Clarity.

My sister sent 2/3 of her kids out to stay with me and my folks last minute yesterday. I was in the middle of the beginning of a posh meal with an old friend and ex-lover, Zed, when my step dad asked what time I was coming over.

I side stepped my assholery and killed two birds with one stone: I’d be there around 8, and no, that meant I couldn’t hang out and “play,” Zed.

I have zero interest in ol’ Zed which fascinates me because we’re legitimately friends. Isn’t that the type of man I should go for??

He was the best friend of a graduate college friend and once I’d chewed him up, I moved on to Zed.

We hit it off with our appetites for food and cocktails and penchant for long, dark nights out on the town. I was 36 at the time, or 100 years younger than I am now if you want to know the truth.

I thought he was a fantastic kisser, but our bedroom chemistry fell flat. He tried to be cute with criticisms about my “performance” and not surprisingly, I wasn’t amused. I was also hungry for giant cock at the time and Zed was just a normal human male.

I got the sense not long after that he had caught feelings for me, but I was on the war path and couldn’t be bothered. Then one night while playing with my Book of Questions with me and The Neighbor, Zed had some allergic reaction to one of my answers and stuck his steel-toed boot in my face and derided me menacingly for what felt like an eternity.

He also wasn’t good with Peyton, falling back on an old school “I am the adult, hear me roar and kowtow to me!” sort of mentality with a fucking sweet little 4 year old. Uh… NO.

I chalked it up to his PTSD from multiple tours in the Middle Wast, but that essentially ended my sharing my time with him in any capacity for some years until we crossed paths on a dating app in 2016.

He’d calmed down, softened, been through more shit. He’d missed me he said. I agreed to see his new house and go to dinner with him.

The night was decadent and hedonistic, though also completely sexless. I was irritated with him the majority of the night and felt like I was putting up with him as I danced just out of arm’s reach. Last night was no different when he made it very clear that he’d like to date me or at least fuck me.

“My physical needs are met,” I said frankly. “Plus, I think I may just be done looking for more than that anyway. It’s too hard, my bar is too high, and I need to focus on other things, anyway.”

He made an ill-timed joke about the “coincidence” of me reestablishing contact. Which I hadn’t – it was another internet crossing, but whatever. Peyton is gone for two weeks and I’m sick of Mens, so I took him up on an offer to see each other.

I’ve been thinking about it pretty much non-stop – this idea of “giving up.”

I had yet another boring, go-nowhere date on Tuesday and when I saw a lone man sitting in the bar my first thought was OH NO. Never a good sign. What’s it called when you feel absolutely nothing for another human being? Apathy?

I just looked at him and couldn’t imagine him giving me half as much pleasure as The Golfer gives me. Also, his five o’clock shadow reminded me a little of my father at his age, just before he died. Also never a good sign.

If things between me and The Golfer stay the same then I can expect to have the best sex of my life 1-3x a month. I’d rather have it 3x a week, to be sure, but I wouldn’t be sexless and I could focus on other things. Like moving and working up the ladder at work and organizing my sock drawers and blogging more.

He’d be a known and familiar quantity in my life; I could just relax a little.

And Peter has to go. He just has to.

For more than three years I have been a willing side piece gobbling up whatever stolen moments and scraps of him I could get and since he’s met One-Month-Girl I have been relegated right back to that role without ever getting the chance to grow tired of him from a marathon weekend together or even a motherfucking sleepover.

His recent illness has put an even finer point on it: despite me being his destination when he was struck down, I was probably the last person to learn of his condition and status and was left completely in the dark overnight and stood up. Again.

He apologized in a drugged haze and I struggled to think of what to do about feeling so cast aside and disrespected; this isn’t a text conversation and I also felt badly for him. He has no insurance and spent the night in the ER.

I decided to focus on him first and offered to have food delivered when he was up for it, and yesterday he called in the favor. I even remembered his ex-girlfriend – who’s nursing him back to health – is a vegetarian and a picky eater so got her Pad Thai with tofu as a way of apologizing for my intrusion.

He was grateful and called me baby and sweet and kind and caring and said he felt almost cured since the beef pho I’d ordered for him. He passed on her thanks.

You’re very welcome. I can imagine how stressed out you are by all of this and I wanted to help somehow. I doubt you’ll take me up on my offer stay with me (One-Month-Girl wouldn’t like that lol but it’s still there), but I can at least feed you, so feed you I will 🙂

He never denied that OMG was his ultimate destination once he’s well enough to leave his apartment with the ex-girlfriend in it, which confirmed how far from the top I am in his mind. It sticks in my craw like a lump of ice, cold and painful, but my righteous anger is swiftly melting it. Fuck. That. Shit, man. Fuck that shit.

I am fully done inviting people to stay in my life who treat me like a faithful dog, ever ready to forgive and always searching for a pat on the head no matter what the fuck they’ve done to me. That goes for everyone, not just men.

Clarity will be my word for the back half of 2019. Clarity to protect myself and clarity to be patient, but most of all, clarity to be real and bold and stronger than ever. No one needs boundaries more than I do and it’s gonna be tough.

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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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We’re all just here to hurt one another.

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:

View this post on Instagram

 

I have such a crush on this guy. He repeatedly shows me how big his heart is and that it’s the little things that make up the best part of a relationship. After replacing my license plate covers at 5:30 in the morning because I forgot to the night before a road trip, and then setting out a beer in ice for when I returned from said road trip after being stuck for HOURS without snacks and a bathroom break (and not letting me enter till I had a few sips to relax), I’m reminded how lucky I am to have him as my sidekick through this life. He constantly makes me want to be a better version of myself and to continue to grow in love, patience and kindness ❤️ now I just gotta find some creative ways to repay him 😉

A post shared by Becca Kufrin (@bkoof) on

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…

 

 

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I’m invisible.

When it’s quiet, it’s a roar.

Stillness doesn’t suit me, yet I’m certain it fits like a glove.

Goddamn I wish someone loved me – even a little.

I keep seeing men from my past who swore they weren’t interested in a girlfriend Now, with girlfriend!

I am like a stinky cheese.

I sound decadent, but when I’m on the palate once is enough.

I suspect Peter is with his lady friend as I haven’t heard from him all day.

The Golfer is likely busy wooing some other woman he’ll probably make plans with 5 days in advance without bitching about it.

Or making love to a bottle and some Titleists.

It’s so quiet I can’t hear.

I can’t breathe the suit is too tight.

I am so completely invisible to the men I am in front of.

I don’t exist.

Hy, Hy, Hy.

Why can they not see me?!

I must just be too quiet.

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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 survived a very long, boring day.

I woke up before dawn and took Peyton to a swim meet.  I ran around for a few hours and hit my 5000 steps by 11 am.  And then it was over and my ex took my baby back home to his house and I was left to my own devices.

I ran errands, got stuck in that weird Target shut down (which saved me $150, actually, so thank you, Target!), and window-shopped for hours on my phone like my life depended on it.  I sorted through important life documents, did a few chores around the house, loved on the dog.

And I was thoroughly, completely bored.  I mean, so bored.

But, I managed to not do a few things, too.

I didn’t prowl for men, I didn’t hit up men I already know, and I didn’t mindlessly eat or drink.

So while I was devastatingly bored, I was also busy.

Busy sitting with my discomfort, busy trying to manage my need to be around people, busy getting organized.  Basically, I was busy making better choices for myself for a change.

And it’s 11:53 and I’m going to post just under the wire and day dream about London and about being like the couple I saw come home an hour ago from my perch on my balcony.  She ran up behind him and wrapped her arms around him and he turned into her and kissed her even as they kept walking to their apartment.  The cicadas seemed to chirp with delight at the little show of affection.

I haven’t felt that kind of abandon with someone in years, the freedom to show that kind of fairy-dust-affection and guilelessness.  Maybe soon…

Shit, it’s 11:56.  Better hustle!

It’s been a minute.

 

Sinful Sunday

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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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A quiet night.

It’s only Wednesday and I’m exhausted.

I’m meeting a married man at 8 am for coffee.

I have no plans this weekend. With anyone.

The Vet texted me this morning and we had another inane, short chat.

I’m still angry at the 20 lbs I’ve gained since 2015. Wtf.

Im sipping white wine and watching the third season of Black Mirror and am terrified.

I wish I was obsessed with something that hid me from the rest of the world. Like golf.

The pic from Saturday night that never saw the light of day.

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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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