting to break up with my exhusband about two months into our relationship.  I received awful advice from a friend — who to her credit was taking it herself — who told me to push through my misgivings because on the other side lay happiness.  Basically, that just because it didn’t appear to be what I really wanted I might be surprised to find it was good enough.

I don’t have to tell you how her relationship is today; I personally wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

So I listened intently, took a deep breath, and shut down all my misgivings about him.  Ten and a half years later I see that night with her at some shitty bar with an even shittier cover band as the night I decided to do the wrong thing.  I should have ended it.

I obsess over that night and try to weigh all the decisions after it.  Of course a lot of what I hold dear would never have happened had I listened to my gut, namely my child.  Actually, only my child.  I tell myself there was no way of knowing, that he had us all fooled into believing he was stronger than he actually is, but I still feel responsible for choosing a man who chooses himself and his new woman over his own child.

My friends, with solemn, sad faces, have told me that Peyton will be ok because I am the mother, the mama, but my heart still breaks.  Peyton loathes going back and forth between us and longs for us all to live in a house together.  I might add that includes The Neighbor, the new woman (Kathy), all the besties and their mommies, too, and my mom and step-dad.  Peyton’s Commune, we’d probably call it.  The regret, the first of my life, is at times crushing.

Enter TN.  A man whose limitations may be their own Litmus Test.  Will he ever melt into me and my life?  Can I really sign up again to be with a man who can’t connect in the ways in which I think I want to?  I can’t even say definitively if I’d like it better.  I’ve never dated anyone all the way.

I’ve never had anyone beg me to get closer, to spend time with Peyton, just the three of us or even just the two of them for ice cream.  I’ve never dated anyone who wanted to meet all my friends and loved to plan fun things for all of us to do together.  I’ve never dated anyone who missed me and brought me love notes and flowers.

In the very beginning, TN used to do little chores for me and to a small extent continues to do so, but he is over there, across the metaphoric way, doing his own weird, solitary, introverted thing.  I have noticed that lately I care less and less whether I see him or not.  It’s not a good sign.

When we touch, I am transported to the old Hy who used her body to connect, to slough off the pain and sadness she was wading through after she moved out.  It feels familiar and I’m happy.  TN is as ravenous as ever in these moments, but they are fewer and farther between.  His 70 hour work week must be laughing hysterically at us.

I wish I knew what I should do here.

I have always hung on with him and I have always been rewarded, but this time it feels different.  This relationship began backwards, without me thinking things through.  I wasn’t ready for a real relationship so I wasn’t picking men who were ready for me and my life: my parents, Peyton, my sister.  I wanted a guy who was ok with just the little bits I was willing to give and I found them in spades, TN being the biggest consumer of all.

But now I’ve changed the game, I want a real relationship with someone who comes up with fun kid-things to do on the weekends and who happily comes to dinner to help me manage my mother and step-father, who can’t wait to travel to Pittsburgh to meet high school friends or just a weekend away to a lake to fuck like rabbits and sit by a softly lapping shore.

I feel this longing, this Future, so keenly my body aches with indecision.  Will TN ever be that man?  Is it really all that important?  Am I determined to be unhappy or are these feelings real?  I’d probably be better off ignoring both The Past and The Future and examining my ever-changing Present, right??  I just don’t know anymore…

What I can tell you for certain is that TN gets the keys to his new apartment today and I’m strangely happy about it.  He is, too.

All my worry and self-flagellating doubts about him have fallen away like a spaghetti-strap slip beneath his hands.  I trust him, I got past my fear.  Mostly because I’ve become honest with myself:  I don’t know where this is going.  I wish I knew more — but I can’t — so I will sit and watch the clouds for a while instead as I help him move in three buildings away.

The cosmic joke is on me.

I’m sitting on my balcony, half drunk, tears running down my face.  I’m pretty sure people walking their dogs could just hear me crying as I lay on the couch, clutching a pillow, and moaning like an asshole.

Here’s the thing: I am sad.  Very, very, very sad.

I deny it every day, but all it does is make me feel antsy; full when I’m empty, empty when I’m full.   I can’t tell which end is up.  The heat here makes my skin prickle, but I’m cold inside.

My exhusband is marrying his girlfriend — no, fiancée — in the fall.  It happens to happen the weekend before Peyton’s birthday and they’ve conveniently planned it so they’ll be out of town not only for the big day itself (old enough to notice, if you must know), but they’ll also be gone the weekend before and the weekend after is their big “wedding party.”  Sorry, Peyton, but your dad and future step-mother are selfish sons-of-bitches who know no ends to their narcissism.   They have yet to break the news.

Secondly, I am barely making ends meet, yet my ex continues to go on love-trips with his fiancée every other month.  Expensive excursions, though not luxurious, but I know even a weekend trip by car can cost hundreds of dollars let alone a plane ticket away.  Of course they leave  the kids at home, leaving Peyton thinking there’s something on the child’s end of responsibility to that.  Oh, did I forget to mention the kids (hers and mine) are not invited to the wedding??  Nope.  It’s just the two love birds “and an officiant.”  Good for fucking you, exhusband. 

Thirdly, while my ex is off getting married, moving in, and sending rejection messages to our kid, I can’t even get my boyfriend to stay the night or go away for the weekend with me.  He absolutely refuses most nights and the trips aren’t even an option.  Forget it, Hy.  I hate traveling.  My parents dragged me blah blah fucking blah.  The truth is, he’s ok with hanging out in our apartments for the rest of our fucking lives.

They’re not connected, I know, but yet they are.  I can’t fucking help it.  The Neighbor says he’s forgotten his “slut kit” (a.k.a. contact stuff, toothbrush, etc.) but when I buy him his own he still goes home.  “I just really like my own bed.”  A pause sits between us when he breaks the news last night.  “You’re not mad, are you?”

“No.  But I’m sad,” I say, honest as can be.  Why won’t he stay with me???  Why does it seem there’s something wrong with me that I want him to sleep over?!

Tonight we had plans but he begged off earlier saying he needed to pack and hole up in his man cave.  What-fucking-ever.  Fine.

Lastly, my sister is pregnant with her third baby.  I wanted 3 babies.  That was my dream.  My ex and I tried for a second but the anxiety meds he was on fucked up his sperm.  Even an artificial insemination didn’t take.  She’s living her life — the life I wanted.  Babies everywhere, toddlers in pjs with wet hair from bath time with a strip of sonogram pictures laid out between them on mommy and daddy’s bed.  The perfect little batch of kiddies.  Who aren’t mine.

I am heart-broken a million different ways.  Alone and sad and wanting.

I think half the time the best thing to do is to cut TN loose so I can find someone who expects and wants to spend entire weekends with me.  And holidays and birthdays and friends’ things and to whisk me away on road-trip-weekends and introduce me to his family in Seattle or Burbank or Long Island.  Instead, I have a guy who loves me, but leaves by 11 pm every night, hates sleepovers, travel, family & friend things, anything whatsoever remotely resembling a commitment or a life together.  Like together.  Just fucking dating “together.”  I’m not even talking “forever together”!

Half the time I think I’m nuts and off my rocker, the other half I think, “No woman would put up with this bullshit, you’re either a genius, a saint, or an asshole, Hy.  Anyone would want what you want. There’s nothing wrong with you.”   But I’m not convinced and I haven’t figured out which one I am, yet.

Ok, I am in my cups, and feel sadly clear, like the tears on my cheeks.  I bet they’re see-through, too.

But, I will be silent for a while longer and see what happens.  I will never have 3 babies, nor will I be getting married — possibly ever –, but maybe my boyfriend will finally want to spend the night with me more than 2, 3, 4 times a month and want to be a part of my life — my real life — and if that’s the case, then maybe this will last after all, because as it stands today, all I feel is what I don’t have.  Not what I do have.

He’s a lot like Spock.

The Neighbor is a serious kind of guy.  Not the kind by whom you feel scrutinized, he’s just very straight-laced and totally literal.  His brain is a finely tuned machine which often misses nuance and inflection.  Think Data or Spock, any kind of Artificial Intelligence where the machine grapples with human inference and ambiguity.  TN and I have found ourselves entangled in more than one clumsy Who’s On First? dance.

For example, last night I asked him about the photos I wanted to post today.  We took them Sunday morning as we lay sleepily in my bed and the cat wound his way between us with an elevator butt.  TN checked in with Reddit, his go-to internet hangout.  I snapped pics of half his face, his profile, his lovely furry chest.  No more of his face was visible than the ones he had already approved, in fact, a little less was shown.

“So, are you cool with the pics I took the other day for TN Tuesday?” I asked as we walked the long uphill street to my apartment.

“Sure, whatever you‘d be comfortable sharing.”

“You mean me-me or what I’d be comfortable sharing of you?”

“Whatever you‘d be comfortable sharing,” he repeated slower.

Laughter bubbled up in me as I realized he didn’t see his own double subject and I attempted to rephrase my question.

“I don’t share any part of my face [so that’s moot], but you already have, so I don’t know what you’re saying.  Can I share the pics of you with part of your face?”

He sighed in exasperation and said again, “Whatever you want so long as you can’t recognize me.”  Now we’re getting somewhere.

“Ok, except I can recognize you because I know you.  I have no way of being really subjective about it.”  I covered half my face with my hands.  “This works for Batman, though!”  He just rolled his eyes at me and smiled.

I sighed.

“I wish I could write you some program to download to go from Super TN at Work to just TN with Hy.”

He laughed loudly.  “Hy, I don’t think there’s any program that will ever make me understand you.”

I laughed, too.

And that brings me to what I really want to share with you: I can make him laugh.

This serious, data-minded man finds me to be hilarious.  I tickle him, I tease him, I poke fun at his robotic nature and he melts in my hand as he realizes he’s applied genius brain-power to a Tommy Boy-type situation.

What can I say?  I guess I can bring anyone down to my level.  Even a sexy, furry Spock.

TN giggles

Giggles galore. ♥♥♥

[Ed. note: TN Tuesdays is a semi-weekly meme which will share more of The Neighbor with my Internet Boyfriend (aka, readers).  All photos will have his approval before I post them.  He is eager to see what you guys think and has requested that I share any comments.]

TNT#3

 

[TNT#3]

TN is my houseboy.

The Neighbor vacuums for Hy

In the beginning.

Six weeks after giving birth, my baby was round as a seal pup on my fat-laden breastmilk and the result was a massive, roll-covered infant.  Adorable, yes?  Convenient, no.

Silly, naive me didn’t think twice about my body and what it’d been through pushing a baby out of it, so when I bent over the middle backseat of a sedan (the safest place in a car, natch) while holding a 20lb baby in its 15lb carseat I wasn’t prepared for the pop and ting I felt from my lower back.  But there it was.  I was fucked.

Months of chiropractic work, physical therapy, X-rays and MRI’s later, it was determined that I had two bulging discs — not the worst diagnosis ever, but certainly not great.  It was a relief to be told there really was something wrong with me, though my exhusband never seemed to really believe me and, I suspect, suspected I claimed constant back pain just to get out of certain chores.

Anything that required lower back strength threatened my back (mowing the lawn, lifting a heavy trash bag, emptying the dishwasher) I would ask him to help with about every 9th time lest he feel overwhelmed by my injuries (I wouldn’t want to put him out, after all).  And the #1 chore that I needed help with the most was vacuuming.  Pushing that stupid, heavy, upright thing would send me in spasms in about a minute without fail.

The sad thing about that was that I actually loved to vacuum.  I loved to see the bits of debris disappear beneath the roar of the engine and the clean tracks left behind.  Far more rewarding that cleaning toilets, to be sure.  It was work accomplished!

By the time I moved out 2 and a half years after my diagnosis and near constant pain, I had just resigned myself to the pain and the obligatory chores that caused them, so imagine my surprise when my young lover first offered to vacuum for me when I told him of my cleaning troubles.

First he did it in his shorts, then just his underwear, then I required nudity.  Eventually, there was a dress code — which still stands today — of my panties.  I pick them out according to my mood.  Sometimes they’re lacy, sometimes they’re not.  It’s whatever I want to see him in.  Like big, fat stripes.

It’s worth mentioning that since I met TN in November of 2012, I have only vacuumed for myself maybe three times (to truck loads of regret, I might add).  He has never complained and always done it cheerfully.  For being so young, he is extremely grown up in ways I’ve never experienced (my ex is 14 years his senior).

Other things he does without complaint include taking out my trash, reaching high things, helping me make the bed, moving furniture, and being my financial adviser.  I’ve never been with anyone so generous in my life, so stalwartly devoted to taking care of me.  It’s kind of incredible.  Almost as incredible as TN in my panties with a vacuum handle in his hand.

I’ve totally hit the Houseboy Jackpot.

The Neighbor vacuuming for Hy in red and pink panties

See what I mean??

 

[TNT#2]

Love is a little boring.

hyjones_cleavage_skirt_socks

Even my boob pics to him have gotten a little boring.

Last night I slathered on peachy, vanilla scented lotion wrapped only in a towel and listened to The Neighbor come upstairs, the jingle of his keys like a little bell about his neck.  I smiled and felt warm and fuzzy.  Peyton was asleep in the other bedroom and I had an evening ahead of watching Luther from beneath a blanket while my love(r) taught himself some new programming language on the other couch.  Very domestic of us, very sweet, very safe.

When he came into my room he didn’t kiss me or try to unwrap me.  He just emptied his work bag and left to the other room.

I called out to him.  “What are you doing?  C’mere!”

“Ah, man!” he replied.  “I just laid down!”

I rolled my eyes.  “TN!  Come on!”

“Ok!  I’ll be there in 30 seconds!”

I sat there in the dark, perched on the side of my bed and waited.  It took longer than 30 seconds for him to fill the doorway.

“You didn’t even kiss me,” I pouted.  I pulled him by the t-shirt and drew him closer between my knees.  He dipped down and pressed his lips and whiskers against my face.  I pulled his knee closer and pressed it into my crotch.

I inhaled his scent and closed my eyes, my hands rubbed his shoulders and I arched up in to him as his bulk pressed me down into the mattress and I imagined him pushing into me, but I quickly knew nothing was going to happen when he said, “I had a terrible day.  Very stressful.”

“Then you definitely need some of these.”  I peeled the towel apart and exposed my warm, clean breasts.  He pretended he didn’t want them and I jiggled my tits and giggled.  He latched onto one and suckled for a minute, then the other.

He popped off and stood up straight and announced, “Ok!  I had a great day!”.  He laughed before heading back into the living room.  I stood and put on my pajamas, made some popcorn and laid on the couch until sleep tugged at me.  He crawled into bed with me and we talked nose-to-nose until the tug became a roar.  He kissed me again, told me he loved me, and left.

A riveting evening, right??

I remember when I was filled with tension each night: would he come by?  would I get laid?  would he want me??  Now my nights are filled with exhaustion and cuddles.  I have no doubt about his feelings and my contentment is quiet, soft, lulling.  A mighty difference from the sharp-edged heartbreak I was so used to experiencing nightly.

I call it boring, but I’m not bored.  Life just isn’t as exciting as it used to be.  But I guess that’s ok, other things are challenges.  My brain whirrs every minute to adapt to the new configurations of our relationship. I say Hi to his parents now when he’s on the phone with them; I plan overnights with him when Peyton’s around; my parents want us to come over for dinner; I hear 3 words every day that I never, ever thought I’d hear from him.  I wake up everyday wondering if I’m dreaming.

Hi, my name is Hy and I’m in love and I’m boring.  Welcome to my blog.

You’ll have to wait for the sexy sloppy sex a little while longer, though I guess I could tell you really quick about the other night that started out as just a sweet, quick vagina hug and quickly turned into him pile-driving into me from behind while he pressed my face down into the sheets.  He grunted and thrust like an animal on top of me and I came and yelled and hoped my new neighbors could hear me.  Actually — on second thought — that was pretty exciting.