The waters are still now, nothing like those first few weeks of frenzied hunting when I gorged myself on men, on endless flavors of masculinity which paraded through my bedroom and skipped across my tongue like so many brightly colored jelly beans.
I had great sex with nice men and these days I’m venturing into what can only be called The World of Normal People: I had two dates with a guy, didn’t fuck him, and might actually still be interested. I’m sorting out my feelings for him while mostly under other men. I’m fickle like that. I like the sour flavors the best.
The Neighbor and I are mending fences; I’ve let him go. The ache in my gut is a faint shout, gone is the keening. I miss him, I love him, I’m moving on. It fucking sucks.
Time heals all wounds, it’s true, but I continue to search for my favorite bean somewhere in the pile of men. I still think it’s him; I can’t seem to stop myself.
It really is quiet here.