Last Friday I was sad about Elliot. Sad for what could have been, sad that we’d never be special, sad that it had to end.
I texted him my heaviness.
“Today I’m feeling a little sad that the timing of things was bad for us. I really liked what we were doing: all the talking, the hanging out, etc. It was a sweet and fun 4 weeks in the beginning, a real treat. How you doin?”
“Sorry you’re bummed. I’m OK, doing the back to school thing, getting ready to go out of town for work next week. Making a concerted effort to be in touch with my parents.”
The ol’ “I’m sorry you feel that way” line. It plunged me a little deeper into my sadness, but then something odd happened: I popped back up like a buoy. I had dodged a bullet.
During our ill-fated and brief affair he told me repeatedly that he was an “asshole” and that sex wasn’t that important to him. I couldn’t believe him, outright refused to really, but in the end I had to believe and take action. I can’t be with someone who is so mired in depression and introversion and finds himself incapable of giving even the littlest glimmer of something. And I definitely can’t be with someone who considers himself disinterested in sex. I ignored my exhusband’s claims and that bought me a one-way ticket to sexual misery.
In that same text exchange I clarified our relationship and we agreed we wanted to continue with a friendship and professional association (we have complimentary careers). Relief washed over me, I saw the lighthouse.
I didn’t think about him again until he texted me Monday morning asking for some advice. We chatted, got him sorted out, made jokes. I put my phone down and forgot about him all over again.
Until that night when he texted me again from a remote work destination.
“I’m at a place called Busty Bob’s that has 25¢ oysters. Probably not gonna try those.” It was a reference to our first date where the oysters gave me food poisoning and I had to cut our date short and it was then he decided he wanted me in his life.
We chatted some, he made more jokes, I replied and then it stopped.
Today he’s crossed my mind and I’ve gone to text him several times, but have stayed my itchy fingers. Our friendship will unfold however it should, but in the mean time I’m going to turn towards sunshine, not rain. Like Peter.
Sweet Peter whose aversion to condoms never stopped him from wanting to have a good makeout sesh and make me cum a few times. We met 3 years ago shortly after things ended with The Neighbor. He never apologized or felt bad for not being able to fuck me with his dick, he just switched gears and ate at the apex of my thighs like the whistle had blown and finger fucked me to oblivion while making love to my face with his soft, supple mouth.
We liked to hang out in my hot tub or go for a swim. He bought a pair of swim trunks that have permanent residence on my bathroom hook for whenever he comes over. “Other friends can wear them, too,” he told me knowing I was a busy woman. He was always a pleasure to be around.
He’s tall, 6’6″, 10 years younger than me, has dark hair and green almond-shaped eyes. His body is lithe and pale, his mind quick, and he’s got a hall pass from a begrudging girlfriend who’s my age.
It wasn’t until things with Elliot began to unravel that I threw caution to the wind and on one of our afternoon trysts let him fuck me bareback. I don’t know why I did that – it just felt right – and the results were miraculous. He was rock hard and delicious. He strained to control himself and slowly stroked us both with long pauses and pull outs.
“I don’t want this to end too quickly,” he kept saying.
We rolled around entwined, laughing and kissing during his pauses. He’d say the kindest things and I would squeeze him and nibble his neck careful not to leave any marks.
He filled me up twice that afternoon and we lay in each other’s arms and I told him all my woes with Elliot. My heart was breaking over one man and yet I found solace in the arms of another, so tender and kind.
We’ve met nearly every week since that fateful condom-free week. As the tears fell in my alone time, he filled me up when we were together. The loss of Elliot made all the more bearable for the tender kisses I got from Peter.
Two years and 2 months of driving past his building and seeing his car every. single. fucking. day.
Two years and 2 months of walking to the office or the pool or the gym and, knowing I could run into him, walked that stiff, cameras-are-on-me walk.
Two years and 2 months of never letting my guard down when I go out, of scanning every room quickly to assess his presence.
Two years and 2 months of keeping my head down while I grocery shop because it’s better to be truly ignorant than it is to feign it.
Two years and two months of him visiting my AFF profile and leaving a digital trail.
It’s also been two years and two months since I’ve had the kind of sex that made my body vibrate and weep with abandon.
Two years and two months since I laid my hands on a rock-hard, big, beautiful, long and achingly curved cocked.
Two years and two months since I thought anyone loved me.
Two years and two months is a long time.
The pain has faded, as it is supposed to do, but it’s like stale, lingering perfume. No matter how much I’ve scrubbed it remains.
I’ve allowed myself to mourn, pushed myself forward, carefully kept an eye on what I need. I go to therapy every week and write more words about heartbreak than I care to own. And still, he lingers.
He lingers because I am not truly free. His specter haunts me via his proximity, his fancy black car, even his downtown office. And most of all, he haunts me because I feel violated.
I feel violated that he visits my profile and knowingly leaves the proof of his presence.
He could switch to invisible browsing at the very least (it’s how I operate the site) or he could just choose to leave me the fuck alone all together.
I blocked him for several weeks to give myself a respite from his stalking, to not see him in my visitor’s list, and it felt good, like taking my vitamins — this was good for me, after all. And then I felt like I didn’t need it anymore, like, surely by now I’d be out of his regular AFF routine or maybe he’d have just realized how inappropriate it was and stopped altogether. So I unblocked him.
But I was wrong.
Within 36 hours he visited.
And I was crushed.
I wanted it to be over, to not have to be the one to impose a protective shield. I want him to leave me alone because he wants to leave me alone. Not because I’ve blocked him.
It’s the difference between getting a restraining order and knowing there’s an outside force imposing reasonable thought to someone and your stalker moving on on his own. One feels less safe than the other, I assure you.
The fact that he indulges in his curiosity — or whatever the fuck it is — makes my skin crawl and traps me in this static, hovering place. I feel smothered, vulnerable, sad, confused, angry, violated.
Isn’t it enough that despite making 6 figures annually and having all the financial freedom in the world he chooses to remain at the gates of my life? That he hasn’t fucking moved away? I just signed my 3rd lease. Surely his next will be the one he chooses to not renew, right? Does he also have to infringe on my online world, too??
He could even be reading this blog and I wouldn’t know since I never tracked his IP address when I had the chance. He could be one of the 20 or so local readers last week for all I know. I hope he does read it. At least here I feel in control.
I don’t know how to exorcise myself of him and I feel cloaked in his dysfunctional fog on two fronts: my life in general and my love life.
Will he be at this restaurant with a date? My new gym? Will I ever get to have the kind of sex we shared again? Will I always know what I’m missing?
It doesn’t matter that I have told myself exactly what I’d say or do if I ever ran into him, I still have to think about it in the first place. It’s a part of me I constantly don’t have; it’s always running to protect myself.
He is everywhere and I hate it. And I hate that I hate it.
Luke and I have been talking every single day for weeks now and it is this lone connection that reminds me I have a soft, gooey center beneath my icy demeanor.
For almost two years now my world has been a landscape of slate and black. Jagged, torn edges that have left me bereft and alone. The Neighbor’sabrupt departure from my life shone a light on how I have avoided intimacy my entire life, how its light scorched me like the sun upon a vampire, and in the ensuing months I have bumbled along self discovery and acceptance: I have intimacy issues.
Me, who opens up and shares the most intimate of details of her sexual life with virtual strangers. Me, who entertains gaggles of friends with her lewd stories and tearful sharings of dead fathers and complicated mother relationships. Me, who bares her body for tens of thousands of pairs of eyes and who elicits both hateful and lustful responses in equal measure and weathers them all with unapologetic and not not disdainful aplomb.
Yes, I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again:
I’m a motherfucking mess.
Man after man — 14 this year alone, I think, plus the handful that I haven’t mentioned — have added to the bleak illustration of my life, some post-apocalyptic land where even the lightening bug’s glow is dim. None have given color, none have inspired. I have been free of a muse for too long, drained of inspiration and weighted down by the pressure to impress and be loved by the masses, but I am feeling color seep back in. Because of him.
We may never meet. We may never touch. We may never taste one another, but what has happened is a tiny little fire has been lit inside. The tiniest, just ever so, like the little diamonds in the slim band upon my finger. It is there. I can feel it.
I am no longer filled with dread when I think to write and the words spill out of me much like school children down the sidewalk after school: freely, with some joy, and with purpose.
I tease him about talking to me — he’s far too sweet for the likes of me. “You’re a smooth talker,” he replies.
“Tell that to me when you’re between my legs,” I say. “Then I’ll believe it.”
He persists in smearing color on me. “You’re a great person. You need to appreciate that. I know there’s a big heart within that ice block,” he laughs. Then adds, “For the record, you’ve never seemed as cold as you think.”
I’ve been cast a bright line to the old palette I used, rich in color and light. His kindness, his ever-present warmth, his sweetness. After years of grey to see this sliver of color I find myself almost afraid. Afraid to reach for it, afraid to believe in it. But I can’t deny that it’s there. That little ember, ever so small, lit within me.
As my heart and I move further away from The Neighbor I feel the loss of the most special thing we shared: our chemistry.
Together, in the middle of a dark and swirling relationship the two of us shone bright. We fucking sparkled like goddamned diamonds. Noodle saw it first hand, as did all my real life friends even if not that up close and personal.
I re-read old posts of our times together and I think, That was me? That was us? We did that?? It almost doesn’t seem real.
I was so madly in love with the feelings I had when I was with him it’s hard to sort out if it was the man I loved or how he made me feel. It’s irrelevant now, seeing as how we’ve been over for more than a year, but despite the countless hot as fuck encounters I’ve had since our breakup, none have connected to me on the cellular level like his energy did with me. And I miss it like a motherfucking limb.
Missing it means I’m reminded of him when I come close to it. Missing it means I’m reminded of him when it’s a far cry from what I remember. The feelings I had with him are an ever-present spectre in my life and I am confused and sad. It’s so hard to detangle the feelings from the man, from our stupid, sad “relationship” I constructed out of nothing but tenuous hope and sheer will power.
Bones came over for dinner last night. I made us lobster risotto with a homemade lobster stock and an arugula salad tossed with olive oil, salt and toasted almond slivers. We flirted in the kitchen and he was more open. He grows funnier each time we see each other. It was easy and sexy and he joked about the workout he’d give me later since I’d missed my morning class.
His willingness to come over and spend time with me is so different from most men, certainly from TN, that it pulls up the hurt I felt for years to spend time with the man I loved. If that isn’t irony, I don’t know what is. TN is long gone from my life and a happy, pleasant, eager man is right in front of me and who can I not help but think of?? It’s embarrassing, frankly.
On my couch, brownies eaten with guilty smiles, I leaned in for a kiss. He is by far one of the best kissers I’ve ever encountered in my life and I’ve never looked forward to a makeout session with anyone like I do with this short, muscled man with a shit-eating grin on his face.
Before long I was on his lap naked, save but for my black lace panties, and breasts shoved into his smiling face. I unbuckled his pants and pulled his big cock out and pulled the crotch of my panties to the side and pushed him in and rode him like a mustang and goddamn it if the fucking couch didn’t make as much obnoxious noise as my bed.
We laughed and I panted and squirmed around the shaft in my middle. He hit my thighs gingerly and I told him to hit me harder. He did and I smiled, but it wasn’t hard enough, not like what he used to do.
I raised up off of him and his wet cock flopped on his belly. “C’mon,” I said and pulled him up behind me and led him to my room and bent over the bed, feet wide.
He buried himself in me from behind as I gripped the bedding for purchase and locked my knees against the bed frame. Stars burst up through my limbs and rolled over my shoulders and through my skull. I lifted my feet off the ground and suspended myself on the edge of the frame, the perfect height to his as he slammed into me. He wedged his thumb into my asshole, his moans of pleasure mixed with the squeaks of the bed and my cries.
I came again and little sobs tried to escape. I held them back, the similarity to what I felt with him too much to bear in the moment.
I begged him to cum but he pummeled me instead. I climbed up on the bed and he followed me. Two bumping, humping pale figures serenaded by a rudely moaning bed.
I called him baby, moaned about his big cock, my orgasms, general nonsense. My words incoherent at best, muffled groans at worst. He pulled out and tipped me over and lay beside me. I panted and closed my eyes. My hands tingled like the were pressed on the tips of needles.
I pulled my Hitachi out from under my pillow and swung my legs over his. “Come here,” I instructed and pulled him towards me, his cock bobbed in agreement. His motions were confused. He didn’t know what I wanted. This was a favorite thing for me to do with TN and I hadn’t done it with anyone since him.
We reconnected and he pushed in deeply, thrust a few times for good measure. I clicked the wand on and pressed it bare against my skin. He began to move and he lit me up from within as the wand drilled down from without. I climbed and burst into flames in under a minute and his hips ground into me, so different from him whom I made hold still.
Sobs bubbled up and two tears, one from each eye, squeezed out and pooled in the shells of my ears. I came dangerously close to the feelings I had come to seek with him every time we were together.
I threw the toy away and he swung my leg around him to nestle between my thighs. His face was alight with a smile and I closed my eyes so as not to connect. I never look into a lover’s eyes. Just, never. Even with him, I’d flutter my lashes and only peek at his intense, icy gaze. It was no different with Bones’ dark blue stare, it was like peeking at the sun; I simply can’t bare it.
His smile was the same, though. That grin of total power when I began to toss my head from side to side as his gigantic cock filled me up and choked me from the inside of my belly. He slowed his tempo when I begged him to speed up, just like TN would, and he watched with pleasure as I began to twitch and choke on sobs that refused to be kept at bay.
Legs over his shoulders, folded up under him, wrapped around him. He murdered my pussy until I was a rag doll and tapped his shoulder for respite. He stopped and rolled off.
“Are you going to cum?” I panted.
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Will you jerk off on me?”
“I will certainly try.”
Again, so much like him.
He got up and found some lube and stood over me beside the bed. I put the toy on me again and came quickly watching his hand make a dark blur of his groin. Instead of finishing on me he climbed back on top of me and fucked me until we were exhausted. Still no orgasm for him.
Unfazed — or deterred — I crawled between his legs and sucked and slobbered on him until I heard his voice tremble and his breathing jerk, his thighs tense. He cried out as I gobbled down his cum and wiped my lips on my arm. TN couldn’t do this for me for an entire year.
I climbed up and lowered down into his arms. We kissed and smiled and fell asleep shortly after, comfortable in each other’s presence. I didn’t have to say goodbye wrapped in a robe or see him slip out into the balmy night. I got to fall asleep to the sounds of his breathing and feel his occasional twitch into slumber.
When the storm the weather men had predicted hit 3 hours later we awoke and moved closer to one another then fell back asleep. When the dog cried to be let back in he got up and opened the door for him. When we overslept we laughed and put pillows over our heads and slept for yet another hour together.
When the growling in my stomach forced me from bed I finally put on my robe and got up to make myself some coffee. “Would you like some?” I asked not at all expecting him to say yes; he never did.
“Sure. I’d love some.”
Then later, an almost sheepish request for me to make him an egg sandwich before he left for work.
We sat at my kitchen island drinking black coffee and sharing old pictures of ourselves from high school. I didn’t particularly like that he was scrolling through his phone instead of talking to me, but I suppose it’s just more information to have about him. He likes to check The Chive while he eats breakfast, apparently. Maybe all men do this? I have no frame of reference.
It was a little past 9 when he gathered up his things and kissed me goodbye. My heart felt still, neutral. Neither full, nor empty, just waiting. As he passed around the corner into the morning light I thought about the clench in my chest every time The Neighbor would leave, the pull to wish him back into my arms for yet another minute, another hour, another night. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel that way about another man again. I don’t know if I’m capable anymore, frankly. Or maybe I’ll just never meet another man whose chemistry is such a match to mine.
Either way, the stillness makes me believe I am either healed or broken, both of which I’m ok with. What continues to be a struggle is that feeling of loss, either of what we had or what I wanted to have. It’s like the fading of a scar: eventually, I’ll have to squint to see it, but for now, it’s still visible — he’s still on my mind — and I don’t know how to make that stop except to keep moving forward without him. Just keep on moving. Without him.
The tissue I used to wipe my tears is a damp and twisted Q and my face is streaked with tears and black mascara. I’m crying; little sobs escape my lips like hiccups. It’s pathetic.
He’s gone. Like, really, really gone.
He cried and his voice was a whisper as I convulsed on the other end of the couch not even an hour ago.
“The thing is,” I said immediately losing control once we sat down, “this isn’t working for me.”
“What isn’t?” he asked.
“Our friendship. It’s too painful.”
I told him everything. Everything I’ve written here over the past several months, how hard I’d fought to make our friendship ok, how painful it was to see him change and grow without me, how difficult it was to realize that our breakup friendship wasn’t all that different from our dating one, how it felt on his birthday, how it felt last night, everything.
The pain was overwhelming and my cries tumbled out of me. His face crumpled and his voice evaporated. He stood and walked to the kitchen sink, emptied his water glass.
“What are you doing?” I asked between sobs.
“I’m leaving. You don’t want to be friends with me anymore.”
I wouldn’t let him leave. “How would it have felt to you if I had gotten up and just left you that morning you told me how you felt? That you didn’t want to be with me anymore?” Tears streamed down my face. “You don’t leave now. You stay.”
And he did.
And then he cried more and we cried together, apart. Again. All over again.
He said he understood and wants to support me in any way he can, but it sucks — God, how it sucks. I balled like I’d just seen my dog run over and wondered aloud why he couldn’t just want me back. It was a weak moment for me.
“Hy,” he said not unkindly, “you have to get over that.”
My sobs stopped as I processed my last hope being dashed against the rocks like a bottle of nothing. I lifted my face from my hands, took a breath, and looked at him.
His eyes were filled with tears and bright red. I held his gaze until we broke it together. I know he loves me, but not the way I need. Not the way I want.
We agreed he wouldn’t contact me and I wouldn’t contact him until and unless I felt I was fully recovered. When I can imagine him with another woman and not want to vomit will be my Litmus test of recovery. I have little hope that will happen inside a year or two at the least. Maybe never. I don’t know.
He said he had no idea how I’d been feeling, but felt badly about it nonetheless. “I’ve been fearing this moment forever,” he said. “but now it’s finally here and I know I’ll be ok, but it’s terrible.” The last few words were but a whisper again. My feelings for him and his fears of me ending our friendship don’t appear to have a connection in his mind.
“I knew that this would be harder on you, Hy. I’m TN-Bot 3000, remember? I don’t feel things.”
I felt sad. Like the Tin Man with no heart, The Neighbor knows there’s something missing from his make-up. I wanted so badly to close the distance between us and hold his hand as he admitted his hollowness, but I remained rooted to my cushion.
I told him that he could contact me under two conditions. One, if he wanted to get back together and try again — he chuckled. I smirked — and two, “In case of an emergency,” he filled in for me.
“Yes, absolutely and always.”
“I also reserve the right to call you and you can hang up in my face,” he added.
I shrugged noncommittally.
At some point short of an hour it became obvious I had nothing else to say. “I’m going to go now,” he announced softly. I nodded assent. “One last hug goodbye?” he asked.
He put his shoes on and turned to me with open arms. I was already crying again when I walked towards him and wrapped my arms around him. His chin rested on my shoulder and his arms held me close. I could feel him shudder as he cried and I could hear his whimpers, too. “TN,” I said choking on tears, “this is awful. I’m so sorry.”
He squeezed me and said, “I know. I’m sorry, too.”
We broke apart and he handed me the cat who was attempting to escape. “Thanks,” I said and then he slipped out into the night and past my welcome mat.
My malaise is somewhat percolating below the surface whenever we are apart; when we are together, it’s blown away like a cloud of gnats.
The Saturday before Christmas — after buying him a winter coat — The Neighbor gave me my first Christmas gift: a purple Rabbit. Its cool, beaded body sunk into me while his face latched onto my breasts. It was overwhelming and my body rejected its ministrations. It felt like a cold, little cucumber with hiccups.
So, his cock took over and he fucked me until I cried, pinned me on my back and stared deeply into my eyes as the daylight poured in through my bedroom windows.
He left me in a puddle and came back at 8, his handsome, boyish face plastered with a smile and his big paws holding one of those round fruitcake tins. “It’s your second gift!” he said beaming. I opened the lid and it was a gorgeous, 9 inch dildo.
“TN!! It looks just like you!!”
We laughed and giggled at the likeness and he bent over my chair behind me and kissed my neck and nuzzled my cheek as I covered my face, overcome with emotion and bashfulness.
“Let’s watch a movie tonight,” he suggested. I gathered up my cigarettes, a bottle of wine, popcorn, and of course the dildo, and marched next door. I was quite literally vices on two legs.
I stuck the dildo on the coffee table and it stood guard as we snuggled down into each other to watch Tom Cruise do some impossible mission. Half way through the movie, his cock distracted me and he tugged me back next door with his doppelgänger cock tucked under his arm.
“Why don’t we just fuck in your bed?” I wondered as I followed.
“The vibrator is here,” he replied simply.
Clothes flew off, a candle was lit, his mouth found its way between my legs. His tongue hot, soft and pliant tucked inside of my folds and his five o’clock shadow scrubbed my soft inner thighs. Cock in cunt, plundered. Kisses, sighs, words of beauty. Then two cocks inside of me. I cried out as it burned and I stretched.
I relaxed and breathed around them both. His eyes lit up as he began to move. I drenched the man and the imposter and cried and shook as I sucked them both deep inside.
“Jesus Christ, that’s so tight,” he moaned. I whimpered back and guided his hips to the smallest of thrusts. Too much, too tight. I felt womanly and proud. A baby came through there. I gave life and now I was giving pleasure, showing him something new and wondrous we could do with our bodies.
My tears leaked down my face and he kissed them away and I pushed out and around and then he was alone inside of me. He bucked into me hard and fast and I cried and I felt my ejaculate slip down the crack of my bottom and pool beneath me.
Vibrator and orgasm, hooked fingers, a wriggling, helpless fish I was. I bawled and sobbed and couldn’t think, couldn’t see but for the stars. He hushed me and pet me, made fun of me. I managed to garble out a chastisement of my own, “If you’re going to make me lose my shit all the time, then you are not allowed to tease me. You must only be kind to me.”
He chuckled and agreed and pulled me closer while I returned to my body.
Then, he left town the next dawn and with his absence the cloud of gnats returned. I felt alone and adrift, heard little from him while he was gone, but, I know, more than anyone else got from him.
When he returned the day after Christmas I had Peyton and was slumped with sadness. He’d been texting me from the airports, keeping me apprised of his whereabouts. At approximately the time I’d guessed he’d be home I heard a thud of a neighbor’s door. Five minutes later there was a knock on my door.
“Hi!” he said, coolly, handsome in his new pea coat. “I have your last gift!” I’d forgotten he’d told me there’d be three. He brought his hand out from behind his back and handed me a small, white box.
“What is it?? I can’t open this if this is of an adult nature. I have Peyton.”
“Ok, just look at the return address.” It said something, something Hitachi.
My eyes flew open and I looked at him and squealed. “Attachments?!”
He nodded and walked inside and covertly opened the box for me while Peyton told him all about the Christmas haul. I hugged him and thanked him and welcomed him home.
He stole over later that night when sugar plums were dancing in the room next door and pounded me with his fat, glorious cock and held me and told me all about his awful holiday. We spoke more about the sex party we were planning on going to the upcoming weekend and I continued to feel together, yet separate. Happy and sad. My life is sweet and savory.
Thursday night he visited again, and again I cried and l clung and sucked him dry.
The landscape, the season, the emotional canvas I have with him is not unlike how two magnets work. They’re only drawn to one another when in proximity. When I am separated from him I am filled with doubt about what it is I’m doing with him. Can I handle this? Am I tough enough? Do I want to be? My exhusband thinks I’m wasting time — well, as does everyone else — but he doesn’t know what I get from this. I’m still not sure, entirely.
No wait. I guess I get a sex party.
I also get a sex party pre-party where he fucks me up one side and down the other in our hotel room; I get to hear how beautiful and sexy and awesome he thinks I am; I get to travel with him to distant cities; I get to share his unique sexiness with a wonderful friend and be ourselves; I get to suck on his glorious cock and be taken to physical heights I never knew existed; I get to blow him in a room filled with people where a pile of girls are making love behind me; I get to suck his cock and then let two other girls suck him off as I slobber on their men around a campfire; I get to take a couple back to our room and fuck him while she and I hold hands and our men stuff our pussies; I get to have him devour one breast while she laps the other — soft and sweet on the left, harsh and demanding on the right; and lastly, I get to hear him tell me that he will look back on our time together with nothing but fondness when it ends because, “Before you, I was nothing. I was no where. You made me somewhere and something. I stabilized you, but you made me be something.”
And this afternoon I got to try out what I’m calling the Gonzo Hitachi attachment and when I was spent and my body done quaking I took a picture of it and sent it to him not knowing he was next door. But soon his cock was shoved down my throat and Gonzo was buried back deep inside of me as he told me what a good girl I was. His fingers hooked back inside of me after I came again and he brought me a warm g-spot climax and then left to return to the office.
I am alone for the next two hours until he comes back to me after visiting two of his friends’ parties. I was not invited. I wrestle with how that makes me feel, but then again, I get him for the rest of the night and our plan is to have him buried deep inside of me at midnight with champagne cascading down the swells of my breasts and the tips of my nipples little bubbly shooters to his open, eager mouth. Shrooms will be laced in our tea and we will be on a different plane of being, full, vulnerable and determined to never forget each other for the next several hours. And certainly the rest of our lives.
Happy New Year, Internet Boyfriend. Be safe, love big, and I hope everyone gets their rocks off in glorious fashion tonight.
Thursday night The Neighbor and I fucked each other’s brains out. Friday night I went out with friends and stayed out all night. I came home at 10:30 am and TN’s car wasn’t in the parking lot. He’d stayed out all night, too. Saturday he came home around noon and his car was there when I left with my baby to stay the night at a girlfriend’s. I got home this morning at 9 am and his car is gone again. I know his general habits well enough to know he was with 4 am girl. And I just can’t figure out why.
I can’t roll my eyes enough at myself, trust me. Nor can I identify what it is I’m feeling. It’s not that gut-stab I’d have felt 5 weeks ago, it’s more like a pinch. I think back to all the supportive comments I’ve gotten — particularly from Ella and her similar story — and I realize that my head is still in my ass. I can’t make sense of the nonsensical. It’s impossible.
Can a feathered fish explain its existence?
I have to accept reality and walk away. He doesn’t want to be with me. That is his message to me. Mine to him is similar, though I ache for it to be different. I won’t be with him if he has ridiculous deal breakers.
For me, Thursday night was simple inertia. We’d both been drinking, 4 am girl had been out of town for a week and a half, I hadn’t found anyone with whom I wanted to lay with, and we both wanted each other. It doesn’t prove anything except how stupid we both are; that I have few scruples and he may have even less. Nothing has changed. Dissolute, indeed.
I’m trying to come to terms with feeling smug. When I realized he’d stayed with her Friday night I felt amazing. This morning, seeing his car gone again, not so much. I want to throw up a little on the one hand and hold my head high with the other.
I imagine that he still hadn’t had the official “Let’s be exclusive” chat with her, which is why he was willing to put that gigantic cock inside my pussy Thursday. Perhaps they’ve had that chat over the last couple of days. Who knows? I also imagine that he finally understands, viscerally, my intense, nearly all-consuming desire to keep sex between us going when we were together: because we’re so goddamned good at it. His inexperience always felt like a shackle. If he only knew, I thought, then he would want it as badly as me.
Both 4 am girl and TN have said she’s a prude when it comes to sex. I can only guess at what that must be like for him to go from me to that. Like eating at French Laundry to then munching on a dinner for two for $20 at Chili’s. It’s why I’ve avoided most men since him, it’s why I stopped fucking everyone but him eventually. Mediocre sex just wasn’t worth it. I only wanted to eat at the 4 star restaurant.
I once told him I hoped I haunted him. That when he was with her he’d think of me. “She doesn’t taste like Hy,” “She doesn’t sound like Hy,” “She’s not moving and writhing and crying like Hy.” He’d laughed at the time because he hadn’t fucked her, yet, but I hope my words are burrowed into his lizard brain like a weevil today.
Does this make me a shit? Sometimes I think it does. Other times I just throw up my hands and say, “Fuck it. I can’t help any of this.”
It hurts less and less every day that goes by. Every time I see TN slip up and lose his iron-like grip on his self control I heal a little. I’ve never taken pleasure in anyone else’s discomfort before, but somehow seeing him struggle helps me. I feel less crazy, less alone. That it’s not just me, he feels it, too. He’s told me that his biggest problem right now is his feelings for me. I’m thrilled to know he has them even if he is working to shove them out of his heart.
New men don’t hurt, either. Beefy, but nerdy and I are hanging out again on Monday and we have plans for him to bury his face in my tits. Seriously. I can’t wait to feel his hard, hot skin under the pads of my fingertips. I’ve never been with anyone as muscle-y as him before. Or as tatted. I hope to god I like what’s between his legs, too. Wednesday I invited some hilariously irreverent and somewhat cocky 27 yo to meet me for drinks. Don’t ask me how I learned this, but he claims to be well-endowed. We’ll see. And this weekend one of my oldest and best friends in the entire goddamned world is coming for the weekend.
TN can have his girl. I’ll be fine.
It may seem like there’s an obvious prescription to fixing my life, but I assure you it doesn’t feel that way. I am confused, determined, thoughtful, selfish, and a life-long masochist. This is the best I’ve got. And I swear I’ll try harder to not talk about it in the future. I just can’t figure shit out and it drives me nuts that this riddle seems unanswerable: how do you recover a lost heart? Surely there’s an answer out there, and I bet it says, “Don’t fucking live next door.”
I won’t even go into the roller coaster that’s occurred over the last few days, but needless to say, I raged and ranted and screamed at his deception, his carelessness with my feelings.
He apologized, but stuck to his guns: he doesn’t love me and can’t be with me in any capacity without feeling those things.
We talked for hours, he cried some more, I balled. I told him a tale of a time I felt so desperate and lonely I cut myself. And then, after he left, after that last hug and squeeze and tear, all I could think of was those manicure scissors and I slashed and slashed at the breasts he loves so much. FUCK HIM.
Don’t feel badly for me. Don’t preach to me. We all have valves through which we release and this was it for me. So save it. Don’t tell me not to do this to myself because I feel better about these marks on my body than anything else I’m feeling on my soul right now.