I’ve been writing all week, but unable to get anything I’m satisfied with down on the page. It’s not writer’s block. It’s a quagmire of thoughts and an inability to figure out what I want to say and how I want to say it. I feel shy and a little repressed.
My Instagram continues to build steam and instead of sharing my words with 1000 people, now it’s closer to 20,000. It’s a lot to consider as a sensitive writer and person.
And then there’s The Russian.
We’ve spoken a few times this week, shared pictures and our voices. The last time I spoke with him on Wednesday we sketched out some details of our first meeting next weekend. I’m to drive to Marian’s Friday and stay with her, futz around with her all day Saturday and then she and I will head into the city and meet him for drinks and he and I will figure it out from there. “That sounds perfect,” he said.
I’m nervous. For lots of reasons. Things change so quickly.
I’m also confident it will all work out just fine, whatever that means.
Meeting this man the way I have and opening up the way I did has forced me to be critical of the two halves of me, the Hy with the other woman. What I’ve discovered is Hy, as my alter-ego, draws the attention that I need. She’s my muse. She’s bold, sexy, sensual. She’s an artist and an advocate. I wish I could be her. The other woman has a heart that has been trampled and wishes to take things slowly. The two of us have been battling all year. I’m currently winning, though Hy may win the war. I suppose time will tell.
My dreams perfectly reflect my knotted thoughts:
In one I lay with The Russian, our limbs entwined. We kiss, I inhale his scent. There’s a clock in the room and it looms large, sun streams through the blinds. His erection is hot and hard beneath my hand tucked inside his boxers. We roll around and he is inside of me with a long, slow push. No condom. It’s safe and sexy and he holds himself there. My throat touched with his lips on the outside and his cock from within. He doesn’t move, but I flare around him. I awaken with a familiar ache between my thighs and deep in my belly. I am strangely satisfied.
In another, last night, I have double-booked my Friday night. A date with two men who are a perfect blend of so many I know. There’s a man whose mid-century style home will be my first destination. He has chosen us a bottle of wine based on my preferences and will cook for me. The other man, I will meet out somewhere else after dinner. My eye is mostly on him.
Imagine my surprise when my amore knocks on the door of my first date. He wants to confirm plans for later. I attempt to hide him from Mid-Century Man, but obviously fail seeing as he is large and the floor plan open. I take him into a back room and he kisses me. I fear discovery; he fears I’ll like this other man more and decide to not meet him later. I assure him I always keep my promises and insist that he leave at the very moment my host decides to crash our little party.
The men shake hands and size each other up. I feel horrible and not a little judged by them, but I stand tall. I owe them each nothing. My crush leaves and my host levels a look at me. “Do you even want to be here?” I can smell dinner cooking.
“Yes, of course I do, I promise. I’m so sorry about that. My plans with him will have no bearing on our time together tonight.”
He held my hands and just looked at me, sizing me up. I could see him weigh his options. He pulled me into him and hugged me. He was taller than I remembered and I felt strangely attracted to him, too as he lowered his head to kiss me.
As I walked with him back to the kitchen I regretted lying to him.
Anyone who’s keen on armchair psychology might see the landscape of my heart in those two dreams. I certainly do.
As I work through this new phase of being Hyacinth (and the other woman) in front of watchful eyes, I realize that I have a lot more to say than Hy might right now. This platform affords me great privilege and an opportunity to support and educate as much as it does to entertain. Hy can’t write as freely as she once did, but this isn’t a bad thing any more than is a fallen tree across a stream. I will divert into a new direction and happily so; give Hy a rest for a bit and let me enter her space in her stead.
I might write less about trysts, but that won’t mean I will hide. I’ll still be Hy, I’ll still share what I can — discovering Hyacinth saved me, I’ll never let her go — and I’ll always want the happy ending.