“So why tell us now?” my friend asked, his wife listening intently As we sat on by the pool of their hotel.
“Well, I realized I had isolated myself over the years, only sharing parts of myself with people I really care about and if I wanted to change that, I had to start opening up.
“I’ve told blogging friends what I do for a living and where I live and even my real name and now I’m sharing with you guys my blogging side.”
My girlfriend wanted to know more, “Oooh! I want to know your name!”
I didn’t share, but I warned them of the content and the vibe of my writings. My friend said he may have already read it, but really he focuses on lifestyle blogs rather than just some random, lonely woman blog. That was my joke, not his.
We have drinks coming up, then dinner and with my other friend of ours who knows, and more hanging out. I feel so full and whole and have hardly thought of The Golfer today except to think, “Hmm, I don’t feel like texting him.”
I’d share a pic with y’all of me hanging at the bar while my friends shower upstairs, but my phone isn’t cooperating. Just imagine me with a white linen shirt with a deep V-neck avec cleavage and a black skirt topped off with a little smile.
I’ve got 7 minutes until a meeting, but I’ve been dying to write. Anything, something. I’m weeks behind on reading, I’m worrying about friends and their heartaches and triumphs, me missing them because I can’t seem to find the time to plug back in. I don’t want you to think I don’t care.
All my loves both new and old, know that I am aware of you out there in the ether. I do see you even if my presence is ghost-like. A like here and there, a comment, a tweet, a DM.
I hoard all the emails notifying me of your writings so that I don’t fall behind. I want to be present so badly. You all were my lifeline for so long, but now I am stronger and need this world less and less. It scares me. Who am I without all of you? Without Hy?
But the message I want to share today is that I do see you and hear you. All of you. And I love you.
I am not darkness or anger, nor hate or despair. I am sunshine and sweetness, pleasure incarnate, a playground of words and sensation that slips hot and silky down the gullet of my life and warms the belly of my soul.
I want to rip myself open for him and roll in our blood and semen and juices and fall asleep to baritone giggles and my own soft exhalations of peace. His pile of meat cradled in my hand, his hand on my hip, lashes to lashes as our chests rise and fall together, drunk on each other and happy.
When we are through twirling with comets and tasting each other’s sweat I want him to know exactly how I like my coffee because he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving me while the moon shone bright in the night’s sky. He is here for all of it. All of me. And especially the morning and long hours that follow.
He’s seen all of me, suspended and cascading. Swallowed me whole and is still thirsty for more. There is no possibility of him ever getting his fill.
Truthfully, I want him to bore into my center and spread like a fever, never to leave, incapable of leaving.
And then we have coffee, mine black. His with a splash of whiskey.
— Excerpt from my, “I am Whiskey in His Coffee, in the Eroticon Truth anthology, 2018 available here.
When I wake up to the sun I am always alone for either I or the man I was with has typically stolen off into the night like a shadow, the intimacy we shared washed away with each step like tears in the rain.
I don’t know how to be when I see a naked shoulder and peaceful, stubbly face. I wonder how I must look, honestly. Will he find me as fetching in the singularly innocent sunlight as he did under the cast of the lustful, boozy night before? The tall Englishman I met sure seemed to.
Six-foot-four with magnificent, wild dark brown hair that glinted with the occasional silver thread and walnut colored eyes we met on a big dick website because when you have one and you crave one it’s a good place to start.
For weeks we chatted and talked on the phone. He’s close with his family and friends, fit, loves his career, is paid handsomely and attends business meetings regularly not far from where I live. This could parlay into something beyond our March days together, I didn’t know.
We planned on meeting on a Monday and getting a room. If things went well he’d take the rest of the week off and tour the country with me. Then tragedy struck a week before my trip: his uncle passed away. There would be a funeral to attend during my stay, but he was committed nonetheless. He wanted to meet me.
And so I woke up in that terrifying morning gaze twice, fingers and bodies entwined, smiles and snatches broken wide and open, all filled up. I was out of my body and terrified, yet happy and at home. This is what normal people do, I thought. They wake up together.
On Michael and Molly’s font doorstep we’d kiss goodbye, sweet and fervent, all too quick after so much time. Fifty-two consecutive hours spent together ended with, “I’ll see you in June.”
And then I cried in Molly’s arms.
We met at noon at a swanky London hotel in Kensington where I poured my heart out about my secret double life – the blog, how I was Hy, my tits on the internet – all before we’d even dropped off our bags in the room.
I paused and charged forward. “Do you still want to hang out??”
And instantly the two parts of my lives zippered together.
We strolled under dinosaur and whale bones and wove our way in and out of the crowds like old companions laughing, talking, sharing, and under gigantic tapestries and paintings I found myself hoping he would kiss me in some empty room at the end of a great hall.
When night fell, still and seated at dinner with the wine flowing, he told me how much he liked me and how much he was enjoying our time together and I bloomed and flirted shamelessly. Confident my advances would be returned, his cool British demeanor replaced with enthusiasm and warmth, we melted into one another along the dark London streets back to our room.
There, under the gentle guidance of some delicious English sparkling wine, we played with each other. First Hang Man to riotous laughter, then with our bodies lit with exploration – stop and go, learning, pivoting – followed by a cool dark dawn with fingers entangled, face-to-face, and hours of talk peppered with dozing.
I blow dried my hair while he worked on his computer below my elbow, a towel wrapped around his waist. I applied mascara in the bathroom mirror while he brushed his teeth. The most prosaic of things novel and new.
I had survived my first morning with a man.
On Tuesday we traversed the city to his car and headed south to Brighton on the English Channel. We ate ice cream in the cold, bright afternoon sun and sat on deck chairs on the pier and watched the people go by. Too shy and out of my element to make the advance myself, I could only wish he’d kiss me at the end of the windswept pier behind the carousel.
My inexperience with a date lasting longer than 6 hours had begun to take its toll on me and I was fraught with insecurity and fear, worry and disgust that I had done something wrong. He was done with me, tired of my shit, I told myself.
Emotions tumbled through me as he led me from place to place in search of what he said was the perfect Brighton souvenir for Peyton, some thing called a Brighton Rock. “He’ll love it!” he assured me. “It says ‘Brighton’ all they way down as you eat it!”
Words were streaky jumbles and I found speaking difficult. I fought to appear normal until while crossing a lush, green courtyard I nearly burst into tears as we passed a man playing Stand By Me on his electric guitar. I felt unmoored and lonely, lost.
I circled back around to buy a second to compose myself and dropped two 50p coins in his guitar case. The tall Englishman didn’t seem to notice my struggle, though he had stopped to wait for me. He never let me out of his sight.
That night in a little village inn somewhere north in Sussex I took a slug of wine, sat in one of the two red chairs and cried after he stepped outside. “I’ve got to call my mum. I’ll be back in 10 minutes.”
Each tear a streak of fear and anxiety. This kindness, this ease was too much for me, and I just couldn’t read him. If a man isn’t pawing at me, is he interested? Am I?
He appeared to be the type of man I’d want to know: educated, globally minded, kind, thoughtful, funny, sexy, and loyal. He understood complex situations and was sensitive to his own limitations. “I’m penny wise and pound foolish,” he told me.
I breathed through my tears and held my beating heart as I heard him approach from down the hall.
His face was drawn. “How are you?” he asked.
“I’m ok. I’m wrung out. How are you?”
“I forgot to pack a suit, so I’ve got to sort that out, and I really think my mum needs me there. I feel guilty for enjoying myself with you…” We decided together that we would cut our trip together a half-day short so he could go home to his parents to prepare for the funeral on Thursday. The decision felt good.
I poured him a glass of wine as he plopped down in the chair opposite me. Maybe this was hard for him, too.
Later, in the dimly lit brasserie, we spoke sweetly to one another about our connection and expectations. We would see each other again in June, for sure, he said. “I have a meeting in America. I’ll come out a week before or after.” I agreed.
And a little while after that, after three courses and cheese and port, I sat on his lap on that same chair in our room and he stroked me through my black tights until I came like a cat in heat and left a wet spot on his jeans. My fingers dug deep through his wild man hair and my mouth devoured his like I was starving for his flesh.
On my knees I set him free and impaled myself on his meat, gagged and drooled and dove down again. A hot, wet mess from cunt to cock we tangled on the bed, and in the dark against the white sheets I found myself at the end of his cock buried beneath the waves of our lust and his long, probing fingers which dipped delicately into my asshole. I was finally where I wanted to be.
And so I came.
Long, hard, trembling, I shimmered beneath him and kissed his neck and growled into his ear. Fuck.
I slept a dreamless sleep, then in the indigo belly of dawn, I nestled in his nook, my ear on his heart and my hand on his warm chubby cock.
Lub-dub, throb. Lub-dub, throb.
Heart, then cock. Heart, then cock. I told him what I felt and heard.
“Really…” he said. I heard a smile.
I rolled on my side, back to his front, guided him in. Our last morning together.
We rocked and rolled and moaned together until we climbed to our knees where he buried himself into me like a desperate man reaching for something. He was in my throat, my middle, my everything and when I felt his fingers pull my cheeks apart I begged him to touch me in my dirty little place again.
He slammed into my one hole and tapped and prodded at the other until my climax shook us both and took everything from me. We flopped into each other’s arms.
“I’ve never been able to do that with anyone else,” he panted. “That angle doesn’t usually work for me.”
“I’m not like anyone else,” I replied, pleased.
“No, clearly not.”
We fell asleep in each other’s arms then spent the morning eating breakfast in the 400 year old inn’s dining room and exploring the garden outside our window. Big shiny crows kept busy in the distance and purple hyacinths grew in the flower beds at our feet.
I had survived my second morning with a man.
On our last day together as we drove north towards his mother’s house I broached the topic of my writing. “I rather like the idea of you writing about me and me not knowing what you say.” I would write as if he’d read it anyway I told him.
“What would you like your pseudonym to be?”
“Jean Claude Van Long Dong.”
I laughed the most this last day, free of worry and doubt, hungry for the moments we had left. We stopped at Hampton Court Palaceand strolled through the halls and bed chambers of Henry VIII, and sat on a bench in the garden lined with gumdrop-shaped yew trees. We kissed as the fountain’s mist kissed us and walked with our arms around each other to the back canal. A herd of royal deer gathered not far away.
It was time to go.
A couple of hours later at Michael and Molly’s he helped me in with my things and said hello to everyone. He could only stay for a minute or two — he was trying to make it home in time for dinner and taking me here was quite a detour.
I stood on the front step, he on the ground. “Thank you for everything.”
“I’ll see you in June,” he said.
I turned to open the door then looked back over my shoulder. He was watching me again. We smiled sadly at each other and I walked inside, saw Molly standing there and burst into tears.
I’m sitting in an airport pub in my town being ignored by the businessman next to me who was shouting into his phone about Walmart and job positions. I’m nervous and excited. I’ll be jet-lagged soon and disoriented.
I had a Who’s on First chat with the concierge of my Gordon Ramsay Thursday-night hotel. “Just so nothing is lost in translation between my American and your British English…” I said.
She still appeared to reserve a taxi for the wrong time, but then sent, “Mr. [sic] Jones, I assure you the pick up time is 1:30.” So despite my best efforts, things were lost in translation after all.
I’ll understand everything and nothing, my skin will prickle at cooler weather and my ears ring with big metro sounds. I’ll be as savvy as I can, a little country mouse in the city, but I will feel small and silly and wish I could stay forever.
If all goes as planned I will get to see old and new friends. I’ll have adventures across the lush green, sheep-speckled countryside –maybe even as far north as Scotland — and across the bustling English Gotham itself. Both my heart and my body will be filled if the stars align just right.
Cross your fingers for me.
Cheers to being in your arms again soon, London.
And Wives, I have a little something for each of you.
I’m 30,000 feet in the air on my way home from Ann’s and I’m fairly certain of three things: 1) vacation dick is pretty great; 2) cheese and more wine, while pleasurable, does not cure a hangover; and 3) I can’t remember a third thing because numbers 1 and 2 have pretty much taken all my brain power and life force. I’m sure I’ll think of it at some point. [Ed. note: It doesn’t happen.]
I could give you a blow-by-blow of my weekend with the ever gracious Ann, but if I jumped into that I’d be missing a bigger, more important theme of my time with her: chemistry — between friends and lovers — and how it’s actually non-negotiable. You can’t turn it up or down, it just is or isn’t.
Ann and I have good chemistry as women, as friends. Apparently, I had pretty great chemistry with the man she calls “Shenanigans.” I also got to see first hand the effortless chemistry between her and a man she can’t explain, Tony. And last night she invited two of her friends over for a night of drinks and chatting and those women also clicked seamlessly into the tapestry of our weekend. Again, more good rapport.
Being so charged with chemistry this weekend has made me contemplate who and what I am as a person. How am I perceived? What is my impact on those around me? Should I be more careful? How do any of us ever find one another?
I arrived Friday afternoon still covered in the sweat and bodily fluids of The Soldier. He’d come over Thursday when I discovered a free hour in my day. He’d plunged into me and dripped sweat down on me as he rode us both punishingly over the edge. We rested, talked easily, and as he was getting up to leave I put him in my mouth and let him bury himself into my skull. When he came, I felt his semen hit the back of my throat and relished the feel of his hands on my head holding me to him.
I didn’t want to wash him off of me and so I didn’t.
Driving home to Ann’s she laid out our plans for the night: we had tickets to an art show of some kind, a little free time to grab a drink somewhere, then we were hitting a club. Tony, her on/off again amour wanted to meet us for the drink portion. I realized then the evening would require I wash The Soldier off of me if I were to be in polite society.
As the night wore on and the purple, pulsing lights cast eerie shadows on the club walls Shenanigans, an old lover of Ann’s, continued to text her from an earlier chat they’d had in the week. She wasn’t the least bit interested, I imagine still on the high from holding Tony’s hand in the fancy hotel bar we’d met him in coupled with just a basic disinterest, but I insisted that he come over and hang out with us. I had no ulterior motives other than just wanting to meet as many people in Ann’s world as possible. And so he did.
By the time he arrived, however, Ann was worshiping the porcelain Gods. I went to let him in and was surprised by how good-looking he was. Tall as all fuck, scruffy looking in a boy-next-door kind of way. I knew virtually nothing about him, despite her writing about him over the past two years; he seemed like such a peripheral character, I never bothered to give him my full attention. Plus, shenanigans. I don’t have to read about a fella to know if he’s earned that moniker.
He followed me up to the living room and I went to pour him some wine while Ann continued to die somewhere around the corner behind a closed door. She soon went upstairs to rest.
We followed her and lay in her bed congenially until I playfully convinced him to take his pants off in front of us at which point his strip of Magnum condoms were revealed. I’m fairly certain that secured the evening for me. And for him.
I took his hand and led him out of Ann’s room, down the stairs and — he told me later — pulled out a great big cock and did what I love to do.
Sometimes I forget that this isn’t what normal people do.
Most people don’t travel thousands of miles to visit their girlfriend and then end up sleeping with an old lover of theirs. They don’t fuck on purple leather couches in the open. They don’t fuck in their friend’s son’s beds. But, I guess that’s the kind of person I am.
Shenanigans peeled off my dress and fondled my breasts. He pulled me up to standing and reached for the condoms while I rolled down my stockings. We kissed again and I felt his erection bob between us, its hard heat far above my bellybutton as he towered over me. He roughly turned me around and pushed in. I held onto the back of the couch and marveled at how we somehow fit even with more than a foot’s difference in height between us.
My breasts swung and I felt an orgasm come up and over me, juices trickled down to disappear at the bones of my ankles. I briefly thought I was glad I wasn’t soiling Ann’s pretty rug or couch. At least I wasn’t that impolite.
Time and space stood still. I wasn’t far from home, I wasn’t in someone else’s living room, this wasn’t someone else’s man. I was just this seething mass of nerves and drive desperate for release and he was the conduit.
He sat on the couch and I climbed up on his lap and sunk down. His pale skin was illuminated against the dark purple leather, his cock buried up to my sternum. He latched onto my breasts and squeezed them. I faced the staircase behind him and saw Ann’s feet, then legs, then drawn, tired face. She smiled and paused next to us. I continued to move on Shenanigans, just a little, as she and I exchanged pleasantries the equivalent of which would be “Hey, girl. You good? Good. Later.”
She padded past us to the kitchen then back up the stairs. We didn’t see her again until morning.
Alone again we laughed at having just been interrupted and turned back into each other. He picked me up and I kept my legs wrapped around his waist as he fucked me while standing in the middle of the living room. An odd sight we must have been, I thought. My long hair draped across us both and he seemed not to exert himself at all as he pumped against me.
I felt like a kid in a candy shop, frankly. Free and wild to be me. He came and let me loose and we wandered naked upstairs where I put my pajamas on and crawled into a little boy’s bed and pulled this giant stranger in after me. I fell asleep instantly.
I don’t have a recent memory of waking up with a man. I don’t do that. I steal moments from busy, scheduled lives, or I run out as soon as we’re done. It felt oddly normal to wake up next to Shenanigans and oddly normal still to let him push into me, his mouth on my neck and lips. I couldn’t stifle a laugh when guilt washed over him. “Man… we’re in her kid’s bed,” he said. I told him to close his eyes and not think about the stuffed animals.
My eyes were closed, too, thinking about the treat between my legs. The great big athletic man rocking away into me as 8 am peered in at us. He was getting close, he said and I told him to cum all over me, anywhere, everywhere.
He pulled out and laid ropes of pearly semen all over my belly and tits. We marveled at his artwork and regretted not snapping a pic. We were both too lazy to get our phones. I was probably still drunk.
I laid there for a few minutes and blinked, reality slowly creeping in while Shenanigans was having reality crashing down hard on him. I mean, the guy ostensibly came over to fuck Ann, but he ended up with me. He didn’t know she couldn’t care less about what we’d done. He was agitated and fidgety. “I’m going to go talk to Ann.” He pulled on his underwear and left the room.
I got up and did my morning ablutions then knocked on her door. He was sitting on the edge of her bed looking uncomfortable. I crawled in next to her and told him to relax. “Tony’s bringing us lattes,” she said. “One for Shenanigans, too.”
I took him downstairs to leave poor Ann alone until our coffees arrived. He was nervous.
“Who am I?” he asked. “How do I explain why I’m here?”
I told him Tony wouldn’t think twice about him, that he’d assume I’d pulled him in off the street and we’d fucked. I couldn’t convince him, my words were useless, so instead I undid his pants and pulled him out. He was hard again and I could taste me on him. He was more fun with his lips sealed.
I licked his warm balls and tongued the smooth patch of skin behind them and dove down onto his shaft until he came with a deep, long guttural moan. He held me to him the exact same way The Soldier had 36 hours earlier.
He didn’t mention Tony again and when they met a few minutes later he fell over himself to explain that he was my friend. Tony didn’t notice as I’d predicted.
I walked him downstairs, told him this might be goodbye forever, hugged him and shut the door. I didn’t see him again.
Back upstairs, Tony had let himself up to Ann’s room and was laying under the covers beside her. I sat at the foot of the bed while Ann rested her head on his chest and he pet the curls at her temple. We joked like old friends and I surreptitiously watched them interact as I regaled them with my tall and sexy tale from the night before
After hearing from her for so long the somewhat torturous entanglement they’ve had I could see why she always wanted more from him. He’s sweet, yet different, quirky; his words tumble out of his mouth with a child’s exuberance; he’s bold and bright.
He’s driven and can become hyper-focused; if she’s out of sight, she’s also out of mind, though not in a callous way. He cares about her. I imagine it’s much how a lot of men I’ve known have been: The Neighbor, The Soldier, countless others easily forgotten. The difference, though, between the forgettable ones and the memorable ones isn’t the effort they put in or the category of relationship that ensues, but the quality of the chemistry, the intensity. Ann and Tony have great chemistry. It’s natural.
All the talk about my raucous night was making Tony visibly antsy, so I left them to their own devices and went downstairs. I sneaked back up to get some socks and could hear Ann’s cries and skin softly clapping. I crept back downstairs to wait for pizza and thought about my chemistry with Shenanigans, all shenanigans aside.
We’d laughed and shared stories and talked like we weren’t total strangers, the mysterious atoms of chemistry doing their work. His oddness was impossible to miss; I could see why she’d nicknamed him Shenanigans.
Later, the two spunky lovers and I ate lunch and cuddled on the couch. My feet tucked under me and Ann’s on Tony’s lap as he watched soccer and explained his passionate love for it. Soon, they disappeared back upstairs and I napped on the couch, desperately hungover now.
Time stood still again as I was once more reduced to my physical needs. I climbed back upstairs and fell into Liam’s bed until Tony came in to say goodbye. We hugged tightly and I went back to bed where Ann soon joined me.
“I asked Tony to share with me what’s in his heart and head.” I only moaned and asked if we were really getting back on The Tony Ride.
Since meeting TN, I have greatly edited my expectations of what a relationship should look like. Brief? Long? Committed? I don’t know — or often care — what it looks like. If it feels good, do it. If it doesn’t, don’t.
By that afternoon I had hardly heard from The Soldier and even been told he would keep his last name private. I could freak out about that, but why bother? I’d rather enjoy what I have than lament about what I don’t have. If I ever really need more from him, I’ll ask and make a decision from there. I like the freedom of being able to fuck some guy while I’m on vacation with zero regrets. I owe no one anything.
I urged her to seek the same kind of peace in order to enjoy the beautiful thing they share and wondered aloud if anyone had ever died from a hangover.
She left to go shopping for dinner and I buried myself under puffy down covers still wishing I were a more normal friend, one with a lower volume in general. When she returned we readied a carpet picnic of cheeses, bread and crackers and first one, then another of her friends came over. We laughed and talked well into the night. After they left I lay moaning on the couch while Ann hammered out a quick post, overcome with giggles. It still felt all very unreal.
This morning, I continued to struggle with my shame over my behavior. Was I going to leave and in the quiet of her home would Ann suddenly realize I was actually a total shit? I squirmed at the kitchen table as she continued to assure me she didn’t care and loved me all the same. As a dissolute, wild woman hearing I am accepted just as I am is a remarkable gift. I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. Thank you, little atoms. Thank you, Ann.
I don’t know what’s going to happen with all the chemically-charged characters from this long weekend of mine; it’s like we’re all a bunch of magnets. Me and The Soldier and Shenanigans and Ann and her friends. The Soldier and I will, for a lack of a better word, soldier on. I’ll see him when I see him. Shenanigans and I will likely be a fond memory to one another, perhaps occasional pen pals. Ann’s friends I will long remember for their amazingly hilarious stories — I hope they remember me as fondly. As for Ann and me, well, I just hope that when she visits me next I can return all the favors, vacation dick included.
I’ll pick her up from the airport, take her to my favorite “first time in _____” restaurant for a really stiff drink then drag her out into the muggy night with me to fill ourselves with more liquid madness and tall tales we can’t share on our blogs. Ann, you better nap on the plane.
As you might recall from Noodle’svisits, my town is not a very friendly one in terms of male attention, so my focus will be on showing Ann the sites and the vibe of my home, not hooking her up. And alas, I no longer have two willing and able neighbors with whom to frolic, so there’s that.
Speaking of which, don’t get your hopes up that Ann will meet The Neighbor. I wish things were different between me and him, but they’re not. The battery has died and the clock is stuck. And Downstairs Neighbor is off the motherfucking grid ever since his exgirlfriend told him she never loved him (don’t ever do that to someone, ok? it’s just unnecessary). That exhausts my list of available men to drink with in my living room.
But you know us. Maybe we’ll find new ones. I never know what will happen when I open myself up to possibility. And martinis.
Am I a good person anymore? Sometimes I can’t tell.
I can say with certainty that I’d help the little old lady in the grocery aisle reach her jar of spaghetti sauce or stop and help someone I saw on the street who’d collapsed. I’d capture dogs running amok on a busy street and I’d happily sit with a lost child until his parents were found. I care for Peyton with a tireless passion and all the love in my body and work hard to figure out my relationships with my sister and mother like a good daughter and sister.
But lately I have also been judgmental and almost incapable of keeping secrets (ok, one secret of one friend, which I shared with The Neighbor). I’m fed up with the decisions my friends (and family) have been making which render them either miserable or powerless or both. I am a woman of agency: if something isn’t working fix it or end it or stop bitching about it. Leave me out of it.
I really and truly try to live by that motto, despite what it may have seemed like with my own life. After all, The Neighbor behaved very badly in the past and many (many) of you thought I should dump his ass.
I was asked by a friend last week why I decided to stay with him through all of that. We’re new-ish friends and we have only hung out 3 times over the past year. Our dates are peppered with lots of personal revelations and artisan cheeses and she remembers our first meeting where TN was being distant and non-commital and probably a huge jackass — such a far cry from where he is today.
“What was it about him?” she asked me, leaning forward waiting for my answer. “How did you know things would change?”
“I didn’t,” I told her. “I broke up with him 3 or 4 times, but he wouldn’t leave me alone. So, I guess he made that decision in the end.”
“But you could’ve broken off contact,” she pressed, her bullshit-meter going off. As a long-time singleton who has increasingly entered a black-and-white way of thinking when it comes to dating, she didn’t understand the complexities of our situation and why on earth I’d keep letting him back into my life, and she wanted to know my secret to what seems like a successful relationship today.
“True,” I admitted, “but it’s a lot harder to ignore a knock on your door than it is a text or a phone call. And, to be honest, it felt good to be chased after.”
And there it was. Was I that friend not too long ago who exhausted her friends and their emotional resources like I feel my friends are doing to me now?
Add to that a growing sense that the friends I do have — many of my decades and longer friendships — feel strangely removed from me. I am a satellite, distantly safe. I’m not really all that involved and I kinda like it that way.
Growing up, my mother taught me that to be a good friend you lavished attention and care on your friends, you never gossiped or shared stories, you exhausted yourself during birthday parties and important events and you were always available when needed.
Today, I realize that is a recipe for disaster because as beautiful a scene it is, it’s a flower-filled meadow with no fence. When do you stop? When do you rest? By my mother’s thinking: never; but by most other people’s: frequently. Which then means you’re the only one going beyond the hills while your friends hang out at their fence replenishing their own resources and maintaining good boundaries and you feel gypped, or worse: unworthy.
So, I’m in a bind. On the one hand I think I have a right to my compassion fatigue, on the other, I feel like a shit person and even worse, a shit friend.
I’m sure a lot of you got this annual report thingy. Apparently, I’m more interesting to some people than Liechtenstein. Go figure.
Here’s an excerpt:
About 55,000 tourists visit Liechtenstein every year. This blog was viewed about 230,000 times in 2012. If it were Liechtenstein, it would take about 4 years for that many people to see it. Your blog had more visits than a small country in Europe!
But my point in posting this is for more than just tooting my own stupid horn.
First, I’ve been blogging for a little over a year now (my anniversary was 12/17) and I’m more passionate than ever about it. I hope I can maintain this kind of traffic and interest a year from now and I want to mark where I am now.
Second, a year in review is always relevant at the start of a new year, so why not? Besides, I have a shit ton of awards and kudos to catch up on that I’ve basically ignored for most of the year (yeah, I’m a dick blogger, remember?).
Third, I also have a blog-content idea I’d like to run by my readers and fellow bloggers. Who would be interested in participating in a bi-weekly column about online dating? Email me at firstname.lastname@example.org if you are and I’ll let you know what my idea is.
Lastly, I wanted to thank all my readers and friends for making this past year utterly wonderful despite the emotional turmoil I was determined to experience. My Internet Boyfriend is incredible, insightful, sweet, honest, and real. I’ve made some real, honest to goodness friends — a fact that I never imagined would come to pass — and I have grown as a woman and individual more than if I’d been left alone in my vacuum of self-destruction. I couldn’t be a luckier gal if I tried. I mean, fuck. It’s just awesomeness all around. Thank you thank you thank you.
So, without being too all over the place, I’m going to list the awards and who gave them to me, but I’m not going to follow all the specific rules. If I have left you off this list, let me know immediately and I’ll fix it and please accept my apologies in advance.
And, because I have all my favorite of favorites already listed on my Dissolutes tab, I’m asking that youleave me the names of one or two of your favorite bloggers that I don’t have on my list so I can add them to my More Groovy Bloggers List (see that below). I’m not going to pass these awards on to 5 or 10 or however many other bloggers because it’s already insanely incestuous around here (and I love it!!), but I want to broaden my reading via this exercise and I want you all to benefit from it, too. Hopefully it works!
It goes without saying to check out all these terrific writers who passed these [dropped] torches on to me, too.
(Goddamn, I’m such a dick.)
Alice, of Story of Alice, nominated me for a TMI Award a thousand months ago. It’s for sharing too much. Probably has something to do with that shat story I wrote about forever ago.
Alice is beautiful, sensual, viscerally cerebral and poetry in 1s and 0s. Her heart is warm and large and her wiles [nearly] legendary. Thank you, sweet Alice (I’ll be saying that again before this post is through).
H.H. is the magical male half of the dynamic, sexy duo of H.H. and Lo. I imagine he wears tweed as much as I imagine she’s decked out in skimpy lace. His writing is honest and searching and extremely readable. I always think he’s keeping something from me. Thanks for thinking of me with this award, honey.
LSAM’s writing can be at once provocative (click on her erotica) and also educational. I always feel like I’ve known her forever when in reality I don’t know her at all. Good thing that doesn’t matter here in Internetland. I like her lots. Thanks, LSAM for the blog love!
This Meta Awesomest Blog Unicorn Award was given to me by a number of peeps: Alice, whom you’ve met, the of late MIA Deviant of Deviant Diaries, sweet, poignant DW of Deviant Wench, and the intoxicatingly interesting Kayla of Sexual Being. Thank you ladies for the nominations! I told y’all I was a fucking dick, right??
This award is in response to the flurry of awards that were going around, I think. It (as I’m sure the others do, too) requires some random trivia. I’ll list 5:
I’m a Virgo, Leo rising. Moon sign is also Leo. Or Pisces depending on which calculator you use.
I like sauces on the side.
My ears are pierced 11 times, but I almost never wear jewelery.
India’s writing is a railroad track through a snowy landscape. You can just make out where it’s going, but you’re not entirely certain of its destination, but you’re excited to see where you’ll end up nonetheless. Thanks, girl, for passing this on!
Their story of how their friendship came to pass is much like that of their sexual journeys: they’re exactly where they need to be today, and their writings are both succinctly raw and wonderfully whimsical. Many thanks!
I think most of us have a love-hate relationship with autocorrect — lots of “ducks” and “ducking” in my world, according to Apple — but every once in a while I think it’s pretty neat. And it got me Noodle’s boobies. Woot!