At 11:11 pm he replied, “Didn’t say I was working late. I said I was busy tonight.”
I replied, “I must have misheard you. Can we chat?”
At 12:41 am he texted, “I’m still with her but later yes.”
I wrote back, “Good deal.” (Thanks, Noodle.)
I had only just gotten off the phone with one of you, dear readers, and I’d been emailing with Noodle and LSAM from about the moment they read my last post, and was only barely under control when, at roughly 1:30 am there was a knock at my door. He was in jeans and sneakers. He had not been naked.
“You look like hell, Hy, like you’ve been at war, or something.”
I smirked and nervously sat down in the chair. What was I going to say to him?? I’d already planned an after-lunch text that simply said, “Hey, I’m ok. Nothing’s changed,” but how would I convey that as a fidgety, cigarette-stained mess?
We shot the shit for a minute or two and then he asked if I was ok.
I told him about what my night was like and he listened with a soft face and direct eye contact while laying on my couch.
“I’ve been wrestling with whether to tell you this or not, but… when I came up to my door the hallway was filled with the scent of vanilla and I immediately thought, ‘Have I been smelling her in his hair this whole time??'”
He immediately jumped in to say this was their first date and it was purely coincidental. Yay for me reining in that crazy.
“I swear I’m not making it up. I smelled vanilla in my doorway. Apparently Vanilla Ice is a big fan.” He raised an eyebrow at my choice of words, fought a smile.
He apologized for the miscommunication, didn’t deny saying he had to work, but didn’t remember saying it, either. I asked him why he felt like he had to keep it secret; explained that I understood our unspoken agreement to not ask direct questions. We explored this new territory together and came up with a new plan. We are allowed to say, “Yes, I have a date, ” but no follow up questions other than, Did you have fun? are permissible. He explained he felt uncomfortable with sharing that information with me, I assured him that all he had to say was, “Hy, I’m not really comfortable answering that,” and I would back off. And it’s true. I would and I would feel ok because it was honest.
The thing of it is, is that we are so totally open in all other aspects that this felt shady. He agreed and apologized formally, admitted that it had been shady of him. I told him of the time a man had gotten stranded outside my front door because I was late meeting him and I had been frantic at the thought of him seeing him. He understood.
People, I know that you all have your opinions on this and no one is wrong. None of the comments were wrong from last night. I truly believe now that he’s had no idea what’s been happening between us.
I told him that what I felt tonight was a surprise to me, as well, that until that moment, I hadn’t realized that I didn’t feel special to him. He looked at me with a pained expression and said, “Oh, Hy. You are so very special. You are the first woman who…” and I thought he was going to say, “… to make me cum, ” but instead he said, “… I’ve formed a close friendship and bond with ever that I also happen to fuck. I’ve never even felt this way about my ex-girlfriends. They were only ‘compatible enough.’ Not like us and how we connect.
“You are so far more and far better a person than just being able to make me cum and those are the parts of you that I like the best.” I asked him to repeat himself; I’ve not heard such a message from moving lips before. He repeated it, slower. I committed it to memory and we laughed.
“The thing is, TN, I didn’t know you think this about me. I’m so effusive in how great I think you are, how great you are in bed. It’s no wonder you ‘feel nothing’ when I share my tales of mediocre sex, small dicks, and bad kissing. You know I hold you in the highest regard. I never knew. But thank you. That makes me feel very special.”
“No, how could you? I’ve never told you before.”
And then, dear friends and readers, I took your advice and I kept opening up. I told him that something had happened to me and that I was beginning to struggle with feelings for him. He looked crushed; surprised, as if I’d just told him I ate babies for lunch.
Silence hung gently in the room.
“You look surprised.”
“I am,” he said, “We aren’t supposed to have those feelings for each other.”
“TN!” I exclaimed, “You of all people should understand this was inevitable. You’ve done nothing but beat into me that I am a person with feelings, more than ‘just a pussy’ and that I should allow myself to feel something again. Well, I am feeling something. And believe me, if I could do what you do and not feel this way I would. Apparently you have more control over your faucet of emotions, I don’t. It’s either on, or off, and no one’s more surprised than me, I promise.
“And I’m mad at you. I’m mad that you’re so kind, sweet, gentle, considerate, know my life, and are an amazing lover. I’m not used to having feelings for someone I fuck. And yesterday I realized that you’re the best boyfriend I’ve never had and it makes me sad and happy all at once. Sad for the old Hy and happy for the future one to know that man like you exists. But it hurts today to know I don’t have it now.”
He volunteered that he saw no future with Vanilla Ice.
I was placated by this somewhat non sequitur. I tossed back one of my own.
“When can I see you next? What are you doing Friday? Are you still busy?”
“I’m seeing Vanilla Ice again.”
The silence became heavy for me and I began to squirm.
“Ok, in the interest of transparency, I’m going to keep going — you told me last night you couldn’t see me on Friday, but you can see her?”
“I was going to have a night off to myself before the weekend.”
“But you’ll see her, but not me?”
Silence. His brain clicked.
“I guess I’ll have to take Thursday off, then.”
Heavier and heavier the room shrank around me.
“The thing is…” I start, but can’t finish. I try again, “You see…” and again I’m verklempt. I take a deep breath. “You see, when this thing between us begins to hurt me, I’m going to have to pull the plug. I’m not going to wait around for you to say goodbye. I’m not going to watch you beat your wings in the nest knowing that one day you’re going to fly off and I’ll be left behind. I’m going to end it before it gets to that point.”
He looked downright sad, his shoulders slumped. “That sounds so ominous.”
“I’m not saying I’m pulling the plug now, but I’m saying I will. When I was dating Jason I once told you what a weird predicament I’d found myself in. You were both willing to fuck me, but were also looking for something else and I was just waiting around to be left. That’s not ok anymore. I have to say goodbye first.”
“That will make me extremely sad, Hy.”
“It’ll make me sad, too, but I don’t want to become a crazy person, I never want to feel jealousy. I don’t want to do that to either of us.”
“And you’re saying you think that’s inevitable.”
“It might be.”
We sat sipping our water chewing on what had just been said.
“I want this,” he motioned between us, “to never go away. What we have here, our friendship, it means so much more to me than the sex, no matter how great it is for us.”
My heart stitched. He doesn’t understand that there would be a long period of healing for me alone, but I didn’t want to say it.
“You still seemed surprised by all of this.”
“I am. I never wanted feelings to happen. I don’t want to hurt you.”
And then I remembered Bi’s recent post and that the past several – lo, many, many – years of my life have been filled with anguish and pain. “I think we’ve all done ourselves a great disservice to think that the human condition can maintain a sense of happiness and contentment. I think we’re built for anguish – and this from the eternal optimist that is, Hy – and it’s the suffering and longing that shapes us. All the great art of our world is predicated on that pain, not of happiness.
“I find beauty in this. You don’t have to be afraid of hurting me. I make my own decisions and I will live. This won’t kill me.”
He agreed, spoke himself of the concept and his deeply personal understanding of it.
“I’m not saying I love you,” I continued (what? I wasn’t going to drop the L-word tonight, folks), “but it’s like unrequited love. It’s unbearable and poignant and we all define ourselves based on surviving it and I wouldn’t trade any of the pain I’ve ever experienced for it. It gave me my baby.”
“What does ‘unrequited love’ mean?” he asked.
“It’s unreturned, one-sided, unfulfilled.”
“But friends can love each other.” He placed the words tentatively between us, almost like a question.
“Yes, they can, but then it’s not unrequited.”
He sat on that for a minute just looking at me. I held his gaze.
“And I’m also confused as to why you keep saying there’s this two month drop date on us. I imagine if you had cancer and were going to die I would milk every second with you because I love hanging out with you.”
“You’re right, I shouldn’t have said that. It was dumb of me. We should just keep doing this.”
“Exactly. You yourself have said you’re in no hurry to get married and have kids, so why can’t we just keep going until it’s time to die??”
“I don’t know why not. It’s just I know this has no future. Realistically speaking, we’ll never get married.” He watched my reaction closely.
“I know. I have a kid, I can’t erase that -”
“And you’re not 12-14 years younger.”
“And I definitely can’t erase that. But I know that’s not me. That’s you. I’m not hurt by it personally, but I wish you felt differently.
“Earlier tonight, when I was so strung out from a bad day and this ‘shady’ business I went and had two screaming orgasms and while it was building I kept saying to myself, ‘This doesn’t take away from anything we’ve had. I’m ok.’ and when it tore through me I really was ok. It was a cellular shift of faith. I’m ok with this going away someday. I will survive it. I’ll be ok when the sex goes away.
“And you should know that I’m going to bring this up again. No shadiness and no elephants in the room between us.”
He agreed. And then maybe because he’d become deliriously tired, I don’t know, he dry humped my cat and I had a visceral reaction to his thrusts and told him so between laughing. “I’m trying really hard not to sit next to you and touch you right now. Don’t do that, please.”
“I think you’d think of something to touch, alright.”
“And I’d think of someone to do.”
I’d been fighting serious fatigue for at least an hour. He had been too. And no sooner had he’d spoken those words than he said he had to go home. I got up to let him out and couldn’t help but blurt out, “I can smell Vanilla Ice on you,” as the sweet cloud punched me in the face yet again.
He had the good sense to look embarrassed. “Let me smell,” I said as I tried to close the gap between us. He leapt up and ran out on the balcony. I blocked the door and he looked into my eyes steadily, then I leaned in for a whiff. He cringed. “Honestly, I didn’t have to do that, I just wanted to torture you a little. I can smell her from here. Tell her to take it easy on the Victoria’s Secret lotion next time, ok?” My eyes, I know, twinkled, my lips curled in an easy smile.
“You are torturing me.”
“You obviously made out with her. It’s all over you,” I observed with no emotion.
“Maybe, a little bit, yes.”
Suddenly, I had a hunger for him. “Smelling her on you is turning me on,” I murmured and I kiss him. He grabbed me tightly and pressed his mouth firmly on mine. I pull his head down with strength. I imagine how much better this must feel to him than kissing her.
We keep kissing on the balcony, his hands roamed my body, I rubbed his hot bulge. “We’re not fucking. It’s almost 3 am!” he lamented.
“Yes, no fucking,” I answered and made to touch his chest, but turn and head for the door instead. He followed and grabbed me again. Kissed me passionately.
I kissed him harder and deeper, fumbled with his buckle. He continued his protests, but took off his belt. “Just a suck, no fuck. Please, TN.”
“No.” (And this is where everyone rolls over in their grave because I am begging to feel his cock in my mouth – but wait, bear with me.) “I want you to cum right now and send me a picture of it.”
“Ok. But you have to watch. No picture.”
He waffled for half a second and took my hand and lead me to my room. “Stand in the doorway. You can’t touch me.” He stiffly obeyed and I fumble with my pajama pants, trying to hide my sex from him with a sheet. He came to the bedside and ripped it away.
I lay half exposed to him under my bedroom light.
I grabbed my vibe and turned it on. I asked him to make the occasional sound from his vantage point so I know he’s still there. “I’ll do one better,” he replied and I feel his hot, wet mouth on my nipple over my tank top. I moan and arch, literally think, “He can’t resist me.”
The orgasm is elusive this time. He exhausts one breast and moves to the other, pulls it out of my shirt. I’m shaking with emotion and sensation, denied my release. We can hear the juices of my pussy being jostled by the vibrator. Then I feel his fingers enter me and, without orgasming, I cum all around his fingers . My vulva bright and hot as lava and my core shaking. And the thought, unbidden, comes to me, “He loves me.” I take several little breaks and then when it finally does shatter over me I am shivering and my teeth are chattering, my screams still echoing off the beige walls and the thought of “He loves me” floating in my mind.
He lay down next to me and kissed me again. Held me.
“Ok. Now you can go.”
I dress and walked him to the front door. “So, even though I don’t want to hang out tomorrow, can I come and fuck you for, say, 15 minutes in the kitchen?”
“I don’t know. We’ll see,” I say confidently.
He kissed me again, gave me a soft, tender look, and walked back next door.
Thank you to all of you for your support, kindness, and love. I pushed through this tonight without a drink to numb me and without reaching out to a man. It was your presence that helped me flex this emotional muscle. My gratitude knows no bounds. Also, I told him he’d thawed my heart.
- I keep remembering more. Like, I never said, “I want you to love me”.
- He told me how vulnerable I am. I asked him tonight or in general? He said, “Tonight, this week, this month, the whole year.” (I’d had a bad day in general yesterday relating to my kid going overseas with my ex for a week & 2 of my dearest friends having major issues.)
- He suggested I rub my pussy on him to leave my scent before his date Friday in return for her intense love of vanilla and musk. I told him that was a great idea. He could tell her it was eau de 532 (my apartment number).
- I told him I’d painted myself in a corner because I no longer wanted notches on my belt and mediocre sex, so I wasn’t remotely interested in dating.
- He offered the notion that maybe I’d find someone to date “for real” first (before my admission of feelings for him). I scoffed, but he was serious.
- I texted him right after he left to say I’d finally remembered something I’d forgotten and said I’d write it down. It says, “Its a big deal to me that I wanted to introduce you to my other set of friends that I’ve known for almost 20 years bc I want you to know them and them you because… Because you are good to me and for me and I’m proud of who you are and that you’re in my life.”
- And – OH SHIT – when I was kissing him after I’d discovered the vanilla clinging to him and became so turned on I began to stammer. I couldn’t speak due to exhaustion and emotion and lust. He asked me my name and I said, “I don’t know. I think it’s Hyacinth.” “‘Hyacinth’?!” he says confused. “Yes, I think it’s a beautiful name…” and I kissed him again.