I’m alone, but I am not even remotely lonely.
Isn’t loneliness somehow born from the belief that you shouldn’t be alone? That there is supposed to be someone with you?
I miss my child when it’s my ex’s weeks, I miss [the idea of] a great boyfriend, I miss the herd-like life of college where I never did anything solo. I miss things, but I am not lonely.
Despite the absence of one person or another, my heart and life are full; I have mothering, my career, my art, my friends and family, my four-legged free-loading fur babies, my health.
Also, not surprisingly, my Instagram and this blog fill my life with the most amazing people, men and women who are so vibrantly drawn I shy away from even attempting to illustrate them for you. Women whose hearts are worn on their sleeves and on their luscious, ripe bodies and men whose hope is to be seen as more than their often negatively portrayed brothers, every-day-people who — just like me — have a richly deep and sensual life they share online with one another and with a select few in real life.
I am often caught in conversations about shame and double lives, about the dichotomy of our desires and what we’re told is acceptable. The number of people I know who “follow the rules” might be counted on a single hand. We all make up our own rules and somehow think we’re the only ones doing it.
Maybe it’s age that has brought me to this place, maybe it’s my unique position in life in general, I’m not sure, all I know is I love it here. I love all of you, I love being alone and free to choose whatever I like and being cut loose from pedantic convention.
While I might appear to be having a quiet night at home sharing the couch with the dog I’m also engaging with people from all over the world. The Ladies of Instagram whom I have so quickly come to rely on and look to for comfort, laughs, and the poignant reminder that life is a mother fucking complex journey. The young fellow from a big city whose provocative photos leave me salivating and squirming for more — and wishing the phone were a travel portal. The man who got a special strip tease from the comfort of my kitchen. The stupidly tall man whose complicated relationship status hasn’t stopped him — or us — from a lazy afternoon of flirting topped off by my tits covered with his hot, gloppy semen. The Soldier… fuck.
The Soldier texted me today and I nearly dropped my phone when I saw his name on my lock screen. My coworker looked at my quizzically and I played it off like I was having a “moment.” I haven’t heard from him since 2 pm on October 10th.
He apologized for being an asshole.
I asked him what happened.
It was a post-war “mental spasm” he said that could only be resolved via solitude, and then he’d been working nearly non-stop, but he couldn’t let me think that was the kind of man he was, a man that just disappeared like that. And he’d missed me.
After several hours of catching up he sent me a pic of him laying in bed, his big, tattooed arms crossed in front of him, his bow lips smirking just a little. His watch read 7:54, the exact time he sent it. I felt like crawling through the phone and up his long, beautiful body. So many men to crawl on through phones and not enough time [space continum]!
We reminisced a little and then he said the words I was hoping to hear, “We need to do it again.”
I only replied, “Yes.”
I look at all of these interactions as part of the hive, part of being human. We need contact, right? What is life if not experienced? If not grasped by the horns?? And I want connections, whether they’re fleeting or real. Of course a lasting connection is extra special, but I don’t discount the ones that are equivalent to being wrapped in a stranger’s arms on the dance floor, the pulsing lights, and deep rhythmic beats throbbing through me until our lips meet and hips lock. I’ve cum on lots of rock hard thighs in my lifetime both in real life and online. I dig it. Sorry about your pussy jeans, man.
This peace of mind, this quiet, yet thrumming place, feels good. Like a long and low orgasm of beautiful breath and freedom. My legs are strong and pumping beneath me as I race across the meadow towards what, I don’t know, but I also don’t fucking care. It just feels right.
I might be over the hump, y’all. I might finally be over the cruel, hunched back of heartbreak. Goddamn, it feels good.
And, you guys… The Soldier. With any luck, he’s coming to wake me up Monday morning.