I remember a time.

I remember a time when you reached for my hand.  Your warm skin on mine startled me.  I pulled away.

We continued to walk towards the theater and I awkwardly explained my reaction.  That we were just to be friends; no hand holding is allowed in a friends with benefits situation.  You seemed to shrug and keep walking.

In the darkened theater our hands molded to each other’s thighs and dipped below belts and skirts.  That was ok.

But don’t hold my hand.

A lot has happened: Bullshit no longer accepted here

I’ve been looking forward to this moment for weeks, this desire to sit down and write.  Like hunger, the posts still form in my mind, but my body remains far from this place of catharsis and raw sharing, this rich meal of creativity.  The reason why finally occurred to me the other day: I’ve been processing.

The other morning after dropping Peyton off at school, dressed in leggings and a hoodie and sporting two long braids and virtually no makeup, I met a man for a non-date at a nearby greasy spoon.

We met on AFF and though our politics, desires, and physical characteristics match up there was one glaringly obvious mismatch: after a 20-year marriage he is looking to play the field and I am not.

We confirmed the bad timing in an email or two, but he seemed to like me enough to ask me out for coffee anyway.  I agreed because the idea of meeting someone new without the threat of decisions about sex or having to figure out anything beyond enjoying his company seemed like a welcome breath of fresh air.

We chatted over an omelette, brisket hash and black coffee until he had to leave to catch a plane; two straight hours of life stories flew by like 5 minutes with an old friend.  It was the first time I’d been able to be unapologetically open with anyone new.  Nothing was at stake.  I didn’t regret one word, one move, because I wasn’t playing a game.  I wasn’t trying to win him over.

I spoke openly and brazenly, held nothing back as I might with any friend.  It was listening to myself sum up the last 2+ years of my life that I it all came into clear view like Neo finally seeing the Matrix for the first time.

The first year after The Neighbor left me and we attempted friendship felt like I had a bag on my head in a hallway filled with razor blades.  I was blind and in unbelievable pain.  I wanted only to be filled up with cock and my mind blown, but the closest I ever came was with two men — each of whom were just flashes in the pan.  Little did I know what a boon that year would actually be.

I ended the friendship the end of the first year and started year #2 completely TN-free and although it was definitely the best thing I could have done for myself, the rest of the second year could be defined as pure shit from every angle.  My finances were in the toilet along with my emotional and physical health, dicks lasted all of 2-3 minutes as did my interest in them.  My approach to life was simply to survive, not conquer.  It was a shit show with only one little bright spot.

So here I am in the third year, the year I have reclaimed as my own.  I announced to myself and the world in January that I was switching gears, that I was ready to let someone in.  I changed my dating profiles and started to screen for similar relationship goals.  It hasn’t gone well.

I knew it’d take work and time, but I will bashfully admit that for some unknown reason I believed in my heart of hearts that I was the only obstacle to finding love and that once I removed it I would drown in all the feels from all the men.  Go ahead.  Laugh.  I sure as fuck am.

Surprisingly, there are a lot of obstacles out there to finding a good mate.

For one, being vulnerable is tough.  I find myself trying to find that fine line of self disclosure and TMI.  When they ask me about my last relationship what the ever-loving fuck do I tell them??  Do I mention how I was *this close* to dumping him, but then he followed me to my current apartment complex and he still lives there?  Do I mention all the deceit and denial and distance?  That he continues to stalk my nudie profile?  Or do I just say, “It’s been a little over 2 years,” and leave the impression that I’m not still really fucking fucked up about it?  The difficult part of it is that I need someone to be gentle with me because I’m still so very. fucked. up. about it.

Two, turns out I can fuck a Trump supporter, but I can’t date him, and there appear to be a bunch of them in my age bracket.  It’s not because I’m a sore loser.  It’s because I vehemently disagree with his policies, his choices for heads of state and agencies, and on a purely party-line argument, I want the choice to do with my body what I will.  I don’t think these anti-abortion men realize that if I’m forced to have their baby, they’re forced to fork over a shit ton of money for it, as well.  I also don’t know how I’d introduce a Trump voter to my extremely liberal family.  My sister would vomit on her shoes as she clutched her brown babies and black husband closer.

And three, men are just simply shits.  Like Rex who strung me along with days worth of texting and phone calls and long conversations about what it was I was looking for during our 4 dates only to eventually ghost on me like a 23 year old; or Mr. Panties who when I said I didn’t want to have sex that night saw it as a challenge and was relentless until I caved, bragged about his 9″ dick (it wasn’t), and who, while I was dressing by the light of my phone the next morning, had a pair of women’s underwear inside workout pants on the floor by the bed and didn’t know to whom they belonged; or Devon, he who didn’t ask me any questions, who fucked me for our second go-around on our second date in the dark pre-dawn, but the morning before our third date texted to say he “Just wasn’t feeling it,”; or Trey, the big, muscled gym trainer who tried his best to get me to call him “my king,” as he pressed me against the wall of his Amerisuites room roughly 3 hours after we met; or Joe, the single father who worked weeks at a time on oil-rigs in a nearby state who came after 10 minutes (with an 8 minute blowjob) and never got hard again and so we just left it there forever; or the 21-yo (who’s now 23) who was supposed to just be fun, but after fucking for 20 minutes his mom called and ripped him a new one for forgetting to pick up his little brother.  He left to get him and was supposed to come back, but his worry his mother wouldn’t pay for his Spring Break if he left the house again overrode any desire to spend the rest of the night with me; or lastly, Logan, the sweet 28-year-old who I brought home after our first date and let him stick his giant dick in my ass, but who after he fucked me on our second date went to his car to grab his phone at 2 am and just never. came. back.

This isn’t an invitation to pick apart my choices or try to figure out why these men have done what they did.  Some of those men were supposed to be strictly for fun and others I was legitimately gathering data to see if he was a possible mate.  I have found that my needs for cock do not diminish just because I’m attempting to feed my heart  — it’s confusing — but what happened with Logan, being treated like so much trash after many hours of talking and building what I thought was a little friendship only to be literally cast aside…

My cage is rattled.

I have had some pretty horrible things happen to me at the hands of men over the years ranging from benign neglect to all out sexual assault.  I’ve been lied to, cajoled, begged, ignored, and relentlessly pursued, and all of it felt par for the course to one degree or another — even the assaults — but to be left by a lover whom moments before had been buried inside of me as if I were an empty plate he had no more need for… that fucking hurt.  That got to me.

It was the final experience of the past 2 years and 3 months that finally drove it all home: I am worth so much more.

I am worth the effort of someone to get to know, to take time away from other things to spend on me.  My pussy is worth as much, as well.  It isn’t up for grabs anymore just because it’s weeping with need.  Together, my fucking pussy and I, we are an incredibly valuable being deserving of far more currency than I’ve been charging.

I don’t want to fuck anyone just because I can or just because I need to feel something between my legs.  I don’t want to fuck a cluster of cells.  I want to fuck a man, a person, someone who is real to me.  Someone whose heart I can feel beat beneath my ear and whose cock pulses in time because we’ve decided to share it together.  Because he’s earned it.

This shift in me saved my pussy and me from fucking a Trump supporter the other weekend.  BJ was a dashing, funny, charismatic man whom I met on Coffee Meets Bagel.  We’d met for drinks on Friday and it had been a B+ date (he lost credit for talking about his crushingly beautiful ex-girlfriend and not walking me to my car).  The next day while wine tasting with friends, he became effusively day-drunk and wanted to see me again.  Immediately.

After royally pissing off my girlfriend by naively telling him where we were because he was on the other side of town he and his friend joined us.  It didn’t turn out badly.  He was affable and fun and I invited up to my apartment after drinks.  I also told him I wasn’t interested in sex.

We made out like lustful teenagers, but he respected my wishes and we slept curled up together fully clothed.  He in his t-shirt and shorts and I in my pajamas.  The next morning we cuddled and laughed in the soft morning light and I coquettishly rubbed on his bulge and imagined what it’d feel like to be inside of me.  But our hands remained atop all fabric.  By 1 pm, after more napping and canoodling we agreed it was time for me to take him home.  It was right about then I discovered he voted for Trump.

I groaned and felt a visceral clench around my gut.  “Does this mean I have to walk home?” he joked.  Apparently he had decided to ignore my “I’m allergic to Trump voters” line in my profile.  He said he didn’t know why.

I searched my soul for days after and came to the conclusion that he and I could never be more than friends.  Much like having a hard-line religious difference, I have realized my political beliefs in this election climate are as close to a faith as I have ever had and he and I appear to believe in very different things.  And it was with this realization that I felt the full benefit of waiting to know someone before I let them put their blood-stuffed body part into me: I got to walk away from the night unscathed and with all my emotional money; I had spent nothing on being with him.

There are still two sides of me — the professional, mommy, daughter, sister me and the dissolute, sexed-up, hungry, wild me — but each of them are a little bit wiser now.  The public-facing and the private Me’s have finally realized that all men will have to do some work to get either of them and that bullshit is no longer accepted at this establishment as a means of payment.

 

Following through and opening up.

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

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

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

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

::

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

He says you are too much.

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

here is the problem:

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

being woven into one soul to make you.

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

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

I spoke too freely of my opinions, he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

::

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s been 2 years.

January 27th, 2015 I wrote about our last time together.  Only thing was, I had no idea that’s what it was.

It was a tender moment between us — good sex, spectacular sex — and it wiped out the doubt and worry I lived with about him and had me hopeful for our future.  I contemplated what we did next with our relationship, moving it forward.  I was the girl who got all dressed up for the dance and her date had entirely other plans.  Somewhere else.

And then, the day after I wrote the words he walked into my house and left me.  Technically we ended it 2 weeks later, but the truth is he left me the night he said he wanted a break.  Perhaps it was the last time he was buried inside of me; a real goodbye fuck.

In the weeks that followed we cried together as I begged him for a reason why.  “I don’t know, Hy.  I just don’t want to be in a relationship,” he’d say wearing a sad, heavy face like a drama mask.

Spring turned into summer and our meetings were less tearful and more reorienting.  “If we’re going to be friends, then you can’t hide things from me, TN,” I’d gently lecture.  “I don’t want details, but friends tell each other when they’re dating someone.”

“Don’t worry.  I’m not dating anyone, I promise.  I have no interest.”

He was working out early in the mornings by then, bootcamp at dawn.  I couldn’t get him up before 9 am when we dated.  He’d said he wasn’t a morning person and never would be.  He did yoga, was kayaking, even hanging out with his workout crowd.

My birthday was in late summer and the night he took me out to a fancy dinner to celebrate he complained about how tired he was because of the hot yoga he’d done in the morning and when I pressed and asked if he was doing it for a woman he claimed it was with “just a bunch of middle-aged women” from his bootcamp.  “Don’t worry.  I’m not dating,” he’d added unprovoked.

The next day I ended our friendship amidst his protests and angry, mournful tears.  I was still in love with him and watching him change into the kind of man I’d always wanted him to be right before my eyes was too painful, a slap in the face of my ill-conceived sacrifice to accept him as he was.  What a fucking idiot I was.

That fall, a mere weeks after saying my final goodbye, I ran into him with a woman at my favorite gym class.  A class that I had introduced him to and which we had attended together for a year.  She was pale and pretty and he struggled to ignore me even as he paid her every ounce of his attention.

A couple of weeks later I stumbled on his Facebook page filled with pictures of him with the same dark-haired woman.  I was devastated.  Everything – everything – he had told me about himself was a lie.

Apparently he was the kind of man who went out to parties and concerts and yoga.  He dressed up for Halloween and brought her to his work events.  He was snapped kissing her and beaming a 100-watt smile at the camera with her in his arms.  And he allowed her tag the ever-loving-shit out of him on Facebook whereas I was forbidden from giving even the slightest hint of our association with each other on social media beyond friendship.

I was glad I had preemptively ejected him from my life based on not only my ongoing feelings for him but the deeply held, but as yet unproven belief that he was lying to me.  (Posthumously and accidentally discovering hidden profiles seeking alternative sexual relationships with women during our active relationship helped cement my feelings about him lying.)

I was left in shreds.  Barely myself.  I limped along month after month of 2016 fully free of him in my life, but was repeatedly reminded of his existence — both because he remained in our complex and because about every week or so he would visit my Adult Friend Finder profile, deliberately leaving a visitor trail.

Once.

It’s now nearly two years to the day he abandoned me out of a troubled left field and I still — still — miss him.

I miss our easy rapport, our shared politics, our chemistry, our love.  And by far most of all — because I’m beyond and round the bend of the other things — I miss his fucking cock. 

Since we’ve split I’ve had 20, 30 more and not one has come close in making me feel the things he did.  Bones was an approximation, David was massive and fat but didn’t have the curve and length, Remington never let go despite having a lot to work with.

Everyone else had curves, lengths, and girths that just didn’t compare and despite my best efforts to refocus, let go, really enjoy and embrace what was in front of me I was left with a bitter aftertaste which was decidedly not TN.

Regardless of the shape and size of the penis — truly — the bottom line is no one has fucked me like he did, like he could.

He was a maestro with our bodies, perhaps I was, too.  Playing each other like seasoned musicians.  Eyes shut, feeling the chords, the notes, and the symphony in our bones.

Even that last meaningful night when he had assuredly decided he was leaving me and was completely checked out.

I can’t help but ask myself how is that even possible?? How can two people have that level of connection and pleasure while one is utterly gone?

I am ashamed and deeply humiliated at my gullibility and inability to move on.  I’m afraid that no one will be able to supplant the memories with new and better ones.  I’m scared I’m stuck.

Two motherfucking years and I have what feels like nothing to show for all my work, all my suffering, all my tearful, painful meanderings through the tangled paths of my heart.

I’m ashamed to share the depth of my broken-ness, of my mistrust, my longing.  No one can penetrate the fortress I have built around my heart except for those whose proximity and viability are null.  Men equal danger.  They cannot be trusted.  They don’t listen to me, they use me, they are not safe.

Therefore I will use them, chew them like bubblegum and rub my mound on their parts until my juices burst and runneth over and the sticky-sweet bubbles pop on my puckered lips.

Twice.

I wonder if he ever thinks of me.  In general.  I know he must considering he visits my AFF profile regularly, but I mean in real life.  Does he have anxiety about getting his mail?  Driving in and out?  I’m long since past all that, but the ghost of his cock lingers in my psyche, my pussy, my heart.

I have fucked everything that walks in an effort to replace him and to heal and all to no avail. I’ve hoped love would find me and now I’m hoping to find love.

The only thing left to try at this point is not fucking at all except I’m failing at that, too — of course — but I’m hanging in there with the hope and the will to push forward.  If I found someone like him once, surely I can find someone like him (but better) again.  Right??

At least the thought helps me sleep at night.

 

I’m not all ice and black heart.

Luke and I have been talking every single day for weeks now and it is this lone connection that reminds me I have a soft, gooey center beneath my icy demeanor.

For almost two years now my world has been a landscape of slate and black.  Jagged, torn edges that have left me bereft and alone.  The Neighbor’s abrupt departure from my life shone a light on how I have avoided intimacy my entire life, how its light scorched me like the sun upon a vampire, and in the ensuing months I have bumbled along self discovery and acceptance: I have intimacy issues.

Me, who opens up and shares the most intimate of details of her sexual life with virtual strangers.  Me, who entertains gaggles of friends with her lewd stories and tearful sharings of dead fathers and complicated mother relationships.  Me, who bares her body for tens of thousands of pairs of eyes and who elicits both hateful and lustful responses in equal measure and weathers them all with unapologetic and not not disdainful aplomb.

Yes, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:

I’m a motherfucking mess.

Man after man — 14 this year alone, I think, plus the handful that I haven’t mentioned — have added to the bleak illustration of my life, some post-apocalyptic land where even the lightening bug’s glow is dim.   None have given color, none have inspired.  I have been free of a muse for too long, drained of inspiration and weighted down by the pressure to impress and be loved by the masses, but I am feeling color seep back in.  Because of him.

We may never meet.  We may never touch.  We may never taste one another, but what has happened is a tiny little fire has been lit inside.  The tiniest, just ever so, like the little diamonds in the slim band upon my finger.  It is there.  I can feel it.

I am no longer filled with dread when I think to write and the words spill out of me much like school children down the sidewalk after school: freely, with some joy, and with purpose.

I tease him about talking to me — he’s far too sweet for the likes of me.  “You’re a smooth talker,” he replies.

“Tell that to me when you’re between my legs,” I say.  “Then I’ll believe it.”

He persists in smearing color on me.  “You’re a great person.  You need to appreciate that.  I know there’s a big heart within that ice block,” he laughs.  Then adds, “For the record, you’ve never seemed as cold as you think.”

I’ve been cast a bright line to the old palette I used, rich in color and light.  His kindness, his ever-present warmth, his sweetness.  After years of grey to see this sliver of color I find myself almost afraid.  Afraid to reach for it, afraid to believe in it.  But I can’t deny that it’s there.  That little ember, ever so small, lit within me.

And I can almost breathe again.

 

My little diamonds.
My little diamonds.

Sometimes you miss the one who hurt you the most.

In the depths of my fears I think of only one voice and feel only one set of arms around me as the storm slams against the shutters: his.

I long for his calm words, his thoughtful response, his bulldog ways.  When I was broken he rushed to my side.  Always.  He was my safe place.

It’s been one year and 4 months since he showed up to my house to stay the night and instead asked for a break from me; 8 months since his tear-streaked face left my home for the last time; 6 months since he brought his new woman to my gym class;  5 months since he clutched her in photos and kissed her smooth, smiling cheek; and two days since he last looked at me online.

The knot of suspicion I carried with me like a baby clutched close to my chest left when he did.  I celebrate its absence, dance on its grave each time I breathe with a lightness which eluded me when he was close and yet I pine and I miss.   I miss him.

I am ashamed.

I am embarrassed.

My longing proves my weakness, my failure.  The seasons have changed and I have not.

I have raged against the machine of men clamoring to get between my legs and bellowed at the one or two who have dared to acknowledge my heart.  I have no safe place, I am unmoored and I have no one to blame but myself.

I hate that I miss him still, this soft and sad part of me.  It clings to me like the scab that it is and I want it to be gone, to peel it away with a long, low sting to reveal the fresh pink of health below.  But maybe there is no health beneath all of this.  Maybe I will always be lost and stubbornly stuck in the rot of my life.

::

The gale of confusion and impersonal betrayal I experience in my dating life has worn me down to a bloody stump; doubt in men has seeped into my consciousness and it scares me.  If I lose hope then who am I?

I scour the transcripts of my interactions searching for clues and force myself to put one foot in front of the other only to admit to my own subterfuge.  I am abnormal, extraordinary.  I turn an innocent afternoon of get-to-know-you into a mastermind game of deflection and redirection: do not get to know me, get to know what I’m willing to give you.

Sex is safe, I am not.

::

He will be leaving my life soon.  All the way in the way that the internet can afford us, anyway.

I will no longer be subjected to his fancy black car parked neatly near his building.  Checking my mail will be an ordinary event: I will no longer feel compelled to open the little brass door only if I am sleek and beautiful.  Walking to the office, to the pool, living my life in my little square block will become an empty theater.  My audience and potential critic will be gone.  Not that he probably cared anyway, I’m sure.

Longing for his support when the clouds have blocked the sun is an outright betrayal of myself, of my determination to heal and move on.  I recognize I have no control over how I feel and that this is [obviously] part of the process but I am moved to tears nonetheless.  Why have I found nothing to fill the void he left behind?

I still feel the spring of the curls on his chest beneath my palm, the scratch of his beard on my face, his beautiful cock buried deep inside of me, his taste.

This is an extraction.  Nothing will grow back.  I’ll have to chew around it.

On occasion I find myself in that filthy sess pool we call Facebook.  I slap myself with knowledge I have no right to know and grind on happy thoughts, toss darts on the board of Good For Him.  I walk away stiff-legged and raw, armed with ammunition to continue my quick clip away.  Thankfully.

This cycle of need, burn, and retreat is like the earth around the sun: there’s a summer when it’s hotly uncomfortable and a winter when I am cold and distant.  How many times do I have to go around him?  How many seasons must pass before I break loose and no longer taste him?

The gift of hindsight left a present at my feet: I have never loved anyone as much as I loved him.

When I loved him, when the loving was a thing I did every day, it became a part of my fiber and when it was stripped away I was left bereft.  A tree in the dead of winter, naked and bare.  Starving for a spring that has yet to come.

Instead storm after storm and a longing for a man who didn’t want me, who never wanted me, pounds at me.  I foolishly throw myself to the wolves hoping one of them will recognize me instead of devour me.  I own that.  But I must rest.  I must stop.

I must surround myself instead with my other anchors.  The batwomen and sisters I rely upon, the one or two or three men who encourage me to be sensitive, the sister who now knows that I write and is proud of me.

To look at me you would never guess at my continued heartbreak.  To read me you might not guess it either, but it’s time to be honest. It’s true: I am still heartbroken.

I still feel his absence.  I still wish that things were different, that someone, anyone cared about me, but most of all him.  I am terrified of attempting to find someone new.  In fact I feel wholly ill equipped to do so.  I am a big, fat faker.  I only go through the motions because I derive some sick purpose out of it.  I am a masochist to a frustrating degree.

::

Longing and heartbreak are the same as it was a thousand years ago.  I am blathering on about nothing, as usual.  I wonder what their advice was then all those long seasons ago.

 

 

 

 

I have sex once a week.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, I relented.

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re so beautiful,” I said.

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

“So beautiful,” I breathed again.

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

“Grab my neck,” he said.

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

I lowered my hands slowly and he opened his eyes.

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

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

Then once more.

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

“That was good,” we said almost together.

It had felt different, somehow.  Sexier.

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

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

 

 

We fucked like old times.

We lay cuddling last week in my bed and then suddenly we weren’t.

I grabbed the soft mound of flesh beneath his basketball shorts and squeezed and pressed my cheek on his warm, firm chest then slid my head up until the bridge of my nose rested under his jaw.  I have discovered a place here which is even better than the nook.  It’s my nook within the nook.

He sighed against me and I continued to slide my hand on his stiffening bulge.  His hand traced swirls on my arm and I sunk deeper into a new state of being, so far from stress and worry which I’d been wearing for so long before that moment.

I melted against him beneath my closed lids and let him kiss my face and my lips, his cock hard and twitching beneath my fingers.  I deftly pulled his waistband down as he equally deftly lifted his hips and let me slide them down around his thick, round backside.

The lights were on and illuminated our pale limbs and lit his icy blue eyes upon my darker ones.  Finally, I thought, I could lose myself again.  It’d been far too long.  Boxes and money and my failed marriage, my hurting baby and career worries, they all twirled away like smoke.  None of that mattered.  All that mattered for those moments turned into minutes, were the two of us returning to what we knew best about one another.

My hand wrapped around his giant hot cock as he shifted over me, his mouth was wet and urgent on mine, then his hands were pulling off my little pajama shorts and his knees shoving mine wide apart.  Soon, soon!

I held my breath and clung to his bare shoulders and let my gaze hold his for one, two, three seconds before I had to break away.  Still, after everything, I am a chicken shit to let my soul pool in my eyes for him to see.

Shirt hiked up over my jiggling breasts, cock knocking at my door, a push, a sigh, then the long, deep slide into home.  My home.

This is always where I will feel welcome, like I always belong.

His hips curved into me slowly at first as he warmed up and then the tempo increased to a frenzy.  Banging, moaning, arching, begging.

I breathed in his puffs of breath upon my neck and reveled in his warm, manly weight pinning me to the mattress.  I hoped we disturbed my cranky asshole downstairs neighbor.

He sat up then and did his move, the one that slays me each and every time.  Sometimes I resent his control over my body and our easy slide into a routine, but not that night.  That night my eyes widened with anticipation and I couldn’t wait for the thrill of orgasms his body would play upon mine.

With my ankles hitched up on his shoulders he angled himself inside of me to hit my g-spot and rammed away at me as the orgasms bled through me and I felt my juices release down the crack of my bottom.  I whimpered and bit my own forearm to keep from screaming and thrashed around like a wild animal.

I begged for breaks and he gave them to me before starting up again, splitting my legs this way and that then flipping me over and twisting my long hair around his hand for a better grip and let loose on me from behind.

Tears slipped out of my eyes and I lifted my rump to meet his hips; my breath stolen by his weight and strength surging into me.  I pushed back onto him as he threw himself towards my throat through my fucking pussy.  Such a good boy.

His hand slammed down on one flank, then the other, and I hoped he’d leave a mark on me.  Then I held my breath and hoped he’d cum, but he didn’t, like so many times before.  It’s a rare occurrence now, so we finish when he gets tired, not when he’s climaxed.  So I simply have to wait for him to tire and embrace the selfish feelings of pleasure he so eagerly gives to me.  It’s a tough life, I know.

Eventually, my robust lover grew exhausted and fell limp like a giant, panting puppy who’s run wild in the yard on top of me.  My puppy, though.

It was good to fuck like old times again and it was good to be home.

 

 

I don’t know how to be happy.

hyandTN_b&w_sex

I blinked in the sunlight that streamed through my windows and stretched like the cat who lay on my pillow purring like a crazed motorboat.  He’ll be here soon, I thought, and as if on cue, I heard the front door open and close and the cat tore off to greet our visitor.

“Good morning, TN!” I called.

“Good morning, Hyacinth!” he called back.

I fixed  my eyes on the doorway and let him fill my view as he sauntered in, sheet marks pressed into his skin and his eyes puffy, but his cock enormous and jutting out against his shiny black basketball shorts.

I giggled at the image of his exhaustion mingled with a giant erection.

He walked up to the side of the bed and pulled himself free of his shorts, his taut, pink skin a slightly curved appendage for my viewing pleasure.

I wrapped my hand around it.  “Mmm,” I said and stood up.  “I have to pee.  I’ll be right back!”

When I came back out he pushed me roughly down onto the bed and licked his hand.  “I doubt I needed to do this.  Hmm, let’s see.  Could Hyacinth be wet already?”

“It’s possible,” I answered looking up at him.  “You wake up with that monster between your legs everyday.  I happen to wake up wet everyday.”  He pushed at my opening and sure enough he slid right in.

We moved together in the sunlight, carefully avoiding each other’s morning breath and hugged and humped and clutched and climaxed.  He pinned my legs onto his shoulders and moved until I was begging him to stop and then with a puffy-eyed grin kept going.

We were done relatively quickly, it being the morning and all.  He gently removed himself from me and lay beside me.  “Hang on,” I said and rolled over and grabbed my phone, something I’d done alone for so long.

I began taking pictures of us freshly post-coital.  It felt intimate and odd, like a salty candy that gives you two flavors at once.

He left shortly after to go to work and I smiled, stupidly happy.

And then I realized how uncomfortable I am with happiness and how I am doing my best to destroy what little peace I’ve finally managed to accomplish with him: I suggested that he fuck other women. 

The night I came up with this grand plan I had just met his parents.  Over the course of roughly 4 and a half hours I’d had a glass of white wine while getting dressed, a glass of Prosecco before dinner, and a glass of Rosé with my scallops, but when I’d suggested it to him he seriously wondered if I were drunk.

“I trust you, TN, I really do.  And I’m proud of you and I think you’re amazing in bed.  I want you to be able to go out and have fun.”

He just looked at me, dumbfounded as I blithely continued.  “No, really.  I’m so happy with you, I want you to be happy, too.”

“Ok…” he said, incredulous.  “But why the change of heart?  You’ve never felt this way before.”

“It’s because you told me you loved me and I feel safe with you, content.  I really feel like I could handle it.”

I’d dozed off then on his warm, furry chest and forgotten all about it.  But he hadn’t.

The following day he brought it up again.  “So, what you said the other night.  Do you still mean it?  Or were you just drunk?”

It all came rushing back to me: the warm glow of acceptance, the sense of safety, this ridiculous drive to prove I were invincibly in love with him.  What.the.fuck.  But I was too embarrassed to back out.  “No, really, I do,” I replied and then began that weird dance that people in open relationships do wherein they try to think of every possible thing they can’t handle: no two dates with the same woman, no threesomes without me, no lies, everything has to be transparent to me.  Then, of course I asked if he’d care if I slept around.

He was thoughtful, then said he’d be ok with me and another couple, but not with another man.  I told him I couldn’t imagine fucking another man anyway, I already had my unicorn firmly in my grasp.  He’d smiled at that and then I felt a twinge of something, like a tiny splinter: why would he want to fuck another woman? aren’t I good enough? the best?  And that’s when I knew I was full of shit and actively trying to sabotage my own happiness.

The next night, after the sweet, yet brief morning love session, I came to him with hat in hand, sheepish and utterly embarrassed.  “You’re right, TN.  I can’t handle it.  I think I’m just really uncomfortable with how happy I am.  I mean, look, we’ve only been this kind of happy for 3 months and I’m already looking to inject it with chaos.”

He pulled me into his nook and stroked my arm.  “I thought so,” he said.  “Besides, I’m not a player.  I’m really not that interested in opening this up.”

I’m almost 40 years old and this is a humiliating moment for me.  I left a marriage that was safe, yet passionless, and embarked on a wild year or two of no safety whatsoever, but chocked full of passion.  I manage to cultivate a passionate — and safe — relationship and the first thing I try to do is dismantle it.

After everything we’ve been through — 4 am girl, my secret sex blog, his resistance, my anger — we’ve made it.  He wants me and my entire life and I am inexplicably uncomfortable with his unconditional regard despite my longing for just this very thing.  I am a stupid bastard.

So for now we have agreed to just be happy with each other and I’ve vowed to immerse myself in this new sensation called happiness.  It’s strange and terrifying, but I happen to like salty candy so I’m going to keep chewing.

I have a secret sex blog that won’t be secret for much longer.

Twenty-six months ago, in December of 2011, I started this blog.  I was alone, heartbroken, sexually awakened, lustful, sad, hopeful, terrified.  I was wild with passion to mask my pain and I used men and my body to slake the thirst that oozed from me morning, noon, and night.  I was quite a sight.

For a year prior to that fateful day in mid-December a typical week would consist of 2 or 3 dates with different men.  Sometimes I would sleep with them, sometimes I wouldn’t.  I would dress provocatively, yet tastefully, allow a spaghetti strap to fall and absent-mindedly pull it back up.  I would lean in close and listen to their every important word and hide behind their disclosures, then put my hand on their knee, in control and flirty, filled up and never fooled.  I’d dip into their mouths or fall onto their cocks with abandon.   Happy, distant, very busy.

In my despair I was able to create a space of comfort and control.  I was distracted in a productive, healing way.  I did what I needed to do unapologetically.  I met good men and I met some lousy ones, but they all were a brick in the wall around my heart.  Until one day, I didn’t want to lay another brick.  I froze my acquisition spree and held 4 men in my  hands: Phillip, Kevin, Jason, and The Neighbor.

::

My journey to blogging isn’t a mystery to me, though it may be to all of you.  When I was married and a stay-at-home-mom I blogged.  And when things began to change I blogged then, too.  It wasn’t until I was about to move out of my marital home that an important man I’d met online, Big Tex, suggested I write about sex, too.  And so I did.

He encouraged me to use my words in titillating absolution; he supported my silly endeavor and encouraged me to keep going when I got shy.  He helped me find my new voice, one other than that of mother.

It was a different blog name back then with very different characters, but what I discovered was that I rather liked reliving my wild trysts with Troy and others.  I switched blogs once more to better reflect my new life and kept on writing, but I had made the mistake early on of sharing my writings with Troy and Lina and others who weren’t as safe as Big Tex, so as things became less pleasant for me I found my outlet not my own.  I had made the fatal mistake of sharing my blog with people who knew me.

I shut down that blog and was creatively homeless for 2 months before I couldn’t stand it anymore.  Writing had stealthily welded itself to my marrow over the course of the previous several years and not writing created only more blackness inside of me.  It was this darkness, this need for connection, discourse, and creativity that drove me to start writing again.  I finally had to admit I was a writer.

I switched blogging platforms to WP, found a title that very much matched my behavior and feelings over the previous 12 months — A Dissolute Life Means… — and promised myself to not make the same mistakes regarding disclosure that I had with my previous blogs.  It would remain a secret, my ego forever in check, my drunken desires for confession squashed dead at arrival, my need for approval a private matter.

Two weeks prior to this decision, I met The Neighbor.

::

I had no way of knowing that 2 years later he and I would be in love.  Or that he would be my very best friend.  It started out fun and surprising.  He matched my passion, appreciated my humor, and did things to my body I thought no one could.  We assured each other it would only be a friends with benefits kind of thing, but a handful of months later it began to unravel when I stumbled upon him on a date he had kept secret from me.  That night was eventful: I realized I loved him and I “met” Noodle for the first time.

A few more months and more heart-wrenching longing later, he left me for a woman I called 4 am girl (f.k.a. Pisspants for you longtime readers).  That, he says, is when he realized he was in love with me.  But because this is a tale of two flawed people, he kept it to himself and dated her for 6 short, but agonizing weeks.

In the months following 4 am girl we hobbled along.  I was still certainly in love, but furious with him for hurting me.  I was also confused, embarrassed, happy.   Yet again a big, fat hot mess, but I kept on.

I couldn’t break up with him, though I’d tried numerous times.  Our connection and proximity made it impossible.  And frankly, I didn’t see the need.

We spent more time together, learned to communicate better, and embarked on a different power dynamic that made something in me sing and we lurched yet another step forward, blind as newborn kittens but compelled to grow nonetheless.

As my anger faded my guilt rose regarding the blog: should I tell him about it?

When I was angry and we were clearly not in a relationship it was an easy answer: it was none of his business; what would it hurt?  But as we grew closer I began to question the ethics of my decision, so I battened down the hatches to safeguard my privacy and our identities.

I purchased a VPN for both my computers and my phone; I made a secret email account; I paid for StatCounter which I keep secret; I got a secret PayPal account; I refused prizes that had to be mailed to me and asked for gift cards instead; I’ve deleted browser tabs with the blog on it before I share my computer screens with TN; I opted out of opportunities to broaden my network in person via sex blogging conventions; my computers were set to save zero history; there is no auto-fill in their search boxes; I’ve avoided social media which I might accidentally get mixed up with my own real life personal ones, so I don’t do Instagram or FB as Hyacinth or Twitter as “me,”; I’ve painstakingly deleted all my copyrighted photos so as not to accidentally give away my URL; and lastly I have made up an association with a friend (Noodle) so as to not have to explain how she and I met, as well as with various other characters in my life who’ve come and gone into my personal realm (Gillian and Ella to name two who are no longer with us in our blog-o-verse here).

I never lie outright to TN, but there is a lot of omission going on.  I think I told him I met Noodle through my blog, the assumption being the retired one.  I never clarified, but left it up to him to be curious.  He never really was.

But all of this won’t matter if he feels betrayed.  I wouldn’t exactly blame him, but I hope he can forgive me and get on board.  If he feels betrayed, then I have to own that and figure it all out.

I’ve also come to believe that TN might actually be a little flattered by all of this and maybe — maybe — even a little proud of me.  I have grown my stupidly wild life and tales into a little tiny community of brilliant, open, loving, sexy people.  I’m kind of proud of me.

I can’t begin to fathom how he will react.  It’s just another unknown.

::

I told myself months ago while wrestling with this secret that I would tell him if he ever told me he loved me, because in that instant it would change the scene from me brokenly pining after a man who wasn’t interested in me to me loving a man who loved me back.  I would now be accountable for us, not just me venting solo on the internet.  He would deserve to know.

In a strange twist of emotions, I can’t wait to tell him.  I want to show him Boobday and have him meet all of you.  I want him to see how I see him: beautiful, intelligent, sexy, kind, loving, quirky, funny, complicated, and above all else worthy of all my efforts and affection.  I wouldn’t be who I am or where I am today without his influence.

I want him to see the journey, how I’ve gone from fearful to daring with my heart and gone out of my way to let him tell me his story in his own way and never speak for him; I want him to know that even though he might feel that we have few real life supporters, we actually have a small army of them here.

I used to say that I knew he loved me, but would never hear the words slip from his mouth.  It is pure paradise whenever I hear it now.  Of course, I still don’t know what the future holds, but then again I never knew, so I haven’t lost a thing.

::

I’m not sure what my goal is in revealing my secret blog to him other than the basic sense that it’s time to move on to the next phase of this whole thing.  I trust him with my life, why can’t I trust him with this?

I know that some of you are adamantly against me revealing this blog to him and to you folks I ask to what end?  I doubt I’ll blog here forever or even for a decade, but my relationship with him may last as long as either of those times.  I have no way of knowing.  And my blog, as important as it is to me, is not more important than my relationship with him.   Writing, on the other hand, is different.  I will always write, just not necssarily about the details of my sex life.

Having said all that, I am still afraid.  My hopefulness has its limits and I fear I will lose him, but the clock is pushing me: the longer I wait, the bigger the secret.  I have to do this.

I’ve never presumed to know what he is thinking or feeling in the past and so I’m not going to start now.  I must be brave and patient.  I will tell him and I will wait for him to show me his cards.

Maybe he’ll be holding the King and Queen of Hearts.