Two years and 2 months of driving past his building and seeing his car every. single. fucking. day.
Two years and 2 months of walking to the office or the pool or the gym and, knowing I could run into him, walked that stiff, cameras-are-on-me walk.
Two years and 2 months of never letting my guard down when I go out, of scanning every room quickly to assess his presence.
Two years and 2 months of keeping my head down while I grocery shop because it’s better to be truly ignorant than it is to feign it.
Two years and two months of him visiting my AFF profile and leaving a digital trail.
It’s also been two years and two months since I’ve had the kind of sex that made my body vibrate and weep with abandon.
Two years and two months since I laid my hands on a rock-hard, big, beautiful, long and achingly curved cocked.
Two years and two months since I thought anyone loved me.
Two years and two months is a long time.
The pain has faded, as it is supposed to do, but it’s like stale, lingering perfume. No matter how much I’ve scrubbed it remains.
I’ve allowed myself to mourn, pushed myself forward, carefully kept an eye on what I need. I go to therapy every week and write more words about heartbreak than I care to own. And still, he lingers.
He lingers because I am not truly free. His specter haunts me via his proximity, his fancy black car, even his downtown office. And most of all, he haunts me because I feel violated.
I feel violated that he visits my profile and knowingly leaves the proof of his presence.
He could switch to invisible browsing at the very least (it’s how I operate the site) or he could just choose to leave me the fuck alone all together.
I blocked him for several weeks to give myself a respite from his stalking, to not see him in my visitor’s list, and it felt good, like taking my vitamins — this was good for me, after all. And then I felt like I didn’t need it anymore, like, surely by now I’d be out of his regular AFF routine or maybe he’d have just realized how inappropriate it was and stopped altogether. So I unblocked him.
But I was wrong.
Within 36 hours he visited.
And I was crushed.
I wanted it to be over, to not have to be the one to impose a protective shield. I want him to leave me alone because he wants to leave me alone. Not because I’ve blocked him.
It’s the difference between getting a restraining order and knowing there’s an outside force imposing reasonable thought to someone and your stalker moving on on his own. One feels less safe than the other, I assure you.
The fact that he indulges in his curiosity — or whatever the fuck it is — makes my skin crawl and traps me in this static, hovering place. I feel smothered, vulnerable, sad, confused, angry, violated.
Isn’t it enough that despite making 6 figures annually and having all the financial freedom in the world he chooses to remain at the gates of my life? That he hasn’t fucking moved away? I just signed my 3rd lease. Surely his next will be the one he chooses to not renew, right? Does he also have to infringe on my online world, too??
He could even be reading this blog and I wouldn’t know since I never tracked his IP address when I had the chance. He could be one of the 20 or so local readers last week for all I know. I hope he does read it. At least here I feel in control.
I don’t know how to exorcise myself of him and I feel cloaked in his dysfunctional fog on two fronts: my life in general and my love life.
Will he be at this restaurant with a date? My new gym? Will I ever get to have the kind of sex we shared again? Will I always know what I’m missing?
It doesn’t matter that I have told myself exactly what I’d say or do if I ever ran into him, I still have to think about it in the first place. It’s a part of me I constantly don’t have; it’s always running to protect myself.
He is everywhere and I hate it. And I hate that I hate it.