Seven years of comments.

I’m not going to apologize for not living my life the way others might think I should.  I don’t owe anyone an explanation for my behavior, that’s not why I write here.  I  choose to share my singular experiences with the world because inevitably I feel bolstered by the love and support given to me.

When people show compassion and caring it reveals to me a side of the world I don’t always believe is there.  I am the most cruel, nasty, hateful person to myself in some of my weaker moments.

I know all the things I have done that have brought me to a terrible situation – all of them – and I am not seeking similar voices in the ether; that’d be stupid.  I am hoping to find the voices that sound nothing like mine.  However, inevitably, in my darkest, most vulnerable moments of sharing someone will tell me I should have known better. 

Yes, thank you.  That was likely the plot of the post that you read: that I absolutely should have known better.

I have been blogging for the better part of a decade now and by anyone’s standards I am seasoned at this.  I don’t react to criticism like I did in 2011 or 2013, likewise nor does praise hit me in quite the same way.  I don’t weigh either more or less than the other.  I will admit that I roll my eyes a lot more, but my sense of self-worth remains the same.

What I find most rewarding in commenters’ thoughts and revelations aren’t what they say about me, but the insights they afford me into them. The kinder words might reveal a hard-fought acceptance of our faulty natures and I’ll feel a softness towards the writer, the critical missives belie the more skeptical outlooks on the universe and deeply felt wounds and I feel empathy and understanding for those folks, and everything else in between illustrates even more variables in each of you that I am in awe to witness.

Over the years I’ve been called nothing short of an attention seeking whore and been lauded as a self-actualized being.  I am probably both and neither, to be honest.  I also suspect I am what you see in the mirror each morning, groggy and puffy from your own illicit or peaceful night in bed.

Lately I find myself in an interesting position to be observing myself writing this blog and maintaining it like a many-leafed plant.  I pluck and pinch things here and there, water it a little, sometimes neglect it.  I’m not entirely sure if it has the same effect on me as it once did, though the idea that at least one person on this planet might feel less alone because there’s another lost soul out there who knows how they’re feeling pulls me back again and again.

I have received many thousands of comments over the years and what I have learned is we all have a TN in our life, we all have regrettable nights and body and self-esteem issues, we all yearn and we all want to belong and to experience love.  I don’t mind if you think I’m an asshole, nor do I necessarily care if you think I’m the best, though of course that is quite nice.  I just like knowing I’m not alone and that there are people who are with me on this journey to self-expression and love and honesty.

I have also learned that we want others to do the things we never did or to avoid the things we wished we had. Many years ago in my About Me – before I could imagine being Hy this long – I wrote:

“Every thought and feeling I have is bared here and you will likely become frustrated with me as I go right when you really want me to go left. But I’m not an avatar. I’m just me.”

I have never lied to you here; you know everything you need to know that will still keep me and my life safe.  The post I wrote the other day was devastatingly hard because I felt like I might be letting you all down – I’d sure as fuck let myself down – but then I remembered that if I hide from you I would essentially be hiding from myself.  In an average day when the sun sets I am filled with loneliness.  There’s no need to set the sun sooner on myself.  And so I opened up and showed you my weak and twisted ugly side and instantly felt lighter and straighter.

It’s the magic of this fucking blog.  It’s why I keep tending to it.  Every single week for seven years.  I might miss a Boobday or not write a post every week or not comment nearly as much as I would like, but I have never not been here.  I am always here.  How could I not be?  Hy is me and I am her and I love that about myself.

I love that I have this rich life that I’m passionate and knowledgeable about.  Friends from around the world whom I genuinely like and trust, a better, more solidly formed sense of self, and a new understanding of our human condition in general.  Of course I also love to craft a story, to weave my words in ways my readers can float away from their own lives and join mine, which leads me to the next great thing about this blog: all of you.

You all, each and every one of you, mean a lot more to this internet stranger than you might realize.  Just like I may touch your lives, you also touch mine.  Even when you point out all my interminable flaws and mistakes.

And let’s be honest.  I also like showing you my tits.

‘Sup?

Thank you for the last incredible seven years, Internet Boyfriend.  It’s officially my longest relationship ever and by far my best one yet.

 

I didn’t mean to write this.

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.

My sweet Peter with Faisal.

Friday, October 5th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

I met with a friend who traveled to the mountains with me in mid September.  We’ve known each other for 20 years and some of our best friends were getting married on a mountain top.  While there with all of them I was near tears all weekend, not just because of the wedding, but because I was with my people.  My people, you understand?  Sort of like my blog people, except clothed.

It was all I could do not to open up to them all all at once, but I stayed my confession.  It really wasn’t the right time.  We were all basking in the love in the air, but last night, sitting across from this old friend getting a sweater I’d left behind in his rental car I was struck that the time was right. And so I did.

And guess what??  The sky didn’t fall.  He didn’t even seem surprised and then began to tell me all the female friends he has who also have double lives on Patreon and how he’s helped with photo shoots and with creative recommendations.

He understood that I was just trying to piece my two sides together and I was vague with the details, but it still felt good to draw them closer.

Then I came home, made a grilled cheese sandwich, watched Frasier and slept in till 10 am.  Woke up, read in bed for two hours then started cooking for the week in my handy dandy Instant Pot.

I’m about to take the dog on a hike along the river before Peter stops by then I’ll be going to a sex-positive event here in town with some peeps I know.  I’ll be home early, curled on my couch with the dog where I will continue to contemplate my navel.

I’m growing tired of the double life, honestly, and I’m running out of things to say here.  I wonder sometimes if it’s time to hang up my Hy hat, but then I think about losing all of you and I think No way, Jose.  Just relax and you’ll get your mojo back, Hy!

Anyway, I’m not going anywhere just yet (I’m totally going to London in March), but I am thinking about giving myself a break.  Setting up Boobday for a month and just going dark to see how I feel sans blog.  Last time I did that A Dissolute Life Means… was born.  Who knows what would come of a break this time around?

Love you guys.

xx,

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:

It’s been a while since I deliberately dressed for a photo.

NOT my tits:

Imagine being beneath Sandy.


I’m here, you just don’t know it.

I’ve got 7 minutes until a meeting, but I’ve been dying to write.  Anything, something.  I’m weeks behind on reading, I’m worrying about friends and their heartaches and triumphs, me missing them because I can’t seem to find the time to plug back in.  I don’t want you to think I don’t care.

All my loves both new and old, know that I am aware of you out there in the ether.  I do see you even if my presence is ghost-like.  A like here and there, a comment, a tweet, a DM.

I hoard all the emails notifying me of your writings so that I don’t fall behind.  I want to be present so badly. You all were my lifeline for so long, but now I am stronger and need this world less and less.  It scares me.  Who am I without all of you?  Without Hy?

But the message I want to share today is that I do see you and hear you.  All of you.  And I love you.

Anyway, it’s time for my meeting now.

 

 

Dodging bullets and finding solace.

Last Friday I was sad about Elliot.  Sad for what could have been, sad that we’d never be special, sad that it had to end.

I texted him my heaviness.

“Today I’m feeling a little sad that the timing of things was bad for us. I really liked what we were doing: all the talking, the hanging out, etc. It was a sweet and fun 4 weeks in the beginning, a real treat. How you doin?”

His response?

“Sorry you’re bummed. I’m OK, doing the back to school thing, getting ready to go out of town for work next week. Making a concerted effort to be in touch with my parents.”

The ol’ “I’m sorry you feel that way” line.  It plunged me a little deeper into my sadness, but then something odd happened: I popped back up like a buoy.  I had dodged a bullet.

During our ill-fated and brief affair he told me repeatedly that he was an “asshole” and that sex wasn’t that important to him.  I couldn’t believe him, outright refused to really, but in the end I had to believe and take action.  I can’t be with someone who is so mired in depression and introversion and finds himself incapable of giving even the littlest glimmer of something.  And I definitely can’t be with someone who considers himself disinterested in sex.  I ignored my exhusband’s claims and that bought me a one-way ticket to sexual misery.

In that same text exchange I clarified our relationship and we agreed we wanted to continue with a friendship and professional association (we have complimentary careers).  Relief washed over me, I saw the lighthouse.

I didn’t think about him again until he texted me Monday morning asking for some advice.  We chatted, got him sorted out, made jokes.  I put my phone down and forgot about him all over again.

Until that night when he texted me again from a remote work destination.

“I’m at a place called Busty Bob’s that has 25¢ oysters. Probably not gonna try those.”  It was a reference to our first date where the oysters gave me food poisoning and I had to cut our date short and it was then he decided he wanted me in his life.

We chatted some, he made more jokes, I replied and then it stopped.

Today he’s crossed my mind and I’ve gone to text him several times, but have stayed my itchy fingers.  Our friendship will unfold however it should, but in the mean time I’m going to turn towards sunshine, not rain.  Like Peter.

Sweet Peter whose aversion to condoms never stopped him from wanting to have a good makeout sesh and make me cum a few times.  We met 3 years ago shortly after things ended with The Neighbor.  He never apologized or felt bad for not being able to fuck me with his dick, he just switched gears and ate at the apex of my thighs like the whistle had blown and finger fucked me to oblivion while making love to my face with his soft, supple mouth.

We liked to hang out in my hot tub or go for a swim.  He bought a pair of swim trunks that have permanent residence on my bathroom hook for whenever he comes over.  “Other friends can wear them, too,” he told me knowing I was a busy woman.  He was always a pleasure to be around.

He’s tall, 6’6″, 10 years younger than me, has dark hair and green almond-shaped eyes.  His body is lithe and pale, his mind quick, and he’s got a hall pass from a begrudging girlfriend who’s my age.

It wasn’t until things with Elliot began to unravel that I threw caution to the wind and on one of our afternoon trysts let him fuck me bareback.   I don’t know why I did that – it just felt right – and the results were miraculous.  He was rock hard and delicious.  He strained to control himself and slowly stroked us both with long pauses and pull outs.

“I don’t want this to end too quickly,” he kept saying.

We rolled around entwined, laughing and kissing during his pauses.  He’d say the kindest things and I would squeeze him and nibble his neck careful not to leave any marks.

He filled me up twice that afternoon and we lay in each other’s arms and I told him all my woes with Elliot.  My heart was breaking over one man and yet I found solace in the arms of another, so tender and kind.

We’ve met nearly every week since that fateful condom-free week.  As the tears fell in my alone time, he filled me up when we were together.  The loss of Elliot made all the more bearable for the tender kisses I got from Peter.

Heartbreak is better spent together.

 

 

 

It went out with a pizza.

Hours into dinner and deep conversation Elliot saw an entry point to go where he needed to go.  “It’s me, not you,” was the gist.  A glimmer of a swell building far off shore shortly after we met had now developed into a giant crashing wave of depression.  He’s drowning.

I went to his house full of curiosity.  I was going to tell him it wasn’t working for me no matter what happened between the two of us, but as the night progressed I was more convinced than ever that ending it was the right thing to do and anything physical was out of the question.

He was pinched and cut off, desperate for the air of solitude and quiet.  I was more than a little impressed that he could muscle through our evening as he did.  Despite my reason for being there, our underlying admiration for each other was strong and we easily talked and laughed for hours over the handmade pizza he’d cooked just for me.

I said all that I needed.  The important things I never get the opportunity to usually say and I got closure, something I never ever get.  He’s a brilliant, but tortured man, and I don’t want to be collateral damage.  I want a man who can handle life’s curve balls with aplomb and a positive attitude.

Perhaps had we been dating for more than a mere 4 weeks when this wave hit us I would find a way of working through it with him – perhaps he’d have wanted me to – but it was too soon and we both knew I didn’t owe him anything while he suffered alone in the dark questioning his ever even being open in the future again and wondering when he’d ever feel normal again.

I’m grateful to have met him and to have experienced what it feels like to melt into someone, to breathe his breath and feel so safe in it.  It was fleeting – a mere blip on the radar – but my hope is that this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.  Only time will tell if our tide will ever be high again.

I panicked.

Well that was embarrassing.

At first I was overly confident and then I was its exact opposite: panicked, frothing and lost.  Super hot mess coming in even hotter!

I thought I had it in me to look at the bigger picture, to remain calm, and to be reasonable.  What I didn’t take into account is the depth of my emotional trauma from my relationships and dating.

Elliot should have let me know he was taking a break from his phone for a day or two to reconnect with his family and distancing from his phone in general, but I should also have done a better job of recognizing the fear hissing in my ear and not let it wrap its ugly tendrils around me.  I let all the beautiful words he said get drowned out by that hiss.

We’ve gotten back on track – I think – and what I’ve learned is that as insightful as I am into myself, I am completely overwhelmed by a cacophony of negative voices when it comes to processing things that involve my needs, and then I unravel.  Quickly.

I didn’t expect to need something from him after meeting Eleanor and what that meant: needing to see him and hear from him with the same regularity and intensity as before.  Not getting it shook me hard.

A person with a healthier sense of attachment and dating history than me might have been able to coolly move on and wait it out, trust everything she’d heard from a man who has done nothing overt to disprove that trust, and also never reveal her insecurities in the process.  Ah, to be that person. 

It is not hyperbole when I say it felt like I was getting dumped.  That’s how awful it felt to me.

I have suffered for years at the hands of callous, selfish men and my own really bad decisions. I read old posts about The Neighbor and me and I weep at my desperate longing and his cruel rejections.  But my issues with people are so old that I can think back to high school situations where I gave my heart away to people who never deserved it and then suffered the predictable consequences.

I have never learned how to trust someone.  What’s the process there??  Currently it’s a hodge podge of leaps of faith and will power mixed in with a rather low bar to pass.  Elliot has surpassed my bar, but does that mean he’s actually trustworthy?  Can you trust someone after only a few weeks?  It seems reasonable in the moment, but saying the words out loud sounds rather ridiculous.  Though, innocent until proven guilty, right??

The truth is I often don’t feel like I trust anyone and it’s humbling to me that after all these years I could feel that way.  What have I been doing with my life if not creating a network of people I can trust??  I suppose I trust some people a little…

I won’t beat myself up for my feelings since those are completely out of my control.  Instead I will point to them as illustration of my complexes, lo complexities, and insecurities.  I am so mistrusting that when there is a change in cadence and intensity in communication and interaction I completely fall apart.   The sky is falling, they have discovered I am an unworthy person!  I have fucked up!  This can be true in friendships as well.

I desperately try to find the thing that I did to ruin it followed quickly by ascertaining that I very likely didn’t do anything “wrong,” but perhaps they have legitimately hurt me and that’s what I’m experiencing.  The process to determine that is murky at best: when do I have the right to feel mad/hurt/offended/sad/frustrated?  As far as I’ve been told my entire life the answer would be never.

So when I conclude that my feelings are in fact legitimate what do I do then?  I have absolutely no fucking idea.  So I panic.

Do I say something?  Do I hide it and pretend I didn’t care?  Neither of those ever really work and so I perpetually feel painted in a corner where I am not allowed to say, Hey!  That hurt me!  Be gentle!  Do something different, please!  Kthanksbye!

With Elliot I hope to explore those kinds of feelings and that includes possibly sharing them even when they’re spastic and reactionary.  He will either accept me while I experiment  and learn how to moderate them (and perhaps be a part of my education) or he won’t.  That’s entirely up to him.

As far as he was concerned, the past two weeks have been perfectly fine.  He was getting sick then got sick, felt pulled in six different ways, was recharging his introvert battery and giving me space to spend time with out-of-town family.

Meanwhile I was gasping for air, flailing around like a complete lunatic, seeing distance due to a change of heart, panicking because I had needs (OMG NEEDS), and generally working myself into a complete and total hissy fit.

You ever see that His and Her Diary of the Same Day meme?  Yeah…

I’m a little humiliated for revealing my underbelly like I did.  I’m hopeful that I got my mini meltdown out of my system for the time being so I may press on and be my normal, charming, easy-going self.  I’m on a steep learning curve here, high EQ or not.  I have not had a romantic relationship in my entire life where I could fully trust someone in a deserved way.

The next time I feel the hot hiss of fear in my ear I’m going to take a big girl breath of air, exhale slowly and calmly, and let it pass right over me and wait for something to actually happen instead of inventing it.  Maybe that’s the first step to trusting someone: just letting things unfold.

 

 

They don’t say beautiful things.

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.  The birds weren’t chirping, they were harassing…. and there was no text from him.

It’s now nearly 4:30 pm on Friday afternoon and by 6:30 it will have been 24-hours since I heard from Elliot.  He said he called in sick to work yesterday, politely answered my texts as he has been for a week, and then he went radio silent after responding to a funny text.

At 10 I texted goodnight and that I hoped he’d feel better.

Nothing.

I’ve been here before.  Not often, but on occasion and with some regularity.  A man shows intense, overwhelming, convincing interest prior to me giving them something they want.  When I give it, he loses interest and I am left with my dick in my hand.  This time was different, though.  He said beautiful things to me.  He didn’t want just my body, he wanted me to open up and be available.

Spreading my legs and moving on would have been easier.

Peyton and I have had a shitty day together, too – I wasn’t the only one who should’ve stayed under the covers – and as we battled over what activity to do today I had to fight tears: why doesn’t anyone want to do anything with me??  Completely irrational, I know, but I feel so. fucking. alone. right now.

My baby is a child and has no responsibility in this obviously, but the fact that I couldn’t convince a kid that playing in the water with me was fun was a sad likeness to my life in general: Basically that I can’t convince anyone I’m worth their time or effort.

I’ve been weepy.  This feels like I’m getting dumped.

You may be thinking I’m bat shit crazy.  Well, yeah.  I am terrified and confused and I don’t know which end is up.  Welcome to the jungle, my friends.  A place where I have zero chill and to trust is akin to peeling off my skin and standing in a breeze and I. fucking. hate. it.

This is so fucking stupid.

Anyone in years and decades long relationships will probably think I’m goddamned nuts.  “Hy, it’s only been 8 weeks!”  Yeah, well, for a lot of those weeks he said the most beautiful things to me and no one ever says beautiful things to me.  They fuck me and they praise me, but they don’t say beautiful things.

I’m learning that beautiful things are the most dangerous.

What goes up must come down.

I am not good at relationships.

That’s all I can think about as I feel mildly despondent and frustrated since hanging out with Elliot and his wife a few days ago.

We drank bubbly and ate truffled cheeses with crackers, laughed and talked for hours – well beyond what I thought was an appropriate time – and by all accounts had a truly lovely time.

I arrived a little late with a bottle of Moët and a nervous smile.  He answered the door – tall as a damn tree – and gave me a quick hug hello.  Eleanor greeted me from across the room. 

We hugged hello and I looked around for a place to sit.  Elliot sat back down in an oversized arm-chair next to the Cubs game that was on mute and Eleanor sat in hers that was diagonal from his 15 feet away.  I was left to the giant U-shaped sectional.  

And so we sat in our 3 spots spaced out across their little family room listening to New England bands with the game on laughing and drinking and generally being merry.  It was odd seeing Elliot so close and yet so far.  I joked about being all alone on the couch, but neither one moved any closer.

I knew going in that it would be chaste, like hanging out with any regular couple I wasn’t sexually or emotionally involved with, but I wasn’t quite prepared for the surreal nature of it.

Eleanor was charming and vivacious, her wit quicker than most and her laugh easy.  Elliot crackled with charm himself and I longed for some hidden message from him about what I don’t know.

I placated myself with a little fantasy that the twinkle in his eye was for me, but who knows.  Perhaps he was just tired.  He’d worked overtime at least two days in a row and was coming off a 15 hour day.  Maybe his eyes were just glazing over.

When he said with a laugh it was 1 am I jumped up, startled.  “What?!  Oh my God, I’m so sorry!  I thought it was 11!”  I felt horrible that I may have overstayed my welcome.  He got me some water for the road and I hugged first Eleanor then him goodbye.  He walked me to the door, but no further.

I felt something about that.

Half way home he texted to tell me to let him know when I got home.  By the time I did he was fast asleep.  I also texted Eleanor my pleasure in meeting her.

The next morning I awoke feeling taut.  Well that was a big fucking deal, I thought.

When was the last time I met anyone of any kind of substance connected to someone I was dating?  The Neighbor hid me for years and I railed against it.  And there’s been no one else past a shitty third date, so when Elliot wanted this meeting to happen and that made me feel special and shiny.

And then… I didn’t so much.

Eleanor texted at 7 am with a bright smiley emoji and an exclamation point, but nothing from Elliot.

At 9:15 I checked in, asked if he was up.  His reply was groggy, energy-less.  “Yeah, what’s up?”  Ummm.

I asked how last night had gone for him and shared that it’d been odd to be so far away from him all night and I was curious about his thoughts in general.  After a 30 minute delay he replied, “It was good.  We had a nice time, everything was cool.”

I had a half-day training that started at 1 pm and at 9:45 in the morning I helplessly watched the wind slowly leave my sails.  My heart sagged.

I texted again.  I was glad they’d had a good time but I was hoping for more feedback:

“Did I do a good job?  Was I an overly talkative asshole??  Was it no big deal for you to sit 6ft away all night bc it was weird for me.  I need to talk about it more.  I’m having a met-your-wife-for-the-first-time-last-night reaction.”

It was painful to be so honest about my feelings.  Normally I hide and pretend I’m the Cool Girl – God forbid I have needs that exceed what I have been given – but I didn’t want to do that with Elliot.  As he has told me repeatedly, I just need to be myself.

He assured me that I hadn’t done anything wrong, that there was no wrong, and that neither he nor Eleanor had felt weird about the evening.  He was gardening while he texted.  “I’m gonna think on it & try to come up with something profound and astute while I’m taming these tomatoes.”

By 12 I had stuffed tears back into my face as I prepared for my afternoon no less than 3 times.  I felt unmoored, lost, blind.  I had not gotten what I apparently needed from him: a proverbial bear hug.  All I had gotten was a little pat on the back.

I put on my big girl pants and told him I was feeling a little hung out to dry about it all and could we talk after my training.  I held my breath before I hit “send.”

He replied right away and assured me again that there was no big debriefing about me, “Eleanor likes you, she thinks you’re cool, she had a good time. I like you, I like hanging out with you, I think you’re smart & fun & interesting & a kind, thoughtful person. There’s no “but.” It’s only been hours since you were over here, and nothing has changed since yesterday morning. I am personally at the end of my energy at the end of this week & need to recharge. And you know all this stuff, you’re a smart communicator and have a high EQ!”

It wasn’t a bear hug, but it was better.  Much better.

I felt relief flood through me and embarrassment that I needed more than what he’d given me originally, then chagrin that I would be embarrassed at my needs in the first place.  Back to relief, then confusion and irritation – why wouldn’t I need more, that was hard!  Round again to more relief.

It was exhausting.

Now I have feelings, he has feelings.  Everything’s all complicated because: feelings.  On top of that I’m an external processor (clearly) and he is an internal one (obvs), extrovert/introvert problems coupled with an insecure attachment style (mine) and possibly and avoidant one of his.

I am a fucking basket case fighting to stay afloat in choppy waters.

Saturday I turned down his invitation to Sunday brunch at his house; it would have been too much for me to be there with their two dozen friends.  He graciously accepted and acknowledge that he’d worried it might have been too soon and overwhelming for me.  All I could think of is if I’d had that bear hug the morning after I may have been able to handle that brunch, but now my confidence was brittle.

This new need for more feels like a burr in my sock, a pain in my ass.

I need more words, more assurance, more something.

I have convinced myself that his feelings have changed for me because he doesn’t seem bothered that it could be weeks before we see each other due to my custody schedule.  And it seems like we’ve spoken much less and the quality of our conversations have changed since meeting Eleanor.  I also feel bat shit crazy because reasons.  Also: I’m crazy.  (See above.)

Besides being emotionally whooped at the end of a brutal week and not being effusive with his support right off the bat he hasn’t done a fucking thing wrong.  I am unbraiding all by myself. Last I checked neither of us were mind readers.

I think I could dismantle anything that’s even remotely working and this is why I believe I am royally awful at relationships, why I feel so wrung out right now.

I’ve spent two decades on a therapist’s couch and I am no closer to relaxing with another human being than I was when I was a little girl and my parents’ love came with changing rules and strict conditions to not need anything different from what they were prepared to give.  It still haunts me today.

At least I recognize my own stark raving fears now whereas as a young woman at 20, 30 years old I had no idea how deep my fear of rejection went, how white-hot its influence.  I am struggling to decipher if what I feel is real or imagined, but I am also clinging to what he’s told me: he likes me, he thinks I’m great, he wants me to be in his life.  I’m attempting to do something brand spanking knew: trust.

So I close my eyes and I remember his endless limbs wrapped around me in the candlelight and his lips on mine, and I think how could I not believe every velvety word he whispers?  Every silken sigh?  Maybe he knows what he’s doing with all of this and I should follow where he leads me even if the path isn’t as brightly lit as I’d like.

So what if I’m bad at relationships?  Maybe he’s not.

 

 

I’m so confused.

Elliot is a long list of things.  Miles of arms and legs and words and mysteries.  Endless lines of communication and jokes and texts.  Long stretches of deep, soft kisses and fingers in holes with toasted brown eyes and endless gazes.

He also claims to not be sexually motivated.

“Sex isn’t my driving force,” he has said on multiple occasions.  And then I twitch.

My exhusband once told me he could live the rest of his life without sex.  I didn’t believe him and I ended up strapped down into a world of loneliness and neglect.  Should I believe Elliot’s claims about himself when I feel so engulfed in all of him?

He is amorous and loving, sweet and sexy, but I wouldn’t call the energy potent or pressing.  It’s gentle and fog-like, achingly tender.  In the moment it’s white hot, but any time before – during the long days apart – it’s chaste.  My bids to flirt and get dirty are largely ignored.  He claims to have felt less of an urge in general over the years and he shrugged it off as no big deal.  I’m not sure what it means for a relationship with him.

Could this be part of why they opened up all those years ago?  That there was a mismatch between drives and styles?  Perhaps they needed different intensities from their lovers.  There’s so much I don’t quite understand.  And tomorrow I meet his other half.

Perhaps the pieces will fall together when I see her and hug her hello, lay my eyes on her chestnut locks and quirky frames.  They’ve invited me to their house for snacks and booze, their little one will be around in some capacity I imagine, but perhaps my access will be post-bedtime.  I don’t know.

I ordered him a t-shirt with floating Scully and Mulder heads on it – I must be falling for him; I used to buy The Neighbor shirts, my exhusband, too.  Can I fall for another woman’s husband whose libido is by his own admission not a big part of his life?  And is that even true?  Is it not??  I’m so confused.

I want to swim in a sea of passion with him, deep as the ocean, as expansive of the sky and all his long limbs.  I don’t want to wade in knee-deep waters, but perhaps that’s the unique benefit of an open relationship.  Perhaps Elliot will capture and have my heart and I will be left to search for that furor with someone else.  Someone elses.

I reread some posts tonight about TN and me from January and March of 2013.  We were so overwhelmed by our lust for one another.  He played my body like a fiddle and he was always ready for me, hungry for more.  Of course he also rejected me with equal measure.  Elliot invites me closer, to open up, to trust.  My head is spinning.

And did I mention that I’m meeting his wife?

WTF.

I think there is a silent hope among them that I might fit into their marriage, too.  Not just for him, but for her, too.  Could she woo me as he has?  Would I find myself lost in her soft embrace with his lips on my neck?  Their hands all over me?  Does a man with a lower libido fantasize about such things??  Could I date a couple?

Each question I have raises more questions, nesting eggs of curiosity and uncertainty, when all I really want is to be wrapped up in his long arms tracing the lines of his beautiful face with my fingertips and time standing still with him inside of all of me.