Know when to hold ’em.

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:]


Listen to the people who knew you when.

I posted a picture on my personal Instagram today with a rare glimpse behind the curtain. The image is of me, in black and white, wearing a spaghetti strap dress with a tiny bit of my lace bralette peeking out of the top.  My left hand is curled around a strap in a relaxed manner, my eyes look into the lens.  I think it’s at once provocative and innocent. 

I look pretty and I’m surprised by my own assessment.  I haven’t felt pretty in a very long time. I’ve felt invisible and unimportant, lonely.  Trapped in a life I know I’ve created for myself, but unable to change it for whatever reason.

With this picture of me I included the following words:

I wonder how much longer I’m going to have to go through this life alone. My exhusband accused me once of deliberately avoiding long term relationships until Peyton left home. HA HA!

Trust me, if I found a man worthy of me and my baby I’d be all over him like white on rice, but solving my loneliness is *not* more important than having the right puzzle piece in our lives.

I wish I could say that my boyfriend was next to me getting a pedi the day I took this pic, but the truth is I was alone as usual. Just like at all the games and events and birthdays and holidays and Target runs.

A lucky 2 or 3 got the text of me sitting there all innocently buxom, but I sent it knowing not one of them would ever turn into the man I’m looking for to cruise the aisles of Target with me.

Guess I have nothing else to do but to continue to be patient.

A couple of my friends replied with support, but I got a text from one of my very oldest of friends, Lainey.  We were virginal cheerleaders together whose past times included egging houses from the back of her Mustang convertible.

Hey pretty girl. I saw your post and I know you didn’t ask for advice so I’m not giving you any. Just an observation about my own life.

1. I’ve had multiple relationships since my divorce. I still feel alone a lot even when I am in a relationship.
2. No one will ever love your kid like you do. I guess theoretically it’s sorta possible but it legit just doesn’t happen
3. People are fucking selfish and can’t see past their own shit. Being single allows me to worry about my own self and what makes me happy in a way that no one else is gonna do for me….
4. Even in a good relationship, at our age, with kids and work and soccer and etc etc etc, you will still be physically alone a lot. It’s fine.
I see my current bf every one to two weeks, and it does suck to not have him there for a Target run or other ‘normal things’, but when we do get to do that together it is all the more special.
5. I love you. ?

I appreciated her thoughts – totally – but realized that my general opaqueness with even my closest friends has painted a picture of me that doesn’t do what I’ve been through any justice.  I have kept the definition of my life, the finer points of my heartache, contained here in this space far from their eyes.

I wrote her back:

Aw, I’ll start with #5 and say I love you, too!??

What I’m about to say for the rest is gonna sound like a big fat bummer, but it’s true. Everything you said I can relate to, but only intellectually.

I’ve only had one relationship since I left in 2010 and that man (The Neighbor) barely wanted to date me. His disinterest in Peyton was a huge deal and had he not left me I’d have ended things in large part because of it – I won’t invite someone into my life who makes my kid feel invisible or not good enough. I know first hand what that’s like. And I have had so few 3rd dates in all those years I could probably count them on both hands.

I have been so alone, on a hamster wheel of dating and not dating, and I’m just tired. I’d love to have someone in my life who wanted to see me even only every couple of weeks, and who enjoyed my kid when we all hung out together, but I don’t. And it sucks. And I see no end to this because I haven’t met anyone worthy of even meeting my friends, let alone my child, and the older I get the less patience I have with fucking idiot men and all their bullshit.

I’m envious that you’ve had as many actual boyfriends as you have since you left your husband, though I know it’s been terrible and painful on occasion. I’m happy for you that you have people who want to do the work with you. I just haven’t had the same kind of luck.

I try to focus on my freedoms and I’m grateful for them, but it’d be really nice to have someone love me again, too, and all the crap that comes with that. I never really felt loved by my exhusband either, so for whatever reason today it all felt just so bleak and awful. Then I wondered when has anyone ever really loved me?? When I was 24? Ok, maybe my exhusband loved me a little, but he certainly didn’t like me and he made that abundantly clear.

Sorry this text is so long, but I’m on my laptop and I can’t do spaces lol

Now I’m sitting here thinking, Is that really true?  Do I actually wonder if I’ve ever been loved by a man?  And I think the answer is yes.  I think I do wonder in my darker moments.

I also think I need to stop hiding so much from the people who dare to love me and who knew me when my heart was filled with hope back when I wore a short cheerleading skirt and had the wind in my hair.

I wish it were as easy as giving them this blog address – the real key to my heart – then they’d know me like you all do and wouldn’t be surprised by emotional social media posts and a little peek at my soul.

An InLinkz Link-up

The problem is me.

Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.

When I have mediocre sex it’s because I’m not making it hot.

I’m not pouring champagne on my tits as I ride him or trying to blow his mind with my hot, wet, hungry little mouth or letting him bend me over the parking garage railing and slip inside while no one’s around.

It’s because I’m not taking my time to get to know every curve of his muscles, the heat of his cock in my hand, or the taste on his lips.

I’m rushing or I’m bored or I’m waiting for sexual lightening to strike like it did with The Neighbor and Troy.

It’s because I am sad.

I’ve had a lot of mediocre sex this year and I have only myself to blame, for letting my broken heart dial it in.  When it was strong and full I loved not only the hunt, but the mad frenzy of the feed.  The blood on my lips and the cum deposited deep inside my needy body.

It’s possible he may have been a mediocre lay or a less-experienced lover, but maybe he was tired, too.  Maybe his heart was also broken and limping.  Maybe he was hoping I’d ignite in him what she once had.  Either way, I’ve been the partner to many a man who was much too like me to make it any good.

The little great sex I’ve had this year has been because I’ve been swept away, not because of anything I did; I simply got lucky the times David wanted to pile drive into me and use my body any which way he could think of with that giant cock of his.

He was subversive and cruel in the sexiest way and it was so new to me I couldn’t crawl into my skull and ruin it.  He pushed me out of my own way simply by picking me up in the hallway as the door shut behind him, his mouth locked on mine and a growl in his throat.  I mean, who does that shit??

I’ve been relatively sexless for quite some time now.  I say “relatively” because I’m not dead — I think about it almost constantly — but I’m not out there.  I’m tucked away safely on my couch night after night and my phone remains dark and my computer off.  It’s like a vacation, really.

The next time I have sex, though, I will buck and ride and moan and claw and never let go until we’re both slick with sweat and panting like we’ve run a race.  I’m going to cum like a banshee and wail at the ceiling.  I will sob my release and ejaculate like a fountain and kiss his swollen lips and feel his breath puffing against my face and the smile connected to mine.

I am in no rush to change my sexless status — shit heart and all that — but when it’s time to flip the switch I vow to fuck like it’s my last day on earth.