A long, sad day.

When I was married and miserable I believed that being away from my partner was the best decision and that it would be absolutely worth it.

Today, I question it every time my baby goes back to my ex, to his new wife and step-child where my own blood is not unlike Cinderella.  Mocked and disdained, misunderstood and ridiculed.

My ex’s new house is rigid with its rules and they don’t appreciate the free spirit that is Peyton.  My baby is just like me and that draws a large target.  I’m at once ashamed for my influence – either inherited or learned – and proud.  Fuck those twats.  Live big, baby.  Live big!!

I cried today when I was alone and the transfer was complete.  You’d think that after 7 and a 1/2 years of this it’d be easier, but I swear it’s as painful today as the very first week I was baby-less.  The longing, the fear that Peyton’s emotional safety is at risk, that my selfishness has put us all here in this position.

My ex would have been happy in a sexless and loveless marriage for the rest of his miserable life.  I was the one who said NO.  I was the one who insisted on more.  I was the one who refused to teach her child that kind of relationship was ok.  It wasn’t my ex.  He was a fucking pussy, dead inside from the tip of his pretty pansy toes to his dark grey eyes with the long doe lashes.

I’ve kept myself busy today with crying atop of my unfolded laundry and a little yoga.  Then I endeavored to finish my Game of Thrones binge with white wine and intermittent texting with a friend or two.  Now I’m missing my blood like air and I am sad for all my failures.

Failure to keep our family together, failure to solve the problems that ate us up, and failure to endure our life together.  I will never stop regretting what has happened to my child, but I do not regret leaving the man I married.  It’s a tangled place to live, these two places.  One of regret and one of none. But it’s true.

My baby is here for a reason and I have to trust that has a purpose whether or not it’s easy to fulfill.  So I’ll just squirm in my uneasy extroverted loneliness and hope that my isolation ends soon.

 

 


Boob pics are more than just boob pics.

My exhusband didn’t like receiving sexy photos.  I tried once after I got my iPhone and he never responded.  When he got home, he told me it’d made him anxious and that he didn’t like it.  I never did it again.

I also never saw myself as sexy through his eyes.  How could I?  He wasn’t verbose and he wasn’t open with his feelings.  He would get angry at me when I’d get down on myself and say, “How can I find you sexy or attractive when you’re attacking yourself like this?  I find confidence sexy.”

My self-esteem slowly eroded to nothing as the snake ate its tail.

When we decided to separate and I began dating again it was like a whole new world.  After 7 years of little to no feedback about my body I was suddenly dancing through hordes of hungry, appreciative men.  Their eyes, mouths, hands, and cocks repaired the damage like little worker bees constructing a hive.

And that’s when I met The Neighbor, a man who feasts on the site of breasts like a hungry infant and whose giant cock and sweet smile are always willing to stroke my reborn ego.

Boobs, boobs, boobs, boobs.  He can never get enough of them and I am more than willing to oblige him.

Lately, he has been exceptionally good to me. He visits nightly, he’s kind and thoughtful, he’s my number one fan, he talks about his feelings even when he’d rather get a root canal — without any novacane — and he’s doing a ridiculously wonderful subby thing or two I’ll write about later.

And because I’m a kind and grateful woman, I send him pics.  Lots and lots of pics.

For TN, everyday is Boobday.

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Gym.
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Car.
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Balcony.
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Bath.
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Coffee shop.
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Elevator.

Occasionally I worry that they’re boring, but he swears to me that could never happen. It could be a vestige of my fears of being rejected, but I needn’t worry.  He really is passionate about them.

And a funny thing has happened at this point: if I don’t send him a pic of my tits, then we know there’s trouble in paradise;  either I’m miserably busy or I’m pissed off.

These daily pics affirm my good mood and affections and create a safe and sexy space I’ve never had before.  I cringe now when I think back to my old life, one where my sexuality was barred from its true expression and where I had a little box in which to stay.

No wonder I was so miserable.  I was an anemic little flower straining to reach the light and today I am a robust, blooming bouquet — a sweet, lush, and thriving Hyacinth — thanks to my boob-, sex-, and woman-loving neighbor.

Sometimes I think I should write the management office at my apartment complex a thank you note.

A cock always makes me feel better.

An extrovert is someone who feels energized around others.  It’s not about how gregarious we are or socially suave, though we may appear that way to the less extroverted in the world.   It’s how we respond to low energy and feeling lethargic, sad or lonely.  This hard-wiring must have something to do with my sexual urges, I’m convinced, because it’s this bottomless need that never goes away, and it’s part of what makes my life so goddamned miserable when my kid is with my ex-husband every other week.  What do I do with myself? 

Tomorrow, I’m on my own again and I have a knot in my belly.  The past week has been blissfully filled with kissing chubby cheeks, reading Little Pookie books, and watching endless cartoons.  The Neighbor, not surprisingly, has woven in and out of my weekly mothering routine and I have suffered none whatsoever.  I have been content with the balance.  Fucking happy.

Several times he’s come over to say hello or ask a question.  Thursday night was another Hyacinth slaughter at Scrabble during which my baby came out several times “to tell me something”.  TN and I flirted around the interruptions like any couple sharing space with a little person.  Last night, while the late night sky lit up with a mysterious dusty rose and eye-opening electric blues during the first big storm of the summer, he silently came over and stood next to me on my balcony uninvited or announced to watch it with me.  It was a minute or two later before my baby was standing in an over-sized t-shirt with little fists rubbing sleepy eyes and a question mark hovering over tousled hair.  “Look, baby, TN came over because of the storm, too.”

“Hey, Baby,” says TN.

“Hi, TN,” sweetly answers Baby.

I thought how lucky TN and I were that we weren’t caught in an embrace; it was only a couple of hours earlier that his hand was buried in my center and his palm pooling with my juices, his hot mouth on mine.

But tomorrow the spell is broken.  I go back to no priority other than myself and that hungry beast within my core.  Fuck, it whispers.  More, it growls, always, more.

And before you all tell me to go for long runs and get a hobby let me assure you I do all that and more.  Granted, I have a little more free time on my hands than the average person, but it’s not like I’m the idle wealthy.  I have appointments, commitments, and plenty of responsibilities.  I work hard and play hard, but, it’s not enough.  When a cock is inside me, however, it all suddenly is.

My libido and personality have a head-on collision of furious emotional proportions.  It’s cockropractic therapy at its level best; nothing recalibrates me like a good, hard, meaningful fuck.  It’s something I must have.  Must.  And if my current partner likes to play coy and is poised for imminent departure how do I roll with that without feeling like I’m clawing desperately at a cracked window for air?

So, tonight, my least favorite night of the [every other] week finds me a bundle of nerves.  My heart aches for my little one who must leave me and my gut hurts with yearning for intimacy and touch from the one I want most.  I’m a gut-hurting, heart-aching mess.  I’m sure that’s a super sexy vibe.

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In other, unrelated news, I think I actually got hit on in real life the other day at the bank.  First time in years.  It made me think of my dear compatriot, Bimodal, and his Über-suaveness with the real-life ladies.  I mean, this young, handsome teller offered to join me and TN for our naked Scrabble game Thursday night.  That’s a come on, right??