I am not an object.

One of the biggest hurdles in my search for a submissive partner is that I am ultimately a non-person to him.  I am a means to an end to fulfill his fantasy of being dominated.  My personhood is irrelevant; I just need to be willing and able and breathing and he’s good to go.

What I need out of the dynamic isn’t of interest to him, he assumes that what he gets off on I am the natural compliment to it.  He’s into CFNM¹?  Then I must love it, too.  He likes to be choked?  Then I must be looking for every opportunity to grab his throat.  He wants to be powerless?  Then I love making every decision.  He is a kamikaze fly looking for any web he can find.

He feels such freedom from the pressures of performance that it is lost on him that now I am pressured to perform for him.  It’s exhausting and bossy and narrow minded and it turns me right the fuck off.  It makes me pissy and resentful and is typically how most first emails go.

cruelty is kindness Greetings for the day goddess the slave kneels with its head bowed down and looking to serve and suffer for u. Wish u don’t mind in making the slave suffer. It knows nothing comes for free and it is not a freebie and won’t waste ur time goddess. wish to be owned and onctolled [sic] like a tpe [sic] slave online

Hello Miss, how are you doing? Please don’t hesitate to humiliate and punish me for my tiny cock/

Hi Miss, are you interested in training an online sub from the Netherlands to follow your instructions and complete tasks to amuse you?/p – slave jack/p

good evening from Germany may this tall slave serve you well? with all my respects paul

Everyone wants something from a Domme.  It’s basically novel to approach her as if she were an actual woman, and my profiles are all very specific and have a small task buried in the text to weed out those who’d otherwise ignore my wishes.  I tell everyone exactly how to treat me.  If he doesn’t do it, I don’t respond.  And yet…

I also am very clear on not calling me an honorific, but since these men aren’t here for me they do what they like because, after all, it’s actually all about them.  They love the idea of being submissive and calling a strange, attractive woman Ma’am or Mistress, or Miss.  What do you think happens to me?  Yep: I get turned the fuck off.

My web is set, it’s beautiful and sparkles, but dandelions and leaves keep blowing onto the threads.

Looking back on our dynamic I realize now that The Neighbor was an alpha type who liked to get me to dominate him on occasion. When I bossed him around and tied up his raging erections and took his sight away with a sash, it was always on his terms.  He was ultimately in control of when we got to play that way, not me.  His game, his rules.  I was just a rube along for the ride with her heart on her sleeve.

Today I am not interested in being used like that.  I want my needs as a Domme to be equal to those of my submissive.  If I want him to undress in front of me it will be because I feel like being fucked, but can’t be bothered to undress all the way.  If I want to throttle my hot and heaving lover as I impale myself on him, then that is my prerogative and he will be thrilled to feel my fingers wrap around his neck.  If I know what I’d like to do, then I will share it.  But none of those things should happen unless they come to me naturally and in my own time.

I am not a puppet for his pleasure any more than he is mine.  We are a team, yin and yang, night and day.  We cannot truly shine without the other.

What I am distressed to find again and again are men whose own desires for sexual domination far over shadow their need to be my kind of submissive.

My experience on Friday left me feeling largely invisible.  I know he enjoyed himself – he was in suckling, choking, little bitch heaven – but I never got to my happy femdomme place.  I was being directed every step of the way on how to make him feel submissive.  I was not encouraged — or allowed — to dominate him in my own way.

It’s the difference between instructing someone on how to make your favorite meal and enjoying a delicious meal of their own choosing cooked for you by a talented chef.

But I’m thinking that it was a first date and I wasn’t planning on being intimate — it just happened — and maybe it’d be better for me in a different setting and maybe he’ll be different and we’ll be different and and and…

Hy:
I have a little fantasy that you come over before you leave and I can really experiment with our chemistry in the comfort of my own bedroom with all the things I love
Him:
When would that happen
I could come to your office for a lunch exam² tomorrow
What would you do to me in your bedroom?
Hy:
In my fantasy? Kinda late on Monday, like 10 or something. I have a brutally long day and in that fantasy is my need for releasing on someone. But it’s a fantasy. This isn’t some backhanded way of me asking you. I’m not actually sure I’d have it in me…
I am so slammed tomorrow. If we met midday, which I would enjoy regardless of what we do, I’d want you to fuck me and make me cum. You’d have a job to do. I wouldn’t overtly top you other than having you come to take care of me lol
Him:
I think I understand you
I might be able to do that
Hy:
I have a break at 3
Him:
Could maybe do 3pm
I have a fantasy of you making me get undressed in front of you while you are clothed
Also having you grab me by the throat, push me against the wall, grabbing me by the balls with your other hand and asking who they belong to wouldn’t suck either ;)
Hy:
lol
Duly noted
Him:
If I can’t tell you who can I tell?
Hy:
This is true
I’ll catalog it 😉

I toyed with several responses before I landed on “This is true; I’ll catalog it /winkyface.”  The first thing that came to mind was irritation, then distaste, and finally resentment.  I had just told him what I wanted to happen.  I’m glad I went with vague acceptance with a smiley face instead.  I prefer to remain apart and not vulnerable.

I had high hopes for the two of us and feeling invisible wasn’t one of them.  I am forever waiting for the right one to fly into my pretty little web.  I guess I’ll just admire the garden a while longer.

 

I am not an object.

 

¹: Clothed Female Naked Male

²: By “exam” he means a fantasy of his to be examined by his Domme to see if he passes muster.  This is not an interest of mine.

 

February Photofest

We ran into each other.

Last Thursday I sobbed into an overworked mascara-stained tissue to my therapist.

“I feel so unsafe, so invisible.  Like no one listens to me!”  I cried. The Neighbor moving back had been verified 100%, beyond a doubt, and I was shaken to my core. And tonight the thing I thought would never have to happen again did.

After an exhausting 10-hour day I met up with a lovely 30-year-old single father at a posh restaurant for fancy biscuits, red wine and whiskey.  I took my time mulling over his words and contemplated what it’d be like to have him over me naked and writhing.  Then I hit a wall.

“I have to go.  I can’t form sentences anymore.”

He waited with me for valet and we sweetly hugged goodbye.

I put on My Dad Wrote a Porno and laughed the whole drive home.  Drove up my hill, passed TN’s car, couldn’t find parking by my building as is the norm after 6 pm – and especially after 10 pm – and headed back down the hill, past his car and building until I finally found an open spot.

I sat and listened to the footnotes about the anatomy of a vagina and smiled, safe and warm.  Life was funny. And I wasn’t quite ready to trek up the hill with all my work things.

The podcast ended 7 minutes later and I stood up, realized I left my keys in the console and bent back down to grab them.  When I stood up again I caught a man out of the corner of my eye round the end of his car and head to the driver side door.  It was him.  And he’d probably seen me.

I shut the door, slung my purse over my shoulder and began walking up the hill.

I heard the distinctive deep purr and rumble of his big fancy engine start up.  My heart raced.

He reversed and switched into gear at my hip and I looked at him as he looked over his shoulder at me, two feet apart. It was too dark to make eye contact exactly, but we might as well have.

I kept walking.

He drove out of the complex.

I shook and stomped, furious that we had literally run into each other.

At the top of the hill I was out of breath.  I let the dog out and he took off into the woods.  I called and called, but he had disappeared into the blackness.

More furious than before I thought about writing and purging my rage, but realized I’d left my laptop back in the car.

Back down the hill I went, an idea now formed.

That day I’d soaked my poor tissue my therapist and I had come up with a plan that would help me set a boundary and feel safe, visible: I would leave a note on his door proactively rather than wait for an accidental run in or some deliberate, possibly aggressive knock on his door.

It would say, “I can’t believe you moved in 100 ft from my front door.  What a selfish, senseless, and cruel thing to do.”  Full stop.

Some facts, some feelings. Nothing to argue with.

I ripped a page out of the back of my planner and scribbled it down.

It didn’t feel right.

I tried again.

This time it was better.

“What on earth would possess you to move back and only 100 feet from my front door?

Senseless and selfish is all I can come up with.”

Heart slamming, chest heaving I hauled ass back up the hill and ran up the two flights of stairs to his third floor door and left it in the pinch clip, facing out.  There would be no avoiding me this time.

I had seen a car entering the complex as I’d ascended the stairs and so I raced back down worried it could have been him.

It wasn’t.

Still shaking I climbed the hill again in the dark, my breath warm milky puffs in the cold night air, my heart just as cold if not colder.

What a bastard.

I’m doing what I want.  It’s what everybody else does. Fuck this noise.  

You won’t believe this.

It would appear that The Neighbor has some interesting ideas about how life is done.

::

On a Wednesday evening in January of 2015 – after 3 tumultuous, passionate, empty years together – my boyfriend came over to spend the night as usual and instead asked for a break.  Two weeks later he ended things with me with no explanation other than he didn’t want to be in a relationship.

We attempted a friendship for several months, but I was devastated, angry, and confused and yet so tidy to the world that no one knew of the mess that festered and ate away at me like maggots.  Once the fog of abandonment had cleared I was filled with contempt for myself: I should have left our relationship before it ever started.

He’d never wanted to date me; he’d never wanted to be involved with my child.

In September I ended our friendship and he cried and stormed off, but I had to save myself.  I had to do something.

I hadn’t believed a word he said to me during our little “friendship experiment” as I watched him do things he swore he’d never do with me and as I accidentally uncovered hidden deceits.

Nor did i believe him when he swore he wasn’t interested in anyone, and a mere few weeks after the end of the friendship he brought a woman to my gym class.  It crushed me all over again.  A month after that I saw her plastered all over his Facebook saying how awesome her man was.

About that time I expected him to move out as it would have been the end of his lease, but his fancy black car remained as did our occasional run-ins.  In the end he would renew his lease twice after he ended things, which meant he remained here for 2 years and 9 months before he finally left.

I mean, what did he care?  He lived at the bottom of the hill, after all.  He didn’t have to see me or think of me. It wasn’t a big deal.

The summer before he moved out I wrote him a long overdue letter to say how I felt about him, our relationship, his stalking of me on AFF, and most importantly my anxiety and upset that he remained so close.

His finances were more than adequate to live anywhere in the city, I reasoned.  Why stay so close when he didn’t have to??

He took offense to what I shared and told me in clipped words to never contact him again. He also revealed that he would be leaving in October so I could at least have that to look forward to.

I kept watch in the coming weeks until one day while walking the dog I decided to check and see if his patio furniture was still there.  It was gone.  And his apartment was gutted.

I bawled as years of torment I had kept at bay roiled out of me like vomit.  I was finally free.

This past year with him away I have grown and lightened a million shades and in a million ways.  I have settled into myself, explored my heart a little even, attempted connections, and have felt safe in my home again, unburdened to roam freely about the property like a normal person.

I no longer had to concentrate on not noticing (and subsequently looking at) his black car, I no longer had to worry about running into him going about my daily life, I no longer had to fucking think about him, period.

::

This weekend was a lazy one, too hot for fucking fall.  Peter came and fucked me and I came and clawed and kissed on him before I went on an ill-fated, yet semi-entertaining date with a 22 yo.  I puttered around my apartment, watched scary movies and decided to treat the dog to as many romps in the dog park behind my building as he needed.

I absent mindedly surveyed the 3 closest balconies stacked like blocks nearest the park as I always did and looked at the residents’ belongings and design choices while the animal sniffed and shit to his heart’s content.  Last August the middle apartment had gone up in flames and the 3 stood empty for months while repairs were completed.  There were now new tenants.

Someone with children on the second floor – according to the plastic toys strewn about outside – and some patio furniture that looked familiar on the third floor.  It held my attention, but I didn’t let it stick.

The following day, my eye was drawn again to that familiar furniture.  It was on the patio of an identical floor plan to what he had before.  It suddenly occurred to me that there had been a new third fancy black car in the parking lot the last few days – just like his – but I hadn’t bothered to look at the license plate because I’m free of that, remember??  I’m not a slave to that pain anymore.

No, no, no.  It was just a coincidence.

The next night Peyton and I watched another CSI.  “Baby,” I said.  “We need to check on something when we walk the dog tonight.”  I shared what I knew and being the junior detective in the house I had a willing partner in my offspring.

I flashed my camera light into a familiar car window.  I couldn’t make out anything substantial like the battery acid burn in the back seat, but Pey caught something on a folded receipt in the passenger seat.  “Mom!  It says, ‘T-N’!”  I looked closer and sure enough TN’s name was faintly written on a line on the yellow sheet of a carbon receipt.

I didn’t believe it.  It couldn’t be.  My eyes are bad!  But Peyton’s??  No…

Finally tonight, 100 feet from my front door while on our nightly walk, I was able to check again.  This time his name was obscured by a new receipt, but it didn’t matter.

My eyes were bright and sharp and I could easily make out what the receipt said.  It was for a therapy session, the same cost as his were many years ago, and at the bottom – in clean Times New Roman bold – was TN’s therapist’s name and address.

Apparently, The Neighbor is once again my neighbor.

He touched it.

Elliot met a table full of my friends last night.  “Don’t worry,” I texted him when he said he wasn’t sure he was ready for that.  “They only just now found out that the friend I’m hanging out with after dinner is a man.  This isn’t a big introduction.”

We were waiting to get our credit cards back from the waiter and were sipping on champagne when he arrived.  The jokes were off-color and the laughing loud.  I didn’t linger long, though.  I said our goodbyes and we quickly left.

We drove around north of town talking like I might have done with a date had I ever gone on one in high school.  It was innocent and heavily reliant on only ourselves, not booze or loud music or some kind of adult activity.  It was pure.

Eventually I suggested we go park at an overlook outside of the downtown lights, a dip in the highway I’d passed 10,000 times in the 23 years I’ve lived here and never stopped to visit.  The city high rises sparkled like gems against the night’s sky.

He cut the engine and we talked for more than an hour and played with each other’s fingers.  I told him unsavory stories and stressful real life turbulence mixed in with boob and clown-feet jokes.  I couldn’t get enough of his soft brown eyes and the way his hair sometimes flopped across his forehead before he’d comb it back with his long fingers.

I wanted to not be there anymore.

“Wanna just go back to my place and have some wine?”  Of course he agreed and it was there he saw the Truth anthology on my kitchen island.  He picked it up as I puttered around with our wine glasses.

“So what’s this about?” he chuckled.  “Doing a little personal research or something?”

I paused and thought for a second as I poured the wine hoping I looked nonchalant.  “Nope.  I have a piece in it.”  He looked at me curiously.  “But I’ll have to kill you if I tell you which one.”

He flipped through it and luckily I had dog-eared several stories – mine included – so I was still safely hidden.  When he opened the page to mine I was careful to keep my face blank, but I wondered why I had done that.

We took our drinks and sat on the couch and kept talking.  Hours and hours of it with my feet on his lap and the dog intermittently annoying us.  We listened to U2’s Joshua Tree as I painted layer after layer of my story.  Loss, love, hilarity, exploration.  And then I suddenly found myself pressed against the glass of my own secrets and I couldn’t breathe.  I decided to tell him about the blog and just exactly how Truth had landed in my kitchen.

I didn’t tell him the URL or the name, I didn’t tell him I’m Hy, but I told him I was a writer and I was proud of the content I create.  I told him about Sonofabitch and how The Neighbor had been my muse.  I told him about the IG account and hustling for money by offering access to a my ridiculous Snapchat account which had actually financed my last two trips to London.

I let it all out: the things I was proud about related to this blog and how important all my friendships were to me that I had cultivated as a result.  He listened raptly and not in a little wonderment.  He was impressed and honored.  Honored that I had divulged something so precious to me and impressed at this new revelation that there was even more to me than met his eye.

The ever-present weight of my secrets lifted and I almost magically floated into his arms.  We kissed and tasted and I breathed him in as both me and Hy and I felt my heart melt just a little.  My hand strayed to his lap and felt his cock pulse beneath the denim.  I let it rest there and squeezed just a little.  It continued to surge of its own bloody volition.

I straddled his lap and nibbled his ear.  He buried his face in my cleavage and his giant paw grabbed a handful of meat on my buttock.  But all our clothes stayed in place.  He moves slow, he said, and I am right on pace with this glacier.  I had just bared my soul to him.  No need to expose anything else.

He stayed until almost 4 in the morning and only physical limitations made us end the date.  That and he didn’t want his baby waking up to him being gone when that hadn’t been the plan the night before.

We kissed goodbye in the entryway and he had to duck his head just a little as he left.

This morning I woke up and felt hungover.  Not from the wine, but from the sheer intensity of exposure.  I felt like I had been well-fucked, though not even my areola had become peeked out in our passionate embraces.  My heart had been touched, though.  A lot.  I had let it out of its iron box and it was seen and held and gently handled.  I was spent.

We texted a little throughout today, both sleep deprived and me searingly bashful; we can’t wait to see each other again.  He told me between bouts of kissing that he thought all the people in his life whom he cares about would love me, including his wife.  And he wants and hopes that we are friends at the very least for a long time to come.  I hope so too.

I am the first to admit that I am a complicated woman.  I’m excited that I have this unique opportunity to know a lovely man with silly big feet and soft, pillowy lips with whom I can open up and share all my secrets, but also am still aware that I’ll never be his number one.  It seems contradictory to all that I yearn for and yet I think being his number two would feel far better than being no one’s number anything  – and an opportunity to finally let someone touch my heart because god knows no one has touched that in far too long.

And I like it being touched.

 

 


He’s on my mind.

It’s The Neighbor.

It’s been longer now since he left than when we were together.  Three years we dallied and it’s been almost 3 and a half since I thought he was mine, but still he creeps across my mind.

Occasionally he’s there in pale, blue-eyed men with dark hair.  In pulsing, giant veiny meat that makes me cry with pleasure.  He’s with me in an orgasm as it tears through me alone in my room.  He’s in my loneliness, my exhaustion to find someone to love me.

He unfriended me on Facebook shortly after I thought to unblock him last summer.  I liked that.  But he also accepted my years old Venmo invitation and so he’s somehow connected to me there.  I saw he bought a couch and hired an interior designer.  There’s a beautiful girl at his work with whom he flirts.

I don’t want to see any of this, but sometimes I peek to justify my pain, satisfy a masochistic itch.  I’ve blocked him everywhere I know him to be in the shared dark places where we hunt for lovers and friends, but recently I looked on FetLife when I returned.

Not much has changed – his profile is virtually identical to when we were dating – and my feelings, while similar, are a vague iteration of jealousy and longing.  What does it mean that he’s as enigmatic now as he was to me when he shared my bed and life?

New to the menu of feelings is disgust; proof of his dishonesty never seems to wane.  That is why I look, to feel that little surge of power in my anger, my righteousness. I wasn’t angry for so long it feels like a salve now.

On FetLife I scoffed when I saw his participation in local kinky book clubs and political groups.  Years ago I remember he had a roommate wanted ad up while we were dating.  He was elusive, downplayed his kinky side, shut me out, lied.

I wonder if I actually need to know anything about him after all these years, but so long as the urge is in me I will continue to humor it.  Eventually all curiosity will pass and my TN box will be as empty as it is black.

I look forward to the day, though, when my memories of him are merely watercolors and I won’t be tempted to peek behind any internet curtains, my lovers are my own and my orgasms free.  I’ll bury the box and never look back.

 

Click for more.


 

 

I’m not going to want to marry you.

Or, “You and I will never date.”

Or, “We’ll never be a ‘thing’.”

Or, “We won’t ever be serious.”

Words that never fail to fall upon my ears like long, whispering razors that snake to my bare and beating heart.

Did I ask you to marry me?  To date me, to be a thing?  Have I seemed serious about us???  I thought I was already clear before we ever met that I was not looking for a relationship.

An open woman – one who relies not upon traditional trappings of commitment or even time – is open to all things, not just the few things she actually wants in her life.

There are also uninvited guests in the form of nervous men who think her attitude must be a self-serving [female] plot to entrap him in an unwanted relationship and therefore must be headed off at the pass with a preemptive THIS IS ONLY TEMPORARY I DONT WANT YOU.

I have had countless conversations with these men over the years and struggle to not sound defensive or hurt or some combination of the two, and not because I am either of those things, but how do you respond to someone who says that to you without sounding brittle?

When you’ve learned that after a date or two, possibly a handful, after having had sex that he has already – and unilaterally – decided he must remind you that there is no future together.  That you have not made the cut?

So I say, calmly and with some mirth, “Well of course not.  I don’t want to marry/date/be serious either.”

He* exhales breath he didn’t know he was holding.  “Good, because most women end up falling in love with me.  It’s such a problem.

I laugh, pour him some more wine.  Poor guy.

“You and I lead very different lives, Mr. Man.  You see, when you are kind and decent and the sex is good you have to fight women off; they fall in love and they pursue you with vigor and adoration.  If the sex is good, they think it must be love!  Am I right?”

He emphatically nods and appears relieved that I “get it,” this terrible thing that happens to him because he is a tender, intuitive lover and thoughtfully checks in via text every day despite not wanting a “serious” relationship.

Inside I turn black and pieces of my heart flake off and disintegrate.

“Let me tell you my experience, friend.  When I have great sex with someone and feel a connection I treat him with respect and I want to see him again, naturally, right?”

He nods with complete understanding.

“I make this known to my lover and I am then inevitably seen as one of those women who have fallen in love and must be pushed away.  I can neither pursue a connection nor admit I want one lest I turn into some lovesick idiot who confuses sex with love.”

We sit quietly.  Me uncertain he believes me and he probably thinking I might have the most elaborate trap of all.

I want to deny that I could fall in love, but I no longer bother; it’s absolutely possible that feelings could develop for one of these men because I can both fuck and love* – Sunday to Sunday – but what I can’t seem to do is find anyone who wants to do both with me so I cauterise the flow and keep it discrete.

The only difference between me and one of those “other” women he is so intent on avoiding is that I know in no uncertain terms that when a man says he doesn’t want a relationship he is not worth my energy beyond our tangled limbs and his fat, hot meat deep inside my body.

If he doesn’t see a future with me, then neither will I.

Troy seemed to like to tell me all the reasons why he would never date me, then The Neighbor felt similarly inclined.  Never mind I didn’t want to date either of them – Troy was an asshole and TN made it clear he wasn’t into me – yet they each felt it necessary to ward me off, to draw an X between us, a Protego totalum spell against me.  Fuckers.

I broke up with TN 4 separate times based on his heartless prophecy and yet the bastard just wouldn’t leave me alone.  I allowed him to lead me into a relationship he ultimately never wanted and then one cold January day in 2015 he abruptly left me.  The lies he’d lived having crushed us both to smithereens, me to oblivion.

I will never do that again.

If he says he doesn’t want me I believe him.  I heard his sultry voice, I saw the white teeth which shone while the words flowed out of his smile.  Our knees touched on my couch, wine in hands.  He had come over just to hang out and see me.  Sex wasn’t expected, just talk.  He likes me, after all.

But not that much, Hy.  Don’t be a silly girl and fall in love.  He only wants your pussy, your energy, your you.

Well, I only want his* submission.  And I only want his dick.  Two can play at that game, gentlemen, but don’t cry to me about all the women who fall in love with you.  They’re more human than me, they’re normal people with hopes and warm, beating hearts.  They’re lovely and pure and you’re ruining them with your fantastic expectations of connection without any commitment and feelings.  How lazy and entitled can you be?  Shall we love ourselves for you, too?

I don’t love hearing the words they insist on sharing – it makes me feel sideways and miscategorized – but I appreciate the insight because now I know what to do with him.

In the past I was hopeful that he might be wrong about his feelings about me.  He’d wake up one day with me nestled in his nook, our evening sex perfuming the room and another long lazy weekend planned ahead and realize he was in love despite his best efforts to avoid it because I am just that lovable.

Today I know that’s Hollywood bullshit written by writers whose love lives were arrested while reading either romance or fantasy novels due to their bad acne, overbite, and social anxiety.  The little guy always wins!  Except that is truly fiction.

I believe him now, these men.  He sees nothing with me other than the next hot sexual encounter.  I believe him.

But don’t worry about me.  He is safely sorted in the Do Not Pursue file, to be then neatly refiled into the one called Do Not Maintain.  Should I feel a glimmer of feeling – even the slightest flicker of affection – he will be moved to the Must Remove From Life folder immediately.

And I must admit that satisfaction rolled through me like a drug as those very words spilled out of my smile to land on his ears, wine in hands.

*”He” and “his” is not one man, but many.

**A timely tweet by one of my wives, Girl on the Net, a few days after my smile landed on his ears.

 

 

 

I’m having a good day.

I’m running a hair late to work, but I’m otherwise organized.  I look good, feel good, got my baby with me this week.  I’m working out, not wasting time on silly men – just spending time exploring my needs and wants in relation to men.  I’m feeling good.

I’m sure it’s no coincidence that after two years and nine months The Neighbor finally moved away and left my orbit.  I feel weightless, joyous, filled with hope.

I can hardly believe it.

So, in honor of all of this, I’m throwing it back old school and posting a random pic like I used to (before IG).

Happy Humpday, y’all!!

My beloved Niners.

He’s finally, totally gone.

Almost six years ago he came into my life and today, finally, he is gone.

I had an inkling that he had moved out a little earlier than the beginning of October like he’d told me this summer, but I wasn’t sure, so I took a little detour on my morning walk with the dog and found myself outside the back of his building beneath his balcony.

Gone were his bike and black and white patio furniture.  Could he really have moved out??

I don’t know what compelled me to walk up three flights of stairs, but I did.

The dog panted beside me and my breasts swung loose beneath my pajama top.  My hair was in disarray, no makeup, glasses on.  This was me at my absolute rawest climbing to confront the source of so much pain.

I don’t know what compelled me to turn the handle on his door, but I did.

Perhaps it was the many little carpet threads strewn about the hallway foyer, proof of new carpet installed somewhere on the floor.  Perhaps I just needed to see for myself.

And when the handled turned with no resistance and the door swung open I walked right in.  The door shut with a thud and my heart matched.

My chest felt tight, my breath shallow.  He was gone. 

New carpet was indeed being installed, evidence that it had been several days since his departure.  My breath continued to evade me as tears welled in my eyes.  I looked for remnants of him, any hint that he had been there.  I opened kitchen drawers, the refrigerator.  I remembered where we’d hung every picture and where I’d placed every piece of furniture and plate.

The refrigerator door was still on backwards and I laughed to think that he was just that lazy he couldn’t be bothered to call maintenance to switch the hinges.

As I walked into his bedroom I could almost smell the flavor of incense he preferred, sweet and foreign, see his cherry wood sleigh bed.  But it was just an empty room with bare walls and a new carpet smell.

In the bathroom the tears came.  This is where I took some of my favorite photos of him.  The one of him in the bathtub and the one that would later become his profile picture for many sex sites across the internet the summer after we broke up, the one of him standing behind his clear shower curtain, the striations on his naked body like horizontal pinstripes on candy.

I had bought little wooden letters for him – a T and an N – as a token of my love and of our little secret.  They had been on his counter.  I’m sure they had long since been thrown away, but I remembered them nonetheless.

There was nothing left behind, not even a scrap in a single drawer or shelf.  He wasn’t heree and so I left.

At the top of the stairs that once was the place of frolic and love I looked out and down below and remembered the last time I had been on those steps and felt another wave of emotion.

I had returned to retrieve the note on the bag of his things I’d put on his doorstep and left feeling triumphant.  Oh, how silly I was then.  But it didn’t feel right to leave just yet so I walked back in and stood in his kitchen at the island, a kitchen design nearly identical to my own, and looked out the windows still as a mouse, heavy as a mountain.

The dog laid down and waited as I put my head down on the island and cried.

I cried because I could and I cried because it was finally over.  I no longer had to brace myself when I saw him come and go or worry about running into him at the mailbox.  I cried because I hadn’t realized how much this would mean to me, this ending, this finality.

The last time I was there was the Wednesday morning he’d pulled me into his warm, sleepy arms, looked me straight in the eyes and told me he “Didn’t want to do it,” anymore.  “It” being us.

The last time I was in that room I had cried a river and raged and begged and fought and knelt down before him and admitted defeat.

The last time I was in that space he had ripped my heart out and shredded it with his bare hands and ever thoughtful words.

My heart was destroyed in that apartment on the third floor and I was transformed.  How could I possibly not come back and honor what had happened to me here?

I breathed in the air that was once his space, deeply and with much personal drama and quietly left.  Now this is the last time I will have ever been here.  With my dog, in my pajamas, fit only for my own company.  Real.  Healing.  Possibly better than before.

::

I don’t remember walking down the stairs, just that I thought, “Hey, he doesn’t have a mailbox there anymore,” as I walked toward the little house that represented each residence.  And then the other older black, fancy car just like his caught my eye and I thought.  “Well, fuck.” 

I suppose soon enough I will stop noticing that kind of car altogether.

 

 

All the Chrises.

And the Robs, Dans, Mikes, Johns, Bobs, Davids, Kevins, and Troys.

Man after man, dick after dick, miss after miss.

Last summer it was a project of mine to cull my contacts and I found I had multiple pages of the same man’s name, a list in black and white of my apathy, hunger, and disdain.

  • Chris
  • Chris Car
  • Chris Chuck
  • Chris Cool
  • Chris Doo
  • Chris Eastside
  • Chris Magnum
  • Chris Mindsome
  • Chris Pander

With the exception of 3, I have no memory of those men.

There have been 6 “Chrises” in my life recently, each terribly memorable and forgettable simultaneously.  The Chris who ghosted on me after we fucked under a bridge and all night in my bed.  The Chris who apologized at 8:30 at night on a day we’d planned to go out that he wasn’t up to it.  The other Chris who admitted he was not attracted to me despite behavior that sent mixed signals.  The Chris who… I can’t remember who he is or was.  Another Chris I can’t remember.  And then a Chris from that list, one I actually do remember, just texted me last night.

I’m doing this wrong if I can’t remember men.

Not only that, but I can’t remember the dicks I have in my phone.  Fleshy and hard, in bathroom mirrors and surrounded by crumpled pants or sheets.  I find myself scrutinizing one on occasion trying to place it.  Whose is this??  What time of year was it sent?  What was going on in my life then?  WHO IS THIS???

Inevitably, the questions go unanswered and I click my phone off.

I recently went out with an old lover who texted me 2 years after our last date.  The last time we were together I struggled with my lack of interest in our sex despite our easy rapport while clothed.  I called myself a shitty lay and wracked it up to my own poor performance.  Our second date shattered that theory: he’s not that good in bed.

And he’s delusional about his penis size.

“I love being the skinny white guy with a huge dick,” he said while we sipped whiskey cocktails earlier in the night.  I thought maybe I’d remembered him wrong, but no, he has about an average length penis that is quite slender.  It felt like a sneeze that never swept through me.

Of course I came — lots  — but that’s just lucky body composition on my part, not his skill or passion.

At one point I was on all fours, ass high in his dimly lit room, with his mouth on my little starfish and nothing else.  Not his hand or arm.  It felt odd, like I was floating in space with a warm, wet alien attached to me between my ass cheeks.

“Where are your hands??” I asked almost irritated that I was even having to ask.

“One is on my dick,” he answered.

“Where’s your other??  Put it on me, please!”

I felt a soft palm press against my hip.  I grit my teeth until he’d had his fill.

There are so many Chrises in my past I stopped chronicling them here.  I’ve stopped a lot of things here since The Neighbor left me.  I lost my muse, my joy in sex and discovery, nearly my interest in writing.  I have been beaten to a pulp in the dating arena in round after round and have felt overly responsible about protecting my dates from their own miserable, sad, ridiculous, or embarrassing behavior, but I don’t want to do that anymore.

From now on I’m going to write about all the Chrises and their delusions of grandeur.

And all the Robs, Dans, Mikes, Johns, Bobs, Davids, Kevins, and Troys.  Not out of spite or revenge or to make them look bad, but because their stories are mine, too, and I’m tired of protecting them when there is a story for me to tell.

There’s much more going on here than I’ve let on.  So much more.

 

He wrote back.

Suddenly, I’m filled with words.

I admit my stomach dropped when I saw his name in my inbox.  I didn’t expect to hear from him that quickly, let alone at all.

I had held no punches, pulled back the curtain to reveal my years of suffering.  Before I’d hit Send, my finger had wavered over the button, unsure.  I knew it would hurt him and that wasn’t what I wanted, but I pressed it because of my pain.  I had to at least attempt to stop the flow.

His response was short, curt almost.

He had misinterpreted my very first shot across the bow as an olive branch as I had feared.  I thought I’d been very clear of my confusion in writing, but perhaps his hopes overshadowed my words.

He asserted his memory of our history was “different” from mine and said he didn’t want to argue over it.

He will be moving out the beginning of October, “so there won’t be further cause for you to feel anxiety about possibly running into me after that.”

He then suggested that it was best we didn’t communicate anymore and he would no longer be responding to my emails (as if I were wanting a dialogue).

I had sat down to read, but as I finished I realized I’d held my breath and my heart was racing.  I let it out and with it the wall began to crumble.  A tear sprang to my eye, but quickly dried.  I was pleased with the response — he seemed shaken, which means I got through to him — but also sad.  He didn’t address one thing other than to say he has a different memory “of our history,” whatever that means.

And I knew I’d hurt him.

I felt vindicated, but equally ashamed.  Proud and embarrassed.  All this time, though, he has believed me to have happily moved on, free of guilt or responsibility.

Then the anger came in large, indignant swells.

What do you mean by you “have a different take on our own history”??  Did you not come over to my house one day and say you wanted a break?  Did we not then not discuss a single thing?  Did you not then dump me?  Had you not denied anything being wrong for you for the entire preceding year whenever I’d asked?? 

As I drove home I fact-checked my own memory.  No, all those things had happened.  I didn’t know what he was remembering differently from me.

Perhaps it was my claim that him dating that woman from the gym overlapped with his insistence he was happily single and wanted to remain that way.  No, I fact-checked that the moment I’d seen the images.  They began around August/September, clearly at odds with his false claims.

Maybe it was that I knew he’d lied about other things which I didn’t list?  He doesn’t know to which I’m referring so he can’t possibly refute my belief there.

I had attached the very first and last screenshots of his AFF visits.  He didn’t mention that either, but perhaps he believes AFF just randomly listed him in my visitors.

The only thing he addressed was my anxiety, which to be honest I’m thankful for.  I now have something to look forward to in regards to him for the first time in 2 1/2 years.

He could have said so many other things, really grown up things.

Things like, “Jesus Christ, Hy, I am so sorry that I hurt you like that.  You’re right, I should have told you so much sooner, I just couldn’t muster the courage and I didn’t want to hurt you; I hoped my feelings would change, etc,” or “I’m sorry for looking at your AFF account.  It’s been hard not being your friend and so I periodically check in on you in hopes you’d know I was thinking about you.  I won’t do it anymore,” or “You’re right, I did lie to you about wanting to date other women because I was afraid I’d lose you.  I really fucked that up,” or even, “I can see how it looked like it over-lapped, but it was just really close timing and I even surprised myself by dating her when I thought I wasn’t into dating.”

But he didn’t.

He doubled down and shut down.

My version of events likely fly in the face of the story he’s told himself so he can sleep at night.  It’s his very human right to remember things differently, but now it’s my turn to sleep.

I wrote the letter for me, not expecting anything in return, but what he did give me has lightened my heart immensely.  He knows how I feel – possibly for the first time ever – and that’s all I needed.  I just needed him to know.