January 27th, 2015 I wrote about our last time together. Only thing was, I had no idea that’s what it was.
It was a tender moment between us — good sex, spectacular sex — and it wiped out the doubt and worry I lived with about him and had me hopeful for our future. I contemplated what we did next with our relationship, moving it forward. I was the girl who got all dressed up for the dance and her date had entirely other plans. Somewhere else.
And then, the day after I wrote the words he walked into my house and left me. Technically we ended it 2 weeks later, but the truth is he left me the night he said he wanted a break. Perhaps it was the last time he was buried inside of me; a real goodbye fuck.
Spring turned into summer and our meetings were less tearful and more reorienting. “If we’re going to be friends, then you can’t hide things from me, TN,” I’d gently lecture. “I don’t want details, but friends tell each other when they’re dating someone.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not dating anyone, I promise. I have no interest.”
He was working out early in the mornings by then, bootcamp at dawn. I couldn’t get him up before 9 am when we dated. He’d said he wasn’t a morning person and never would be. He did yoga, was kayaking, even hanging out with his workout crowd.
My birthday was in late summer and the night he took me out to a fancy dinner to celebrate he complained about how tired he was because of the hot yoga he’d done in the morning and when I pressed and asked if he was doing it for a woman he claimed it was with “just a bunch of middle-aged women” from his bootcamp. “Don’t worry. I’m not dating,” he’d added unprovoked.
The next day I ended our friendship amidst his protests and angry, mournful tears. I was still in love with him and watching him change into the kind of man I’d always wanted him to be right before my eyes was too painful, a slap in the face of my ill-conceived sacrifice to accept him as he was. What a fucking idiot I was.
That fall, a mere weeks after saying my final goodbye, I ran into him with a woman at my favorite gym class. A class that I had introduced him to and which we had attended together for a year. She was pale and pretty and he struggled to ignore me even as he paid her every ounce of his attention.
A couple of weeks later I stumbled on his Facebook page filled with pictures of him with the same dark-haired woman. I was devastated. Everything – everything – he had told me about himself was a lie.
Apparently he was the kind of man who went out to parties and concerts and yoga. He dressed up for Halloween and brought her to his work events. He was snapped kissing her and beaming a 100-watt smile at the camera with her in his arms. And he allowed her tag the ever-loving-shit out of him on Facebook whereas I was forbidden from giving even the slightest hint of our association with each other on social media beyond friendship.
I was glad I had preemptively ejected him from my life based on not only my ongoing feelings for him but the deeply held, but as yet unproven belief that he was lying to me. (Posthumously and accidentally discovering hidden profiles seeking alternative sexual relationships with women during our active relationship helped cement my feelings about him lying.)
I was left in shreds. Barely myself. I limped along month after month of 2016 fully free of him in my life, but was repeatedly reminded of his existence — both because he remained in our complex and because about every week or so he would visit my Adult Friend Finder profile, deliberately leaving a visitor trail.
It’s now nearly two years to the day he abandoned me out of a troubled left field and I still — still — miss him.
I miss our easy rapport, our shared politics, our chemistry, our love. And by far most of all — because I’m beyond and round the bend of the other things — I miss his fucking cock.
Since we’ve split I’ve had 20, 30 more and not one has come close in making me feel the things he did. Bones was an approximation, David was massive and fat but didn’t have the curve and length, Remington never let go despite having a lot to work with.
Everyone else had curves, lengths, and girths that just didn’t compare and despite my best efforts to refocus, let go, really enjoy and embrace what was in front of me I was left with a bitter aftertaste which was decidedly not TN.
Regardless of the shape and size of the penis — truly — the bottom line is no one has fucked me like he did, like he could.
He was a maestro with our bodies, perhaps I was, too. Playing each other like seasoned musicians. Eyes shut, feeling the chords, the notes, and the symphony in our bones.
Even that last meaningful night when he had assuredly decided he was leaving me and was completely checked out.
I can’t help but ask myself how is that even possible?? How can two people have that level of connection and pleasure while one is utterly gone?
I am ashamed and deeply humiliated at my gullibility and inability to move on. I’m afraid that no one will be able to supplant the memories with new and better ones. I’m scared I’m stuck.
Two motherfucking years and I have what feels like nothing to show for all my work, all my suffering, all my tearful, painful meanderings through the tangled paths of my heart.
I’m ashamed to share the depth of my broken-ness, of my mistrust, my longing. No one can penetrate the fortress I have built around my heart except for those whose proximity and viability are null. Men equal danger. They cannot be trusted. They don’t listen to me, they use me, they are not safe.
Therefore I will use them, chew them like bubblegum and rub my mound on their parts until my juices burst and runneth over and the sticky-sweet bubbles pop on my puckered lips.
I wonder if he ever thinks of me. In general. I know he must considering he visits my AFF profile regularly, but I mean in real life. Does he have anxiety about getting his mail? Driving in and out? I’m long since past all that, but the ghost of his cock lingers in my psyche, my pussy, my heart.
I have fucked everything that walks in an effort to replace him and to heal and all to no avail. I’ve hoped love would find me and now I’m hoping to find love.
The only thing left to try at this point is not fucking at all except I’m failing at that, too — of course — but I’m hanging in there with the hope and the will to push forward. If I found someone like him once, surely I can find someone like him (but better) again. Right??
At least the thought helps me sleep at night.