Unless he’s married, I think about a future with everyone I ever come into contact with. Without exception.
It started in the 4th Grade when I began writing my name with a boy’s last name all over my Ked’s and knee-less jeans. It progressed to doodling dozens of combinations of my first and their last names in math books, on binders, and backpack straps. My skin often bore the proof of my interest, longing, and hope.
As I messily stumbled into dating as a young woman, I ditched the sketches and instead envisioned our life together, his and mine, intertwined with seamless balance, love, and passion. It was grandiose — and a joke. He’d buy me flowers just because, grind my coffee and bring me a steaming hot cup as I sat on our balcony and listened to a morning aviary serenade. We’d lay on our backs in the grass and laugh at the passing pirate ships and Groucho Marx visages. He’d make plans for us to visit my sister or his brother and we’d steal away for passionate moments in broom closets at family gatherings giggling into each other’s panting, open mouths as we grappled to get him inside of me as quietly and quickly as possible.
Of course, this has never come close to occurring in my life — not even remotely — but there’s still this hopeful little girl in me that thinks it’s possible. Somewhere, buried deep inside a jaded, wily, crushingly charming 40 year old woman sits a little upturned face hoping her daddy finally comes through for her. Except, he never does.
I sit across from all of them and bat my lashes, do my snake-charmer’s dance, and wonder if we’ll have chemistry.
When my interest is piqued, I lean in and give the signals. Sometimes, I steal the kiss. Sometimes, he does.
Our lips touch, I smell his skin and taste his lips and hope that when I hear the clatter of his belt buckle it will be a prelude to my orgasms.
I lie in his arms and run my hands over his rising abs, fondle his damp, plump cock and catch my breath. Is this what it’ll be like in 10 years together? Will we still set one another on fire like this?
When he stoops to kiss me goodbye — all of them, every one of them — I think, “This could be the story we tell people of how we got together.” Of course, all he sees is a red-cheeked buxom woman, likely barely draped in clothing saying something unbelievably nonchalant. Cool. Oh, so cool.
When he doesn’t text the next day, or his texts become less frequent, it feels like little tiny knives slashing at my skin. Bearable, but unpleasant. But we felt so good together, I think. We have chemistry, a shared outlook on life. We should try to be together, shouldn’t we??
When he doesn’t respond to me, cancels, otherwise disappears, the tiny little knives cut deeper and like some kind of regenerating alien life form, my skin resurfaces itself that much thicker. Each. and. every. time.
The number of tiny little cuts I’ve incurred over the years, particularly the last 5 since leaving my husband, are immeasurable. Slash here, slash there, stab, jab, rip my fucking heart out. Buh-bye, Hy.
My readership and social media reach has grown in tandem with my dichotomous outlook of hope and despondence. The first 8 hours are a blissful, blinding promise, followed by days or even weeks of realization that I was horribly wrong about him, everything.
I never meet a man with the intent to see him only once. I certainly never fuck a man with that intent, either. I meet with him because maybe this time the beginning of my new story will gain traction. I write with cellular conviction that perhaps it will happen again, that they will become a leading figure in my life, but I am proven wrong repeatedly, doggedly.
My sister says I lead with my sexuality. I don’t know how on earth she came to this conclusion seeing as she doesn’t know jack shit about what I do or who I am, but the woman isn’t wrong. I know I do. I can’t bear to lead with my heart. It doesn’t interest me. Let’s connect at the loins, then talk. Or don’t. I get it.
I’ve recently met and slept with two men. Both younger, one immensely so. One was a bad lay, for lack of a better description. I fought for the chemistry, focused on his 6’6″ frame and long, curly hair wound through my fingers, and let him try to push his half-hard cock inside of me. He came on my back, rolled off, and left with a chaste kiss. I haven’t texted him since, nor he me.
Prior to the pitiful coupling we shared I imagined him reaching for things in the kitchen cabinets. Nothing elaborate, but my mind’s eye had him there in a safe, domestic scene nonetheless.
The 21 yo was nervous, beautifully hard and round with muscles. He said I was gorgeous and taught me slang and we laughed at the great divide. Back at my place he removed his head band and leaned in for the kiss. We peeled off clothes and marveled at each other in the flickering candlelight. He twisted and bucked inside of me and I sucked him off — twice — after which he lay still, in a daze, and proclaimed it the best night of his entire life, everything he’d ever hoped for. I’m sure I didn’t have much competition.
The following day, I texted good morning and told him I smelled like him, and in the place where once a chirping young man resided only the insect variety took up residence: crickets. My fantasy for him included tying him up and reddening his bottom as I stroked his pretty young cock, teaching him the ways of women, how to do things Hy’s way, of stealing moments after work in furtive bursts of sexual abandonment. But that can’t happen if he’s decided to never speak to me again for whatever 21 yo reason he may have. It fucking sucks.
Twenty-one, 41, it doesn’t matter. If you sit across from me I try to fit you somewhere in my life, my hopeful future. As hardened as I’ve become there’s still this tiny little sliver of hopeful light fighting to burst through the fog. My expectations, though deeply, irrevocably embedded in reality, still encase a woman who only wants to be seen, then wanted, then cherished by someone, someone who will see past all of this and still love me for who I am beyond my wanton, wild ways.
But maybe that’s a pipe dream.
I very rarely take a disappearance personally, perhaps only one in many years. He has his own shit going on, I tell myself. It was a great night, be happy with that. I wasn’t invested anyway. We don’t owe each other anything. But I am a little sad, nonetheless; I’ve been at this for so many years I’m tired.
I am hired muscle blindly swinging at love and life. Maybe someday I’ll land a punch and won’t have to erase that last name from my binder, maybe someday I’ll actually have someone to reach my grandmother’s special plates for me and remember I like my coffee black and hot as fuck.
Or maybe I will always be an enchanteur trapped inside her own spell of delights, alone and sought after, but never caught.