I haven’t had sex since June 22nd. I have a period tracker I’ve been using for years to mark my sexual activity and all of July was e m p t y. I had one tryst at a guy’s office that was hot, but it wasn’t sex. We were both in the middle of our work day and I didn’t want our first time to be over his desk. It was certainly a better lunch break than most others were having, though.
Other than that, not a thing has happened to me. It’s so still, so quiet.
The Golfer is heavy on my mind and I’m deciding what to do with him. The best sex of your life with a drunken, wealthy, golfer with issues basically balances out to a zero sum game. I feel trapped in my own lustful desires. My heart isn’t involved, but my molecules are.
Sex like what we share doesn’t happen every day and I feel closer to the Universe in those moments of release and abandon.
I can’t stop thinking about his turgid member pounding me in all my holes, the twinkle in his eye as he pulls out a new toy he’s bought for me, for us, or his sweet, praising words. “Fuck, you are so fucking sexy I can’t keep my hands off of you!”
I haven’t heard anything like that in so long and I don’t see any respite in sight.
I pop onto some sites here and there and engage, but immediately disengage. Do I even have the time or energy to expend on searching? Perhaps the best course is to commit to celibacy and wait for my lover to resurface then greedily drive to his little suburban paradise and lose myself in our buckets of cum.
Perhaps the best course is to cut all ties and just focus on other things.
Perhaps the best course is to find a replacement.
Perhaps the best course is to sleep.
Perhaps the best course is to make love to my Hitachi more.
Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
I am lost, but a little found. Fuck, I want to fuck. Fuck, is this what it feels like to be lonely? Is this loneliness? I can’t tell.
I’m fidgety and angsty and frustrated. I want my atoms to mingle with the stars, but I also want to get lost in a love’s eyes. A love’s. But I don’t know if I’m built for love anymore, just lust. Lust I know, lust I trust.
I wish TG would hurry up and just come back already so I didn’t have to feel a thing. I like not feeling.
I feel tears somewhere in my throat, or maybe packed deep behind my face. If I allowed myself to sit with my feelings they would be there, but I don’t have the time or the space. I should be working right now, but I recognized the pull to pour it out, so here I am pouring away.
I said it before and I’ll say it again, I have to teach people how to treat me and I am no longer going to accept scraps.
Since Peter became single and took up with One-Month-Girl he’s been a total shit. When he had a girlfriend being second fiddle (or 13th) was fine, but now that he has the freedom to spend more time with me, his friend and confidante of three-and-a-half years, he isn’t. In fact, I am being treated like the ex-girlfriend, and I am not here for it.
Last Friday he texted to say Hi and tell me he felt good as new and incidentally was too busy to see me that weekend. Well fuck that. I haven’t heard from him since.
I texted this morning asking if he could hang out or at the very least have a quick chat “to say Hi (and other things).” The last time I drew a line in the sand regarding how someone treats me was three weeks ago – with him – and he essentially talked me out of it. So today the line will be deeper and possibly scratched in wood.
And before that it was with The Neighbor and he cried and begged me not to – repeatedly – and I ignored my gut and flapped in the wind for three fucking years wondering when he’d leave me or I’d finally catch him in a lie.
I’m a little crushed.
I’ve recognized that my damage extends to my appearance of having no vulnerability or neediness. If you met me in real life you could see quite clearly that I don’t need anyone. I am an island, self-made, big and tough. I have weathered an absolutely brutal post-divorce relationship with my ex-husband and my heart breaks every single fucking week my baby leaves me. I’m like a fucking soldier in a 20-year war.
I run my house, have 3 animals, have built a career from literally nothing, and take care of everyone around me. I don’t need anyone. And men need to be needed. Peter has made that abundantly clear.
He just texted while writing this – his tone seems different and he confirmed he’s “back at OMG’s.” Yeah, duh. He says he wants to see me still.
I’ve effectively erected walls to block out The Golferfrom my consciousness with varying degrees of success. I can’t think of Peter without thinking of TG. Together they were a great pair for me: one was sweet and kind and caring and the other was passionate and intense. Also combined they were a colossal butt munch: TG forever lost in the mist of alcohol and golf and Peter submerged in lies and betrayal. But their basic unavailability felt safer than them being available and still rejecting me – which is how I feel with Peter now.
I’ve had to tell two other men that I wasn’t interested in pursuing anything because to be honest, my heart isn’t in it. I feel so worn down, desperately searching for my center. I’ve considered so many “themes” for July that I’ve decided to literally take each day one at a time. Is it a “dry July”? Do I throw myself into working out? Do I not date? Do I abstain from contacting TG? Do I indulge the skin crawling urge to smoke or do I just loosen the belt?
We’re going to try to see each other tomorrow or later in the week.
I’m so busy this week I’m not able to schedule moving my body and am desperate for it. I almost want to hyperventilate over it. I contemplated going this morning just past dawn, but the spiders are busy spinning their beautiful little traps and I’m not really excited about walking through 30 of them. The last time I tried that I was moderately traumatized and began jumping at wood formations that lurked in the corner of my spider-seeking eyes.
Everything feels like I’m holding back and in. My breath, my feelings, my life. I need to exhale, let it out in one big whoosh. Yell from the rooftops. Something.
TG has summarily ignored all my attempts at interaction and I have resigned myself to it: he has been completely honest about what he’s willing to give and so long as I continue to stand with my hand out, I only have myself to blame.
And yet I know that the second I see The Golfer’s name pop up on my phone the butterflies will dance in my belly and I’ll forget to breathe all over again.
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.
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:
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.
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…
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 hisflakinesshas 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 attentionand 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.
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 had butterflies and little lead balls tossing around in my belly. The Golfer kept changing his mind about where to meet him. Country club, no, his house. Then country club again, no, house! I called him en route. “You can’t keep changing your mind! Where do you want me?” He clearly wasn’t sober.
We agreed on his house, but when I arrived with my sex toys, bottle of wine, and his pack of American Spirit Yellows only the dog barked back. I pressed the doorbell button again and heard loud music coming up the street. Windows down, head banging, white country club baseball cap on, there he was in all his smiling glory. He waved emphatically at me, his teeth glinting.
He was so happy to see me, he said. I was so nice, he said. He held me and cooed into my neck, told me how hot I was. We went out back to smoke and he laid down in the shade of a tree. He’d picked out his outfit just for me, had his house cleaned just for me. I told him I didn’t believe any of it, but he insisted.
We laughed at his drunky drunkenness and I sipped my rosé, nonplussed.
He suggested we take a bath together in his Japanese soaking tub, a deep, circular shaped tub with a little seat in it. The water was cool-ish and we contorted our bodies so that my knees were under my chin and his legs were wrapped around me. We were nose to nose as he massaged my breasts and chest and shoulders.
“I really like you,” he said. I could see the amber shine in his brown eyes.
I looked him squarely back, “I like you, too.”
“We have this… connection,” he continued. “This chemistry. It’s special.”
“It is…” I answered noncommittally, but sincerely. He was drunk, after all, and while lovely to hear, there’s a lot of salt to add to this.
We sat in that tub for what seemed like forever, folded together like twins in utero. His penis tapped against my vulva from the Jacuzzi bubbles and I laughed. It was like my own fleshy vibrator.
He spoke about his general loneliness and how much he looked forward to seeing me each visit, how it took him days to recover from our sexual escapades and how much he loved fucking me.
I decided to give him the better spot in the tub and, wrapped in a towel, sat on the edge. We laughed hysterically as he drunkenly tried to maneuver up onto the seat. It felt good to feel something other than lust with him.
He asked me to guess how many women he’s slept with since meeting me. He seemed to think we’d been seeing each other for 4 or 5 months (it’s been since the end of February, so… 3 months, I guess). I knew the answer must be zero, but I guessed 2.
“Ha! Not even close!” he said triumphantly. He made a “zero” with his hand. I suppose there was some implied significance for him on that. Of course, I couldn’t say the same. I’ve been sleeping with Peter and The Vet since I met him. Combine the 3 men and I’d say I have a pretty great relationship.
Peter is sweet and loving and listens to me with rapt attention. The Vet texts me on the reg and takes me on dates. And The Golfer is a blast to be with and fucks me senseless.
The other side of all those coins is that Peter had a girlfriend and is a liar. The Vet wants a swinging partner and is newly out of some crazy relationship. And The Golfer ignores me for days on end.
I guess they’re also all the worst relationship.
The Golfer didn’t press me for an answer on my number, but he did want to know how I felt about us, sexually. “Do you have this with anyone else? Have you ever??”
I answered him honestly. “No, I have never.”
And it’s true.
I have never in my life been ridden over such cliffs of sheer rapture. Each time together seems to top the one before and I never think I’ll actually survive. I didn’t explain it quite like that to him, but I assured him that I wholeheartedly believed that what we have is special.
The rest of the evening’s timeline is blurry for me. I’d finished the bottle of rosé on my own in an attempt to level the playing field and was feeling no pain. We ordered sushi and he promptly passed out. I tried to wake him up, but without success. I dozed and woke disoriented. His phone lit up in his dark bedroom and I looked at the locked preview screen.
Someone said they were 15 minutes away.
Another girl wrote simply, “Heyyyyy.”
Forgetting that we’d ordered delivery I panicked. What if some girl was on her way over right now?? He’s passed out in bed, I’m all alone! Shit fuck fuck!
I tried to wake him again, but he was incoherent, so I moved his phone to touch his hip and texted him myself in hopes his phone might reach the lizard part of his drunken brain and wake him up. It didn’t work. However, I did get to see how he has me programmed into his phone.
“Extremely Wet Hyacinth.”
Jesus Christ. Well, that’s better than Old Gross Hyacinth. I’ll take it.
It was about then that the doorbell rang and it occurred to me it was sushi. I ate alone at the coffee table and put his half away and padded back into his room. It’d been at least an hour since he’d fallen asleep and I’d kept myself busy patting his dog and generally trying to sober up.
I easily roused him this time. “Sushi came,” I said. “Yours is in the fridge.” He grabbed me and pulled me in for a kiss and we rolled around. I reached for his cock, but it was only half hard. I kissed his neck and he sucked on my nipples. He was apologizing about his hardon and I was telling him to shut up about the time I stuffed it inside of me.
He was hard now and I moved clumsily on top of him. The roller coaster drop was tamer this time; I wasn’t screaming and holding on for dear life. I was cumming, but more quietly. We stopped after a few minutes and he apologized some more. I could see him struggling to be present, the booze continued to tug at his consciousness.
We moved to the living room and he ate and we watched the finale. I barely paid attention, it sucked so bad, and he was asleep with his head on my lap anyway. When it was over he took my hand and led me to his room where we fell asleep spooning.
I can’t say that what I experienced for the next handful of hours was sleep. He snored, a drunken buzz saw. I didn’t bother to wake him, but my pussy was wet and ached. I pushed my ass into the cradle of his hips hoping that when he awoke in the morning we could finish what we started.
I got up and peed, I drank some water, he kept snoring, I pushed my ass into his belly again. Finally, a little before 6 am he stopped snoring and slept peacefully and I, too, sunk into slumber.
At 6:13 I felt him sit upright in bed and fling off the covers. He started the shower. “Hey, you,” I said sleepily.
“I’m already 30 minutes behind,” he said.
Without a word he got in the shower. I took it as my cue to leave and gathered up my clothes and things. Fully dressed I opened the shower door and he leaned out to kiss me. Once, twice, three times on the lips.
“I’m so sorry for being so lame last night,” he said. Also once, twice, and three times.
“Don’t be. I had a great time.” I fondled his warm, wet penis and sac. “I want to see you this weekend. I’m out of town next.”
“I might have a golf tournament,” he answered.
“Well, we’ll figure it out. I want to see you.”
He kissed me again, on the corner of my mouth.
I grabbed two cigarettes and left.
On the way home, dawn just barely over the hilltops, I wondered why I’d had such a good time. The man was hammered when I showed up, remained drunk, passed out, wasn’t able to fuck me due to his inebriation, and was non-committal about seeing me the following weekend.
But he’d also been sweet. So sweet.
And complimentary and funny and fun and easy to be with. I wasn’t inhibited – who was he to judge me? the guy was plastered on our date – and that chemistry he spoke of was palpable. Half the time I can’t even remember what we talk about, but there’s a constant stream of chatter between us. It’s easy.
When I got home, still high from it all, I texted him a photo of me on my balcony, legs up on a chair with my coffee mug on the patio table.
“You weren’t lame at all in case you’re still thinking that. I had a great time – hope you did too!”
I sent it knowing I wouldn’t hear back from him. The night had been intense, intoxicated or otherwise; I was still processing it and I hadn’t been a drunken fool like he had. I would give him space, me too, and then text him today, Wednesday to check in about the weekend.
I sent a pic and decided to be direct.
Good morminggggg. I want to cum see you this weekend. Are you working Monday? I’m out of town next weekend
I wasn’t expecting to hear back for another two days, but not long after I got this:
I’m not working [on the Monday holiday] but have a golf tournament
True to form: exact, factual. That’s him. I decided to stick with my directness.
Is any day this weekend good to hang out for you? I’m flexible so…
He didn’t respond to my pic, he didn’t offer a solution, he hasn’t replied to my last text as of this moment. My Irishman sits on my shoulder and whispers sweet, positive nothings in my ear. He’s a big fan of The Golfer and thinks that he and I will ride off into some delusional sunset together. We routinely make bets that end with his scrotum decorated with a fanning of clothes pins because I won (or lost).
He thinks that TG will call or text me in a timely fashion. I say he won’t. Currently I won the Monday morning bet that I wouldn’t hear from for at least two days. MI said that of course he’d call me because of everything he’d confessed to me the night before. I think we just like playing our glass half-full and -empty roles at this point. TG isn’t relationship material, lets be honest.
And here’s where I repeat that: he isn’t relationship material. Not like this, anyway.
Not drunken, non-communicative, golf-obsessed, and neglectful. He doesn’t fit into my New Universe.
Then why keep going? Because I genuinely enjoy spending time with him. It’s easy. I have 90-95% of my energy going towards mothering, my career, my home, my friends. Five-to ten per cent gets siphoned off to worry about whether or not I’ll hear back from him. If that.
I still struggle with why he feels the way he does about me and I fight hard against any body-shaming my mean and shriveled inner voice wants to cast my way, but I am learning to accept whatever comes my way for however long it feels almost-effortless.
My Irishman said this to me in his beautiful lilt: “So you know he likes you now, and every day after that you have with him is just a bonus.” How very “in the moment” of him, but things now feel weird between TG and I.
He shared a lot of stuff that felt really great to hear and I just don’t know where to stick that. In my cap, I suppose, but he’ll inevitably return to the planet Hyacinth and beg me to cumm [sic] all over him again and things won’t be weird anymore.
For now he’s left me hanging with one more text:
I have golf planned all over the place. I’ll let ya know
Except The Vet has asked me out, ready to see me any night of the weekend I am free. When I find out from my mother which night they want Peyton I’ll let him know.
And since I am languishing in TG’s communication purgatory I’m not committed to his inattention and am ostensibly free; I’m a busy woman! Unless TG gets back to me first and it matches with my night off in which case that’s where I’ll be.
It will be a race to see who fits into my busy schedule first – The Vet or The Golfer – not whose schedule I can fit into.
I don’t understand women who like their fathers, who trust them and turn to them for support. Fathers are dark and dangerous, manipulative and cruel. They froth at the mouth at infractions and cry, salty tears when they need a hug from the mother they never had. Fathers whose daughters like them are mystical creatures.
Men who love and nurture their little women in ways that create strong, healthy bonds and boundaries for a lifetime of beautiful relationships? Those exist??
I certainly didn’t have one of those. Fathers and daughters who love and respect one another are only people who exist in books and movies and who are overheard in coffee shops. They’re not me and my dad.
I don’t bring it up all that often, but no one without daddy issues would have a life like mine. She would never accept what I do from men. She would assert herself and say No, she would insist on her needs being known and valued. She would never stand for mistreatment. But that isn’t me. I have daddy issues.
Even saying the words makes me cringe. It’s so trite, so predictable, but there it is. I have daddy issues the size of a goddamned 747.
I wept in therapy a week and a half ago as I pieced together my disastrous date with Milwaukee. After having sex with him Thursday night that I don’t really remember, I went home to sleep it off and when I returned to his hotel room to go to brunch he accosted me.
His breath smelled of liquor at 11 am and as I pushed him off of me repeatedly he kept after me with lurid promises of what he’d do to me later. He thought he was being sexy. I thought he was being boorish and disgusting.
I pushed him, shoved him, told him I wasn’t a sure thing and to knock it off. Then he jammed his finger up my skirt as I peered out a window and almost got inside of me before I twisted away and yelled at him again. “After he assaulted you, why didn’t you leave, Hy?” my therapist asked gently.
I couldn’t answer her.
“Where did you feel it? Where did it come from? This knowing it was wrong?”
“I don’t know. I just knew I didn’t like it. I was very clear about him stopping and I yelled at him. But then I went downstairs with him to wait for a car to go to brunch…” I looked up at her watching me. “Then he said something else disgusting and I jumped up like this and shouted, ‘STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT I DONT FUCKING LIKE IT!!'” I demonstrated for her, something I don’t think I’ve ever done in years of working with her.
“He apologized and looked contrite. I should have left then. I should have left in the room. I should have left when I woke up with a vague sense of irritation and unpleasantness naked in his bed. But I didn’t.”
“I don’t know,” I said as I began to cry. I had this overwhelming familiar feeling related to my reaction to him. There were moments in his room that morning when fear rose up in me. Would he rape me? Hurt me? But they quickly passed as I danced and maneuvered away, but still remained within his reach.
When I’d shared the date with him with two of my dearest friends, one said this:
I think the most important question you have to answer for yourself, Hy, is why you don’t trust your gut? Why do you plot the course and then follow all the way through to an inevitable conclusion when you knew he wasn’t a good fit? Is it because you’re curious, because you desire the sex/companionship regardless of the quality, or because you feel you owe it to someone not to “back out” once the process starts?
Our message string is deleted that far back but I clearly remember saying to you, when someone is lousy over text/phone it’s never good in person, and you were not acknowledging your gut feelings. You kept saying maybe it will be better in person. You kept reaffirming what you believed his good qualities were and that he deserved a chance.
I’m checking you on this because it was quite clear to me he was acting in an odd and uncomfortable way and despite your acknowledgment of this you insisted on pushing through to the date. Why is that?
Maybe it’s a FOMO thing, you just have to be 100% sure you’re not “missing” something and so you go all the way until you can no longer deny that it was bad to begin with. But that isn’t trusting your gut is it? That’s more like being a scientist, running the experiment until you have the hard fought data which ultimately proves the initial hypothesis.
I told her she had every right to check me, that everything she wrote was true, but my internal compass is off. Though my gut is always right I continually override it. Why??
“Tell me why you didn’t leave,” my therapist pressed.
“Because I wanted something from him…” I sobbed, humiliated, hurting. “We were supposed to go to my favorite brunch spot, then my favorite restaurant for dinner.
“It was like that with my father. I would be trapped with him in a booth and he’d be telling me disgusting things or droning on and on about himself as if I were there simply to listen to him and I’d be begging him to stop, to see me, but I needed new tires on my car or I wanted that fancy dinner or some spare cash.
“I endured his awfulness so he could give me things and I could feel taken care of by him for once in my life, to feel loved.” My whole body shook with remorse and disgust and shame. “If he gave me something, then it proved I was good enough. That’s why I never leave.”
The feelings for the girl I was welled up inside of me and poured out my face. I felt like blackness rose from me like steam. No matter how awful, how gross, how in appropriate my father was I stayed the course because we both knew I was there to get something from him, and him from me. And I was never able to make him stop despite my efforts to make him be a decent human being to both me and my sister.
When I was 20 I cut him out of my life for a couple of years after a long visit of his prolonged vileness and him rifling through all of my things while I was at class. I eventually let him back in, feeling stronger, and even lived with him for a year after college. It wasn’t good. He was mean and hard, but I was living rent free, so…
And then when I was 26 he sent my sister and I a revolting joke about how semen is calorie-free. It was the final straw and I cut him out of our lives for good. Shortly thereafter, my sister revealed he’d molested her when she was only 8 years old and I was 11. Now our relationship was irrevocably over and I no longer had to suffer his pitiful attempts at being my father.
I’ve never really read much about the collateral damage of sexual abuse for a child not directly harmed. Do those papers even exist?? I’ve read countless articles on trauma and personal accounts of abuse, I hear stories on NPR for Christ’s sake, but you don’t hear how it affects the other children in the family.
From the moment my father did that evil thing to my sister I no longer existed. I never understood why I was suddenly #2 in everything we did, why he preferred her, why she was always right and I was always wrong. I longed for his approval and love, but was shunned again and again. He had sins to atone for and I was no longer a priority. I was his made his mother, and used whenever he needed support. When he didn’t need me I was invisible. And so it went until the day he died an excruciating death, alone in a big city in the desert.
My therapist’s eyes were soft as she watched me, tear streaked and miserable fit the pieces together. That is why I never leave. That is why I override my instincts. That is why I stay near a man who doesn’t care to be with me. Because I want something from them and if I get it it means I am worthy. I fucking exist.
Sometimes it’s a nice dinner, sometimes it’s sex. My father put a high premium on a woman being a “knockout.” I never felt I attained that level with him, but when men ogle and drool I feel vindicated and seen all over again. I am real for that moment. I push aside a man’s poor manners or inconsiderateness because he has promised me something – unspoken, but promised all the same. I will get his attention, his money, his body, his pleasure.
That means that I have evolved into the ultimate seductress, ever morphing to match the desires of my date. I prefer white wine, but he has expressed a preference for Malbec, so that is the only kind of wine I buy when I come over. He wants to watch golf? Ok. I will ask as many questions as possible, though really I’d prefer the TV to just be off. I have no impact, I am not there, but when I am turned inside out, bare skinned and lost in my own broken darkness with a man deep inside of me I am all of me.
I am not thinking about how to win him over, I am only a raw, pulsing nerve feeling our atoms mingle. Finally, I exist again by losing myself completely.
It feels like this revelation is what I’ve been working towards in the last 20 years of therapy I’ve been slogging through. I have been trying to close the loop with my father every day of my fucking life since the moment he touched my baby sister. I have been trying to be seen and loved and wanted in any way I knew how. And boy, have I adapted. I have been a machine at getting things.
In the days leading up to this revelation I cut things off with Milwaukee. I was very frank with him about how I felt about his behavior and while he was crushed, he understood. It is one of the most singularly healthy things I’ve done for myself since I ended my friendship with The Neighbor or left my husband. I don’t look out for myself, the drive to get something is so overwhelmingly powerful. I am terrified of asserting myself, saying No, that is not ok, and then being rejected and failing to get whatever it is I want.
The Saturday after therapy the The Golfer got too drunk on the golf course with the help of a Xanax and canceled plans an hour before we were set to meet. My initial reaction was to completely accept it and reschedule for the next weekend – the words flew across text before I even realized what I’d done. Hours later I texted again that while it’d taken a little while to sink in I thought flaking on me in the 11th hour was shitty and that it really bummed me out.
The next morning he apologized and last night as we lay curled together on his big couch between dick-sucking and ass-fucking goodness he apologized again with his lips on my neck.
It was terrifying to admit I was unhappy with him, such a small, reasonable thing, but I don’t do that: I am amenable, pleasing, ingratiating. Yet, I was still there whole and real and I had promised myself that if he didn’t apologize – truly apologize – I would end it immediately. But he did and I took a very small step towards being me and not just trying to get something. I existed without the thing.
I’ve been wanting to write a lot lately, but have been keeping quiet and just thinking instead. I don’t like it; I need to pour myself out onto the page, to see myself wind through the letters and lines like water through a little ravine.r
The Golfer, the man I met in person one fateful night has significantly highlighted some of my greater faults and weaknesses when it comes to love and relationships, namely that I love a good chase to the exclusion of all else.
I love the thrill of hunting a man and twisting him to my will, the dark heat of seduction and manipulation. I mean no ill will, but I light up at the thought of moving pieces across a board. If I knew any good chess move references, I’d use one here now, but I only know checkmate, and I am wise enough to know that scoring sex is far from the checkmate I really crave.
After our first incredible and drunken night we kept in touch with some basic sexting. A pic here and there, no real communication. Interest was mutual. I finagled a second meeting to return his RayBans, to which he’d shown no real attachment and had even said if we couldn’t coordinate schedules that I could keep them. But I insisted. It was the ethical thing to do!
At his posh house near a golf course 5 miles outside of town (and a 30 minute drive from my house) he met me at the door in jeans, a tee, and barefoot. We hugged and he sniffed my hair and made an appreciative sound. I was sober and would have to stay that way for the night because of some antibiotics I was on; he had imbibed with some golf buddies earlier and he vibrated sex and oozed an easy confidence.
We sat in a separate sitting area with a record player and candles flickered around us. His floofy dog made bids for attention while he rubbed my feet and we talked and laughed.
He massaged my feet with candle wax and sucked my toes and took me out back on his little patio and insisted I sit on his lap while we shared a cigarette, my occasional vice.
In his room he ravaged me and his cock stayed hard for hours, magically. “Did you take something for this?” I panted, spent and cum dumb, my hand absentmindedly joy-sticking his dick.
“No. I swear. You’re doing this to me!”
We fucked all night long, my cum soaking the bed just like he’d been begging me for all week on our phones. Sideways, backwards, standing, sitting. On his insistence I’d brought my vibrator and as I sat on his hips I rocketed out my skull with a body-shaking orgasm, pouring my soul all over the bed sheets. I would have cried for mercy had I any water left in my body.
He gently washed me in the shower and the bubbles were slick under his hot hands, his cock still unbelievably hard.
We fell asleep after one more long and punishing fuck with a movie on his big screen tv, sprawled in his king sized bed.
I slept fitfully. There were moments throughout our coupling – with him inside of me – where I thought This can’t possibly be real. He’s going to cum then tell me to leave, that it was all just a big joke. He’s far too hot for me, too rich, too successful. These thoughts ticked through my mind as I fell asleep cradled in his arms.
The next morning I woke before dawn. I had to get home to let the dog out.
He got up with me and pulled me down on the couch for one last cuddle. His hand found my pussy and dug inside. I came almost instantly.
Without a word he stood up and I followed him into his room, dropping my panties along the way. He took me one last time from behind with a grinding, gripping dump of cum on my back.
I showered quickly once more and he walked me to the door and gave me a long hug goodbye. I drove with the windows down, the sun fully risen, my panties in my purse, and my mind racing.
I left for London the following Wednesday thinking about him. Neither of us could believe that the second time was at least as good as the first and we were still in disbelief over the first time, drunken or not.
We texted a little here and there over the course of my trip. He’s not much of a texter, but he couldn’t wait for me “to cum back.”
We made plans for me to come over that first Saturday I was home. How do I like my steak? Mooing.
I stopped and bought two bottles of wine and arrived in jeans and a tee with the dog. “Yes, bring him,” he’d said. I wouldn’t have to rush off this time.
The night flowed like the last time. He cooked two filets and baked potatoes with a salad. We ate at his dining room table, a first ever for him, and chatted and laughed about fuck knows what. It was easy and fun and exciting.
It started with another foot massage and led straight to the bedroom. We fucked and fucked until we could fuck no more.
“I had such big plans for you tonight,” he whispered huskily in my ear, “but you’ve derailed them all. I was going to tie you up, but I just can’t get enough of you…”
I purred and cuddled closer, pulled him into every hole I had and screamed with lust as the pleasure of this kindred spirit poured over me while he was buried deep in my ass. I watched him above me, eating me alive with his eyes, grimacing with his own elation. My bellybutton filled with my cum as the room filled with sounds of my orgasm.
“I wonder if it will always be like this,” he mused, collapsed beside me.
“We could find out.”
“Let’s do it Monday,” he suggested. It was Saturday night.
We cleaned up under a hot rain and he asked if I’d ever had a golden shower. My answer was to shake my head No and offer him my back side. He smiled wickedly and peed on my rump as the clean water and piss mingled down my legs to the drain.
“I’ve had two ‘firsts’ tonight,” I said back in bed lying in his nook. “I came on my back while getting fucked in the ass and I got a golden shower. I didn’t know I still had ‘firsts’ left in me!” I couldn’t stop smiling into the candlelight.
“I’m happy I could help.”
Our dogs had romped happily during our sex breaks outside and mine whined the night away as he was locked out of the bedroom, but we slept soundly and as dawn broke once again we fucked and bathed again and then he made us coffee.
He was quieter now and put golf on the tv. I sipped his coffee and sat beside him, sensitive to the new vibe. I didn’t have to rush off this time, but I didn’t feel welcome to stay, but stay I did because it felt silly to run off when it was unnecessary. I didn’t want to acknowledge the shift.
Determined to end on a high note, I rubbed the bulge in his red sweat pants and it immediately hardened. I pushed the coffee table away and knelt between his knees and took him in my mouth, fat and hard.
He moaned and gently touched my hair. “Let’s go to my room.”
We hadn’t touched the vibrator the night before, but it lay on the ground on his side of the bed like a long-tailed lizard. I pressed it to me as he pounded me from behind and came mightily. His skin glistened with sweat and I pushed him on his back, crawled up his legs and licked me off of him and sucked every last bit of jizz right out of him.
He shook and got quiet. I licked my lips and got up to redress.
Back on the couch, with more coffee in hand, I tried to engage him. I asked questions about golf, his Game of Thrones encyclopedia that lay like a brick on the coffee table. He answered, but showed no interest in the connection. The dogs irritatingly played on top of us and he kicked them outside.
When it finally felt like time to leave – after 3 too many cups of coffee – he hugged me goodbye, but deflected the kiss I attempted. His lips fell on only the corner of mine. I drove home with the windows down again, but my heart wasn’t light. Something was off. And I’d left my vibrator behind deliberately on accident.
The following three days opened up to nothingness. We did not meet up on Monday or any other day. He explained that it was a week-night and he couldn’t fuck like on a weekend, but I could “swing by anytime” to retrieve my vibrator. He was also going out of town that weekend.
I suggested we get together the weekend after. He said he should be around. Slightly defeated, but not wanting to let on, I told him to send nudes with a smiley face. He sent a winky face. Since there was no urgency to see me again, I just ordered a new vibrator instead. I’d see him when I saw him, I supposed.
It’s been two weeks since that text exchange and I haven’t heard from him.
Last night as I parked a few empty spaces away from The Neighbor’s car it hit me again that our entire 3-year relationship was mostly a product of my will, my plotting, my sheer seduction of him and manipulation of the situation. He never wanted to date me and yet I moved us both across the board in spectacular fashion because I wanted him and nothing would stop me.
If I pursue TG while he is doing whatever it is he’s doing I will be contaminating the data. How can I tell if he wants to spend time with me if I am fiddling with our dynamic? How can I know if I want to spend time with him if I don’t allow him to show me more of who he is?
The Prime Directive of dating here should have always been, Let him show you who he is. Let him show me he wants me. Rather than Hunt, chase, devour, win! But I guess I’m a really slow learner and old habits die hard. I need to fucking chill out and set my Seduction Level to zero.
So I have sat on my hands for two weeks and not said a peep. I’ve felt hurt, confused, indignant, sad, hopeful, relieved, strong, weak, proud, humiliated. I won a bet with a friend that I wouldn’t hear from him in a week. My heart felt brittle and black.
When that next weekend that we might have met up came and went with no word I stayed the course, remained quiet. I would not meddle.
And then I just re-read our last texts.
They were friendly, soft, not not interested, so I softened a little and felt my interest rise again. I decided to place my piece back on the board, though with no strategy in mind, with a funny, sexy, innocuous text Hello.
I feel like I am observing myself in the wild. What will Hy do now that she has peeked her head out from behind the Saharan bush and identified her target?
I guess we’ll see what his next move is and where I end up on the board. Also, he was probably just thinking about his golf game and taxes for the last two weeks.
[Ed. Note: the title is from Kenny Roger’s song The Gambler:]
I needed that big, hot cock buried full tilt in my ass just like that. With the world melted away in streaks and the sounds of the city clinging to my skin like sweat, his big hands gripped onto the softness of my hips. I needed to feel myself from the inside out, to feel a big body slide against mine, a soft mouth on the apex of my legs, to laugh from ear to ear when we realized we were both carrying around LEGO men with us. I needed this.
I came to London to runaway again, just like the last twotimes. To escape the stifling real life of home where Hy exists only beneath the surface and between the sheets and where I struggle to combine the two very complete sides of me into a whole woman. London is where I ooze and pulse and flow in all my exposed, dirty glory.
I came with him rooted deep inside of me and loosed my joy in rivulets down my thighs. We collapsed like two dominoes briefly before he went to the shower to clean himself up.
He’d booked me this room in Soho and I’d wandered here aimlessly after my Eroticon goodbyes. It was a pretty nice room after I’d upgraded it from a tiny hole-in-the-wall.
He had to work late and sent many apologies. “Shall I meet you in the lobby?”
He was tall, bespectacled, nerdy. My type. I had to work to keep up to his long Londoner pace to the restaurant around the corner, a Scottish seafood place. Over wine we unraveled our stories, our trials. He met me as me, not Hy, but I immediately outted myself.
“Actually, I’m here for a convention…” and so the story goes. Secret sex blogger, it’s a big part of my life, Instagram account, been doing it for 7 years, won awards, etcetera, etcetera, blah blah blah. His eyes lit up. He seemed to see it as a bonus.
We laughed at the ridiculous way we’d met, but really, he said, “It was just easier.” He worked 60+ hours a week and every weekend, without fail, he traveled hours back to where his little boy lives with his ex. “All I can do is this,” he motioned between the two of us. “And few women understand. I want intimacy, but I can’t offer more. It all goes to my son.”
I nodded knowing all too well that drive to connect in any way possible while life swirled around and swept me out to sea far from the shore of another person. “I get it,” was all I said. “I really, really get it.”
Sitting there with him at that little marble table something happened to me again, that very thing I seek in the big, dark city of London: I opened up like some great force was attached to a zipper tab pulling down. All the way, unzippered, exposed, opened up, me flapping in the wind.
The dim candle light which flickered lazily lit my unveiling. Nothing was off limits for either of us. Heartbreaks, family, love lost, babies, fears. And then it was time to go and I had no doubts for our imminent future together. I wanted to be even closer to this stranger.
Outside he reached for my hand – such a little thing that no one ever does – and I clasped it warmly. He pulled me into his arms and kissed me softly as we stood on a busy corner like we had done this before.
I nearly skipped back to the room; my heart was open, my hand held, my loins alert.
In the room I grabbed a pad of hotel paper and drew a gallows and ten dashes. He guessed my BUTT FUCKER and I guessed his PEEPING TOM. SEND NUDES, BOXERS OR BRIEFS, SQUIRTER, and so on with the giggles and innuendos and references to things we’d talked about over that lazy candle on the marble table. We couldn’t seem to lose so I upped the ante. It’d now be strip Hangman.
I lost my tights and he his pants before the final game. It was my clue.
As the solution dawned on him he threw me a wicked smile and crushed my mouth with his, deeply and passionately. I clung to him and willed my skin to dissolve to be ever closer.
We fucked until I drenched the bed with uncountable orgasms and screams, until I sparkled pink and the neighbors banged on the wall. The concierge called twice and, unfettered, I unplugged the phone in a rosy haze while we kept fucking until he emptied his beautiful balls in a dark, tight place semen shouldn’t go.
He left me shortly after – he had a long day of work ahead and he wanted to get some rest for me for the next night we’d be together.
I lay alone in the king sized bed spread eagle, sated, full, not alone.
The next day, completely homeless between beds, I strolled through Covent Gardens’ cobblestone paths and listened to violinists play in the atrium. I bought a double-decker bus key chain and a London Tube tea towel. I crossed the Thames and sat on benches and quietly watched the skyline as barges scuttled by. I had a drink at the top of the OXO building and Facetimed my baby who was in New York City with my ex and then strolled through the Tate flitting from art to art like a fat little bumble bee going from flower to flower.
I took pictures of the Millennium Bridge to send to Peyton (“Its the bridge Volemort’s followers destroy!”) and walked across briskly, like I knew where I was going. I ended up back at Trafalgar Square and sat on the lip of a fountain and watched scores of tourists take pictures. A Russian family next to me were particularly enamored with the lone duck paddling behind me. Are there not ducks in Russia??
It was no where near time to meet Dave, my Legoman. My legs ached from criss-crossing the city and I was sad. The potion we created from the night before had long since worn off and the drop from the highs of the convention seemed to have replaced my heart beat. I was so, so alone.
I tried to imagine the day with someone and wondered why that appealed to me. This day was completely mine to do with as I wished. The year before Jean Claude had dragged me all over the city and the south of England and while I’d enjoyed it immensely I had still felt disconnected, disjointed somehow.
I meandered back to Soho and was turned away from four restaurants in an attempt to find somewhere to rest and have a glass of wine. Fucking London and their tiny restaurants. Finally I found a place to land out of the cold night air and waited for directions to Dave’s near Greenwich.
It was the only Uber I took the entire week. I couldn’t muster the emotional energy to drag my suitcase through the tunnels of the Tube and navigate another part of the system. My Romanian driver was nervous about dropping me off in the dark side street his GPS took us. “It’s fine.” Dave was right around the corner, his overcoat billowed open behind him, his arms opened wide for a hug.
I nestled closer and said I needed to rinse the city off of me before we headed to dinner. I dressed quickly and powered my nose while he watched me and we talked about our days. The Italian restaurant around the corner was cozy and I ate almost my entire bowl of carbonara like a hungry street urchin.
Back on his couch he told me how special I was, how beautiful and sensitive and intelligent and open and so many things my brain vibrated with the praise and I faltered with words. “You’re pretty great, too,” I said.
Our coupling that night was less urgent and more searching. This would be the last time, possibly ever, we would touch one another. His mouth was softer, more delicate, his thrusts more thoughtful. I came more quietly, but no less robustly. We fell asleep curled around one another.
When morning dawned I watched him from beneath my lids doing the mundane things men do every day of their lives that I never get to see. He stretched, he staggered to the toilet, he peed and showered and put on deodorant, brushed his teeth and combed his hair. He put his pants on one leg at a time and fiddled with his cuff links.
His cologne smelled grassy and masculine.
He kissed me goodbye with instructions for his keys. I could stay as long as I liked. He wouldn’t be home until after 7, but I was off to my next destination in Pimlico. Jean Claude was flying down the next night. I cried.
I cried at my loneliness, the empty bed, the quiet. This time the potion wore off much faster.
Deep beneath the city of London I sat between many strangers and watched tiles and things whiz by. My belongings wedged between my knees, my heart feeling like a crumpled piece of paper. Everyone avoided looking at each other until an American family from Florida boarded.
The mother sniped at her young daughter’s gum chewing and some nice Englishman engaged them almost as if to save the rest of us from their obnoxiousness. I wished I was home with my dog.
In Pimlico, at the swankiest place yet, I could barely form sentences to staff to get to my room. I cried in the restaurant and dragged myself back to my room and wept into a scalding shower, the water not nearly hot enough to scorch the loneliness from my being.
I wept for everything I do to connect, everything I lose by doing so, and everything I wish for, but fail to obtain. I wept for the little me who somewhere along the line was so hurt she cannot trust anyone but strangers and for the grown woman who knows the difference.
I cried until the water began to cool and then wrapped myself in thick terry cloth and spread my tears on the bed. I dozed and cried for hours until it was time to take another train to meet Girl on the Net for drinks with her friends. I perked up like a watered plant in her sunshine. When I left my dirt was once again dry and I drooped sadly as I returned to my room. Alone again.
The next morning I lay in the cool dawn light, naked, and exposed. On the agenda was only tea with a shy blogging friend at noon, then many more hours of nothing until Jean Claude arrived. I decided to allow myself to sink into the solitary layout of my day and slept for several more hours twisted in hotel bedding, took another scorching hot shower, and boarded the Tube north once more.
Tea was lovely and I got to gaze into the most soulful eyes which, to my American eye, resembled exactly a lushly wooded English hillside with their greens and browns. My friend was sweet and open and funny and flirty and, just like with Girl on the Net, my petals opened to his sunny disposition. And, just like with GOTN, when I left I drooped again and could only just manage to crawl back in between my sheets until nearly after 10 pm when Jean Claude arrived.
We swept through the neighborhood looking for wine, bought two bottles and laid on my bed. We talked for hours even though my eyes felt heavy and all I really wanted to do was fuck until I passed out. But instead of rolling around with our clothes off we talked politics and finances and about family. He asked about the convention and how I was doing. He was interested and interesting and wanted to connect. Finally I begged off, empty as a tin can, disrobed, and fell asleep in his big spoon.
On the second dawn in that room I fumbled for him and found his chubby meat resting in a pile on his thighs. I stroked and petted and kissed. I wanted to feel the connection from the night before, but whatever had happened between us was just a spell: his body remained aloof and uncompromising to my touch.
He managed to stuff himself inside of me a time or two and he swelled with concentration. I moaned and then he receded to some distant corner of his mind and I was left alone once again with a giant man on top of me who was not thinking of me.
Patiently and entertainingly, I played my fingertips along his skin and ran my body over his, but he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – come back to me. I grew tired of the attempt to not to be alone and finally gave up, took up my position in his big spoon again and drifted back off to sleep.
We took showers separately and he bought me breakfast in Belgravia then walked me all the way through the Tube turnstile for the last leg of my trip. He was nothing if not careful in his tender care of me.
We hugged goodbye and I felt a stillness where my heart should be. I had already said goodbye to him in my own searching way in the dim morning light with him far, far away from me.
On the train north to Michael and Molly’s the urban countryside stopped and started half a dozen times. I floated gently above my seat and the previous 9 days wove their way around me like silken branches. I had transcended my earthly American body and inhabited the celestial London Hyacinth with complete abandon and whimsy. I had never said no, never said too much, never stopped opening myself up.
As the train slowed down to my final stop I took a deep breath; one more day as Hyacinth was all I had left.
I crossed the tracks with my all my Hyacinth things and followed the pathway to an alley where Molly whooshed to a halt in her silver Peugeot. Sitting on the wrong side of the car never felt so right.
At the house Michael crushed me in a bear hug then stuffed us all with homemade apple pie. I hugged Cara hello and occupied her over-stuffed chair in the corner while she drank tea at the table.
The four of us, this motley crew of secret sex bloggers and advocates and writers and movers and shakers, perched in our chairs scattered around the kitchen table for hours. We laughed and drank more tea, the other two women lamented at Michael’s rich foods and their potentially expanding waistlines. I basked in the intimacy, the beautiful little family unit that I had somehow weaseled my way into yet again.
That’s when I realized: I needed that big, unconditional love and acceptance buried full tilt into my heart… just like that.
And then it was another dawn, another bleary-eyed Molly taking me to the airport, another hug goodbye, another security line to maneuver and another day-long journey home.