“C” is for…

Hy Cookie Monster 1

Cookie!  Get your mind out of the gutter. 

I have had too much wine on this Tuesday  night.

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.

Hy Cookie Monster 2

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. 

Hy Cookie Monster 3

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.

Hy Cookie Monster 4

“C” is for completely confoundingly crushingly clueless.

 

Surprise! I’m not over him.

This weekend was hard.  Today has been hard.  Yesterday was hard.  Nice people keep checking in on me and asking how I’m doing and the answer is the same:  Eh.

I’m doing eh because my dumb ass finally — and just — realized that I’m still in love with The Neighbor.  I thought I wasn’t.  Truly.  I haven’t won the war.

I thought I’d taken enough time to catch my breath and pull my big girl pants back up from my ankles and march on.  I thought I had an open heart for new love.  But, I don’t.  Not even close.

Spending Saturday with him was so familiar, like old times, that it hit me on two fronts: one from the present and one from the past.  The one from the present reminded me of what I’m missing: the sex, a future with him, his company.  The one from the past reminds me that even when we were in a relationship I got no more than what I did 4 1/2 months after he dumped me, which made me sad for that old Hy.  I felt trapped in a loop.

I’ve spent a lot more time with him in the last week and a half than I have in months.   He came bowling with me and Peyton recently, stopped over another night to hang out for some reason, and then we were in more than usual texting contact leading up to his birthday.  It’s like I have a TN Hangover: I binged on him and now I’m paying for it.

I’ve deleted all my texting threads with men and Tinder off my phone.  I haven’t checked into AFF in a week because I can’t wrap my head around the idea of one more stupid fucking date.  Friday burned me and I’m avoiding the kitchen.

Realizing that I’m still in love with a man who secretly-not-so-secretly withdrew from me for months and then disengaged altogether without a fight because he’d decided I wasn’t the one for him is humbling.  I feel about as bright as an ant intent on her duty to get to the nest despite the river between her and it.

Ann sent me a link to a great article about being addicted to people and the highs they create in us.  A friend on Instagram emailed me a link about being addicted to seduction.  I keep getting little messages like pollen blown in from far away telling me to love myself and to “be content with you.”

I’m a conflation and paradox of all those things: I love the hunt, I’m seduced by the chase, yet I do love myself and am content.  I don’t need to be alone, I need to get my head on straight.  Being alone makes me go crazy, not because I hate myself or can’t stand me, but because the stillness of energy drains me as swiftly as removing the cork from the bottle.

So I am stuck in this breakup purgatory of being unfit for dating, but in need of contact.

Someone suggested I rely on my friends.

If only I could.

My friends are far flung and busy.  Gone are the days when we move in packs and come and go with revolving doors.  My friends are mothers and wives and workaholic singles.  I don’t have enough people in my life to fill the many gaps in my time; it’s why I got a dog.  He’s always up for an adventure or a cuddle.  Also, my friends can be real shits.  It happens.  They have priorities and many times it’s not me reaching out to say I need them.

The men left somewhere in the orbit of my life aren’t taking up any space at the moment.  I’ve switched the command to something akin to an alert system.  If they put out a signal, I see them, respond, and go back to dark.

I need to figure out how to get filled up with what little contact I get in a quiet week because I can’t spare one more ounce of effort to get more.  That’s how I’m going to heal: staying quiet and being open to the connections offered me and doing with less.

The other day I learned that my birthday in 1783 marked the end of the Revolutionary War.  The Neighbor’s birthday happens to be on the day it began.  We are bookends in history and like all stories, ours has an ending of its own.  It’s time for me to figure out life after the treaty.

 

I need you, Internet Boyfriend.

I am feeling lost and sad and lonely.  The Neighbor’s birthday is this weekend and, being silly me, I offered to take him out for his birthday on Saturday, Independence Day.

“So…” I began, “I was thinking I should take you out for your birthday this weekend.  Tina and Amy are both out of town, Peyton is, too, I’d like to do something fun.  What do you think?”

He looked at me with a quizzical look.

“C’mon!  It’ll be fun!  What else would you be doing?”

“I’d go into work then go home,” he admitted. Then he added, “Lemme think about it.”

I knew that was code for “Let me check with my therapist.”  “Ok,” I said.

A couple of days later he called to say I could take him out for brunch.

As you know, Internet Boyfriend, brunch is a sore spot with me.  He never went with me, hated it, he said.  “I’m not a brunch person,” he’d assert.  No matter my protests, he never budged.  The closest I ever got were a handful of 5 am wake-up calls to go to our favorite greasy spoon. I took it, appeased, but still longed for what brunch represented: a closeness, a lazy stroll through the morning after an intimate night, a declaration of couplehood.

Last weekend I told my dates that I wanted someone to go to brunch with.  Both men got what I meant without hesitation.  Last night my date got it, too.  “It’s special,” he’d agreed.

But this offer of brunch isn’t any of those things to The Neighbor.  If I had to guess — and that’s all I can do — it’s because it’s the safest slot to put me in.  It won’t be late, there won’t be much drinking (if any) and then he can bail on the excuse of having to do some work.  I could feel the long arm of his therapist in this decision since I had clearly made my intentions known that I wanted to take him out for the evening, as friends only.  “What do you want to do?” she likely asked.  “I want to hang out with her,” he’d probably said, “but I don’t want her to get the wrong idea…”

It makes me sad because the truth is there is a deep, dark part of me that wants him to come back around to me.  Not as we were, obviously, but as I’ve jumped into the deep end of dating I realize once again how special he is, how special our connection is.

Both Tina and Amy have rekindled romances with their exes.  They look at me with surprise when I say TN and I haven’t slept together once since breaking up or even kissed.  They have both gotten reengaged with their men and — despite all the complexities and confusions it’s caused — are happy with their lots.  I want that, too, but I can’t break him down; he has a steel grip on his resolve, never drinks too much around me, runs out of the house if he does, and because my heart is still dripping with loss I rarely contact him.  The chances of us bumping into each other with lowered inhibitions are nil.

I’ve come to realize that his rejection of me is integral to my wanting him.  The fact that I can’t charm the pants off of him, literally, invigorates me.  I want to know why, I want to solve this riddle.  I can charm the pants off of 97% of the men I meet, why not him?  Hell, why not the Bad Texter?  Even he has me on the hook because he is a complete mystery to me.

As I’ve been given the bitch slot of the day on Saturday it’s caused me to wonder why I even bother, but it’s that inexplicable itch I have to scratch.  Man after man I meet as if it’s my job and one by one they fall to my wiles.  It’s so easy, too easy, IBF.

I’m ashamed to call myself charming because it might come off as arrogant, but I don’t know how else to explain that with very few exceptions I manage to make a man want more of me.  Except the men I want; they eschew me, dodge me, refuse to see me.  Those are the men that draw my attention most: the ones who don’t see me.

Last night I sat at the same dive bar as I had with Remington only 3 days earlier.  We nearly sat at the same table, but out of respect for the ghost of that first date I steered us to a different table.  He was a fine looking man, fit and wirey from climbing, self-assured, a little nerdy looking which drew me in.  We began to talk and I found myself fitting to him as I had Remington, and The Lawyer and Mr. Nerdy, and all the other men.

Remember that ridiculous date I had with the guy with the face tattoos?  Or the power-lifter aficionado?  There have been others I never even wrote about because why?  They all went nowhere.  Yet, without exception they all thought it went swimmingly and wanted more of me.  I’m exhausted being their perfect woman and I am forgetting to look for my perfect man.

I’m so busy being charming and winning them over, figuring them out and being wanted that I am completely forgetting to be discriminating.  Why would I want this guy?  Is he the right fit for me?

He loves camping (I hate it), but, I think, maybe I’m doing it wrong and he can change my mind.  He’s a little bit overweight (and that’s not really my thing), but, I think again, he could lose it, it’s not a character flaw.  He’s a recovering alcoholic (and I don’t really want to mess with that being the drinker that I am), but, again, I can’t judge him for getting his life on track.

And so I have these inner dialogues during these dates whereby I dismiss all my red flags, all the things I don’t really want in a partner, because I don’t want to judge and I want him to want me.  And, what if I’m wrong??  God forbid I make a mistake.

I have this thing about me — I’ve noticed it my entire life — that I naturally emulate whomever I’m with.  When I’m with Sharon, I get a southern drawl, when I’m with Tina my hand gestures mimic hers, when I’m with Amy I walk like her.  Studies have been shown that it’s a likeability factor, this emulation.  We are naturally drawn to those who are most like us, who become familiar.  Books have been written on how to capitalize on it.

I suppose this was something I was born with then the skill was deeply stroked as a child in an unstable home.  To survive my mercurial parents, I had to disappear, figure them out and be as likeable as possible.  It’s led me to success in my career, but loss in love.  I rarely know where I start and they end I am so impossibly contorted to be likeable.  This gift of being a chameleon comes at a price: my own voice, my own way.

At the end of my date last night he asked how I was feeling.  I was his first internet date ever (“I prefer analog,” he’d explained) and it was off of AFF.  The truth was that I didn’t find him all that attractive physically, but I had enjoyed the conversation.  So, I did what I always do and kept him on the hook.

“I’d like to see you again, but I have to be honest, I’m a little worn out.  I go out a lot and next week I have my kid again.  Are you a patient man?”

He smiled, pleased I was interested.  “I am.”

I left it at that and we walked out and had a chaste kiss across from my car where, 3 days earlier, Remington had assaulted my mouth and pussy with hidden skills.

I drove home and got texts from Mr. Nerdy.  He’s excited about our date tonight, a traditional dinner and then an activity.  He’s been amping up the sexual content of his messages and I, quite frankly, don’t know if I have it in me.

I am so tired.

David came over Wednesday — yes, the guy who had taken himself off the market was back at me — and had railed me to oblivion.  He’d picked me up and thrown me around, choked me while his hand slammed into me until I puddled around it.  He bent me over and licked my asshole while holding my hands behind my back, fingered me and slipped his fat, unprotected cock deep inside my wet hole.  I’d gagged on his massive cock.

He struck my flanks, my legs, my thighs until I was fire-engine red and fucked me until he came on my back.  We’d laid in the waning light and talked about safe things: our dogs, physiological reactions.  Then he’d pulled me back into him and rolled on top of me and kissed me passionately until I pushed him off of me and tried so hard to get that enormous dick down my throat.

Tears squeezed out as they had earlier in the night, I’d vomited a little and then he’d flipped me over and railed me again until his muscles seized up from his 60k run over the weekend.  I’d fallen back on his cock and he’d turned me around to finger my ass.

How many fingers and how far he was into me was lost as I tried to cope with his penis.  He coached me as I whimpered, mortified and turned on and determined all at once until I’d vomited completely into my mouth and pulled off, stiff and still, looking for something to spit into.  That was it for us for the night.

We found ourselves trapped in the vortex of miscommunication again and I realized it was so easy to fuck him and let him come around because though I had figured him out I didn’t actually want him in my life as an important person.

I lay there, opposite him with his leg draped over me, his hands massaging my ankle and me stroking his calf thinking how comfortable I am with a guy I would never want to date, whereas the men who want me cause me great discomfort.

Mr. Nerdy has no idea that David sucked it all out of me.  I don’t want to have sex tonight, though I’m sure I will.  I will because I’ll mold myself to him and want to win him over.  Plus, I like sex.  It will likely be good for me to be with someone who’s interested in me beyond just my willingness to put out.  And, he wants to take me to brunch.

But I will be kicking him out sometime in the night, under the summer moon, because I will have to wash up and be ready for The Neighbor’s birthday brunch and afternoon surprise (I’m taking him to the batting cages).  He says he’s excited and really looking forward to it.  Strangely, I am, too.

I’m looking forward to figuring this out, IBF.  I’m lost.  I’m sad.  I’m lonely.  And The Lawyer wants to spend time with me on Sunday which makes me feel all the more lonely.  I need you.

 

 

I’m jealous.

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.

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.

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.

Healing.

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.

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.

I have no feelings.

Well.  Actually, I do have feelings.  Mostly they’re apathy, numbness, confusion, sadness.  Yeah, you get the idea.

Not to say I’m depressed.  I’m actually not.  I’m just mourning, which is something entirely different.

And I’ve been mourning like a horny 15 year-old boy watching cheerleading practice for over a year.  It’s kept me preoccupied and busy and it’s served its purpose swimmingly, but now I’m onto a new phase of this mourning business.  If the past year has been numbness, then what I’m experiencing now might be called “warming up.”

Ever since my “snapshot” in September I have slowed way down.  Like WAAAAAY down.  I don’t fuck 4 men in one week anymore.  I don’t meet anyone I’m not genuinely excited to meet just because he has a penis.  My standards for sex are as high as ever and I’ve switched from, “Wow, that really sucked, I hope we try it again,” to “Wow, that really sucked and he’ll never get a chance to do that again [because I deserve better than what he gave].”  (There’s more to that last sentence than what I’ve written here, but suffice to say it’s a positive shift in me wherein I’m not chasing a lousy lover, but believing I deserve more, and letting it go.)

There’s Jason, Phillip, and The Neighbor in my bed these days.  I tumbled with one other man recently, Casio, but he was more of a one-off.  I was horny, he was extremely hot, and I couldn’t think of a good reason not to sleep with him.  Too bad he was obnoxiously bad in bed, lost his erection, didn’t make up for it in the morning, and waved goodbye to me from my doorway.  (At least I got a snazzy Casio watch out of the deal.)

My therapist wants me to cut men out of my life altogether, but I don’t see the point.  Since shifting my attitude about sex and my body I still get a lot out of the experiences.  I feel more when I’m naked and being pounded than when I’m clothed and childless.

Here’s my life in a nutshell:

  • One week I have my kid and I’m plugged into The Universe, myself, my heart, my baby, my future, my everything.
  • The next week I’m childless and plugging into my body, my passion, my sex, men and their cocks, their bodies, their drives and thereby the other side of The Universe.

And prior to September, I was rabid on my childless weeks and occasionally during my custodial ones.  I increased my number of sexual partners by more than 50% in the last year, grazing through the field of ripe men at my fingertips like a starving person.

I don’t have a problem getting men into my bed.  But letting them into my heart is a different matter.  Jason, Phillip and The Neighbor all inhabit very small slivers — more than anyone else has in the past year — and it feels… I dunno.  Ok, I guess.  I’m not loving it, but I feel it’s a big improvement over, say, this summer when I was discarding men like gum wrappers.

I read something today that really resonated with me over at Pervocracy.  She was writing about the difference between slutty and horny and how female horniness makes people nervous and it’s easier to just call her slutty.  I can easily fill the definition of both by anyone’s standards, the difference is I don’t give a fuck.  Call me a slut, call me horny.  I’ve always had a sexual energy about me that makes even a potato sack look sexy if I dared to wear one.  It’s just how I do.  I can’t help it.  But it’s reassuring to know that other people out there are contemplating this difference when I’m trying to actively go from “slutty” to “horny” in my sex life.  To be deliberate and choosy and thoughtful in my sexuality and sex, i.e, HORNY.

Maybe feelings are more connected to horny… I dunno.  In any case, I’m glad they’ve re-emerged and I’m glad to be as horny as ever.