I’m just a fool who wants to be loved.

So Peter has kidney stones. And the pain was so great, the trauma so overwhelming, he couldn’t text me until after he’d gotten his ex girlfriend to drive him home this morning. Never mind he was en route to my house and I texted worried and freaked out several times.

And before I heard from him, I texted The Golfer a hot pic of my breast hanging out while on a walk with the dog this morning. Surprisingly, he responded relatively quickly. He’s still spent from our night together, he said. I’m quite satisfied by that.

I’m having conversations with Peter in my car and kitchen, with The Golfer in my office and on my couch. Of course they can’t hear them, but it’s where I am strongest and most clear: Do not mistreat me! I say. Do not make me feel insignificant and worthless! I will not stand for it!

I’m fighting the urge to ask The Golfer to spend the Fourth or July with me poolside and in my bed. He will only say No.

And then I remember that giving them access to me despite how they’ve treated me is a hand written permission slip signed by me to keep doing whatever they fucking like.

One, I can handle. The other is going to have to go.

Ah naturale.

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I’m listening.

I see the way, the obvious choice, I cannot ignore it.

I listen to his words, keenly and intently, like my wings are pinned to a wax board.

I believe him when he shows in a dozen different selfish, crushing ways that he cannot show up for me – even a little, even for a moment – to prolong the magic of our meeting.

I know he’s spent what little energy he has on me already and now it’s gone. Poof. Down a vodka on the rocks and the 18th hole.

You know what’s also gone? My lady boner. She has died – may she rest in peace. It was fun while it lasted, but I need a break and my wings need repair.

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I’m in extrovert hell.

I told my therapist today that I worried I might get myself into trouble this weekend, my need for contact with people is so high.

Imagine that urge, dark and insistent, to seek solace and quiet when you’re overloaded and stretched so thin you think people can see right through you. A clinging, persistent hiss in your ear to be the fuck alone. I get that to be with people.

It’s like dry mouth and I must have a long, cool slug of something lest I fucking die.

First I reached out to friends about happy hour, but they weren’t available. So I reached out to another friend and while I waited to hear from her I decided to pick up a dropped OKC thread.

Then while I was sipping rosé with her – feeling largely dissatisfied still – he and I made plans to meet up later at my favorite little wine house at 9 o’clock. I felt moderately better.

He’s tall, goofy looking, fit, funny, and a single dad. And 10 years my junior. Of course.

(My meeting with the married man this morning never happened: kid stuff popped up.)

I am going to keep a close eye on myself this weekend and maybe just contemplate my navel instead of actually finding that trouble I’m worried about falling into.

Hopefully this goody fella will do the trick for my thirst.

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You teach people how to treat you.

Peter and I met today at a little pizza house down the street from my office. I kicked off my Calvin Klein pumps for my battered Chucks and walked under rain-heavy clouds, my laptop in my tote. I was immersed in my work and a glass of white wine when he arrived all long legs, lean hips and a shy smile.

He looked worried which kept me rooted to my seat. What was he here to tell me? Were we going to say goodbye? I wasn’t sure what would happen; I have no experience telling people they can’t treat me a certain way.

We made pleasantries and I marveled at his dashing good looks. “So, why did you want to meet besides showing off how pretty you are?” I said breaking the ice, smiling slyly.

He made a coiffing motion with his hand and smiled back, laughing.

He explained the circumstances that prevented him from coming over Sunday and apologized again for hurting me. “You deserve to hear from me in person and not over text,” he said. He’s disoriented and lost since ending his relationship last month and he’s been couch surfing. He’s also somehow already gotten entangled with another woman who wants him to move in with her. He looked hurt as he told me.

“I don’t want to repeat my past,” he said. “But she seems to think we’re a thing and it’s not what I want.” I did a little probing and discovered she’s a woman I noticed on his Instagram despite no social media trail I could see. (“I’m psychic,” I told him.)

“Get out, Peter, you can’t keep staying there with her. You don’t seem to realize your effect on women. You are so pretty and so kind and so sweet and we are all so horribly treated that just the most minimal humanity shown us is seen as interest or intention to commit. You need to be sensitive to this about you and be responsible for it. Get the fuck out of there before you hurt her.”

“This is why I love talking to you,” he said. “You’re so mature and respectful and straight forward. I believe everything you say.”

“We’ve known each other for years now and I care about you. C’mere.” I moved my purse and patted the seat next to me. He moved closer and we embraced. I nibbled on his lips and he stroked my hair and back.

I told him about The Golfer and The Vet and how his flakiness has been coinciding with their whatever; I wanted to show him what a woman typically deals with.

“All my friends who date experience similar things: men are fucking awful to us. Please, you can stay with me when Pey is gone, sleep on that bed, you don’t have to share mine. We’ll get high and watch cooking shows and I’ll play with your penis.” I pulled him down to my lips again as I laughed. “It’ll be like a slumber party!”

He laughed into my kiss. “Thank you, and I may…” he hesitated. “It’s just I’m never jealous of you and all the men you go out with, but I’m jealous of her.”

“That’s your gut telling you to get the fuck out. You have got to end it now before you hurt her more. Look at these men I’ve been dealing with: yeah, it hasn’t been awesome for me, but they’re being honest and setting boundaries. They’re not interested in a relationship with me and they’re being very clear; I’m free to leave if I wish. You need boundaries.

“I was in a 3-year long relationship with someone who loved all I offered him, but didn’t really want me and it was devastating. Don’t do that.”

“I heard that “you teach people how to treat you,'” he replied.

“Yes, exactly. That’s why I called you out yesterday for hurting me and why I called The Golfer out for ignoring me for 3 weeks. If I decide to accept less than I deserve or want it’s on me, but I have to set the boundaries. We all do.”

I don’t know why, but I feel like it’s a losing campaign with Peter. He’s catnip to women and he doesn’t know how to be on his own. I don’t know why I care, but I do. I just really don’t want to see him ‘shipped up so soon.

I also feel something – that this one-month chick is being so damn nutty and capturing his attention and being rewarded – What about me?? Why is her fucking ridiculous behavior attractive?? Am I chopped liver? It kinda sorta feels like it. I’m in the Sex Silo, but not the Girlfriend one. Maybe if I were clingy and inappropriate I’d have a boyfriend by now, maybe Peter would want me – except I don’t want Peter, he lies. It’s all so fucking fucked up. I’m fucked up.

But whatever.

I “taught him” not to treat me like that and I was rewarded with a warm smile and a kiss of friendship. It wasn’t half bad. And hopefully I’ve spared some idiot chick years worth of heartache loving a man who was “too nice” to hurt her to her face and instead cheats on her for relief behind her back.

I paid for my glass of wine and he walked me out. A line of cars on the street waited for the light to turn green as we kissed on the sidewalk in front of them; I cupped his buns and pulled him closer and we smiled into our kiss at the little show we were giving. I walked back to my office and the clouds let loose little kisses of rain along the way.

I’ll see Peter again soon.

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I suck.

This weekend was a roller coaster of emotions, highs and lows and vodka and shitty men.

I had an incredible weekend of mommy-ing, one of the best.  We loved on each other, laughed a ton, cuddled, played in the pool, I rooted and cheered at a swim meet, we saw a movie.  It was fucking great.  Just what a summer weekend should be.

With school out, Sunday swaps make more sense, so this weekend was my first Sunday free.  Peter and I made plans for him to come over – he’d cut out of a poker game early, he said, and would be at my place around 7 or 8.

Meanwhile, Saturday night I’d gone out with friends and had vodka, which I never do.  At 2:30 am I drunk texted The Golfer whom I still hadn’t heard from – that liquor sure did a number on my resolve to not text him.  Fuck.  And it’s almost worse than drunk dialing of the ’90s because the worlds stay foreverrr, but I digress.

I texted asking if he were mad at me because I hadn’t heard from him knowing full well he wasn’t, but I thought it was a good enough ice breaker.  And then I asked him how he managed to not drunk text me.  I thought I was so cute!  But I guess it worked because he texted me Sunday morning.

Of course he wasn’t mad at me, he texted.  Then, “Come over and squirt all over me…”

I had plans with Peter so demured.  Also, I wasn’t crazy about being ignored for 3 weeks then invited to bring my pussy over to play.  I decided to tell him his silence was confusing and that I’d like to continue our affair, but wasn’t sure he wanted to.  His response was to simply reiterate his invitation.  But, Peter…

I suggested this coming weekend instead, but he said he couldn’t due to “some shit going on.”  I was disappointed – both in the scheduling conflict and myself over all.  I shouldn’t be entertaining this, right??

I decided to focus on Peter’s visit instead.  We’d texted a little Saturday, but I hadn’t heard from him yet.  I texted and… nothing.  But I didn’t fret.  It was Peter, after all.  I trusted him to keep our plans.

But 7 and then 8 o’clock came and went and no Peter.

Concurrent to all of this, a friend of mine asked if we could go swimming together yesterday – code for using my pool.  I told her I had plans to swim after a 1:30 movie.  At 3:36 I texted her letting her know we were headed to swim, but she’d found another pool and said she “wasn’t sure when we’d be done.”  Peyton was disappointed and confused, my friend’s kid is a bestie.  “I thought it was us she wanted to hang out with.”

“No, baby, she just wanted the pool, I guess.”  Nice, thanks, Amy.

I texted Peter this morning:

WTF Peter 😔 You completely flaking on me last night really hurts my feelings. That was so disrespectful and not at all what I expected from you – which is why I told someone else I wasn’t available to see him. I figured you would keep your word even though I hadn’t heard from you. Seriously, what happened?? If you don’t want to see me, just say so, but don’t fuck with me like that, please. My time is far too precious and you know that 😢☹️

I’m pretty fucking pissed right now, but I don’t hate you. Please text me back so we can work something out. I’m thinking we need to put this on the back burner or maybe say goodbye for a little while. Both make me sad, but getting stood up is worse and not good for me and I’m not going to put up with it from a man I like and trust.

He just wrote back.

Apparently he got his work truck towed with both his phones in it – though that doesn’t make sense because he said he would be too tired to come over Saturday night after work, so not sure where his truck was that it’d get towed seeing as he should have been at home.  He apologized and asked if he could see me for a quick minute to talk in person.

I didn’t post yesterday.  I thought about it, but just couldn’t bring myself to put words to paper.  I was humiliated and hurt and embarrassed.

And then this morning I texted The Golfer a video of me and my breasts on my balcony and, long story short, I’m headed to his place tonight after work.

I suck.

 

 

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I’m not interested.

Fuck ’em.

This past week was a great big, fat downer in my World o’ Mens.  I summed it up in my last Instagram post:

Let me tell you about the last week of my life in relation to men. On Monday The Golfer ignored my text about our previous night (blog post; link in profile). On Wednesday he told me he’d “let me know” about getting together this weekend. Meanwhile, The Vet and I made and confirmed plans for Sunday afternoon – day drinking, bike riding, pool, dinner, and banging – and we texted a little every day. Peter asked to see me Friday, but I had my kid. Saturday I texted TG a sexy pic and said to “Win golf!” He ignored the pic and said he was losing. He never did get back to me about seeing each other. I deleted our thread, but he’s programmed in my phone. Then at 10 am Sunday The Vet texted to say he’d had dinner with his exgf the night before – and while they didn’t talk about reuniting – he realized he couldn’t even handle something casual so he same-day cancelled on me. I told him to hit me up when the timing was right for him, then deleted the thread without ever programming in his number. I actually don’t give a shit about a jerk who can’t handle himself. I’ll never hear from him again. I texted Peter hoping he could pinch hit, but he never replied. I figured he was dead, but he texted yesterday, Monday, to say he’d been camping. I invited him over, but he was busy, so he suggested he could come over tonight. I gladly accepted his offer. This morning he texted me how excited he was to see me and then at 4, two hours before we were to get together, he texts that he’s “in a mood” and needs to reschedule. I told him it’ll be a couple of weeks and I’ll let him know, but the truth is I won’t. I deleted his thread, too. If he texts me, great, but I’m not chasing anyone down. So then I reopened all my dating apps and got to swiping only to run into my ex, TN, and two old lovers. Time for a new batch, I suppose; hopefully with men who respect me, my time, and my little broken heart. 💔

So I’m currently just gonna chill and not reach out to anyone.  It just doesn’t seem right.

And I was wrong about The Vet; he texted me yesterday.  An image of the back of his cat’s head looking out over the river from his balcony with the caption “Chillin’ with my villain.”  I responded with “Dragon kitty!” and he lol’d.  That was it.  Not sure what the fuck he wanted [from me].

I ended up grabbing a drink with another fella named Peter (Peter 2.0) the night Peter late-cancelled, but I didn’t feel a thing other than total wonderment that he asked me so many questions about my life; deep, meaningful questions.  He lost me when he said people have described him as Eeyore… this Tigger doesn’t have time for a project like that.

I suspect Peter thinks I’m pissed so he’s avoiding me.

And The Golfer… I don’t even know what to say about that dude.  I haven’t heard boo from him.  I’m just trying to get to California with my kid despite cancelled flights and thunderstorms.  I don’t have time for any of this bullshit.

Oh!  And I almost forgot!  Remember “Early Afternoon Lunch” guy??    He was this guy back in February that I chatted with a bunch for about two weeks. I gave him my Saturday night on a custody weekend (those are extra precious to me) and then that morning he texted simply, “Early afternoon lunch.”  Uh….

I didn’t appreciate the downgrade to a fucking brunch so I asked for clarification.  I never heard from him again… until yesterday when I noticed he’d liked me on OKC so I swiped right, too, to see what the fuck he wanted.  The chat went like this:

Him: Hey Hyacinth

Me: Hey Early Afternoon Lunch Guy

H: How you been?

M: Good, you?

H: I’m off today
M: Ah. Good for you. So what’s up? Do you remember me? We met on The League, texted for a couple of weeks, set a date for a Saturday night then that morning you switched it up to a “late breakfast” then never texted me again when I tried to clarify what was going on.
H: I apologize about that. I wasn’t quite ready to get back into dating, and I should’ve told you
M: Yeah, you should’ve. It was super inconsiderate of you, particularly since all you had to do was tell me how you were feeling. I’d have still been bent out of shape about the late cancellation, but it’d have been better than ghosting on me like that. I lost a whole night of *something* because of that since I couldn’t scrounge up anything to do on such short notice. Not to mention being treated like that didn’t feel all that great.
H: I understand and you’re right. I’m sorry I was so inconsiderate
M: Thank you

H: No problem

Should I leave you alone?
M: Lemme think on it
H: That’s fair. Lemmeno
M: Sure. I need to know – from you – why I should let you back in
H: I’ve been working on myself the last few months. Trying to get to a better place mentally and financially. I feel I’m getting there…not fully realized yet, but I’m doing the work and going in the right direction
M: Do you want to get to know me? Will you not pull that shit on me again?
H: Yes. On both accounts
M: I gotta say I’m a little underwhelmed by your answers! I mean, I was at least hoping for something about how awesome I am and how you regretted fucking shit up before because of said awesomeness 💁🏼‍♀️
Well, I’m sorry but I was with my son yesterday afternoon and wasn’t able to expand appropriately
Just another way of saying, “I’m sorry you’re such a bitch for being unimpressed with my lukewarm and apathetic responses, but I was with my son and how dare you expect more of me even though you had absolutely no way of knowing I was with a child under 5 all day to the extent that I couldn’t possibly give you the attention you deserve and which you so graciously gave me the opportunity to give.. twice.”
I wanted to write back, “I’m sorry you’re such an idiot Man Baby.”  But I didn’t; I have nothing to say.
I’m so fucking done with men who leave me to do all the emotional lifting.  Fucking done.  Where are the adults who say “I’m sorry I can’t do what I promised, but how about [this alternative that lets you know I think you’re important and worthy of respect]”?  Or, “God, Hy, I’m so sorry for being a twat.  You really didn’t deserve that and I’d really love the chance to start over with you.”  Or, “Hy, I’m really sorry for not getting back to you; I won’t do that again.”
The thing is, these men are adults and I’m just not that important to them or their lives are a mess or they’re stunted or they’re whatever, and that’s the real message.  They don’t seem willing or able to communicate that to me with anything other than neglect. 
So, ok.  I hear y’all.  I’m not the woman for you, but mostly, you’re not the man for me.
[Ed. Note: Peter is lumped in here mostly due to proximity to all the douche-baggery I’ve experienced this week.  He’s a different bean on the scale and I hope we can get back on track soon.  I genuinely care about him.  But I meant what I said: he’ll have to reach out to me.  I can only make everyone else’s life so easy before I just call myself a doormat with a pussy.]

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I’m dunzo.

Cried in therapy about my sadness today.

She doesn’t know why no one wants to date me. Four men in my whole life have ever wanted to and obviously none of those were the best fit. Hundreds have wanted to fuck me, though. They’re lining up practically.

“If they actually knew you, Hy, they’d want to! Not that they’d know you like I do, but…” her voice trailed off. “But you are so sexy and so big. I don’t think most men can handle it.”

Her little blue eyes sparkled at me surrounded by wrinkles.

“Everyone wants to date Hy,” I said, “and that’s the real me. I just don’t know how to get anyone to get to know me in real life.

“I don’t have any opportunities. Work isn’t an option and when I don’t have Pey I work long hours. All I have is online – like everyone else – but how can anyone know me in one date or in 4 weeks? It’s all set up for me to be meaningless to them.

“Look at Early Afternoon Lunch Guy. There’s a reason I didn’t program him in to my phone. What’s the fucking point??”

I began to tear up when I told her I’d programmed my Saturday night lay into my phone.  The Golfer.  His real name is almost a “Chad.”

We’ve been sexting a little. An auspicious start to nothing, I’m sure. Nothing says “future relationship,” like, “I want your cumm [sic].”

Peace out.
February Photofest

I’m sad, too.

Good angles only.

The man from Saturday, The Golfer, has been flirting with me and I honestly can’t figure out why.

In the harsh Tuesday morning light I look at myself and don’t see much worth physically desiring. He was drunk, that’s how he ended up in my bed, otherwise why would a gorgeous 35 year old man want my middle aged and rapidly sagging-where-it-never-used-to-sag ass?

It’s not the right time of the month for me to be feeling this way – I can’t quite make sense of it – except that I must still have an emotional hangover from that night.

He came and sat with Tina and me already drunk, but massively charming nonetheless. I watched her drape herself all over him and flirt like she was drowning, but I sat in between them and seemed to inadvertently block any real foreplay between the two of them.

He was there for something, but he wouldn’t quite come out with it. Then he told us he’d hit a major professional milestone, a jackpot, if you will. I heard him say “multi-millionaire.”

Tina, lover of millionaires that she is, perked up and convinced him to order the most expensive bottle of bubbles on the menu then left to go to the restroom. Now just the two of us, I inquired further about the moment for him.

“I’m gonna get sad for a minute,” he said with his head in his hands, “then I’ll be ok.”

I rubbed his back a little and told him it was alright, not entirely sure what he was about to say and not wanting to get overly invested in a drunk stranger’s drama.

“I mean no offense, but today is a really big day for me and I’m spending it with two women I don’t know.”

His friends, nearly as drunk as him, had tried to pry him away to go home earlier, but he’d refused. “I never leave the house, I don’t date, I’m totally alone and I had no one to share this with. Not really. I just tagged along with them, crashed their date.” I kept rubbing his back.

“I know how that feels,” I replied. “Take a deep breath and just enjoy tonight. It’s how I do it.”

Tina returned with her signature bad attitude and the moment was over. We were at a swanky hotel, after all, drinking Veuve Cliquot. The tears would have to wait.

That’s not a normal convo to have with a random drunk dude.

Maybe that’s why I went ahead and programmed his name in my phone, for the simple fact that I’m sad, too. I’m sad that I’m alone and drifting, bouncing from hookup to hookup like a skipped rock on the Lake O’ Many Mens.

I haven’t programmed a name in so long I barely remember the last time. It must have been Elliot, and before that Luke? God, I don’t even know. Both men who for whatever reasons didn’t want to be with me in the end.

As TG and I fucked each other senseless in the soulless black of my room it seemed we both held on for dear life. I wept from the sheer force of pleasure coursing through my body and he acted high on the perfume of my ejaculate and cries.

He flipped me over and licked my asshole and bit my cheeks, he pounded my pussy with his cock and his hands and buried his face between my legs like a starving man with a mouth made of the softest petals.

And then he texted the next day and tried to convince me to come over so we could do it all again. Not only was I hungover and recovering emotionally, but I felt embarrassed. Would he even want me in the light of day? Is it even worth my time even if he did?

He’s tried to get me to come over each night since. He’s funny, awkward, viciously self deprecating, and from what he said at the hotel, hates his mother.

It might appear that he’s one to avoid without question, yet his name is in my phone all the same because I’m sad, too, and for just a minute I’d also like to pretend that someone cares I exist.

February Photofest

I have mixed feelings.

Bottles of champagne, Veuve Cliquot!, a hot, drunk young man confused about who to pay attention to, me or my friend with a long term boyfriend who’d been shamelessly flirting with him.

I watched half amused most of the night until at the second bar she began to exclude me where I had made sure to include her. I excused the two of us from the table.

“Tina, I’m not judging what you’re doing here, but why?? I’m single, he’s single, you’re not and you love your boyfriend. Do you really want to do this? I’m not going to compete for his attention with you.”

And then the night ended with him in my bed and his mouth all over me and his fingers lodged in my asshole as he pounded me to fucking oblivion and I came all over us and my poor pink bed like a goddamned vomiting waterfall.

He tried to get me to come home with him in the morning, but I demurred; I needed more rest and time to be alone with my thoughts. The sex was intense and when I closed my eyes and thought of it my pussy would pulse and twinge.

I may have accidentally gained a new pair of RayBans. “Nice,” he said when I told him I’d found his glasses in my purse. “When are you gonna come over and drop them off? We can soak my bed too.”

Another night set loose by bubbles and held by nothing but whimsy, my memory and manners spotty. Who knows if I’ll ever hear from him again. I hope I made his sad day brighter. He certainly brightened mine.

I’ve spent my entire Sunday washing the entirety of my bed linens and wondering when I’ll stop having drunken, loneliness-driven nights like last night.

Sinful Sunday
February Photofest

Floating along in 2019.

Holla.

It appears I’ve abandoned my Dating Like It’s 1995 project.  I know because I’m back on Bumble and I’ve jumped into a pile of dicks — I mean dudes — again.  It kinda feels good.  Too good.  Like I’m not all here, just tethered by a string dancing in the gale.

Time to carefully back away again and get back to 1995.  I liked it there a lot.  It was quiet and real and rooted through the ground beneath my palms.

February Photofest