A fine looking, grown ass man — who’s also looking for something serious and whom I met on AFF — grilled me yesterday via text.
“How many guys are you talking to these days??”
I was taken aback. Prior to this question he’d asked me how my day was going.
“My day is going alright. And why do you ask that?? That’s sort of out of left field.”
He insisted it wasn’t. “It’s just a question.”
I was honest with him and said I was, though I use the term “dating” only to mean I’m chatting with and occasionally going for dinner or drinks. There are no feelings involved or sex. I’m browsing. Then he called me a “serial dater.”
I didn’t know what that was so he clarified that it’s dating more than one person at once.
I was confused. Isn’t that the definition of dating?? Then he explained his opinions further.
“It’s harder to get to know one guy when you’re dating several don’t you agree? Nothing wrong with it, it’s just harder in my experience to get to know someone when my time is split between multiple people.”
I pointed out that clearly I don’t agree and he went on to say it one more time for good measure: you can’t successfully date if you’re talking to more than one person.
And maybe that’s true for him because he’s a man and he doesn’t get a dozen incredible emails from a dozen great women a week like a woman might (like I sometimes do). How can I possibly decide who to invest my time in if the criteria are first come first served?
So whoever sent me the email first gets the girl?? I don’t think so. I think we all have to earn someone’s time and being first in line is hardly considered doing any work.
Likewise, he clearly doesn’t want to be one of many and this was his way of strutting around the coop. And I can respect that to a degree, except we’re not meeting people in grocery stores, dances, and shopping malls anymore (I heard that’s where it used to happen prior to the internet, anyway). We shop online with endless choices.
Today women are inundated with suitors and men are put in the undesirable position of having to stand out and they can do that in one of two ways: complain about the game or pretend it doesn’t exist.
You can guess which one is more appealing.
No one wants a man who gripes that there are others when it’s the very nature of what we’re all doing. I’ve thought a lot about what he said and I keep returning to the same conclusion each time: Until the cream rises to the top, you keep on churning. Eventually the right person will show himself.
“I’m not feeling it between us.” He made a back and forth motion with his hands at chest level. “I think you’re very beautiful — very — fascinating, intelligent, really funny, but I just don’t know if it’s there between us.”
I sat beside him, about 18 inches away, a wine glass in my hand. I looked away, swallowed. I felt trapped and helpless, foolish. Of course he doesn’t, I thought. Men never want me.
I’ve spent the last couple of days fighting that voice and it’s left me low and energy-less. I hate that voice.
Since none of this is happening the “normal” way for me I have been out of touch with things. None of our dates have lent themselves to anything more than a brief goodnight kiss. He’s responsible and has dogs and has left after every one and declined to come up after another when we instead sat in his car outside my building where I worked really hard to convince him I didn’t actually care about dick size, only the size of a man’s heart.
On the couch I continued my case, “I want to get to know you, Rex, I want to unwrap you and discover the man inside. To learn about you. I find you interesting and kind and sexy. I want to keep learning about you. You intimidate me because you’re so grown up and accomplished; I’ve never dated an adult before…” My voice sounded desperate and clingy to my ears, but there was nothing to do. It was all true.
I looked away again when he didn’t respond and he said something about me shutting down. I dragged myself back up to the surface. “You’re right. I am. I’m trying. This is just so hard for me.”
I looked at him, my face an implacable mask. He said he couldn’t read me. I told him that was the point.
I have never felt something slip through my fingers the way that evening did. He licked his plate, but was passing on me it seemed.
“What are you thinking?” I asked. He said he didn’t know. “Well, do you know what I’m thinking? I’m sitting here wishing I could kiss you.”
He looked surprised. “Go ahead,” he laughed. “You should always kiss me if you want to.”
I leaned over on my knees and kissed his warm lips. His hands stayed below my hips, perhaps on my thigh. He began to talk. I asked him if he wanted me to stop. He said, No, but I felt like I was forcing myself on him.
I pulled away and he followed me, kissed me more. I breathed him in and waited as my hands roamed his neck and jaw. Nothing.
“I have to get going. It’s a work night.” It was 10:30 when the failure really sunk in. Either there was just no chemistry between us or my strange flailing the previous two weeks had set the stage for this.
“Do you think you knowing about Hy made us both think we were more connected than we really are?” I’d asked before I’d kissed him.
“No! Definitely not!” he jumped to say. “I don’t think that at all.”
We stood up and I walked to the kitchen to send him home with leftovers. He kissed me again at the island and it was intense and sweet, but still stopped short of full-blown passion. I don’t know why.
He dipped down once or twice for more and I eagerly met his lips, but he seemed already halfway out the door.
I handed him his baggies and tinfoil-wrapped pot roast and walked him to the entryway and told him I was free on Saturday if he wanted to hang out again. There was still so much more to say and explore, right? The kissing was good, wasn’t it?? I didn’t know which end was up, perhaps more talking and spending time together would sort it out.
“Ok, sure. I might be going out of town for a bike trip. I’m not sure. I’ll let you know.”
We kissed again and he left and I crawled into bed with the animals.
It’s Saturday night now and I didn’t hear from him about going out of town or not. I assume he did, but perhaps not.
I went on a date with a man recently who was incredibly eager to meet me. He leaned in at the bar as I sipped my glass of Chardonnay and his hand occasionally grazed my thigh. I had no doubt of his attraction for me and I felt the chemistry buzz between us as I imagined what his body would feel like over mine.
We parted ways with a steamy, but appropriate kiss against my car under an abnormally warm winter sun, and I drove away contemplating chemistry and connections.
Another night I had a date with a different man who really liked me. It was our second date (the first was coffee a week before and his eyes lit up when I walked into the Greek coffee house). He texted me nervously the morning after because he was worried he might have said something that put me off, but the truth is as I sat across from him sipping cider under a chilly moon I couldn’t muster an attraction. I tried, but it just wasn’t there.
There was nothing he said that made that happen. It just was.
And as he kissed me and earnestly held me close my heart sank because I felt nothing in return except his soft lips and nicely groomed whiskers. I had to tell him, like Rex told me, that I didn’t feel it between us and if Rex feels as little for me as I did for that other man then that hurts. Not a lot, not a little, but somewhere in the middle like when you studied really hard for a test, but still only got a B-/C+.
I read David’s text and squealed with both fear and anticipation.
“Fuck. Ok. Only if you’re really here,” I wrote back.
Seconds later he was through my door with his hand wrapped around my neck holding me on my tip toes, his mouth oddly gentle, his tongue soft and sweet.
My towel dropped to my feet when his fingers dug inside of me as if searching for a lost object. My legs trembled and I gushed into his hand; my juices made a long trail down my legs to the crumpled towel below.
I hadn’t heard from David in months and we hadn’t seen each other since October. Last year we met in April when I was still completely heartbroken over The Neighbor. His big, fat cock and transgressive style of fucking were welcome distractions as I limped along away from TN. However, pillow talk between us — or talk in general — was not very rewarding.
I found myself wrapped up in ridiculous arguments or defending my thoughts and feelings about personal matters. I eventually went to some lengths to avoid such arguments, but after a disagreement about dogs of all things, I gave up even trying and accepted that we were better lovers than “friends.”
Over time our schedules intervened and we saw less and less of each other and last fall he witnessed me a hot, sobbing drunken mess. The Soldier had stood me up that night and I’d spent a retched day with an old high school friend and being sexually harassed by him and his knuckle-dragging friend s we day drank.
David came over and pounded my pussy as hard as my heart hurt and spent and used I cried as I knelt over his splayed knees. His cum mixed with my tears. I was embarrassed to be so exposed in front of this big, hard man, but there was nothing for it. It happened.
In January he texted to say his New Year’s resolution was to fuck me in the ass. My response was something along the lines of, “Good luck with that beer can dick of yours and never seeing each other.”
We texted once or twice more this year until early last week when he reached out again and then Friday when he asked if I were home.
I have no hard feelings towards David. That’d be like being upset with a wild animal for being wild. Our friends with benefits relationship is one of mutual satisfaction and convenience. It doesn’t involve sharing feelings or activities — a ridiculously boring hiking date proved that one — it’s sex and sex only.
I went to my friend’s birthday party with David’s cum dried all over my tits and when the breeze shifted it wafted up to my nostrils mixed with my perfume of hyacinth.
He came on my in great gobs because I begged him to.
After he’d licked me from top to bottom and worked me with his hand again. After he’d pushed me forcefully to my knees and told me to lick his tight little asshole. After I’d suckled his balls and choked on his massive piece of flesh and heard him croon, “That’s a good little slut.” After he’d turned around and spread his cheeks for me and jerked himself as he purred at my warm, wet tongue on his hole. And after he’d thrown me back on the bed and hitched my ankles up on his shoulders then flipped me around and wailed on my flanks as he buried himself in me.
After all of that he came on my face and tits and neck. I slumped up onto the bed and laid there with him until it was time to get dressed for the party.
David was there for all of 30 minutes.
How different a “friend” he is than The Artist. Though similar in age and height as David, he is worlds apart energetically and emotionally. He’s sensitive and sweet and we have lengthy conversations about life and love and Domination and submission. He is a neophyte dom himself and also a writer. He wants to go to writers workshops with me and read my work. He wants me to critique his.
I’ve resisted sharing Hy with him; he’s too loose, too wet.
Our first night together was drunken and fierce(ish). His cock curves away from his body and when he mounted me from behind on my squeaky couch I burst into orgasm instantly. That was his second orgasm of the night and my umpteenth.
We’ve texted consistently throughout the weeks and gone to dinner twice. I am open with him about my other other lovers and I know of a couple of his. I like him, though quickly learned that my sexual volume is much higher than he thinks his is. Despite being dominant I am even more dominant; a moon in a planet’s presence.
Our hookups have been hot and quick.
There was the time he came over and though he promised to fuck me when he walked through the door we ended up chit chatting at my kitchen island for 10 minutes before he grabbed me and fucked me on the counter top.
And the other time I blew him for a minute or so and I had to choose to let him blow his wad right then or let him fuck me. I chose the latter.
Or the other time I let him spank me until his erection returned and he jizzed all over me.
I have coached him and supported him as a friend would — I enjoy the mentoring space — and I have even spent time guiding him on what to do with his other FWB when he asked. We are solidly “friends with benefits,” but the benefits are beginning to be in his favor, not mine.
Sunday morning he texted, “Hey I’m feeling pretty sad still and I don’t think I’ll be able to get off if we have sex. It’s up to you if you still want to hang out. I’m just not feeling up to fooling around hon.”
“What are you sad about?”
“Still bummed over that girl you know?”
“Ah, I see. Well, as much fun as it would be to hang out with you while you’re bummed out by another woman, I’m really ok just chilling alone.”
His response was a favorite of mine: :/
I’m not interested in being a shoulder cry on about someone else while sex is on the table. Shoulder cry on as just friends? Yes, 100%. As a lover who doesn’t get fucked? No. That would wring me out because that doesn’t feel all that good. There’s no benefit there; I’m just being used.
Talk to me and ask for advice about a death, a shitty boss, a bad day, bad friends, your mother and also fuck the ever-loving shit out of me? Yes. Complain to me about another woman and not fuck me? No. Absolutely not. I expect my lovers to have their shit together.
Part of being friends with benefits is the suspended belief that we’re all we have for the time we spend together. It allows it to be fantastic while practical and uncomplicated.
Bumping around with these two make me miss Ben in a wistful, fantasy way. He’s been busy lately. So, so busy. I don’t remember the last time we spoke but the time I showed him my pussy has long since passed.
“Yes, Hy. God, you’re so beautiful.” I can hear the words perfectly now, like a moment frozen in time.
We talk still about a visit, but as each week goes by I have less hope. There’s a story line for us in my mind that we will see each other for years until we no longer are willing or able. Long distance lovers with a bond across the sea. No one ever gets mad at each other and time and space are natural wedges between us so reunions are passionate and snorted into our bodies like so many lines of cocaine.
We become high on one another until the crash of departure. We are perfect because we are virtual strangers and dream fuck buddies.
Our coupling at the beginning of the summer is as fresh in my mind as if it happened yesterday. I can feel his body on mine and his thick flesh pushed against me as it slid deep inside. His timbre smooth as were his hands which rested on my hips as he pumped into me like a little stallion.
Sometimes I think we should leave well enough alone with the dream.
My other friends are virtual. Men whose words and kindness reach through the ether. Their voices are unknown, their scent and taste a mystery. I don’t know the feel of their crush. One or two want to come see me. Less than that are welcome to. Besides, once you close the gap and touch me it seems to become a game of loss.
How much longer until it’s run its course and the benefits are gone? FWBs is a short game, no matter what kind it is. It’s a filler, a distraction, a fun ride until you find the mini-van you want to buckle yourself into forever.
After all these years I’ve finally figured out that friends with benefits means truly having no expectations beyond the moment of the ride, that moment he’s inside of me. Gah, that fucking magical moment of being filled by another human body. What a joy that is! What a gift!
If I could I’d have a hundred friends with benefits of all kinds. The ones only good for sex, the ones who are mooshy and eye-rolling, the ones who are dreamy and perfect and everything in between. Men are fascinating, exhausting, thrilling creatures and I want to gather them all up and give them pats and kisses and wag my ass in front of their drooling faces. I’ll manage any loneliness at weddings and birthdays on my own.
What I really want to do is play, to shove the biggest piece of cake in my mouth, swallow it, reach for more and wait for the next knock on my door. I wonder who it’ll be next time.
I imagine looking out over a harbor, the morning light gentle, the scent of the bay cold and familiar in my nostrils. I hike my suspenders over my shoulders and step into my dingy. I have to check my lines; one group of crab pots after the next, the water gently choppy, the sound of the boat engine a buzzing throttle beneath my hand as I steer.
I stop, pull the lines. They’re heavy. The little creatures inside move in what looks like slow motion. I pull them up, open the cage and shake them out into the bottom of my boat, toss the pot back in the water and move on to the next.
It’s second-nature to me, these motions. It’s part of my life, who I am. I measure them silently in my mind. Chemistry, cock, charisma.
I check 3 lines every day. My AFF, Seeking Arrangement and Collar Space. Each day I find creatures in my pots. Each day I am overwhelmed with the vetting process.
SA continues to be a brutally unrewarding place, but I also continue to be in a desperate financial situation so I stay on in hopes that I’ll find that one man who can save me financially as I work furiously in real life to solve for it on my own.
Will, the sugar daddy of ill-manners, and I no longer speak. He behaved even more badly in regards to how I spent “his” $100 and I told him it was fucking bullshit. I don’t know what he expected from me, but a sugar relationship wasn’t it. He thought $100 bought something. Yeah, groceries and gas, asshole.
Collar Space is a tender spot for me. I am inundated with thoughtful, sexy emails from submissive men, but I am deeply reticent after my most recent experience of being abandoned after a vanilla-esque scene. I can’t put myself back in that position any time soon, though I yearn to.
I am still speaking with the first sub who reached out to me back July, but I’m tired of the “How are you?” texts and don’t have the energy to move it further along.
AFF remains my happy place, but last I checked I had five times as many new emails than usual. Apparently late summer has caused the tide to shift a bit and suddenly I am more desirable than ever. I haven’t had the time to sift through all the possibilities there either; the men just lay at my feet, arms and legs waving at me.
My harvest is immense, but my appetite is low.
In a week it will have been one year since I ended my friendship with The Neighbor. One year since he was in my house. One year since we sobbed together. One year since he held me in his arms.
To this day every man I am with is measured against him, our chemistry, his cock. I can’t stop myself. Every time I pull a line and haul a man aboard I wonder if it will be as good with him as it was with TN. When I invite him over and into my bed I pray I’ll feel what I always felt with him. When the man leaves I hope to desire him again. When he speaks I wish to be interested.
Though the answer to all of those things is typically No and I throw him back, head to the next set of pots. The sun on my face, the salt on my lips.
Line after line I pull. Tirelessly, not unhappily. Always looking, always measuring, always the fisherman.
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
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.
My world exists above firm ground, delicately balanced on stilts. Each one a fine line to a smudged presence below filled with potential and hope.
I have had the enlightened realization that I exist in a disposable world of pocket apps and that an infinite parade of portraits behind me wait to fill my vacated spot.
My politeness precludes hard goodbyes, but my ambivalence ensures my forward motion through the hordes of men that line my own pockets. I’m not the only one drowning in a sea of competition.
They’re like locusts crawling in through every available electronic crack: text, email, IG, Bumble, Tinder, OKC, AFF, Snapchat, KIK.
I have been living dangerously for many months, leaving myself open to the elements, but lately I’ve systematically plugged some of the leaks. Slowly, testing how it feels to be less bombarded, though I am bombarded all the same.
And do you know why I can’t seem to seek complete shelter?? Because maybe — just maybe — the next creature to sneak past my walls will be the next great love of my life.
I am a pioneer, not a debutante. This is what I do. I struggle, I rail, I suck it the fuck up. I am lifted up by many, but it is the hope of a one that keeps me buoyant, that puts me in quiet nothingness.
I am either broken or fixed, but nothing can touch me now.
This will be short. Peyton is in the shower and the dog needs to be let out. The Neighbor seems to have stopped stalking me on AFF, which is nice; I’ve bought a ticket to Eroticon 2016, which is giving me heart palpitations. Anyone want to donate to my travel fund?; and I’ve suddenly run out of things to say here.
It’s not that I don’t have thoughts and feelings, it’s just a little complicated. I’ve promised a piece of writing for someone else (my first guest post) and everything I’m thinking and feeling should go into that, not into little fragments here. It’s also complicated because I’m trying to be patient with my feelings. Maybe he’ll come through, maybe he’ll show up figuratively speaking. Of course “he” here isn’t just one man, but multiple.
The thing of it is, I’m not at all sure what men think and I’m even less certain of what they think about me.
I feel like a blind woman on a ship at sea in a storm. In other words, I feel wholly incapable (no offense to the blind people out there who steer ships through storms).
I wait, I rush, I open up, I close down. Nothing seems to work to wriggle out of a man a little human decency and respect. I don’t speak their language, clearly. I know enough to know that I can’t control others, only myself, but it’d be nice to have a 1 + 1 = 2 equation from time to time in regards to dating. You know, I do a nice thing equals a nice thing back. I text, he texts back. I enjoy the sex and want to have more, he enjoys the sex and wants to have more. Instead the equation looks more like this: 1 + 1 = hahaha FUCK YOU.
So, yeah. I have nothing to say at the moment, but didn’t want continue to ignore my favorite place in the whole world: this blog and all of you.
Tomorrow morning, at the crack of dawn, I’ll haul my body out of bed and to my boot camp again. The preternaturally youthful looking silver-haired personal trainer will flounce around on his toes and correct my form and I will sweat all the sweaty bullets and feel really accomplished by 9am.
Tonight, I will stay my fingers and text no one, though truthfully, I want to text no one, so that’s good news. I want to do what comes naturally to me, but I’m sick of being rejected and rebuffed.
The mathematics involved in dating today exhaust me and infuriate me. I thought if you dug someone you made sure they knew it. I was wrong. You actually do your own thing and think about them whenever. That’s when you let them know you think of them. If then. Maybe not. Probably not.
I’m so over it.
I don’t like it when men are up in my grill. I like the chase. Everyone does. So do they. Me throwing myself at them eliminates the challenge. My openness, my clarity, my transparency. It’s a turn-off. That’s what I’m surmising.
And it’s all I can do, surmise.
I’m not privy to the Man’s Brain Handbook. I’m getting hit on from all sides and I’m bouncing around the room, not sure where I’m supposed to look. I just know I’m not biting. I’m not interested.
I’m going analog, though. No more online dating. It’s going to be old school for me.
I’ve asked a man out on my softball team, but he appears to have ignored my invitation. I only have his email, so I had to use what I had. Cheesy and less than ideal, yes, but whatever. I’m just not going to be anything but me. Awkward, vulnerable, awful me.
I want something, I can feel it. Can you feel it? It’s real, it’s wonderful, it’s solid. It’s also embarrassingly humiliating being this exposed.
I hate it.
“C” is for completely confoundingly crushingly clueless.
“People are coming” I whispered into his neck. The two people and their dogs I’d spotted down the street continued to walk toward the two of us leaning against my car under the streetlight. The thick night pressed in around us.
At 6 foot 4 he he stooped to hook his long fingers into me and straightened as he removed himself from between my legs. I moaned a little.
As the dog walkers passed, he rolled me to the side and pressed my back against my car door and bent to kiss me again. We’d been kissing for minutes on end and my neck was beginning to hurt, my feet cramp from lifting up to meet him, but it was magnificent.
He paused and I said, “What should I call you when I write about you in my diary?”
“You can call me Remington Steele,” he laughed, in reference to a lame character reference I’d made earlier in the night. I had been surprised he’d even heard of the show. Remington is only 24.
When we first met at the dive bar yesterday I wasn’t at all sure how our date would go. He was trim and wore a button-down dark green shirt and had his sleeves rolled up to the elbow; he wore black sneakers and Ray-Bans and was quite dashing, but also obviously very, very young. He’s also wickedly smart, but too busy for a girlfriend. He wants something ongoing, fun, exploratory and respectful.
When he saw me walk in his eyes lit up and we hugged, got some drinks and began to chat. His face cracked into a smile often and he was open and interesting. This was his first date off of AFF.
I ran into a girlfriend and as we ordered beers at the bar she lowered her voice and whispered, “He’s awfully young, isn’t he, Hy?” I laughed and shrugged.
“I’m totally your Mrs. Robinson, aren’t I?” I teased him when I returned to our table.
“Yeah, kinda. I like older women,” he admitted.
He wants to be my pool boy and shyly shared that he wants to explore his submissive side which is why, out by my car in the dark with random passersby, I was so taken aback at his bold moves, his confidence. He blew me away with his skill and expertise and each time he released my mouth I would lower to my heels and shake my head, dizzy with desire, not sure where to catalog this young man.
We’ve made a date for Friday afternoon where we can test out his pool boy skills.
Fifteen years between us… holy shit, what am I getting myself into??
Wanna get laid? Don’t have a monologue with a woman and reveal your “emotions.”
Little backstory, this guy and I have not met. He’s my age, has a Beemer (cuz he’s posed with it on Adult Friend Finder), and really, really wants to meet me.
I’ve explained to him multiple times that I am not free (Ann is loving on my dog as we speak after she helped me fold all my laundry – who’s the hostess with the mostest??), but he insists on nailing a day down.
And then he sends this:
This does not feel good, you guys.
NO. BAD. WRONG. BOUNDARIES. ICK. WHY?!
These are the thoughts going through my mind.
I rarely do this kind of post, but seriously, people. I feel like this is a public service announcement: be reasonable, don’t cross the line, learn to recognize the line.
If I could teach a class on THE LINE I would. You’d know how to flirt and tempt, challenge and attract. You wouldn’t offend or turn off and you’d certainly never shut down the openness of a potential amour.
There’s a degree of natural talent to this, yes, but I think it’s mostly a skill that’s honed over time via trial and error.
Sadly, probably lots of error. Lots and lots of error.