For the first time since November of 2010 I don’t have a single person to send a nude to. For real. Nada, no one, zilch. Why? Because no one deserves one, frankly.
I’m trying to keep a stiff upper lip (and resolve) about the men in my life. I just keep hearing what I posted yesterday in my mind, “I can only make everyone else’s life so easy before I just call myself a doormat with a pussy,” and it’s keeping me from doing the thing I always do, which is to wait long enough until I’m efficiently inoculated to the terrible behavior I’ve suffered at their hands and reach out.
I do it with men, I do it with my family, I do it with friends. I do all the labor, all the time.
That’s not to say I’m perfect – far from it – but I show up and I follow through without fail every time and with every one. I’m also sweet, apologetic, and admit fault immediately if there is any at my feet. My biggest fear is that if my requirement for someone to get in my pants – or my life – is to actually be present and weather their own terrible behaviors like I do mine, then I may be alone forever.
Then again, “Doormat with a pussy.” Ugh.
I may be the most enlightened, hard up and lonely I’ve ever been in my life. I want to cry, call everyone up and apologize and make plans and fuck fuck fuck like it was my last day on earth, epiphany be damned!!
But I won’t.
I don’t think I can and while that’s exciting on the one hand (yay, growth!), it’s totally terrifying on the other (boo, scary unknown!).
In the meantime, please send noodz; this attention whore needs as many friends as she can get.
Ahhhhhh, March! In 13 days I’ll board a plane and cross the Pond and land in my fairy tale land, London Town. Ten days later I’ll board another plane, cross back over the Pond and cry my eyes out as I return to real life.
It would also appear that my time doing February Photo Fest got me back in fine blogging form seeing as I had this post at middle midnight!
Let the countdown begin to the best part of my year!
She doesn’t know why no one wants to date me. Four men in my whole life have ever wanted to and obviously none of those were the best fit. Hundreds have wanted to fuck me, though. They’re lining up practically.
“If they actually knew you, Hy, they’d want to! Not that they’d know you like I do, but…” her voice trailed off. “But you are so sexy and so big. I don’t think most men can handle it.”
Her little blue eyes sparkled at me surrounded by wrinkles.
“Everyone wants to date Hy,” I said, “and that’s the real me. I just don’t know how to get anyone to get to know me in real life.
“I don’t have any opportunities. Work isn’t an option and when I don’t have Pey I work long hours. All I have is online – like everyone else – but how can anyone know me in one date or in 4 weeks? It’s all set up for me to be meaningless to them.
“Look at Early Afternoon Lunch Guy. There’s a reason I didn’t program him in to my phone. What’s the fucking point??”
I began to tear up when I told her I’d programmed my Saturday night lay into my phone. The Golfer. His real name is almost a “Chad.”
We’ve been sexting a little. An auspicious start to nothing, I’m sure. Nothing says “future relationship,” like, “I want your cumm [sic].”
The man from Saturday, The Golfer, has been flirting with me and I honestly can’t figure out why.
In the harsh Tuesday morning light I look at myself and don’t see much worth physically desiring. He was drunk, that’s how he ended up in my bed, otherwise why would a gorgeous 35 year old man want my middle aged and rapidly sagging-where-it-never-used-to-sag ass?
It’s not the right time of the month for me to be feeling this way – I can’t quite make sense of it – except that I must still have an emotional hangover from that night.
He came and sat with Tina and me already drunk, but massively charming nonetheless. I watched her drape herself all over him and flirt like she was drowning, but I sat in between them and seemed to inadvertently block any real foreplay between the two of them.
He was there for something, but he wouldn’t quite come out with it. Then he told us he’d hit a major professional milestone, a jackpot, if you will. I heard him say “multi-millionaire.”
Tina, lover of millionaires that she is, perked up and convinced him to order the most expensive bottle of bubbles on the menu then left to go to the restroom. Now just the two of us, I inquired further about the moment for him.
“I’m gonna get sad for a minute,” he said with his head in his hands, “then I’ll be ok.”
I rubbed his back a little and told him it was alright, not entirely sure what he was about to say and not wanting to get overly invested in a drunk stranger’s drama.
“I mean no offense, but today is a really big day for me and I’m spending it with two women I don’t know.”
His friends, nearly as drunk as him, had tried to pry him away to go home earlier, but he’d refused. “I never leave the house, I don’t date, I’m totally alone and I had no one to share this with. Not really. I just tagged along with them, crashed their date.” I kept rubbing his back.
“I know how that feels,” I replied. “Take a deep breath and just enjoy tonight. It’s how I do it.”
Tina returned with her signature bad attitude and the moment was over. We were at a swanky hotel, after all, drinking Veuve Cliquot. The tears would have to wait.
That’s not a normal convo to have with a random drunk dude.
Maybe that’s why I went ahead and programmed his name in my phone, for the simple fact that I’m sad, too. I’m sad that I’m alone and drifting, bouncing from hookup to hookup like a skipped rock on the Lake O’ Many Mens.
I haven’t programmed a name in so long I barely remember the last time. It must have been Elliot, and before that Luke? God, I don’t even know. Both men who for whatever reasons didn’t want to be with me in the end.
As TG and I fucked each other senseless in the soulless black of my room it seemed we both held on for dear life. I wept from the sheer force of pleasure coursing through my body and he acted high on the perfume of my ejaculate and cries.
He flipped me over and licked my asshole and bit my cheeks, he pounded my pussy with his cock and his hands and buried his face between my legs like a starving man with a mouth made of the softest petals.
And then he texted the next day and tried to convince me to come over so we could do it all again. Not only was I hungover and recovering emotionally, but I felt embarrassed. Would he even want me in the light of day? Is it even worth my time even if he did?
He’s tried to get me to come over each night since. He’s funny, awkward, viciously self deprecating, and from what he said at the hotel, hates his mother.
It might appear that he’s one to avoid without question, yet his name is in my phone all the same because I’m sad, too, and for just a minute I’d also like to pretend that someone cares I exist.
I’m so proud of myself for getting this one posted BEFORE Friday! I feel like a grown up meme owner/runner/whatever! Woohoo!
Thanks as always for bearing with me to all of you who rise hours and hours ahead of me and sometimes have to wait 20 hours before a link is available to you. You are all the very very best and I appreciate your kindness and your continued support and participation!
I’m watching Season 4 of the Great British Baking Show (not sure how I managed to skip that one!). It’s by far the best thing ever made for TV, I’ll tell you that much. I’m watching them sculpt “plaited bread showstoppers” at the moment. Fucking brilliant.
Also, in less than a month I will be in London for Eroticon! OMG, I’m so excited! I can’t wait to see everyone! All the hugs and kisses and loveliness.