A heart still beats even when it’s laying on the floor.

I cried myself to sleep Sunday night and off and on all day yesterday.  Today, I feel slightly better; no tears or anything, though that gutted hollowness I know so well is lurking behind the bend for me.  I’m trying to stave it off.  I have better things to do with my time than keen like a suffering shrouded woman.

The cold snap that fell on us all Sunday night brings me pleasure, so I’m having an easier time being less crushed than I normally would when I want to skip instead of walk everywhere.  My breasts also look bigger in sweaters, so there’s that.

But here’s the thing: The Neighbor doesn’t love me and never, ever will.

I’ll explain all that later…

First, I need to reinsert my heart inside the birdcage.  Hopefully it’ll stay on its perch this time, the stupid fucking thing.

Breathe, Hy, breathe… it’ll be ok, honey.

I’ll try to keep this short: My life assessed by another.

I don’t mean to ramble, but I do.  I’m extremely sensitive to the lengths of my posts; I can’t seem to keep them under 1000 words.  Typically, they’re 1500, sometimes 2000+.  I should probably rename this blog TL;DR.

In that vein, I will attempt to keep this brief.

My dear friend, Sally, came to visit me this weekend.  She arrived at 4 amid a hot, thick summer’s Friday and left on a beautifully cooler overcast Monday, just after sunrise.  She lived my life for three days and her assessment?

“I’m fucking confused.”

She said it matter-of-factly on my balcony, her long legs stretched out on a chair, a glass of wine in her hand Sunday night.  Wine The Neighbor had brought over for us when we’d run out of ours 30 minutes before.

“Friday and Saturday he acted like your boyfriend and then he disappeared today, presumably to get ready for his girlfriend’s return soon.  I just don’t get it.  He obviously cares about you very much.  That’s clear as day, but he also obviously has no idea what he’s doing.”

Her love life has been in tumult this year.  Her live-in boyfriend moved out one afternoon after asking her what she and her two kids wanted for dinner.  Poof.  Just gone.  They’ve reconciled and moved back in together, but she’s different now.  She’s not going to start telling me what to do with TN because she understands more than most that we all have to wake up in our own beds.  More than half the people in her life think she’s making a mistake taking him back, but she believes in him.  I admire her tenacity while simultaneously remaining skeptical.

But she’s right: it’s her bed she has to wake up in. I don’t have to.  If he ghosts on her again I’ll be there for her and I’ll never say she made a mistake.  She loves him.

So, she looked on me with sympathetic eyes.  “I wish I knew what to tell you,” she said.

“Me, too.”  I took a sip of the delicious Malbec from the man next door.  “This is a death rattle.  All this,” I moved my hands in a circular motion.   “We obviously weren’t good at cold turkey, so now this is where we’re at.”

Later that night Downstairs Neighbor came up to drink with us.  He and Sally were discussing the whole Hy-TN situation animatedly, protectively.  It felt weird to hear two of my champions comparing notes.  Sally’s were now first hand: she saw him offer to make us Sidecars Friday night, saw him grope and kiss me every chance he got whenever she left the balcony; she saw him invite himself to breakfast with us Saturday morning, go swimming with us and play catch with me, tossing the balls high in the air and making big, laughing splashes with me; she saw him say yes to loaning us a movie to watch Saturday night but then assuming he’d watch it with us, watched him help me make it through the movie with loving pats and squeezes; and lastly she saw him disappear Sunday.

Word bubbles of reproach hung above each of them when TN walked back in.

Of course he’d come.  He can’t stay away, I thought.

He’d mentioned his girlfriend a couple of times throughout the weekend; he wasn’t hiding it. I asked him when she was coming back from her trip.  “Tomorrow.”

Sally asked him some more questions about her, just general things like what she did and how they’d met, etc.  She played the supportive friend very well.  Then he mentioned that he’s been keeping her away so, “Hy doesn’t beat her up.” I laughed at that.

“I won’t beat her up, but I appreciate that.  Thanks.”

Sally, DN and I continued to drink.  TN abstained.  I was exhausted from a long weekend of drinking and all the emotional crap with TN, but I still felt playful.  The conversation took a turn and I challenged TN to wrestle.  He accepted and we began to parry.

Sally and DN were laughing and I was thrilled.  Suddenly, I feel extra weight crushing down on me and TN releases me.  I roll away and DN is on top of him crushing him from behind, his arm pressed tightly against TN’s throat.

I hit his arm until he let go and TN slumped to the floor.  “You fucking crushed my windpipe, you asshole!” he hissed at DN.

“No I didn’t.  If I did, you couldn’t say that.”

But the mood was gone.  The men stood and eyed each other angrily.  “Ok.  I’m gonna go home now,” TN spit out tersely.  “Sally, it was nice to meet you.”  He turned to the front door.

“No, wait!” I pleaded.  “Don’t go!  I was having fun!” I turned to my other neighbor, “Goddamnit, DN, you bastard, why’d you do that?”

“What?” he shrugged innocently.

“No, I’m going home.  It’s 2 am anyway,” TN said.

“I’m so, so sorry,” my words fell on deaf ears as I walked him to the front door.  He assured me he was fine, but I felt like DN had crossed a serious line.  TN has issues with being overpowered by someone bigger.  Deeply rooted, deeply, painfully felt.  It was just a dumb prank to DN, but to TN I wasn’t so sure.  His reaction did not match the crime.

He insisted he was fine and left.  I texted him later to check on him and he said I was wrong about the trigger, that I had nothing to be sorry about.  I left it at that.  I haven’t spoken to him since.

Back inside on my couch, DN told me part of why he did what he did: he was mad at The Neighbor.  He was mad at him for hurting me, for leading me on, for cheating with me, for everything.  And he felt protective.  I still felt like he was a big, fat Neanderthal, but there wasn’t much I could do about at that point.  DN is DN, after all.

After I drove Sally to the airport Monday morning and gave her a long hug goodbye I crawled back under my covers and felt like I’d just run a marathon.  She’d noticed I was different Sunday.  I’d told her I was exhausted, that my life (not only where it relates to TN, but other parts, as well) were suffering.  I was not ok.

It’s hard to admit to someone that you’re not doing well.  We’re supposed to be that implacable duck on the water, after all.  But I did and she was kind enough.  She’s been through the ringer herself.  And what I realized in talking to her is that I have stopped caring for myself, as in the self-care sense.  I have an extremely emotionally demanding job and about six months ago — about the time I realized I had feelings for TN — I stopped my self-care.

I no longer went for long walks along the river or went to the gym.  I started smoking and drinking more, eating less; my sleep pattern, while always iffy, tanked.  I am at the end of my rope emotionally speaking and I am craving solitude like a long cold drink in the middle of the desert.

I roused myself from beneath my protective covers and called my exhusband.  “Have you taken Peyton to school, yet?” I asked.  “I think today should be a hookey day.”  He agreed and said they’d be over shortly.

I needed to see my baby.  I needed to see my ex.  Two people who truly love me and care about me.

When my arms were filled with my child and my eyes spilled over with tears my ex asked me what was wrong.  I couldn’t keep it together and started to cry.  He sat and talked with me, heard about my weekend.  “I’m about to go psycho-exhusband on that boy’s ass, Hy.  Seriously.  He needs to leave you alone.  Either shit or get off the pot.”

“I know,” I cried.  “And I need his help to leave me alone; I’m so incapable of saying no to anyone, especially him.”

“If I were you, I would pull back from everyone and everything.  Find something you really love to do; cut back on the smoking and stuff; take care of you.  I know it sounds cliché, but it’s true.  You can’t do much if you aren’t ok.”

His timing was impeccable considering I’d just thought the same things earlier.  We talked some about how Mary had friended my ex-sister-in-law on Facebook.  “That can’t be making you feel better, either, huh?”

“Eh,” was all I could muster.

“Don’t think too much about it, it’s not all roses.”  I looked at him questioningly.  “She doesn’t trust it.”

“But it’s the romantic comedy ending!  I’ll never get that!  TN will never pull an ‘exhusband’.”

We chatted some more while Peyton played around us and insisted on telling us funny stories, then he stood to leave and opened his arms.  I walked into them and he squeezed lovingly.

The rest of Monday was spent with my wonderfully precocious baby who jabbered away at me about the sun and moon and stars, who would randomly say, “Mommy, no one loves you more than me in the whole wide world,” or just a simply sighed, “Mommy, I love you.”  I’d see beauty and love and balance in that precious, perfect face and know that I was finally on the right track.

I never heard a peep from TN.

I’m one step closer, y’all: one step closer to me, to leaving him behind, and to something better.   At least I hope I am.

Oh, but definitely not one step closer to keeping it short.  Sorry, I tried!

I went spelunking and found nothing.

I’m going to wear this dress all week long.

I have a new policy: I will not fuck anyone whose cock I do not want.

That may sound obvious to some of you, but in the past I fucked in order to discover whether or not I liked the penis.  I would bring a man into my room, peel off his pants with my breath held and hope for the best.  I don’t know why it never occurred to me before that I could just put my hand down his pants and leave it at that.  Well, consider me enlightened.

Monday I met Alex at a local bar with the flush of an orgasm on my cheeks.  It’s how I like to pump myself up for dates.  It’s better than a close shave, perfume, or perfectly coiffed hair.  Sometimes I even dip my fingers into my tender pussy and dab a little of my scent behind my ears.  I know it’s there and like Dumbo with his feather I am now invincibly sexy.  Alex got the benefit of this little trick.

I sauntered in wearing my yellow and white dress, breasts crushed pleasantly against the cotton, and spotted him eating french fries at the bar.  We hugged and so began a long evening of banter and flirting.  I literally have no interest in him as a person other than I find him reasonably bearable; when he talks I don’t mind listening.

He kissed me boldly once or twice and we laughed and teased each other.  I hiked up my skirt to show him my firm, shapely thigh (“You like?” I’d asked)  and I scolded him for wearing jeans with a hole in the crotch.  As the night wore on and the drinks filled my belly I leaned over and kissed him, my hand cupping his warm bulge.  I couldn’t feel anything.  I shook it off and decided it didn’t mean anything.

Outside smoking he did his damnedest to get me to share, but he’d just quit and I refused.  He tugged my hair back and loomed over me and crushed my mouth with his inhaling the tobacco lingering on my breath.  Drunker and more turned on I slipped my hand down his pants and righted his south-facing cock.  He moaned a little and my exploring hand hoped that there was more to come.  He felt only average.

Eventually, hunger distracted me from everything else.  I asked him what I should order.  He said, “Whatever you want to pay for.”  We’d been playfully arguing about the economics of dating all night and I wasn’t impressed with his attitude.  “Women are CEOs now!  Women’s rights!”  he proclaimed as a defense.

“There are, like, 6 fucking female CEOs and I still make $0.75 to your $1, don’t give me that bullshit.  And I wore a low-cut dress,” I added to cut the tension. But the mood was gone and he had a small dick and I didn’t care anymore.  It was time to go home.

He led me out of the building, but instead of heading to my car we walked to a darkened residential street behind a movie theater.  We stopped between two parked cars, a white hybrid hatchback pressed against my back as he kissed me passionately.  The cicadas chirped and buzzed overhead as we were bathed in yellow from a street light.

He pulled my straps down and my breasts spilled out.  He sucked on my nipples and I moaned, he sucked harder and I clasped him to me.  I unbuckled his pants determined to get the best out of him, but he was half mast at best.  To his credit he made no excuses, he only fell to his knees, lifted my dress and looked at me with a question on his face, his hot breath on my sex.

I nodded.

He pulled my white eyelet panties down and lapped at my pussy.  I pushed my hips into his face and moaned again.  This wasn’t so bad after all, cheap skate or not.  His fingers delved into me and I pulsed around his mouth, constricted my channel and pushed out again.  I squirted into his mouth and shuddered a little.

He took a ragged breath and stood up and put his fingers in my mouth.  I tasted tart and hungry.  I took his hand and returned it to my cunt, his mouth returned to my breasts and I grabbed his cock again as a woman casually walked by. I looked her in the eye with glazed desire.  She passed 3 feet away and never made a sound.

I pulled him up to kiss me again and pushed him away.  I thought of the condoms in my purse, but remembered my new policy.  His cock, simply and cruelly put, was not up to snuff.

He held me for a minute and then reached around behind me and cupped my sex and massaged my clitoris.  Involuntarily I gushed through my panties and ejaculate ran down my legs to my ankles.  He was speechless as I stood shivering with my legs wide apart seeking balance.

“Ok, let’s go,” I said.  He took my hand as I wobbled next to him slightly cum dumb.  We kissed at my car and I said goodbye knowing it would likely be our last meeting.  He said he’d be at my beck and call, but he’s not what I want.

I drove home smiling and went on my balcony to smoke.  Downstairs Neighbor was on his balcony smoking, too and I invited him up.  We drank all night long laughing at our ridiculous stories (he’d just lost his buttsex virginity – he topped) and I felt free and open.  The Neighbor came out on his balcony to say Hi.  I drunkenly invited him over, but he sagely declined.  I wondered why he keeps coming out to see me.  I wish he’d just stop and leave me alone.  He’s the only one I want and thinking of him with 4 am girl makes me want to scream.

I was supposed to see Kevin yesterday for a good hard fuck, but he couldn’t get away, and I was dubious about getting what I needed anyway.  I had another date lined up for last night, as well, but his work schedule also got in the way.  I’m hopefully meeting a new man tonight for a quick drink while I’m out with friends and still plan on seeing Josh on Friday.

The truth is, I am hurting, confused, lost, lonely, and above all else exhausted.  If TN wasn’t TN then I wouldn’t know when he was out all night or gone for the evening or when he had 4 am girl over and I would likely not be in this predicament.  When I think back on other breakups I could just hole up at home and nurse my heart uninhibitedly.  But I feel like I have an audience, like I’m in a goddamned fishbowl.

I imagine this is so much easier on him because he has someone else to think about, lust after, fuck, kiss, talk to, spend time with, whereas me, I’m just me.  All alone and desperately wishing otherwise.

I can’t wait to be in the next phase of this.  This fucking sucks.

I thank you all (plus a sexy tale).

Cock in hand, hard muscles beneath the pads of my fingertips, moans, sweat, my weeping cunt. We fucked nearly every chance we got for days. Bare cock, warm pussy, cries and sobs interlaced with sunshine, hot tubs, movies, and cock holding in darkened theaters and titty sucking in hot water.

Six am Sunday morning and his headboard shook, I cried out his name, and he flipped me and fucked me and told me how good my pussy felt. When we were done I was so hungry I felt sick. He offered to run to the store and get stuff to make me French toast, or pancakes if I preferred. I suggested we go to my favorite local diner instead. And so we did.

We sat at the counter and I sipped black coffee. He ordered an apple juice. No one goes to breakfast together at 9 in the morning unless they spent the night together. I felt oddly proud to be seen in public with him; filthy in the daylight after what he’d just done to me for hours.

I left him after breakfast to take my puppy to the Greenbelt. I stood in the cold creek water and breathed in the musty spring air particular to this part of the country. Creek bathers and dogs riddled the trails and pebbled shores. I felt centered, back to myself. I used to live next to this trail head years ago and I made daily excursions with my old dog. I was single then, too, only motherless and clueless as to my own true sexuality. But not now. I’ll never be that girl in the creek with her dog again, though, I am.

The last six months have been hard for me. I put the brakes on indiscriminate sex; tried to reconnect with myself and face the pain I’d been keeping at bay for months and years; keep the libertine in me engaged and happy; be present as a mother; and practice patience and lack of control. A tall order to be sure.

And then I met him, The Neighbor. A young, Midwestern man with boy-next-door good looks, and a cock that I literally dream about. He was sweet and unassuming and he surprised us both by smashing down my objections to becoming lovers with a neighbor. Meanwhile, I kept going with Jason, the original lover of the four, but to say we were misfiring is an understatement. I felt like I’d made a commitment to the snapshot and he was part of it despite being flaky and distant when we weren’t together and leaning heavily on me emotionally when we were. If I wasn’t listening to him retell the same stories about his crazy ex-girlfriend, I was listening to lengthy theories that could be applied to his PhD thesis. Or, I was being criticized for my dirty talk. And Phillip, well, the sex and cock were amazing, but that was it. He is kind and gentle, but I never felt that spark. I haven’t heard from him since I told him we had to use a condom next time. I’m more than a little relieved. Kevin and I were supposed to fuck again last week, but after a condomless night with TN I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It didn’t feel right. I begged off, but might keep him in my back pocket for when after TN and I are done. Lastly, Tuesday, my most recent man, was a flop in bed. Nothing to write home about. He was nervous, I was consumed with thoughts of another man. He said ignorant things that turned me off of him. I am done with him; no more.

Juggling the men, my grief, and my thawing heart has built me new emotional muscles. As my readers, you’ve seen the inner workings of my mind and the mess, but I sincerely hope that to outsiders I’ve looked more in control than I’ve felt. I open up here and say my heart’s honest truth whether it sounds sniveling, selfish, or stupid. It’s been humbling to get some feedback, heartwarming to get others, but one thing is for certain: I wouldn’t be where I am today without this outlet and without all of you.

I attribute my past week with my young lover to the growth I’ve experienced: I am relaxed, happy, at peace with having no control. I’m not entirely convinced I want to make him my boyfriend and that realization — that it’s not up to him — has set me the fuck free. I am regularly surprised and mildly confused by things he does. He says he wants to be alone, but knocks on my door in his swim trunks and asks if I’ll join him in the hot tub. He never commits to a tryst, but he’s disappointed when I don’t sneak over. He fucks me without a condom, though he told me it’d “never, ever happen“. He invites me to a matinée, offers to make me breakfast, but talks about when he will “date someone for real”.

I sometimes worry that I will run out of salacious stories for you all if I slow down too much with TN, but then I remember all the ones I never shared from my distant past and the ones from my old blog(s). Besides, so long as his beautiful rod seeks my pussy I will have something to share. And I will.

For instance, I sucked his cock in the hot tub Sunday night. He kept his eyes peeled for the rent-a-cop, I filled my face with his tumescence. He sat on the edge of the tub, his left leg wrapped in mine, his body shielded me from our downstairs neighbor’s eyes in case he went to his balcony to smoke. He giggled and delighted in my brazenness and told me again that the next girl he dates has to love sex and blowjobs. I assumed the other half of that unspoken sentence was, “just like you, Hy.” I offered him a bare breast, my green bikini top pulled to the side, his scruff abrasive on my tender skin. “You are wild. I like it,” he said. And then we climbed the three flights of stairs and went to our respective doors.

Things are clicking, and I feel that I owe you all a big Thank You for helping me get here. So, from the bottom of my dissolute heart, I thank you. Thankyouthankyouthankyou. I will do my best to continue to be honest, disgustingly erotic, and true to who I am: Hyacinth Jones, lover, mother, and woman. My deepest wish is that you all stick around while I make good on this promise.



There’s something wrong with me.

When I participated in the Bare Your Sexual Soul Day I went back to a place that I loved and memories of my exploits with Troy filed my head and my belly.  The men, the cocks, the raw, animal sex where I felt nothing but my hole and my cells for hours on end; the emotional upheaval of being connected to a sociopathic narcissist; and the intense pleasure I received for abusing my body via sex.  It all felt so good to relive those moments, but I was also walking the edge of concern.

Then, a friend wrote of her father’s passing and another friend wrote of his experiences with a cruel lover followed closely by a run in with my mother — who, besides my father, is the lynch pin in my world view and of my personal views of myself.

The first two things are important because I could closely and strongly relate.  I had a tortuous relationship with my father and I watched him die a horrible death.  I know now that I would never truly wish it on anyone because even a man deserving of no mercy should be granted it.  His spectre haunts me to this day and the pain he caused me is often like a cruel friend luring me into complacency only to rear its unruly head when I least suspect it.  And my affair with Troy was beyond my control, my compulsion to fuck him, to do anything he wanted of me, so all-consuming I felt lost and ravaged for months.  It left me in tatters.  And well, my mother is slowly emerging as a villain to my heart and the realization has been devastating.

I’d already begun asking myself Why do I need sex so much?  Why do I like it to hurt? when all of these things occurred  and it has become clear to me now: I have always meant nothing to those with the most power over me.  Who I am and what I am has never been enough and never will be and therefore I seek out connections that reinforce this belief: I wield sex to fulfill the painful longing in my being.

Last night, a Saturday, I had no plans.  Jason decided that our plans were to be cancelled and The Neighbor was going to a party in hopes of getting laid.  The night before, Friday, he had ridden me until I was a puddle and narrated my journey as he put me there.

As he’d slid his cock deep inside of me he said, “First, you get wet, oh so wet,” and he continued to stroke my grateful body’s cavern.

When he pounded me into my sheets he breathlessly said over me, “Then, you get incoherent.  God, I love watching this.”.

We kept going.  He kissed me, stroked me, buried his face in my neck.  I ran my fingertips along the ridges of his back muscles delighting in the loss of my control, the sensations of impalement.

We turned me on my side and his long shaft found new spots deep within me, he noticed it, too.

And then finally on my stomach with my face buried into my mattress I cried and shook and pressed back on him with all my might.  “Ahhh.  The crying.  The last step.”  And he released himself into the condom, waited a few moments and took me up again to where I was nothing but sensations of a collection of cells and heaving lungs and a tear-streaked face.

We slipped on robes and stood on my balcony watching spa-goers below us.  I stood behind him and wrapped my arms around the soft cotten, pet his hard chest and nibbled on his neck.  He turned around and we stood locked in an embrace high above the people below us.

I felt safe and important, forgetting that my feelings had been bruised by his request to start our evening at 10 pm.  I had been hoping we’d do something more “date like,” but that was folly.  This is what I have with him.  I am no pseudo girlfriend, despite my wandering, uncontrollable emotions.

After more belly soaking sex and an orgasm later we were playing poker together.  Chatting.  I said very clearly that I couldn’t rely on him for anything.  That I can’t.  How could I possibly?  He said that was a terrible thing to say and I made it even more terrible for not recognizing it.  Later, in his bed after yet more sloppy, delicious sex I apologized for hurting his feelings.  He said his feelings weren’t hurt.  I was confused.  He insisted he felt nothing about it, that it was simply an offensive thing to say, but I still couldn’t understand the logic.  I said as much and tried to explain that it wasn’t personal.

“If I’m having a bad day, you’re not supposed to be there for me.  You’re not supposed to come and hang out with me and be there for me.”

He said he would be.  Which only has caused me yet more confusion.

We talked about our relationship.  He believes it will go out with a whimper rather than a bang; he thinks it’s going fantastically; I am down to only one lover now and I can’t have it all be up to him, it’s not fair.  Not to him, not to me.  If I’ve learned one thing in my life is that I am too much for anyone and my sex drive is among the traits most delicately – or indelicately – rejected in me.  I sometimes get the sense that TN thinks I think of nothing else, when in reality, I am inundated with thoughts and feelings so much more pressing I can barely function some days.  Like this week.

So, I sat alone last night after beers with one of my dearest friends.  Antsy, anxious, sad, in pain.  The Neighbor, my crush, gone for the  night, and I alone with my thoughts with no outlet for my building release.  I scoured OKCupid, but saw no one of any interest.  I sipped wine, I watched TV, I read, I ate food that tasted like cardboard.  I remembered to drop off my rent check and so layered on warm clothing and walked down to the office.  The cold night air coated my arms and body like salve.  I felt immensely better for it.

And as I stood by the drop box I looked up at our building and my eyes were automatically drawn to his empty, lit bedroom window.  I stood there numbly, dumbly, wondering why I was frozen in place.  I breathed the chill into my chest and felt more pain as I turned and walked away and then suddenly I was vomiting into the bushes.  Hard and fast, with tears in my eyes and a sense of surrender in my heart.  Headlights alerted me of a coming driver and I quickly dashed up the back stairs to avoid being seen such a mess.

I calmly reentered my apartment and headed for my bathroom sink.  Cold water splashed on my wrist near a nasty burn, crusted and bright red, and I expelled the rest of my dinner.  The burn drew my attention and I contemplated cutting myself and wondered where on earth I’d find a spot on my body that TN wouldn’t notice.  And so it came to me that I am truly broken.

I have been thinking about opening up my AFF account again because this calm, this one-man show who has his eye on a woman who has yet to make herself known to him, is bringing me to my knees.  I have aligned myself with yet another person who finds me wanting. I am a mother.  I do not want more children.  He is looking for something better.

I told him last night, while wrapped in his arms in his giant, unbelievably comfortable bed, that if he were older and wanted no children things would be very different.  He was surprised.  I felt relieved to get it off my chest.  I said no more about it.  He shared that he has always worried about my feelings for him, though I have revealed nothing outright.  It has been a general concern of his.  I was somewhat offended by this since I have been above reproach in most things involving my feelings for him: it is a girlish mistake to make this something it is not; he’s never done this before.  He should be the one that’s the loose cannon.  Not me.  He’s never done this before.  He’s young and inexperienced.

But in the end, he’s right, and he has no fucking clue.  Or maybe he does.  This has been extremely hard for me because the better and more brutal the sex, the more bonded I become.  There is something wrong with me.

I want so badly to be enough for someone.  To be the right fit, to fill his heart and his loins with excitement each time he sees or thinks of me.  I want him to strike my flanks, bite me, twist my tender skin and use me until I don’t know my own name.  And then I want him to cradle me in his arms, kiss my temples and tell me what a good girl I am, to fill that black fucking hole inside of me that my parents slowly stretched wide with their conditional love and cruel character, and to tell me that he loves me.

That’s what I really want.

And so I sat on my balcony and dragged on a cigarette.  Slowly, deliberately.  Feeling the hot smoke fill my lungs and mingle with my breath as I expunged it from my center.  I got my leather-bound journal and began to write in my chicken-scratch scrawl.  I wrote of my pain, where it comes from, why it’s there and, ultimately, my hope for mastery over it.  I told myself I could do it, that I would survive.  Then finally with tears in my eyes I wrote, “I love you, Hyacinth.  I love you.  You are enough.  Always enough.”

I have no feelings.

Well.  Actually, I do have feelings.  Mostly they’re apathy, numbness, confusion, sadness.  Yeah, you get the idea.

Not to say I’m depressed.  I’m actually not.  I’m just mourning, which is something entirely different.

And I’ve been mourning like a horny 15 year-old boy watching cheerleading practice for over a year.  It’s kept me preoccupied and busy and it’s served its purpose swimmingly, but now I’m onto a new phase of this mourning business.  If the past year has been numbness, then what I’m experiencing now might be called “warming up.”

Ever since my “snapshot” in September I have slowed way down.  Like WAAAAAY down.  I don’t fuck 4 men in one week anymore.  I don’t meet anyone I’m not genuinely excited to meet just because he has a penis.  My standards for sex are as high as ever and I’ve switched from, “Wow, that really sucked, I hope we try it again,” to “Wow, that really sucked and he’ll never get a chance to do that again [because I deserve better than what he gave].”  (There’s more to that last sentence than what I’ve written here, but suffice to say it’s a positive shift in me wherein I’m not chasing a lousy lover, but believing I deserve more, and letting it go.)

There’s Jason, Phillip, and The Neighbor in my bed these days.  I tumbled with one other man recently, Casio, but he was more of a one-off.  I was horny, he was extremely hot, and I couldn’t think of a good reason not to sleep with him.  Too bad he was obnoxiously bad in bed, lost his erection, didn’t make up for it in the morning, and waved goodbye to me from my doorway.  (At least I got a snazzy Casio watch out of the deal.)

My therapist wants me to cut men out of my life altogether, but I don’t see the point.  Since shifting my attitude about sex and my body I still get a lot out of the experiences.  I feel more when I’m naked and being pounded than when I’m clothed and childless.

Here’s my life in a nutshell:

  • One week I have my kid and I’m plugged into The Universe, myself, my heart, my baby, my future, my everything.
  • The next week I’m childless and plugging into my body, my passion, my sex, men and their cocks, their bodies, their drives and thereby the other side of The Universe.

And prior to September, I was rabid on my childless weeks and occasionally during my custodial ones.  I increased my number of sexual partners by more than 50% in the last year, grazing through the field of ripe men at my fingertips like a starving person.

I don’t have a problem getting men into my bed.  But letting them into my heart is a different matter.  Jason, Phillip and The Neighbor all inhabit very small slivers — more than anyone else has in the past year — and it feels… I dunno.  Ok, I guess.  I’m not loving it, but I feel it’s a big improvement over, say, this summer when I was discarding men like gum wrappers.

I read something today that really resonated with me over at Pervocracy.  She was writing about the difference between slutty and horny and how female horniness makes people nervous and it’s easier to just call her slutty.  I can easily fill the definition of both by anyone’s standards, the difference is I don’t give a fuck.  Call me a slut, call me horny.  I’ve always had a sexual energy about me that makes even a potato sack look sexy if I dared to wear one.  It’s just how I do.  I can’t help it.  But it’s reassuring to know that other people out there are contemplating this difference when I’m trying to actively go from “slutty” to “horny” in my sex life.  To be deliberate and choosy and thoughtful in my sexuality and sex, i.e, HORNY.

Maybe feelings are more connected to horny… I dunno.  In any case, I’m glad they’ve re-emerged and I’m glad to be as horny as ever.