I’ve written at least half of another post about Peter. His impishness, his deliciousness, his joyous energy. I started it yesterday morning and pecked away at it throughout my day even as he and I reconnected after a weekend of typical silence.
For weeks now, like clock work, we have come together. Once, occasionally twice a week, but always. Our texts are brief, but flirty. Reassuring. Sometimes we talk about life and the world before I wedge myself between his knees and kiss his sweet face. Sometimes we don’t make it out of my entryway before we head to my bed.
My orgasms skitter through me like leaves in the breeze, his face wears a beautiful mask of pleasure while he buries himself inside of me. He tells me how amazing my body is, my breasts, how good my pussy feels. His sweat beads and drips down on me like a leaky faucet and I brush away his apologies.
“Get me dirty, baby,” I say. “Get me fucking dirty.”
I wanted to tell you all how the last time we were together he was busted by his boss thanks to GPS. He drives a company truck and he’d left his phone in it when he came up to see me. Two hours later he stood up to remove his socks and come at me for a third time when he suddenly something caught his eye out the open window and he dropped low.
“That’s my boss!” he mouthed, panicked.
He got dressed so fast he left his underpants behind along with a load inside of me. I wore his underwear the rest of the day and throughout the night. I loved the reminder of him.
The reminder of our closeness, the trust, the thrill, the fun, the kindness and connection. I’m a filthy slutty whore, but I am also so sweet it makes my teeth ache. I want to belong to someone.
And that’s why I couldn’t finish that post.
No matter how kind Peter is – no matter how open, sweet, thoughtful, patient, passionate, kinky, soft, and surprising – he does not belong to me. I am still alone. I am still choosing the unavailable man.
It makes me so sad to write that. I’m embarrassed. I know better, right?? Or maybe I don’t. It’s so much easier to get fucked than it is to get loved. I can get fucked any hour I want, but love is so much more elusive and painful to obtain.
If I take stock of my life and am truly honest, I am sad. And tired.
I can’t rely on my family – they’re hit or miss – and my local friends are best when it’s convenient for them. I have pulled away from everyone in my life and over the past few months I have pulled away from the blog. Or maybe it’s been years.
I don’t have anything new to say. It’s the same shit, different day. I’m still a lonely fool. Nothing new here, guys.
At the start of the year I was in London with my people and I felt so loved and special and appreciated. Safe. I spent a couple of magical days with Jean Claude, but he fell apart and disappeared. Easy to fuck, hard to love.
Then there was Elliot and I fell hard for him. I walked around in this blissful pink fog that whispered to me, “He’s safe..” He said all the right things and it seemed like he was going to love me right up until the moment he couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. I don’t know.
Peter swept in at about that time and has been kissing my booboos ever since.
There have been so many other men peppered throughout. Walker who drove himself right through me, The Doctor, The Aussie. Smart, interesting men who loved to fuck me, but loving me was never even an option. They weren’t soul-less. Loving me was just never an option.
I think a lot about how isolated I am. After a long day sometimes I cry on my way home because I know my house is empty. Tonight I tearfully put on my pajamas and daydreamed about having a man who loved me who’d take one look at me wearily climbing the stairs and say, “Come here, Hy.”
He’d take me into his arms, rip my shirt off and stuff his face with my breasts, push me against a wall, dip his fingers into me and let me cry as he fit the rest of himself inside of me. He wouldn’t be afraid of my tears; he’d understand his gift and my broken appreciation of his offering, my need for release, escape and love.
Peter has talked about a weekend together in January when his girlfriend leaves town to visit a friend. Another stolen moment, not mine, just borrowed and molded into something that resembles mine. Hours on hours of us just being together. I cannot even imagine it. When was the last time that happened? Jean Claude, I suppose, but that was an extraordinary situation and wracked with its own issues.
There’s a British man I met on AFF who wants to undress me and explore my body. We haven’t even met yet. How can he know he wants to do that? Of course he’s not looking for anything serious. I’m not serious. I’m the epitome of fuck me and leave me.
There’s another potential sub who wants to meet me in his own nervous way. Things appeared promising until he went dark. As usual, I am a novelty attached to his own uncertainty. Another dead end.
I am going to deactivate what profiles I can. My heart hurts and the more I talk to men who want my body the more alone I feel. I want a man to want all of me. A man I’m attracted to, not some less than appealing schmuck with a pipe dream. That hurts, too: to be wanted by those I don’t want. Reminds me of how stupid it all is.
I meant to write a post about how satisfied I am with my quiet little life. With Peter’s weekly visits and my career. With my every-other-week dinners-for-two with my little one and occasional emails or texts with potential lovers. With my busy and involved life of friends and family and my pursuit of better health. But that is what I want you to know about me.
The truth is I long.
I long for better relationships and deeper connections. I long to be seen, understood, appreciated. If only there were one person on this planet who thought of me beyond their penis or what’s convenient for them. My sister, my mother, my friends and lovers. Am I even real to them? Have I convinced them all I don’t need anything more from them?
Maybe I have. Maybe in my pursuit to survive on almost nothing from others I have misled everyone into believing it’s all I need when what I really need is my very own Peter all to myself. Someone to wipe away my tears and tear my body apart with his. To hold me while I crumple and applaud the loudest when I take big, bold strides.
I also need a best friend who will forgo her own schedule to be there for me. A mother who is consistent, a sister who doesn’t judge.
And I’m sad because I know I am going to lose my Peter some day. It’s inevitable. He and I can only go so far. We don’t talk about the landing. We’re just locked together mid-air. Will I nail it? Or will my knees buckle?
The only person in my life who makes me feel special, wanted, and sane isn’t even mine. He’s someone else’s. How fucking stupid am I??
Time to clean up my mascara now. I’ve cried a river writing this. It’s hard admitting you’re a lonely clown.