It’s been 12 weeks and a day.

I have so much to say because it’s been 12 weeks and 1 day since I last wrote something here.  I’ve missed it and I’ve not missed it.  It’s in me, always, a ticker-tape of thoughts and plots and stories to share.

I’ve been buried in work and life and my baby.  Sorting through years worth of misuse – largely at my own hands – and struggling to get my head straight about it.

Picture an inverted pyramid where that broad, flat top expanse is what I want for the rest of my life, the layer below it, what I want in the next 20 years, then 10, next year, and it just keeps narrowing down to, what do I want tonight?

And for months now, the answer to that is: no one and nothing.

I don’t want another ridiculous first date with a man who brays in my face at his own jokes and I wonder if I’m being filmed for some kind of prank show, or another first date where he won’t take no for an answer, so I go ahead and angry fuck him simply to feel empowered in his 6’4″ presence, or another first date where I’m sexually assaulted both physically and verbally and I return for more because of my perverse daddy issues.  I just don’t want it anymore and I can’t be bothered.  There suddenly seem to be far more thorns than there are roses out there.  I’m also in mourning.

I’m in mourning in general for the girl I was, so eager to close the gap of love and acceptance that literally anyone would do, but I’m also mourning about things in the more recent past.  The Golfer, for one, Peter, and The Vet, for being ghosted on and constantly disappointed by what the Universe keeps setting in front of me.

The Golfer was special and magical.  Despite not having set foot into his house in the hills in seven months I could draw the layout and probably even the decor, it’s so imprinted on me. 

I can smell the WoodWick candles – a masculine, fir scent with a faint crackle sound – and taste his tart semen.  I remember how his hot piss felt on me, different from the hot water that streamed down my body, and how his handsome, Hollywood face looked as he bore down into me all the way to my throat from the apex of my thighs.

I also vividly remember how it ended, though I was unaware at the time that it was.

Q2 was a real bitch, so busy, overwhelmed, omg fucking kill me now, he said.  No promises to get together in the future, but that wasn’t his style anyway.

And then my texts changed to just saying Hi and he would ignore them for a week or more before another cryptic non-sequitor about his rich-guy struggles (apparently, home renovations are quite the bugaboo).  Until eventually I asked if I should refrain from reaching out and asking to see him, if that’d be better for a while – I hope it sounded cooler than that sentence, but whatever – and he ignored it.

So a week later I sent an, “Ok, I’m finally getting it,” note where I said I’d no longer contact him.  I was thankful for our time together and told him how special I thought it and he were.  Blah blah blah.  Goodbye, I won’t text again.  That also went ignored.

Then I went back on my own word and sent, a “Merry Christmasss!” text.  Also ignored.

I wrestle with thoughts like, “What did I do wrong?”, “Did I say something that I shouldn’t have?”  Ultimately wondering what I could have done to prevent this separation, but all the while knowing I had no control.  It’s been an exercise in self restraint and love.  It stings, though.  It really, really stings.

That was by far the best sex of my life and it was suddenly and unexpectedly stripped away from me, like someone snatching my plate away in the middle of my orgasmic pleasure in it.  Nope, dumb dumb.  GO.

What I’m mourning with him is a quasi connection born out of mad and intense sexual chemistry.  We literally had nothing when I stepped out into the real world from his house.  I was back in Kansas, the trip was over, I was no longer necessary.  Maybe it’s because I thought I knew the parameters and I could rely on him lavishing me with attention and pleasure whenever I crossed his threshold that it hurts so badly that it’s gone.  I honestly can’t tell.

Then there’s Peter.  I came *this* close to texting him last week.  I spent every morning before work at the coffee shop where his tall frame would darken the doorway and every eye in the place would follow his beautiful face as he closed the distance to me.  We would canoodle and kiss and he’d say sweet nothings to me.

I was hesitant and cautious, our reunion uncertain and new from back in the summer when I’d told him I was through with him.  But he’d texted and I’d accepted it and I found myself right back in his long arms gazing into his dark green eyes wishing he weren’t such a broken soul of a man.

We never left the coffee shop in Round 2 of us.  I moved in early November and I asked if he’d like to come see my new place.  “Yes,” he said.  “How about tomorrow?”   I’d said great, he’d said he couldn’t wait.  But he never came.  Never texted.  I was forgotten again in the drama of the relationship he’d swung right into from the last.  I blocked his numbers and deleted all threads.  What a fool I’d been.

Two weeks later I opened my laptop and saw that I had an unread text.  I scrolled down until I saw it.

“Hey stranger, what are you up to?”

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Turns out he’d just plumb forgotten he’d made plans with me.  Whoops!

He was apologetic, I was pissed.  And flabberghasted, embarrassed, humiliated.  He tucked his tail and ran.  I told him, NO YOU STAY, why, I don’t know why and he sort of did, but then I asked if he wanted to see me again and before he could answer I answered for him the following morning:

“It doesn’t really matter, so don’t answer that. I’m gonna say what I did to you this summer when I ended things: I’m not interested in feeling invisible and unimportant to someone.

I don’t believe that you “forgot” about our date which then led to a two week amnesia of my existence. That was selfish and inhumane of you. And I don’t really know what the truth is, but I know it really doesn’t matter. Clearly, you don’t give a shit.

I’d blocked this number and deleted all your numbers the next day, but apparently my laptop didn’t recognize the blocking and that was when I found your text from Saturday yesterday. I don’t know why I responded other than morbid curiosity. “What could he possibly want from me??”

I was letting you back in – slowly – bc I didn’t trust you and I was right not to. I wish you had this part of your life in order, Peter, bc I adore you and spending time in your presence, but none of that is worth being treated like this.

It’s humiliating and painful and I can’t in good conscience accept this bullshit, therefore I’m asking you to no longer contact me. I’ll miss you and your pretty face, but the door is no longer open. I cannot be treated this way and I simply cannot trust you to treat me differently.

I’m truly sorry it had to end. Again. I wish you the best.”

It was a monumental morning for me and I cried.

I cried because I loved having him in my life, maybe I even loved him a little in that heartbreaking way we all can love someone that’s no good for us.  I cried because I felt like I’d let myself down and because I knew I’d miss him.  And for some reason I cried because I knew it’d hurt him for me to do this.  I understand this mourning.

And lastly, at the top of the year, just after I’d met TG, I met The Vet(erinarian).  A man my age, an animal lover, open-minded, adventurous, sensitive, funny.  Also horribly hung up on an ex-girlfriend he’d dated for less than 6 months and hours before our second date – wherein were were going to day-drink and ride around town on rented bikes then eat and fuck all night – he begged off.  He couldn’t handle anything, even casual, since having dinner with her the night before.

Masochistically I offered friendship instead and he jumped at it, relieved.  He was hoping I’d say that, but didn’t want to ask.  Since then it’s been nearly a year of confusion and mild panic for me. He texts me every day, makes sure he sees me nearly weekly for dinner, drinks, or just hanging out at my place.  I can’t understand what he wants from me.  Truly friendship?  Is there an ulterior motive?  Am I dating him and don’t know it?

One night when the weather was thick and wet and the cicadas obnoxious we met at a bougie hotel around the corner from his house.  I felt sexy and powerful and I wanted to flaunt what he couldn’t have.  I don’t know what my goal was, but I woke up naked and sideways on his bed.  He was asleep in his scrubs on his couch, our clothes two piles side by side like we’d been snatched up by The Rapture.

We’d attempted sex, he said, but he couldn’t get it up and when he left the room to get water he’d come back to find me asleep on the bed and left me there alone.

We laughed about it and never discussed it.

Which was exactly what we did when we took some shrooms and he ate me out for an hour and I jizzed and ruined my couch and came so many times I saw god.  I woke up in my bed with his big body next to mine, anxious and unsure how to proceed.  A man in my morning is about as rare as Bigfoot.  I never know what to do.

He gathered his things, kissed me goodbye, and said he’d text me later.  And sure enough he did.  Memes and musings, normal stuff.  We haven’t crossed that line since and that was in August.

This past Friday he finally told me he was moving, something he’d been saying he’d do all year.  It’s a long way away, 15 hours by car.  It’s the thing I’ve felt most panicky about: him going away.

He’s my best friend here in the sense that he always wants to see me, hang out and talk.  He’s available and safe and I love hanging out.  When he leaves I’m back to being alone, maybe back to dating to fill the space he vacates?

I hadn’t realized until now how important his presence in my life has been – he’s kept me more honest with myself because I’d rather see him than go on some shitty date with a man who hasn’t earned the right to my time and energy.  I’m going to miss him.

But then in the midst of all of this, I stumbled upon a little gem, Francois. A young man 18 years my junior who loved to be beneath me, his face buried in my breasts as he thrust and curled up inside of me while I ran my fingers through the luxurious pelt on his muscular chest and nibbled his ears, scraped my teeth along his neck and came like a Banshee.

His body made me cry to look at it.  Thick, strong legs, broad shoulders, soft hair from collar bone to upper thighs and a perfectly curved cock that fit everywhere.

Our first meeting we met at my new favorite neighborhood bar and I reveled in the attention, his quick wit and tender focus.  He asked me the name of my kid – such a small kindness, but so often ignored – and I was surprised by how it touched me and was eager for more of him.  I hadn’t been touched in four months.

I bought us wine, he bought us things to nibble on and we laughed and grew closer over the course of the night.  He was new to town and didn’t know where to go or what to do, so I suggested a pool hall not far away.  There we leaned in for our first kiss, his floppy dark hair tickled my cheek and I placed his hand on my ass as the embrace deepened.  He told me later he’d never made out in public before.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” I winked at him.

“Yeah, it was fucking awesome.”

That night was a blur of passionate kisses and release of pent up sexual frustration as we drank ourselves silly and fucked like it was our last day on earth.  He was so achingly beautiful it was distracting and I worried about my middle-aged body with the creases and expanded hips.

I awoke the next morning with him breathing deeply beside me and a heavy does of anxiety.   Should I wake him?  Should I let him sleep?  I had no clue so waited until I could wait no more and got up, made us some coffee and woke him up with some morning sex.

Turns out waking up with a man isn’t that complicated: just do whatever the hell you want.

He stayed for several hours and another pot of coffee and we made plans to see each other again in a couple of days.  That’s when I rode him on my couch and tried to kill him with my energetic enthusiasm in the bedroom.  Then again that Friday when he asked that I tie him up and play with his pretty little asshole.  He was stunning with my blindfold on and his hands bound, his dark cock turgid with anticipation and arousal for my sole enjoyment.

That was a fun week with a nubile, kind, smart, interesting young man… then the bubble burst – as it tends to do – and he moved states away 2 weeks later.  And incapable of handling the move and of being emotionally present he made motions to see me before he left, but in the end morphed into a ghost right before my very eyes.

He eventually apologized and we’ve texted a little here and there since his move.  He makes grand proclamations about driving the 5+ hours to see me for a debauched weekend, but then doesn’t follow through.  It’s just another fluff connection, hotter on the text machine than viable on land.  Thanks, Francois, for the one week of fun.

I’ve had other first dates with men with bad breath, who dressed inappropriately, who still lived with their parents, and men whose only focus was their own voice, so I have rightly stayed away from second dates and naked romps.  I had sex with maybe 6 people in 2019 – something I might have pulled off in 2 months in previous years – and I feel rather contemplative about it.  It’s just a data point.

My biggest fear is that I will let Hy slip away completely and the rest of me shrivel up and die in defeat.  She is a badass, fearless, sexy, devouring, big.  I’d like keep her around while also not destroying my passion for life, people, and play.  Surely there’s a middle ground and I’m intent on finding it.

And blogging more is integral to that. 

I’ve loved the last 36 hours that it’s taken me to write this [ridiculously long] post.  I’ve felt more connected to myself and finally eager to share.  I know what I have to say again.  I think the break may be over.

Having said that, I’m still very, very ambivalent about Boobday.  It’s too confining and constraining.  I want to be free with my writing and when I’m supposed to show up here.  I don’t do well with that kind of structure – as you’ve all witnessed with your attempts to link up and no post being available.

I’ll still run Every Damn Day in June and even participate in February Photo Fest, but as far as running my own meme… I just don’t know that it fits in my life as Hy anymore.  Y’all know I love you and your gorgeous bodies and I think it’s served its purpose.

It feels really good to be back here.  Maybe it’s more than a coincidence that I have a couple of dates lined up this week and I’m ready to write again.

 

[Ed. Note: It’s actually been 12 weeks and 2 days.]

 

A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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9 thoughts on “It’s been 12 weeks and a day.
  1. Glad to have you back and sharing! Missed you! And hey, it’s okay if Boobday goes by letting those that don’t respect you the wayside for now.
    I wish you the best, and good for you for letting those that don’t respect you go,

  2. It has been a very long time. Your best line might be “The weather was thick and wet and the cicadas obnoxious.” It is almost ‘noir’, but not quite. Your life does seem somewhat less complicated or perhaps mine has become more complicated. Now I have to go out in the dark and look for traps that our really stupid managers have been hoodwinked into setting out for the cats. I have to object, but first I need to find out if they are really going to do it. I have gone out hunting every night with a bright little light and a welding rod to scatter the bait and then trip the trap. Hopefully it will look like the one who got away. I will then soak the trap down with cat repellent. Why do I do this? We have a feral cat who is moving into retirement while living in our driveway and sleeping on the neighbor’s warm heating ducts. I know that you are a cat lover too. I believe a Tuxedo. There are variations.

    I just want to say that I wish you all the best and all the luck and all the right decisions and that God (or whom ever is nice enough to do so) dumps a perfect man on your doorstep. I’ll put my hands on a good tree Pagan style. There is some science pointing to the possibility that plants can communicate. The whole world will be on your side!

  3. “Which was exactly what we did when we took some shrooms…” Do you take a lot of illegal street drugs? Why is sex and sexual chemistry the most important thing in your relationships? Why does sex have so much power over you?

  4. I’ll see your 12 weeks and 2 days and raise you 8 weeks and 6 days … oh bollocks … I loose.
    It’s good to see you back Hy. I empathise with what you say about loosing Hy, and about blogging being part of that part of you. I’d hate to loose the analogous part of me, and I know I’m not alone in saying it’s good to have you back – just don’t feel obliged to be.

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