Tag Archives: sad

I’m jealous.

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And sad. And lonely.

Let me back up. It’s not what you think.

My exhusband and The Neighbor share a lot of traits: emotionally cut-off/distant, introverted, sensitive, sweet, Mid-Western, socially shy, inexperienced, bad family relationships, and highly intelligent (they’re both in the genius range) to name a few. And now they share another: they have girlfriends.

I’m extremely close with my exhusband; he’s like a brother to me. I deeply love him and him me. We never should have tried a lifelong romantic pairing, but being connected to him via our child is a wonderful idea. He’s smart, funny, witty, considerate. Over the past two years I’ve encouraged him to open up to me about his dating life and, reluctantly and with some discomfort, he has until today he’s completely open with me.

The funny thing is I’ve been much less forthcoming. I wasn’t sure how I was to say, “Oh yeah, Troy fucked me last night with another bisexual man and it was rockin’!” He doesn’t know my current proclivities and I’d prefer to keep it that way. But in light of losing my heart to my young lover I began to open up. Feelings were something I could share with him.

It was Mother’s Day when I admitted to my exhusband that I had feelings for TN (he only knew him as “The Engineer” at the time) and he disclosed many similar things between him and his love interest, Mary. Mary was open and gregarious, loved him, wanted more. My exhusband wanted space, felt pressured, and didn’t match her feelings. So, being mature and kind, he’d broken things off with her. She begged for a friends with benefits sort of arrangement, but he didn’t believe she could handle it. They’d fight when he’d do nice things for her, “Why do you do that if you don’t love me??” she’d cry to him. He couldn’t answer. It was just a nice thing to do.

As he and I shared more details of our breakups — and TN’s identity was revealed to him — we were both shocked to discover we’d both had almost an identical relationship as the other. Mary had said many of the same things to my exhusband as I’d said to TN, “That’s what a man in love does,” for instance. My exhusband had prickled at that much the same as TN had. The big differences lay in the fact that in my exhusband’s relationship he’d been the one to end it for her sake. In mine, it’s been all me.

Fast forward to this last week and my exhusband tells me that he and Mary decided to get back together after a weekend away together doing a sporting event (something she’d locked him into doing with her back in February). I rolled my eyes and scoffed. “Don’t dick her over,” I said. “If you can only do this for 3 months, don’t. You need to give her at least a year.”

He rolled his eyes back at me. ‘Of course, Hy, I’ve given this a lot of thought. I think I can do it now. I can handle it.” And there it was. A change of fucking heart. That thing we women always long for, see in movies, and whisper to ourselves into our pillows. He was the one who’d broken her heart, gotten away, and she gave it a little time and space and he came around. He’s willing now to involve her in his life whereas before she was on the fringe; he’s taking her to his sister’s wedding back East in a few weeks with Peyton; she’s going to finally meet me. He’s spending days on end with her whenever he’s kid-free and they do two things: fuck and ride bicycles.

I’m more than happy for him. I’m thrilled, but I’m also gutted. This is what TN is doing, too. This morning, Tuesday, marks the fourth night in a row TN has stayed away from home overnight. He’s with his “Mary” now. Loving her, wanting to be with her. His flaws and distance shrouded in a honeymoon veil. I will never get my change of heart from him. I have lost him completely.

How is it that these two men — decent and kind, yes, but also wholly unavailable — can find women to love them and want to be with them for days on end when I can find no one for more than a few hours? That’s what I’m jealous about. That’s what hurts me to the core. I want what they have. And neither of them, ultimately, wanted it with me.

I won’t be talking about it anymore.

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It’s finally over. Thankfully. And I feel good about it. Strong. I’ve said my piece, he’s heard me, took it like a man. When I learned that he really is trying to date 4 am girl I told him I was out, that I wouldn’t fuck him if he was fucking her or anyone else, or even if he took another woman out for fucking coffee. I can’t handle it. I can do the NSA fucking, but only if I’m the only one.

We spent some time talking yesterday afternoon. Tears leaked down my face as I explained to him that the biggest lesson for me out of this is that I am drawn to those who reject me and that my life’s work this time around is to try to learn how to let someone love me and accept me and actually want them back. He said his biggest lesson was that he realizes that his actions don’t always match his real feelings and he now sees how confusing it can be for someone. We’re going to be ok.

I told him he’s now allowed to take out my trash again and keep vacuuming for me. He said it was a deal only if I’d take him shopping again sometime. We shook on it. He wants desperately to keep my friendship and I his. We’ve agreed on a couple of hang out sessions a week and an occasional outing as friends. I have resolutely refused to accept her and I have been nothing but clear on my feelings.

He wondered why I was so mad at her. “We were imploding anyway. You were going to dump me on the 20th.”

“She made it 10x more painful for me. She sat in my house and said she was going for you, said hurtful things. You ran right into her arms. I’ve had no time to fucking process! It was a shit show. Or a piss show rather.”

“Hey, that was below the belt.”

“You’re damn right it was! It was all over the crotch, too!”

He’s fatalistic about this relationship he’s embarking on and I told him to be more optimistic. He agrees that she has a drinking problem, but he admires her for other things and thinks he’ll benefit from this with her. I don’t get this guy. I also asked him, one last time for clarification, why it was he didn’t want to be with me. “You’re not the right person for me. Is that a good enough reason?”

“Sure it is. Is it because of all that deal breaker stuff you said in the beginning?”

“Yeah. Age, kid, marriage.”

“Marriage? You mean because I’ve been married?”

“Yeah.”

And then, just like that, all my angst, all my pain, all my wounded confusion dissipated like a cloud of smoke. I did a happy dance, smiled more, beamed, really. His life is so about “The Plan” that he really can’t see the forest through the trees and finally realizing this frees my heart. He’ll never get it. He’ll never get me. I have to move on.

We hugged again and it felt good. I teased him that now she could shave his back for his laser hair treatments. He made a painful smile and rolled his eyes.

He came back over around 8 and vacuumed for me and apologized for his hardon the second he came through the door. I was braless as usual and I smiled. “Pavlov?” was all I said.

“Yeah, something like that,” he murmured back as he adjusted himself.

I bounced on the couch with glee as he cleaned my floor and he complimented my tits. I wondered if he was going to tell 4 am girl that he’d slept with me last weekend. “No, because we hadn’t had the exclusive discussion, yet.” Ah, gotta love hair-splitting.

We watched a movie on my couch then and I whimpered about my back pain. He went and got my vibrator and curled behind me and massaged my back with it. I clutched the couch and twitched as he rubbed it deep into my muscles. He said it was hot. I iced it for a while longer and then he massaged it again. I could feel the tip of his cock on my buttock, but didn’t move.

His hands replaced the vibe and could feel it in my jaw and my ankle. The pain was exquisite, his ministrations kind.

After the movie, I smoked a cigarette and he kept me company. He had to go get 4 am girl at 2 am from a bachelorette party. They have plans on going to an amusement park today and it’s easier than driving all over town, he said. I wondered if that was such a good idea to be hungover on a rollercoaster. I told him to be careful of the drunks on the road, “And in the car!” He’s not loving my sarcasm, but I seem unable to help myself.

I walked him back to my door and we hugged again. I’m going to miss this motherfucker inside of me like nobody’s business, but I don’t want him anywhere near me so long as he’s sticking in her.

I woke up at 2 and thought, “He’s on his way to get her.” At 4:30 I thought, “She’s next door.” Now I’m on my balcony waiting for the inevitable run-in as she feeds her Parliament addiction. But maybe I’ll luck out and she’s too goddamned hungover to be up at 10 am on a Sunday.

So, this is it. This is my final post about my relationship with The Neighbor. This entire blog has been a chronicle of our affair and it’s painful and bittersweet to say goodbye to him. If we ever have sex again, I’ll post about it, but the inner workings, my thoughts and feelings about him and us, they are now private.

My plan is to go off of cock for 2 months and recalibrate. We’ll see if I can do it. I want it all. I want a kind, loving, funny, smart, man who’s a master in bed and has a loaded weapon between his legs. I will be patient. I will be diligent. I will be true to myself and open about everything.

I think I may have to change my About page now.

I’m bad at saying NO.

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This is the second installment to my Memories Series just so as not to confuse you all with timelines and men — I know it’s confusing enough as it is. This describes the first sexual partner I had once my husband and I split up. Matt was a ginger-haired, slightly pudgy dental student. God only knows why I did any of this. It was October of 2010. I didn’t know who I was sexually, yet, but I think you can see how I was searching for something, what, I just didn’t know.

I met Matt about a week ago on OKCupid. He’s 6’0″ and freckled. We quickly jumped from the dating site platform to Yahoo! Messenger and a little video, though all the clothes stayed put. Into the wee hours of the night we chatted — I liked his easy going attitude and enthusiasm for conversation — and then I crawled into bed, grabbed my vibrator, and started texting him pictures. A few minutes later I had three decent orgasms under my belt and a new cock pic.

A couple of nights later and we were talking on the phone. He’s fast-paced, a little unfocused, but still enthusiastic and I determine that I can trust him; our styles seem very much in line as do our attitudes. We talked about sex, fantasies, a little about our personal pasts, likes, dislikes. He’s thicker around the middle than what would be considered “fit” (as he has on his profile – ha!), but I like a little extra padding on my men because it makes me feel smaller, more feminine, easily over powered, and since I’m built like a farm-girl this is a high commodity.

After one or two more chats on the phone we figure out that a meeting is imminent but due to our schedules it’s not going to happen until the third week of October…

Until I got the bright idea to have him come over last night despite not having childcare and despite him not having anywhere to stay but at my house.

As I type this he’s asleep in my bed and my kid is on my couch. Um, yeah.

Trust me, I know how fucking convoluted that is, but my kid has seen me with multiple strangers in recent months walk out of the back of my house in the morning (and none of whom I’ve actually fucked). This includes old high school girl friends, male college roommates, and random other friends who either crashed on the couch or shared a platonic side of the bed with me. My child is also little. I can still get away with introducing people that will be quickly forgotten. I know that I won’t always be able to do something like this.

And this was my reasoning to extend an impromptu invitation yesterday afternoon. And the man came. He dropped everything he was doing and drove 2+ hours to my house.

He was as cute in person as he was on webcam and we hugged and I was jittery and bashful. We sipped some boxed-wine (because I’m classy like that) and flirted, knees touching, while on the couch. Eventually, I was tired of the song and dance and leaned in to kiss him. His nicely groomed goatee tickled my lips, his tongue danced on mine. I was hopeful and excited. We stood and he moved me in front of him, bent my neck to the side and nipped at my shoulders and pulled my ass into his crotch. I grabbed his hand and pulled him back to my bedroom.

A bedroom that, until recently, had two occupants; that until recently, was a sacred space; that until recently housed crushing self-doubt, sadness, and shame. However, over the last two months wherein I was the only resident, I have been working on exorcising the relationship demons from that space and reclaiming it as my own. It’s where I masturbate, where I talk to men, where I share images of my body arched in pleasure. It’s mine, and so it was with a clear conscience that I fell onto the bed with him falling down after me.

Now here’s where it all starts to splinter and the experience becomes two-in-one.

During our most recent conversation I told him that I wouldn’t fuck him without protection unless he went and got tested. I knew I was clean, but when was the last time he’d gotten checked? He agreed, but that was when we thought we had a 3-week window; obviously he didn’t have time to get a test in 24 hours. So, imagine my surprise when the clothes were peeled off and he entered me sans condom.

I thought for a split second that maybe he’d put one on, but then I got swept up in a torrent of emotion: he wasn’t as endowed as I like and so I wasn’t getting that “ahh, I’ve just been filled” sensation I was craving, I was confused and put-off by the lack of condom, it all seemed stilted somehow, reminiscent of the nervous love-making I’d been having for the last seven years. And then the fucking got a little better. Which confused me more. I struggled to get out of my own head and eventually I pushed him off of me and confirmed that he was, indeed, bareback.

I laughingly scolded him, but really, I was pissed. At myself, at him. He had the decency to act chagrined. I mean, this was my chance to get rogered good and with a clear conscience and I felt taken advantage of. I grabbed a condom and rolled it onto his dick — nothing was going to stop me at this point from getting off — grabbed my vibe, too, and pushed him back onto my pillows. On his back his cock was more to my liking, deeper. I leaned over and let my breasts stick to his chest, I kissed his neck and soft lips; his hands grabbed my ass and spread it wide with each deep thrust. I sat tall and put the head of the vibe on my clit. As I turned it on his eyes flashed open and he smiled. He liked it, he said.

A fraction of the time it usually takes me to orgasm later and I’m writhing and twitching on top of him, showering us in my juices. I fall on top of him and he holds me, shushes in my ear to just breathe and relax.

I said, “Now is the perfect time for a cigarette. Come on.” I stand up and start putting on scrub bottoms, but he’s behind me again and his fingers are dipping into me. He’s taken off the condom and I’m reticent, fighting with myself. He hasn’t cum, yet, and I get the feeling he probably won’t due to some meds he’s on. Maybe one more fuck won’t be so bad?? But really, I’m only telling myself that because the fact that he’s still not listening to me is more upsetting than standing my ground.

I brace myself on the dresser and he enters me from behind, a hand on the back of my neck, and once again bareback. I let him fuck me for a few seconds, get shaky from my g-spot, and then stop, look at him in the eye and say, “We are not doing this. Do you understand?” He laughs and says, “You’re right, you’re right!” I get dressed and he follows me out back to the patio.

We smoke a couple of cigarettes and we talk about our partners and marriages. I’m beginning to feel more mind-fucked than anything else. His reluctance to respect my wishes regarding protection has me doubting the entire fucking night, a night that could have otherwise been pretty fucking fun, first-encounter jitters and awkwardness aside. When we go back into bed he starts in on me again, but I tell him no. He backs off while I struggle with guilt that he hasn’t cum yet — yes, even after all of this, I’m still feeling guilty he hasn’t cum — and we discuss exit strategy.

I tell him he needs to leave before 7. He moans and says he’s not a morning person. I sit there flummoxed and increasingly angry. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? I mean, was this a mistake? Was I off base to trust him to respect me? He was giving such mixed signals to that end: at once tender and present, the next off in his own little world.

So I sit up and arrange the covers over me protectively and say, “I feel like you’re not listening to me here,” and indicate the bedroom. “You listened to me out there [while we were smoking], but you’re not hearing me in here.” He was looking at me intently so I continued, “My child is extremely important to me and I didn’t think this through, how I was going to get you out of here. That child my priority, not the fact that you’re not a morning person.”

“Oh God, am I being weird now?” he asked, hands pressed to his face. He’s a father himself and he suddenly seemed to get it.

“A little, yeah.”

“Oh God, I’m so sorry. If I had somewhere to go I’d just leave,” he says with genuine feeling.

He apologized some more, said of course, whatever, whenever he’d leave and he was “so very sorry.” He pulled me onto his chest and wrapped his arms around me, an embrace that should have made me feel better for that was his intent, but instead I suddenly felt trapped and sad. This is how my husband and I used to fall asleep together. Now I was under an avalanche of emotion I was totally unprepared for. I pulled back and told him I couldn’t lie like that; how my feelings were piling up on top of me. I felt a small thread of guilt in all of it because of the sadness that was still hiding behind the books in the shelves and under the bed. I guess I’d missed a few spots when I was sweeping away the marriage cobwebs. Not to mention the fact that it’d been a rocky night of trust for me and I felt like I had fucked up. This so wasn’t how I’d imagined my first foray back into sex.

“I’m not going to fuck you again tonight. I might again in the future, but not tonight. I’m too fucked up right now.”

He listened and cupped my face with his hand then kissed my forehead. “It’s cool,” he said.

I fell asleep with my arms wrapped around a childhood stuffed animal and a safe distance between us. I woke up off and on to the sounds of his gentle snoring and by the time I woke up a few hours later I no longer felt the need to kick him out before dawn just to avoid a toddler interaction. When I told him he hugged me and rolled back over to sleep.

“Yeah, I don’t feel nearly as crazy-town as I did last night,” I said.

Minutes later my baby started calling for me down the hall and now it’s back to Mommy mode. I told Peyton that I had a friend here and that he was sleeping. Peyton said, “Who is it?” and I just answered, “You don’t know him, honey.” And truthfully, neither do I, but I guess I gotta start somewhere.

[Post script: Reading this again for the first time in years my eyes are filled with tears. My baby calling to me while a stranger slept in my bed down the hall. Jesus fucking Christ. I feel like such a piece of shit. We all ended up hanging out a little bit together, not for long, and then I got Matt the fuck outta there. What was I thinking?? I'm so embarrassed. Utterly disgusted with myself, really. And I can tell you there's a lot more where that came from... fuck.]

I am angry.

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Imagine a little girl who was never allowed to feel what came naturally to her. Her mother took personal offense, her father co-opted the emotion as his own. See her grow up never believing in a single emotion she had because retribution was swift when she didn’t feel what they wanted her to: joy, appreciation, anger, hurt, upset. As she developed into a young woman she feared removal of their love lest she do and be exactly as they hoped, but it was always a struggle. She never seemed to get it right.

She began to drink at 13, raiding the liquor cabinet and drinking herself to blackouts because the hole inside her heart was so vast, so deep, so overwhelming she just wanted to disappear. At 18 she was introduced to drugs. She felt like she’d come home. The hole was filled with power now. And then she left her mother and father and moved 1500 miles away. Finally, she could be who she was, feel as she did the beauty of the world, her body, the magical gifts the universe had to offer her in whatever package it was delivered: drugs, sex, friends, laughter, love, life.

But she still couldn’t feel certain things. She was too lost, too afraid to lose all her new family she’d forged in a strange city all by herself. She would pour her heart into her friendships and her relationships; give everything to everyone in hopes that they would return even one drop of her waterfall. But they never did. They understood that they would lose themselves in the process. So she learned to pull back, evaluate, and not equate doing with love.

With time and practice she learned to feel in the right way, without fear. To feel herself through the eyes of others and, most importantly, her own kind eyes. She was happy, sad, joyful, loving, exasperated, kind, boisterous.

She relaxed into her own skin, invited in only those who wanted to stay and love her as she was — a larger than life woman now with a never-ending energy and capacity for more. Her friendships blossomed, she grew stronger. But still, one emotion eluded her: anger. Self-righteous, loud, powerful anger.

When her husband gave up on her she felt only sad. When her mother rejected her adult self she was bereft. When her best friend abandoned her time and time again she was dejected. When her boyfriends failed to be the men she wanted she was tearful. When her sister didn’t trust her she pooled into a watery mess. She was incapable of being angry at these people who didn’t see her, didn’t listen to her, didn’t get her.

She believed she had no right to it. An angry person is allowed to feel, to be, to scream and punch the wall. A genuinely angry person is taken seriously. She was no one. She was wrong. No one ever wanted her to be angry. Ever. And so she never was.

She folded in on herself, swallowed the black snake of rage down her craw and let it slither in her gut until one day it wanted out.

It roiled and flipped and fucked its way back out her body with cruel precision, bringing her to her knees. Her body quaked, her heart raced, she thought she was dying. She admitted it was there, but swallowed it again. Until now.

She is finally angry.

It makes no difference to her that her anger is snarling indiscriminately at her old lover. She believes he broke open the scar of her childhood and he, she has decided, will be the recipient.

She’s angry he won’t love her. She’s angry that he has fled to her. She’s angry that she lost control.  She’s angry that she hoped.  She’s angry that she didn’t believe him. She’s angry that he never lied. She’s angry that it hurts so much. She’s angry that he didn’t sleep at home last night. She’s angry that she had to beg him to stay with her. She’s angry that he didn’t leave her alone at the start. She’s angry that he won’t leave her alone now. She’s angry that he wants her friendship.  She’s angry that he left her.

She’s angry for this moment, for right now, because it’s all she can handle. The world of hurt, the volcanic pain that comes pulsing up whenever she feels abandoned, is still there, but she’s stronger. She’s finally looking at it. It’s a Mount Shasta of cruelty, a cool, dusty blue on the horizon capped with frothy, cold white tears founded through years of heartbreak and worthlessness.

A loss is a loss like any other, but she finally understands why she cut herself. It is the dark, steaming creature that has lived and grown in her belly since she was small and golden with innocence. It’s not that moment. It’s what it reminds her of: She is not fit for love. She is wrong.

This anger she feels for him is only the start. He will not get one part of what he loves about her like this. She must preserve her dignity, her heart, and her body. He can have her, she will have herself. She will wrangle the beast in her core, eye it down, flay it. She will rage and yell and beat back those who have hurt her with a pure and just heart. Wildly at first, then with discretion.

This isn’t about him. It’s about her and the new language she is struggling to understand. Anger is foreign. It tastes like salty aluminum bubblegum, feels like a stinging nettle ant bite, looks like a tail-thrashing chainsaw.

But still. Fuck him. Fuck her. She will master this new language and move on.  Angry.

I want to vomit.

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The Neighbor and I were already struggling through a painful breakup when we erroneously (I drunkenly, perhaps him, too) allowed 4 am girl to weasel her way into our lives on Sunday. I’ve tried typing out the details, but it’s too awful, too stupid. The gist is I’ve spent some time with her and she told TN lies about me, plain and simple.

Sunday night we drank, she and I, until 7:30 am wherein I yelled at her most of the night until she relented about her misdeeds and eventually pissed herself – no joke. I caught her rolling around with TN in his bed, as well, when she’d disappeared for something in his apartment, her dog left in mine.

And the whole next day she spent at his house until after 8 pm. I imagine her dog went hungry the entire time.

I’d been hoping she’d been pissing and vomiting all day and showing her true colors, but he is smitten with this dainty thing apparently.

I apologized for drinking the champagne she stole out of his refrigerator and I replaced it. I haven’t talked to him since.

The whole thing has devolved into an embarrassing heap of steaming shit. I made the colossal mistake of letting her in my house and opening my mouth about last week, a betrayal of trust I’ve copped to; he never came and got her. Why did he leave her with me?? It’s all so gross and I feel so dirty.

Suffice to say I don’t like this woman. You’ll have to trust me when I say it because the details are too numerous and exhausting to list and they’re irrespective of the man I love and whom she’s stealing away.

If he wants to be with someone as disgusting as her, a woman who pisses on herself, weasels and manipulates, lies and cheats, has no self-esteem, is pompous and tacky, then he can have her and she him. But it doesn’t make seeing his car gone at 6 am any easier. Not even a little bit.

I’m trying to figure out how to handle next week when I don’t have my child. Do I bury myself in men or do I go it alone? I’m contemplating calling up a couple of old lovers whom I know are good enough in bed, but they pale in comparison to TN’s skills and I’m worried it’ll just make me sadder.

I just heard his front door slam. It’s 6:47 am. I guess he’s home from a night of fine love making. [Update: it wasn't him.] Good for fucking him. I want to vomit.