I got an extra belt.

I noticed his belt on my dresser this afternoon, coiled like a snake.  Dark brown, almost black, smooth and well-made.  Its low-key fanciness surprised me.

I pulled it through my fingers and watched its shine bend and flex with my hands and smiled.  It was a nice meaty weight.

I’ll think of him, he who couldn’t be bothered to text me after sex, when I wrap it around the throat of my next sublime and willing lover.  If he ever calls to get it back I’ll tell him the dog ate it.

Eat your heart out, asshole.

February Photofest

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.

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.

Seeing if anything is left.

I have to make this quick because I’m headed to Elliot’s for the first time since meeting his wife.  This will only be the second time I’ve seen him since then.  Exactly a week ago I was ready to end it because I don’t want to be in a relationship with someone who pushes me away and shuts down when shit hits the fan, but I couldn’t get him to call me to do it.  The irony.

This weekend, I feel less like ending it, though, and more like just accepting it for what it is: a very pale smear to the bright and vivid thing I believed it to be.  Besides, I haven’t been lacking in male companionship, so what does it matter?

Peter filled me up 14 ways to Tuesday the afternoon before I met Eleanor.  Our trysts have been filled with passion and cuddles and his long limbs entwined with my mine.  And last night a stunning young man whose dark skin burned against mine drove several hours just to come see me.  He filled up all my holes with his giant cock and made sure I could see what was happening between us contorting my body in ways I didn’t know it could bend while he drilled into me.

I lay in his nook and he played with my hair and we laughed at how when the drugstore clerk automatically asked me how my night was going he didn’t realize he was ringing up a box of extra extra large Magnum condoms.

“Well…” I hesitated.  It was then he saw what was in his hands and he laughed out loud.

“Sorry,” he smiled mirthfully.  “I tried to keep a straight face.”

“It’s ok and my night is going really well!”

I slept fitfully in his hotel room and only just now grabbed a short nap.  I can still feel the effects of our date – both on the toilet and in my alertness – but Elliot surprised me with a text around 3 pm asking me over for pizza and gelato.

He’s alone tonight and so off I go to see what’s left between us.  The only other time I’ve seen him was a chaste and disappointing breakfast a week after the meet and greet with his lovely wife.  I don’t think you serve gelato to someone you’re about to dump, so I’m curious to hear what he has to say.

Wish me luck.

 

 

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.