It’s hard to talk about my wonderful night last Wednesday with Mr. Young, the sexy dad from the birthday party, without wincing.
It’s gone completely sideways since then and I spent most of yesterday in tears.
I felt worthless, unlovable, all the while being eternally fuckable and disposable. Something shifted. Our banter was gone, he bailed — as I’d suspected he would — on tentative plans we’d made for no good reason I could discern, ignored sexy pics I sent and generally stopped engaging.
At the time of writing this he has seemingly ignored my last text for more than 24 hours. A text wherein I expressed disappointment and understanding about him cancelling our plans and some hope that we could reschedule. He chose not to reassure me or reschedule.
I didn’t want to fall down this rabbit hole, but the last 24 hours found me here anyway. Did I say something wrong? Was I wrong? Did he not want to fuck and have two orgasms? Did he not want to devour each other on his couch? Did we click too much? Did he not want me to show enthusiasm about a next date??
His kisses were searing and perfect and his sense of humor and openness disarmed me and hooked me hard. I wriggled on the line.
We talked on the phone every day he got back from his high school reunion last weekend and couldn’t wait to see one another. When our Monday night plans to meet got foiled we were immediately back at the drawing board to make it happen. Nothing was going to stop us.
I met him in real life, opened up, we have mutual friends beyond the mom-friend we share, and everything beyond were spot on (politics, life, sex, relationships, outlook, art, and on and on and on). This was not supposed to happen with him.
What I expected was a continuation of what was happening before I undressed under his hungry eyes, prior to sinking slowly, deliciously down onto him and him cumming and cumming and cumming. I didn’t think his second orgasm would throw a wrench in things, but it was after it that the record scratched.
I forgot my bra in my discombobulated departure — it was late, we’d been drinking, I was high on the experience — and awkwardly texted him about it the next morning. He didn’t say, “Don’t worry, I’ll bring it when I see you Saturday.” He hasn’t said a lot of things thereby saying everything. I’m writing off the bra.
This is not an example of yet another woman making a mountain out of a mole hill. I am a master at interpreting human behavior and there has been a change. My default is to assume it was me, but after attacking myself for being too easy, unlovable, and a raging moron I am now at a more peaceful place. Things are not actually in my control at all times. Sometimes, shit happens.
Everything I wrote the other day remains true, which makes this tough fall down feel ultimately beatable instead of impossible. I am dusting off my skinned knees and beginning to rise. I got knocked down, yes, but I get up again.
For instance, I feel patient, not desperate; I’m going to sit this one out for a bit until I feel like I’ve recovered enough to step back on the field and ask him what’s happened. And that’s new: me sharing that something wasn’t right for me.
His actions have been painful to endure, but I don’t ascribe any nefarious motivation to them. Something happened, I’m just not privy to what and I don’t need to waste a second more of my time trying to read his mind. I need to process it and move on.
We weren’t [securely] attached enough for this to feel anything but very wrong. We’d barely gotten to know one another. You can judge me and say I fucked him too soon, but what’s the point? Next guy I might wait a month or two and it still might not be right. I can’t take it back. I thought it was the right thing to do. I wanted it. He wanted it. But clearly, it wasn’t a good idea. I see that now.
So here I sit with a big mixed bag of emotions: three weeks of excitement and hope about a man I could see easily incorporating into my life; a night of fantastic fun, fucking and frolic; followed by days of confusion and icy distance.
Maybe our story continues. Maybe he’ll come out from under his rock and tell me something that draws me back in, that makes this all go away. Or perhaps our paths no longer cross.
Whatever the outcome I feel immensely reassured at my resolve and clarity. I know without a doubt which way is the right way for me and it isn’t on my knees begging for attention. Nor is it to pretend that this didn’t hurt. It’s standing tall and expecting a certain level of care. No exceptions.
It stings like a motherfucker, but I’ll be ok.
*Blog post title care of a kind Internet Boyfriend.