It’s motherfucking Valentine’s Day today. Ugh. What a load of shit.
My energy for dating has been exceptionally low over the last 9 months or so. Mourning, processing, working, mothering. There’s barely been any time for fucking.
It also doesn’t help that out of every 50 guys I match with, 35 of them keep asking me how my day is/was, 5 completely ignore me and another 9 send me an unsolicited dick pic or expect me to invite them to my house so I can spread my legs for them.
If you were doing the math, that means only about 1 men out of 50 behave relaxed and non-threatening, show intelligence and interest, and maintain a line of contact that is both intriguing and comfortable. And are fucking hot, of course. Mama has standards, y’all.
And to be perfectly honest I’d say that number is probably closer to 0 – .5 per 50, but there’s no such thing as “half a man,” so we’ll just have to go with the whole guy for every 100.
It sounds exhausting, but really it’s not! Though there’s a lot of initial up front work planting seeds in the row, within hours I can see what’s going to grow. The little shoots that will turn into eggplants show themselves almost immediately.
BAM! Mother fucking eggplant.
The guys who like to make sure your day is going well every morning, noon, and night reveal themselves next. They grow paltry little leaves and have a fallow, weak color to them. like a houseplant starved for sunlight.
Gotta just let those die on the vine.
Obviously the men who never connect never break the soil’s surface and I forget they were even there.
And when that one little glorious seedling pushes through the dirt and uncoils steady and bright towards the sun, oh that is the best feeling.
It’s a little miracle watching it unfold and grow tall, sprout leaves and strengthen. It excites me to see how it just seems to know what to do with little help from me, yet it flourishes with a little water and all that delicious sun.
Holy shit! This one’s palatable!
These are the special seedling men, like Francois, who make all the work seem worthwhile. I’m not trying to feed a village, after all, just me. One little woman, one little soul, one little hungry body and they’re easy, beautiful, warm, and bright. Perfect examples of the intangible “chemistry” we all seek.
And, my friends, my latest planting has some promise: I have found a new seedling worth waiting for.
A lot. All the time. Barring my small herd of animals that depend on me for all their worldly needs. And my child.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever have a partner again. It seems virtually impossible; I feel like I’m so – I don’t know – far away. Like on another planet.
I won’t go into it now, I’m still chewing on it.
The Vet really is my best friend here these days. I’m gonna miss him when he’s gone.
Over dinner tonight he told me of his plans. It almost felt like he was searching my face, hoping I’d respond, but I didn’t.
Now we’re at a new bar by his house talking and laughing as usual. He’s on call so he’s behaving himself; I am too.
It’s gonna be sad when when he’s gone.
Last week The Vet(erinarian) and I met up at a fancy restaurant by his place for a drink. We sat at the bar – not far from where we sat on our second date – and laughed and talked and ate. Our glasses kept full by an attentive bartender.
Plates of decadent food later and with a deep, warm buzz we looked at one another when she asked if we wanted more.
“I’m down to go for it,” I said. “Is it ok if I crash on your couch?”
“Yeah! Of course!”
So off we went deep into our cups, jokes, and disagreements about the intimacy of “ripping a huge, juicy fart” in front of your partner. I didn’t feign my disgust even as I laughed uncontrollably.
Tipsy past the point of what could be called responsible, he paid our enormous bill and we left.
Back at his place, on his giant leather couch, I would eventually and quietly lean over away from him, close my eyes, and sleep. Alone.
As the sun rose in the east and painted the sky with pastels he padded out into the living room in his underpants and a t-shirt. “You could’ve slept in my bed,” he said. I told him I was cool where I was.
We talked for a while and then I walked the long halls and rode down 10 levels to the garage. The truth was, I’d made a promise to myself that if I were to fuck him ever again, it was going to happen sober, and had I gone in that room with him I don’t know what would’ve happened.
As close to him as I felt, as safe and appreciated, it didn’t come close to feeling actually wanted by him in a deliberate and mindful way, and these days – when it comes to him, anyway – I want to be a choice, and not a happy accident [for his dick].
I want more than that. Dicks are a dime a dozen and I’m a precious mother fucking gift.
My finances are better than they’ve ever been in my life. I can no longer count myself among the lower middle class/just above the poverty line. It’s disconcerting and terrifying being “successful” and I’m trying to enjoy it, but it’s a lot harder than you might imagine.
I could get fired at any moment – that’s always a possibility. Someone could get pissed at me or think I’m a hack and say, Hy, you’re outta here. I always feel one bad decision or project failure away from living under a bridge. That’s a scarcity mindset, by the way: that even in the face of abundance I feel like I might lose it all in the blink of an eye [because I don’t feel worthy of the success].
I have (not) insignificant personal debt and that’s my main focus this year. Now that my career seems stable* and my bosses more invested in me than ever I’d like to knock out that bullshit. Grad school debt not included. I’ll be paying that off till the day I die, or I could live like I was making half as much as I really am and knock it out in 10 years, but that seems like a really unfair choice. Money is to be enjoyed and shared.
It’s weird, though, I still identify as a poor person, not a successful one. I never had that great of a job in my 20s and chose to pour my money into my therapy and nights out rather than my school debt or travel.
When I look back on where all my money went as a young woman in the aughts it was $300/month to therapy, not a travel fund like my friends who were jetting all over the world. I was exploring the depths of my own mind rather than the planet. I don’t regret it in the least, but it did create a deficit in my funds.
When I left my husband who had a 6-figure income I was making a big, fat 0-figure income for what felt like forever. My entire 30s I was either dependent on him, my divorce settlement, or the kindness of my family.
In my 40s I have clawed my way to a more-than-enough income and it feels like I’ve broken through the clouds at the top of the mountain. I’m really not sure I belong here, but I sure as hell don’t want to go below that cloud line again.
My 2020 goal is to clean up my debt and recognize that after years of denying myself little creature comforts now is still not the time to over-indulge… too much. Tickets to Eroticon and some nice clothing and home furnishings notwithstanding. A girl’s gotta feather her nest and preen a little, after all.
Also, if I can convince myself to leave the house and spend the energy, I now pay for my dates’ drinks. What a power move.
*Oh please, oh please, oh pleeeease be stable!
Nothing more humbling than a four legged alien who’s plotting to kill you.
Or a 27-year-old man who thinks he knows what’s up.
Picture this: A Bumble match with a very tall, lanky muscular fella whose profile says that he’s there because the girls on Grindr are too hairy matching with me, a mid-40’s woman who says she’s not interested in men with “outdated views on sex, women, and the world in general.”
He asks me what that means, so I decide to throw caution to the wind and really dig in, throw the whole damn book at him.
The misconceptions that sex is all about erections, women who fuck on first dates aren’t worthy of more, and how it’s a man’s job to perform for the pleasure of all.
He’s diggin’ it, parrying beautifully. I’m intrigued, excited. I tell him all my philosophies and he’s right there with me. And then…
“So… I feel like now is the time that I ask to see you naked,” accompanied by a couple of kissy faced emojis.
I balk, say that this is why I don’t go there with men because it can be confusing and I ask him how I gave him the impression I would send such images before meeting him.
He calls me rude, condescending, and pretentious.
I am laughing in my kitchen, phone in one hand, coffee in the other. The boy’s feathers are ruffled, but I don’t want to let it go. I press my case, point out his defensiveness isn’t beneficial to our discussion. He apologizes and I explain my point of view. He apologizes again. I still want to fuck him, but now he says he’s too scared.
He wants to bang, but now he’s afraid because he’s intimidated even through the ether and what if – God forbid – we get together and he can’t get hard.
It’s like he never heard me. I don’t care about a man’s hardon, but I care about him caring that I’m in the room. He doesn’t get it, can’t get it, won’t get it.
I might still see what happens over a drink. Let him see my short, curvy stature, a deep line of cleavage and my piercing glare; maybe take his hand and let it rest on my thigh. See what happens.
Or maybe I’ll let him watch this ride coast right on by.
Two years ago during February Photo Fest a similar picture nearly made me cry, but I posted it anyway because it was still me. Not “sexy,” but alive and worn in the best possible way. It made me feel honest to a fault and closer to you all. It also challenged me and my idea of what was allowed for my body.
This photo is similar: my silvery stretch marks form a little constellation on my hip, my pooch pools just a little in my lap, the crease in my back cuts a dark slash across the pillowy cream of my skin.
Now I’m sounding like a dessert.
And it’s real and vulnerable, a photo I might have hesitated to text to a man once upon a time, but today I wouldn’t. I’d send it with an air of defiance. I dare you to not love this, dicknose!
The older I get the more I think about the back half of the mountain and how I want to feel in my own skin. Strong, worthy, virile. Nothing about looking 25 again because I’m not 25 – I’m nearly twice that age now – and because of that I have no interest in turning back the hands of time. I’d rather clasp them in my own and do the waltz all the way to the beautiful end.
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.]
That’s 10 weeks and two days or two-and-a-half-months. That’s nearly as long as the last blogging break I took way back when before I birthed A Dissolute Life Means… when I was between blogs.
Honestly, Boobday was dragging on me. Memes are fun and all and then suddenly they’re not. I’m not the orderly sort, though I am highly organized; I tend to do things in bursts and clusters, not on a schedule. Meme-ing, therefore, is a mild form of torture for me and since I couldn’t figure out how to manage it I just stopped completely and abruptly. I need to think about it some more, but I think I’m going to move it to once a month. I’ll work out the details later and keep y’all posted.
And while I haven’t been writing here I’ve still been around. I occasionally pop back on to IG and write painful things to go along with my sexy ass – as I tend to do – and I’m still on Twitter tweeting my little tweets here and there. I even recorded a podcast with Molly – which was an absolute highlight of September – and have made it to the final round in the Smut Marathon! What???
I’ve also been continuing with my therapy and my gentle exploration of myself – if “gentle” is a cold-gloved cavity search. It’s been so hard this year. I’ve been cracked wide open to all the trauma I’ve suffered, the sexual assaults, the abandonment, the lifelong pursuit for a real father’s love and affection. I’m exhausted.
Almost two weeks ago Ann St. Vincent came to visit and it was wonderful. She was as sweet and supportive and open and inquisitive as ever and my friends from another city drove in to see me and meet her and we all spent a decadent day together getting meat sweats and napping and eating pasta under an warm fall night sky.
And when everyone left the next day – after an afternoon of cheering on Pey doing all the athletic things – I fell to pieces, kicked off by Netflix’s Unbelievable. For the third time in my life, I cut myself. I sobbed and wept and tore at the tender skin beneath my breasts wailing for the girl who could never find safety, though she tried so hard. The people she turned to again and again failing her in every way.
I’m talking about me, not the protagonist.
I didn’t know it was going to happen like that – I watch SVU all the time and various other heinous crimes-against-women type shows – but this one was different. This one was so fucking real to me. There she sat, this little thing in a stark room with two white men in power. Their privilege and antipathy literally oozing off of them and she was there to do the right thing and share her pain and trauma and instead of opening their arms to her to soothe her and right the wrongs they shut her down. They denied her. They denied her existence. They denied her visibility.
It knocked the breath from me as it thundered through me that that was me, I was her. I was that girl looking for safety from my father, my boyfriend, men who were otherwise supposed to be safe.
I should be able to stand on a subway platform and trust that no one will hurdle me onto the tracks, but that is not how life is for me – for women. I cannot stand too close lest someone shove me right off. The tears were for this desperate realization that I want so badly to stand on the edge with no fear, but the reality is that I cannot and for all the times I’d been pushed. A yin and yang of sorrow.
I woke up on Monday with an emotional hangover the size of the Empire State Building and lost all desire to drink. All of it. The ragged marks beneath my breasts meant I couldn’t wear a bra and the occasional sting I felt reminded me of the pain I had been denying I carried. I was finally confronted with the truth of things: I hurt.
And I felt awake for the first time in years. The kind of awake that makes you see each little brush stroke of fur on a cat’s nose like a masterpiece painting. I could not unsee this part of me.
This might not be a surprise to some of you more critical readers – this entire blog is a diary of my flight from my pain and trauma via finding that one safe man – nor is it a surprise to me. I know what I’ve been doing and why, I just never really understood the depths of what it was I was running from. How dark and oozing it was, how cloying. Now, I do.
I’m kinda sorta finding my footing. I’m grateful for this mid-life awakening.
And then, this weekend was the last in my little apartment with my little offspring. We watched movies, I hosted a kid sleepover, ran around, saw a movie, watched another sporting event from the bleachers. I did very little in the way of packing, but I did a lot in the way of packing up emotionally.
I cried thinking this was my last Sunday on my tiny sunny balcony, the last Sunday sunrise with a kitty in the window. The last Sunday my baby and I would fight over the bathroom sink. It’s time to move on from my little haven and move us closer to my ex’s house and into the right school district, same bus, a bike ride apart from mom and dad’s.
I also cried thinking how alone I am in all of this. Packing an entire house and moving all by myself while keeping it together for a watchful child. It’s a lot. I have to find ladders to reach all the high spots because I literally have no one who can help me. I asked The Vet, but he has to work. Peter says he’ll come and help, but he’s all wrapped up with his new girlfriend, so we’ll see if that actually comes to fruition. (Yes, Peter and I are talking again.)
So, yeah. I’ve been busy, just not writing. Growing. I’ve been growing. I also had a week of really fun sex with a beautiful young man 18 years my junior. Built like a little rugby player replete with a gorgeously furry chest and perfectly curved cock. We spent 3 nights together with one of them being a full 24 hours of fucking, smoking cigarettes, drinking, watching movies, eating, and fucking all over again. Of course he then drew distant and announced he’s moving away for work. Such is life.
This felt good, though, this writing thing. Maybe I’ll do it some more.
[Ed. Note: I wrote this on my balcony on Sunday, but couldn’t get back to it until Monday am. It feels good to hit “publish” again.]