I’m in a mood. A bad mood.
I spent another magical night with The Golfer last night – our eighth since February. He’d texted to confirm that morning that he would be too busy to hang out and said he didn’t want to disappoint me by making plans. Two hours later he took it all back and asked me to come over at 4. He apologized again.
Suddenly it all made sense. He was actually thinking of me all week, worried about letting me down. He wasn’t being a dick; I found it a kind gesture and agreed to come over at 6.
He met me at the door with a giant, sparkly smile and wrapped his arms around me from behind and filled his hands with my breasts. He may have nibbled on my neck. He told me his plan to talk to me, bathe me, tease me, feed me, then fuck me and that’s just what he did.
We took a shower together then fit ourselves together like a puzzle in the Japanese soaking tub and he massaged my chest and breast bones and watched me intently as my head lolled and my eyes pinched shut from the attention.
We sucked and fiddled with each other and both came close to cumming before we remembered The Plan. Sushi arrived, we dove in to the food, me wrapped in his monogrammed robe, and then we went at it.
I clawed and bit him as he ravaged me with his perfect cock. He rained down blows on my ass and hips and twisted and bit my nipples until I cried.
I came so hard I hiccuped my ecstasy and when he finally came buried deep in my ass I sobbed and laughed as eveyr cell I have seemed to fuse into one giant ball of molten feels.
We took another shower and fell asleep an arms reach apart.
I didn’t sleep again.
I dreamt that Dream TG callously dismissed me the next morning with a brushing away motion of his hand as he looked at important papers. Go, Hy. I won’t be walking you out. Bye. I was devastated and humiliated.
I awoke with a headache and sense that I’d only been asleep for an hour or two. I got some water and went back to bed and hoped we’d fuck again in the morning. We didn’t.
He quietly got up and let his dog out and got in the shower. I took that as my cue to leave and got dressed while he casually watched from the shower.
“Do you want me to help you with the bed?” I asked him.
“No, that’s ok,” he answered, looking me up and down with a hungry look. That was new. Usually it’s just a look.
“Ok. I gotta get home to the dog. Thanks for everything last night.” I opened the shower door to kiss him goodbye.
“Thank you,” he replied and gave me my usual peck on the corner of my mouth. I’d hoped using his mouthwash might encourage a real kiss, but I was wrong.
I drove home listening to Lizzo with the windows down. The post-dawn roads mostly empty, my body and mind still. So this is how it is.
We smoked pot and drank wine and laughed so hard I cried. We flirted and fucked and talked about what I don’t know. Then the sun rose and it was all over. Poof.
And as much fun as it all was I spent a tremendous amount of time processing our interactions: why don’t we touch when we sleep? why don’t we fuck in the morning? why won’t he kiss me on the mouth? why has he said stupid things to me about other women? why don’t we see each other more often if he knows what we have is so rare? I was completely emotionally exhausted and couldn’t wait to see Peter for our Sunday pool date, to fill up on his sweet, loving energy.
I needed a hug and I knew he’d wrap me in his arms, kiss me, tell me how much he loved hanging out with me and hang on every word I said.
Home and still warm and buzzing from TG I texted him before 8 asking if he’d like to come over around noon or 1. At 10 he texted back to say he’d just woken up, but wasn’t feeling that well. He was hungover; he’d be over at 1.
At 1 he texted to say he was freaking out – he’d found blood when he went to the bathroom -and he was en route to an emergency clinic and he’d call me as soon as he could. I haven’t heard from him since and am not all that surprised.
I also don’t believe any of it.
I think he’s hungover and wanted to hang out with his new lady and I couldn’t quite argue against blood in his urine, now could I? Short of emergency surgery or death, there’s no reason he couldn’t text me an update or answer any of my worried follow up texts. None.
But the point is: I don’t trust him. And if I’m honest, I don’t trust anyone.
People are dangerous, men even more so: they take and use and discard. They’re precious and weak. They’re selfish, unenlightened, and fragile. And I bear it all like blisters on my skin, suffering, but still able to function and hike the mountain.
The Vet answered some recent veterinarian questions for me the other day and we briefly caught up. I called him on his offer to be friends, but I know that was just bullshit. He’s done nothing to foster a friendship since he said that’s what he wanted. And despite saying he couldn’t handle even something casual I can see his online activity in search of such a thing.
My loneliness hit a peak as I sat on my couch, my makeup recently touched up for Peter’s imminent arrival, and my child’s absence palpable. I put my head in my hands and cried. Why does no one want me? Why am I so bad at this??
Then I thought of the wife of the married man I’m talking to and how she thinks her life is perfect. She thinks she has a loving and devoted husband – and she does – but he is also duplicitous and conniving. She would be obliterated with the knowledge of what her husband does for his survival. She’s “got someone” and it’s about the cruelest kind of fantasy one can have.
And I thought of the friend with a lifelong partner who’s a raging alcoholic who’s nearly lost his job because of it and only miraculously not killed anyone when he’s wrecked his car during blackouts.
And of the friend who’s cheated on her husband over the years as she’s dealt with his neglect and battled her depression and sense of unworthiness.
And of the friend whose baby daddy comes and goes as he pleases and isn’t reliable.
They’ve all “got someone” and I wouldn’t want what they have just so I wasn’t so alone on a sunny Sunday afternoon in June. But I’m still sad. I’m still lonely.
I swiped a thousand times on my reloaded dating apps and lazily browsed through Instagram when I came across this:
It hit me like a ton of bricks. Everything this reality tv star wrote is what I have longed for my entire life: to be seen.
I’ve never had a boyfriend or husband do anything remotely close to this. I’m so starved for attention that when anyone does the absolute minimum that would constitute human decency I feel softened from the inside out. It’s nothing short of pitiful.
I haven’t lost sight of my two big epiphanies, either: I have long entangled getting something from a man with him loving me; I do things for others in order to make myself feel special to them – they don’t make me feel special to them.
These broken survival skills are most obvious in my dating life, but easily apply to my life in general. I don’t feel seen by my friends, either. They overlook me and fit me in when convenient, even when I’m explicit in my need for help or caring.
It’s like we’re all just here to hurt one another. Take one look at the news and it’s confirmed: babies crammed in rooms with no beds, separated from their families, my rights to my body being stolen away, one state at a time, more assault victims being panned and crucified.
And in my pocket, my little corner of the world, wives are being lied to, burdened and hurt, men are stifled and stunted. I’m constantly being slighted and cast aside.
I’ve come at it from every angle. Caring, not caring, hard, soft, all ages, all attractiveness levels. I’ve abstained, I’ve indulged. I’ve paid for dating services and done all the free ones, I’ve done nothing, too. I’ve been Me across the board and all I feel I have elicited is an erasure of myself.
No matter how hard I try to draw the outlines of myself to the world I seem to remain hidden. Except here. Here I am seen, here I am real, here I am heard.
I’ve never needed Hy more. I’ve also never needed someone more. Looks like it’s gonna have to be me…