My heart turns blacker: The new rules

I am at that place again.

That place of keening frustration and battered ego, hopelessness.

I had a magical night with a beautiful, charming man Thursday night.  A tall, lean welder.  I leaned in for a kiss at the bar and breathed in his woodsy soapy scent.  “You’re a good kisser,” he said smiling, his eyes locked on mine.

“You’re not half bad yourself.”

“Wanna get outta here?”

I texted him my address and we jumped in our cars.  Back at my place he stooped to kiss me and turned me around and pressed his body against my back.  His hands reached around and squeezed my breasts and I pushed my bottom into his hot jeans.

He pulled down my panties and curled his fingers into me.  “Harder,” I coached.  “More, faster!”  His hand obediently slammed against me and I filled his hand with my juices.  He groaned and ground his mouth down on mine.

We half-assedly pulled our clothes off and let them hang on our ankles and waddled awkwardly and hornily into my dark room.  He said he had rubbers except we didn’t use any.

I sucked on his chubby — it was only two-thirds hard, I could tell.  I was shocked that he could possibly be intimidated, he was stunning.

Six-foot-three, loaded with muscle, bald as a cue ball with a trimmed beard.  This man had no reason to be afraid and yet there he was at half mast.

To take the pressure off — and to possibly turn him on more — I sucked and slurped on him.  I stuffed all of him in my mouth, a very full mouthful.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw a Magnum condom in his hand.

He pushed me off of him and spread my knees apart.  “Please don’t suck,” I told him.  “You suck on me and I’ll die.”  He tried it anyway and I yelped and pushed him away.  “You can only lap at me.  Like an ice cream cone.”

His bald head shone from the moon outside and he lapped willingly at me.  He slipped a finger in me and I educated him to a climax – twice – then hauled him up and grabbed my Hitachi.  He still wasn’t 100% hard.

His pretty face latched on my nipples and I rode the vibrations to a crushing orgasm.  He rolled on top of me and began rubbing his bare cock on me.

“No,” I panted.  “Don’t do that.  It’s not safe.”

“But oral sex is ok?” he countered.

I was out of my mind from orgasm and lust and wondered if forcing him to wear a condom wouldn’t kill the rest of the night.

“Ok,” I relented.  “Do it.”

He pushed into me and instantly got hard as steel.  And big.

We fucked and panted, gripped each other’s pale skin and I came and came again.  I writhed on him, willing him to lose his shit, and suddenly he did in a long, low, undulating orgasm unlike any I’ve ever witnessed.

He shuddered and humped and groaned and cried out and finally fell limp.

“Holy fuck,” he panted.  “That’s… that’s never happened to me before.”

“What?” I asked, my arm covered my eyes and chest heaved.

“I never lose control like that.  I can always wait to cum, but you…” he searched for words.  “You have a magic pussy.”  I laughed.  I’d never heard that before, but ok.  “You wanna take a shower?”

I was startled.  No one has asked me to do that in a decade.

In the shower we kissed and held each other.  I noted his back tattoos and felt shy in the light of the bathroom until he kissed me harder and turned me around.

I spread my feet and let him reenter me, 100% steel once again.  I came with my hands on the cold tile, his hot cock pushing into my body.  “Will you cum?” I asked, my head hung low.

“No.  I’ll have to wait until morning.”

I hardly slept.  The animals decided to make every obnoxious noise in their repertoire and I never sleep well with a stranger in my bed.  Before dawn his alarm went off and he rolled over and fondled a breast and fell back asleep.  I was happy he was able to sleep, the bastard.

But I wanted more and so I stirred and he rolled onto his back.  His abs were hard and rippled even asleep and I marveled at this warm, marble statue beside me.  I dipped my hand below the covers and felt his hardon which jutted almost past the waistband of his underpants.

“Mmm,” I said.

I kissed his nipple and stroked the heat beneath the cotton.  He was fully erect this time, way more than I could fit into my  mouth.  I lathed on him and he moaned and said beautiful things.

I crawled up on him and sunk gingerly down and immediately came.  He gripped my hips and we moved together and I came like a monster on crack, his cock hitting me in all the right spots.  My hands went numb and my hair swung in long blonde sheets, my breasts bounced like manic beach balls and I cried out along with my squeaky bed.

Twice, three times.  Each time I collapsed on him and heaved for breath in his neck.  The fourth time I sat up and giggled, bashful and greedy.

“Do it again,” I said sheepishly.  I felt like a child asking for yet another scoop of ice cream, more sprinkles.  Just more. 

He laughed and bucked into me while his hands pushed my hips down and back and forth.

I came with a hot blue swell and fell forward and half-sobbed into the pillow as he continued to fuck me from below and then with a long, protracted moan, peppered with shudders, he came deep inside of me once more.

He had to be at work by 7 and it was at least a 30 minute drive so while he showered alone I made him coffee.  I debated on what mug to send him with and landed on a travel mug I’d brought home from my folks’.  I’d be seeing him Saturday night and could get it back then.


The next day was Saturday and I texted good morning.  He texted back an hour later saying how busy he was at work and how they’d worked until 10 pm on Friday.  A few hours later I texted again to ask if we were still on for 7.  He didn’t say yes or no, but said he was currently “stuck at work.”  It was 5:30.  I told him my night was his and I was happy to be flexible.  If he was too tired to go out after work (whenever that was) we could chill at my place.

I never heard from him again.


The night I met The Welder I had a date that nearly cancelled on me.  I’d yelled at him about trying to bail 40 mins before a date and he’d agreed to one beer.  He stayed for 2 then left.  The second he left a short, older, round man invited me to sit at his table where for the next hour or so they grilled me about my dissolute life and then he asked me out despite knowing I was waiting for Date #2.

The following night I went out with a 21-year-old who’d also tried to cancel on me due to cold feet.  I’d told him to go to hell and he’d begged me to meet him after all.  I couldn’t call him a man unless you judge maturity solely on how big one’s Polo shirt is.  I sent him home with apologies, but I wasn’t able to bridge the age difference gap.  He was too childish.

An old friend, a man whose wedding I’d attended 9 years ago, was at the bar where we’d met with a work colleague and so I went and sat with them.  They were drunk and became increasingly inappropriate with me; their jokes thinly veiled sexual advances and filthy innuendos.  I felt masochistic sitting there wedged between them and then I began to receive texts from the rebuffed 21 yo.

Honestly I couldn’t stop thinking about fucking your tits the whole time [sly winky face]  Sorry for being young.

I responded with, “Well, I’m flattered, but I can’t get beyond the age thing.  I am impressed with your gumption, tho.”

The men I was with howled with laughter.  “He’s propositioning you!” they claimed.  I didn’t believe them until he sent this:

As a 40 yo you need to figure out how to get past [the age difference] so you can be sexually satisfied.

Lol [crying upset emoji]

[cry-laughing emoji][devil mask]

I kid btw… But really I would like to have some fun sexually [eyeballs looking left] IM 21!!! Plenty old [indignant-huffing emoji]

I didn’t respond until the next morning to give another hard NO.


This morning I felt wrung out.  I’d spent my Saturday night quietly optimistic about The Welder and filled with hope that he wouldn’t do exactly what he did to me.

Last Monday Bones “got lost in a book” and forgot to come over when he said he would.  I told him he was a dick and he agreed.  We haven’t spoken since.

Remington hasn’t returned my texts in days despite his last text being an emphatic “Yes, please!” to hanging out this week.

Men fall into two columns in my life.  In one, they utterly disgust me.  I am buried under an avalanche of men’s lust and equally repulsed by their methods.  The equivalent of them hunchbacked and jerking off all over me like fiends with their foul words and hideous pictures.  Unsolicited dick pic after another, gross come-ons and pathetic attempts to hump me virtually from all sides.  Me, Hy, just my very person in any incarnation I have.

And in the other they use me and lie.  My attempts to counteract such abuse are pointless, however.  The second I step outside the safety of my home I am contaminated.  The Welder claimed to be a human male, but was actually a fucking punchline for online dating and hope that anyone around here besides me acts like a grown up who respects others.


Hy & The Welder chat 1

Hy & The Welder chat 2

Hy & The Welder chat 3::

I fought tears as I purged the darkness of my feelings to a friend earlier.  Surrounded by hipster coffee-drinkers I tried to be invisible.  I feel trapped and hopeless; I can’t not be me, but this level of disregard is more than I can bear.

There is no “fix” to this other than never dating again.  This is dating.  It’s a fucking war of the senses, of the heart, against the clock and all rational thought.  You’d think that finding a man who’d like to be cool and fuck would be easy, but it’s about as equally hard as finding love.  If I wanted to find callous, greedy men then I’d be in luck.  Those are everywhere.

I am distant, I am private, I have issues with intimacy.  I am not looking for a boyfriend.  I am asking to be acknowledged as a human being who doesn’t want anything serious. Why do men think it must be either a serious relationship or a one-night stand?  Why is there nothing in between?? 

I don’t want to be cast away again and again and yet I am.  Repeatedly.

My new approach will be less subtle: Some hoop-jumping and Magnums.  No exceptions.  Since I’ll be used up and tossed in the bin regardless of what I do I will no longer suffer through inflexibility or soft, little dicks.  I will demand what I want and move on, expect only one night with each man who meets my criteria and put my hook back in the water the following day like a good littler fisherman.  And lord knows that I seem to have the fattest and juiciest worms, so I’ll have no shortage of men flopping into my bed, their dead fish eyes staring back at me.

These are the new rules.


You have a new girlfriend. Good for fucking you.

I don’t know who the biggest asshole is here.  Me or you.

I thought about this post as I was driving home, cigarette hanging out the window, my jacket zipped up and my breath filling the cabin of my car.

I haven’t written a post like this in too long.  I’ve been measured, even, fair.  Tonight, I am returning to the point of this blog: it is my space to feel.  I owe no one a thing.  You don’t read me; you never did.

I want to send this post to you, from Hyacinth Jones, not me, not “JB,” the woman you nicknamed and kept on the hook from day one, not the woman who loved you and needed you and sacrificed her own better judgment to trust you.  No, you don’t get to ever hear from her again.  She’s fucking dead to you.  She might even be dead to me.

I want you to see an email from Hyacinth and for your stomach to clench.  I don’t give two shits if you ever open it, just knowing you saw my name would be enough.

I’ve already left the brown paper bag filled with your things after you brought that woman, your girlfriend, to my gym class.  I thought I was unreachable, but I was wrong.  You’ve touched me again, goddamnit.

Tonight I was with Hannah, the girl we played softball with who used to dry hump your leg for kicks, and I was telling her the gym story, the story of your colossal insensitivity.  “He looks too pale, washed out,” I told her.  “Not to be mean or anything, it’s just true!”  I always loved you with a beard.

We laughed, like assholes.  Oh, what assholes!

“I’m still friends with him on Facebook,” she said.  “Lemme see if he’s posted any new pics.”

I agreed that was a fine idea; you hate social media.  I’d been banned from tagging you in anything.  There’d be nothing to see.

She pulled you up and froze.

I took the phone from her and there you were with your arm around the woman from the gym.  Smiling, so happy.  Her caption read:

“Thanks for inviting us to your special day!”

So you attended a wedding with her.  I remember the wedding you were in two summers ago.  The one I was excluded from attending with you.

Another picture of you two at a skeeball competition.  “I don’t like going out late,” I remembered you saying.

And then there were the pictures of you in your Captain America costume and she was a Brownie.  “He’s the best guy,” her note claimed.

Lastly, the one that really twisted into my core, the pic of you holding her close and planting a big, smiling kiss on her cheek.  I read the comments as my friend kept saying, “Put the phone down, don’t look!”

I couldn’t stop.  My heart was still, my guts frozen, my breath even.

The comments were cute and then there was yours.  “What a lucky guy,” it read.

You were at a popular concert venue that I wasn’t even aware you knew existed.  Certainly had I suggested going you would have said, “No thanks!” as usual.

Work dinners, workout photos, everything I ever wanted you to do with me was there in photographic evidence with a pale, brunette, smaller busted version of me. Her smile soft, her arms toned.

You are an awful fucking person to never let me go despite my attempts to end things with you, a man who told me repeatedly he didn’t want to be with me, that I was the wrong person, and I am the Queen of Fucking Masochists for somehow believing that your actions spoke louder than your goddamned words.

Lies, all lies, TN. 

You are a piece of shit and I wish more than anything you could know the depths of the pain you have caused me all these years, the pain you still cause me.

I trusted you when you deserved none of it.  You followed me everywhere, cried every time I tried to protect myself and end our fucked up, lopsided relationship.

Three weeks before you planted that kiss on her plain, pale cheek you were crying in my living room because I was ending our friendship to save myself.

“I’ll support you no matter what, but I wish this didn’t have to happen.”

You were already burying your giant cock into this woman by then.  Deeply, with power, with — dare I say it — love?  You were already looking into her brown eyes and forgetting my blue. What is wrong with you that you could never let me go?  That you could never give me what I needed to heal?  To separate myself from you?

“I don’t want to date anyone, Hy, I swear.  Those women are just middle aged ladies from my workout group.  They’re no one.”  Oh really, TN?? This one has attracted your cock and captured your heart apparently.

You are a deceitful, awful man.

Can I print this out and plaster your fancy black car with it?  Can I vomit my pain into the ether and will you smell it?

I see you’re still on AFF.  Nice.  At least you continue to deceive and dally with others even when it’s not me.  Did you like checking out my profile in late September after we weren’t friends [update]two days ago tonight??  I hope you remembered how I felt around you, how I tasted when you dipped your mouth to mine and how I’d weep with pleasure as you slammed your hips against my soft, white thighs.

Her name sounds a lot like mine.  Do you think of me whenever you say it?  Every time you see her smile do you think of me smiling at you while you broke my heart?

The saddest part of all of this is that you were a step up from my husband; I feel irreparably damaged by my own history and choices.  I knew — I knew — this was wrong form the very start.  Now I have to stop the bleeding, I have to halt the self recriminations.  I did what I thought was right, right??  Or maybe I’m just so stupid I deserved your fucked up, stunted self.

You have every right to move on and love and all the flowers-out-your-ass bullshit, but I don’t think you deserve any of it.  Not one fucking ounce.  You were cruel to me, TN.  Motherfucking cruel.  And selfish to the core.  You loved me and you needed me, but more than anything else, you need to not be a bad guy so you lied and hid and kept the things I needed to leave you to yourself.  Then and even now.

At least you unfriended me on Facebook despite me leaving it over a year ago.  One decent thing out of hundreds of shady, selfish ones.

When you got angry at me for ending our friendship you looked at me, tears streaming down your face, eyes red and raw and I thought, “What the fuck does he want from me?!”  That was your opportunity to say, Hy, you’re right.  I’m moving on and so should you.  Instead you did everything in your power to stop me and to make it as painful as humanly possible, but I prevailed and I left you. Finally.

But still: fuck you, fuck her, fuck everything and everyone.

Fuck this fucking shit.

And again: fuck you.

[Ed. Note: It’s occurred to me since writing this that he couldn’t have unfriended me if I was deactivated.]

Sometimes you have to climb the stairs twice.

Hy heartbroken in TN's underwear
Forty-one weeks ago I didn’t know what would become of us. Today, I know.

By now he’s climbed the three flights of stairs and found the brown paper bag at his door.

On top, neatly folded, is his Iowa sweatshirt.  Beneath it: a bag of his sex toys and lube, 20 or so movies, a blue patterned plate, a blue plastic cup, three pairs of socks, and one pair of underwear which I wore when he had asked for a break from me.

I curated this bag of things carefully; it’s all his.  Not gifts to or from me, nothing sentimental.  I briefly included the black velvet ribbon we used to signify I was in charge and our last dominoes score card he’d signed because I’d won, but I pulled them out.  The score card got tossed and I’m saving the ribbon for the next man.  It was always mine.  This is a simple return of goods.  I am not in that bag.

A week ago tonight I went to the gym to catch my favorite class.  It’d been a few weeks since I’d gone, but it’s like coming home.  The regulars say Hi, the instructor teases me, pushes me to limits I didn’t know I had, and the familiar smell of old sweat and disinfectant signifies it’s time to work.

I’d brought The Neighbor there with me long ago.  He’d quit his gym, joined mine, and began coming to this class with me.  We stood side-by-side for a year, to the instructor’s right, close to the mirrors.   Eventually he stopped coming with me, but I’d kept on and remained in my spot.  Cee-Cee knew I was “Hy on the Right.”

I walked in and caught a glimpse of a man with a familiar build on the far end of the room.  Pale, beardless, bald.  Surely it wasn’t…

“What are you doing here?” I asked stupidly.

It’d been two months since I’d seen him last.  He looked like a ghost: whitewashed without his dark beard, his light eyes bled into his impossibly light skin and shiny white skull.  “Um, working out?”

I was nervous.  We maneuvered around each other, got our gear.  I wondered if he’d set up in his old spot.

I dropped my things and looked behind me.  He was in the other half of the room.  With a woman.

They stood close to one another and talked familiarly, as couples do in the awkward fishbowl of a room filled with mirrors and strangers.

I looked around them.

Their steps were set up of identical heights (two higher than he used to use, but the same amount as hers) and they were set closer together than what non-couples typically do.

I felt like throwing up.

She was roughly my height, slightly slimmer build, small breasts.  Her dark hair barely shoulder length, her eyes brown.  Nondescript.  She’d make a good spy.  When she passed me once in class she looked through me as though I were just any other class member.

I spent those interminable 45 minutes hidden behind a dozen people away and one row up, though regrettably not far enough away to miss that when he should have faced my half of the room to do exercises he instead chose to face her.  The one kid in the marching band who’s lost his way.

After class she waited for him and as I left the room and walked out the front door he was waiting for her as she loitered around a display.  As I drove out of the parking lot I saw them talking near some cars.  Thelonious Monk spattered on my stereo as if to remind me of breaking glass.

I could hardly breathe.  My mind reeled  The code did not compute.

My phone chimed.  It was him.

“Didn’t think you’d still be going to that class!  That was a one time deal for me – just wanted to see it again”.

I didn’t respond.  I haven’t responded.  I’ll never respond.  Fuck you.

He is now in possession of what belongs to him, as am I: I have my heart and a little dignity.  His text sorta kinda apologizing without saying the words sent a message: Hy, run.  Run as far away as you can get from him, from this hurt.

This morning I set the grocery bag in my passenger seat and took Peyton to school then went and worked out.  When I got back home his car was gone.  I climbed to the third floor and set it in front of his door.  The cologne I’d bought him lingered in the cold foyer.

I set a little note on top, “Just the last of your things” it read.

On my way back down I felt the prick of tears.  I swallowed and sat in the car, drove up the hill and continued to sit outside my building.

After almost exactly 10 months since he ended things and 14 months after I should have, it was now finished.

I walked up to my apartment and sat some more.  I sat for hours not moving or thinking.  Heavy, worried, I felt disconnected from the process in general, like I was watching from the outside, peeking in through my own windows.  Something didn’t feel right.

It was time to get Peyton from school, but before I drove through the gates beside his building I detoured and double-parked in front of his stairs.  I ran up, two at a time.  The bag was still there, though the air was clear of his cologne.

I grabbed the crisp piece of paper off of “Iowa,” and turned on my heel.  Instantly, my face broke into a wide grin.  I bounced down the stairs, the sun on my face.

Striding to my car I crumpled it and let it drop to the grass, defiant.  A reminder, like bird shit on a window, that even if you forget they’re there they’ll still do their bird thing to survive.

Finally, I felt light.



The hurt is like bad cologne.

I wrote yesterday that it’s been nearly a month and a half since I last spoke to him.  Every day past the month mark is uncharted territory, a new scar on my heart.

So, tonight, I visited a profile of his I stumbled upon online some time this summer.  He’d written it when we were together because it says he’s 29 in the text (we were together from 27-30) and that he’s “single and employed.”

I went back there tonight to remind myself of the pain, the marrow-slicing deceptions I lived through with him and why I am better off alone and away from him.

And then I think, “If he came back to me, hat in hand, willing to be honest and come clean and work on whatever hurdles we had I might…”

I might do something.

I might yell, I might sob, I might even throw something — at him, but mostly at me — for being so trusting and so loving and so still in love with a man whom I didn’t really know.  I might take him back.

I read others’ pain, Charlie’s in particular, and I feel her words as if they’re my own.  This sense that I have only myself to blame because he was always up front with me: he never wanted to make us real or lasting.

And once we fell in love — at least I hope he loved me — I suspect he did what he had to do in order to remain separate and distinct from me and so he opened or maintained online profiles claiming he was single.

My wounds over accidentally discovering these things are not healed, indeed, they appear to be as deep as ever; I am leery of men and of people in general.  Couple this with my recent experiences of being catfished and basically abandoned, months worth of awful dates and the hundreds of insignificant texts and ridiculous emails I’ve had to wade through and I am drowning in the waters of dating duplicity.  I don’t know if I can ever trust again.  And that breaks my heart all over again.

I was once proud of my ability to trust in the face of adversity.  Now, I scoff at it.  What a silly woman I was.

I scroll through my phone and cringe.  Cocks with big, meaty hands wrapped around them — some of which I don’t even recall — mixed in with my angel’s face, my family, my dog, peppered with more of my iniquity, my tits and ass.  I feel dirty and desperate, powerful and prideful.  I don’t know what I’m doing.

I read an old post of love and lust between us and I question its reality while I heavy-handedly wipe my tears away.  Were his words true or were they convenient?  Did he ever love me?  That question sits on me like stink on shit.

I told him I found his profiles left sprinkled on the internet this summer.  He became angry with me.  I told him they were public profiles and I was curious, I needed to see.  He said he’d never pry at my profiles.

“I need to be hurt so I can move on,” I explained.

“I avoid them because it hurts,” he replied.

“Well, that’s how we’re different.”

The night I told him I could no longer have him in my life he said he might call me despite my rule not to, “Just so you can hang up on me.” I felt hopeful he might, but the truth may be closer to that of me never seeing or hearing from him again. It wouldn’t be unlike the others who slipped out of my life this year, The Russian, The Soldier.  It’s what I expect.

With each passing day I lick my wounds and try to be hopeful and confident, but I am more or less reminded that the men I meet don’t tend to find me all that important beyond my “perfect fucking nipples.”  How many times have I heard the refrain, “I wanna suck on your gorgeous tits”?  Enough, already!

I have tried dating too soon, not at all, and at the right time, but I am only exposing myself to more emotional vandalism.  Tinder and Bumble increased the tempo with which I had to swat away impertinent comments about my looks or willingness to fuck or brought me quintessentially unavailable men.

I found a sexy, smart, striking fellow who spoke attentively to me for hours and drove me home where we made out in the cramped cab of his little pickup only to have him text me the next morning to tell me has a girlfriend.  Fucking great.

Adult Friend Finder passes my way men who want to drink my piss to help with their allergies or men whose drive for sex is so great they seem to forget that there is an actual woman attached to my vagina.

“Why can’t you call me?” the no-name, pushy man asked me last night after sending me washed-out and glistening pics of his erection.

“Dude, because I can’t.”  FUCK. OFF.

I wonder how he’s doing in all of this.  His car is often gone now that he’s a man-about-town.  On the one-month mark my stomach clenched to think he was languishing on some woman’s couch, happy and lazy, periodically getting up to fuck her, to love her.  Not leaving.

That’s the thing: he was always leaving me.  Every day, every week, every month.  Always leaving, always having an eye to get back to whatever it was he was doing at home.  I tried to focus on all the time he did spend with me, but I knew he’d rather be at home.  He’d say, “Hy, I spend more time with you than anyone else on the planet — you’re my favorite person — but yeah, I’d always rather be at home, you know that.”

I am better now that I have shut the door, but I am left with the locusts that made it past the barn door and I struggle to keep them from destroying what I have left inside of me.  I’m trying not to be eaten alive, yet I am the nectar to their greed.

This is not a call for platitudes, simply an honest acknowledgement of the tatters I now seem to call Me.

I want to believe that his feelings for me were real, but as our relationship shrinks into the distance of my life I am left with the humiliating idea that it might have been my desire for it to be true and not reality.  A small, sharp thing to hold in the palm of my hand that I might keep in my grip, to not believe in anything so much again.

I have hidden so much of my pain because I am embarrassed by it.  I want to be stronger and more rational, but the truth is I am not either of those things.  I loved a man very deeply who did not return my feelings in kind and that kind of wound breaks a person, her belief in hope and herself.

I am working on repair, on mending my broken spirit and heart, but I worry that they will not make a full recovery.  Perhaps I will carry the memory of it all with me like a limp and be functional, but obviously different.  Perhaps I will struggle to love again, but never achieve it.  Or perhaps, I will just sit here quietly alone and wait for things to knit back together.

And thanks, strange dudes I don’t know, but I don’t give a fuck if you think my tits are great.  I’m trying to remember it’s what’s underneath them that’s most important.


I can still smell him.

I bet the carpet is still warm where he was sitting.

We hugged by the door, tightly.  “Did you have a good birthday?”

I played it cool.  “Good enough.”  I smiled.

“Well good.”

He let himself out and looked over his shoulder to say goodbye again.

“Bye,” I chirped.

The sobs came as I turned the second lock.

I wished that he’d forgotten something so he could see me like that: raw and hurting.

With every touch, every innuendo, every nice fucking thing he did and said tonight I wanted to break my face open and weep and let the torrent of emotion run out of me like hot diarrhea.

I told him I didn’t know him anymore, that he’s not the man I knew.  “You do yoga now, you hike, you wake up before 9 am.  You swore you’d never do those things.”

He shrugged and said I’d known a different version.

When I told him I was concentrating on inviting people into my life who treated me like I was important he said he was doing the same.  I left it alone, vibrating with fear that he was alluding to a new woman.

At the chef’s table, with the heat of the kitchen on my face and bubbly rosé in my hand, he told me again how he’d gone to hot yoga this morning with one of those people, someone who was positive and hopefully a new value to his life.

I finally took the bait.

“A girl?” I prodded gently.

His face blanched a little as he saw my meaning.  “Yes, but not like that.”

I didn’t believe him for a fucking second.

There’s a woman out there who has convinced him to wake up early on a Saturday morning and go to hot yoga.  I couldn’t even convince him to go to breakfast with me at that hour in 3 years of knowing him let alone fucking yoga.  I don’t care if he wants to fuck her or not.  It’s yet another example of how I wasn’t important enough to him on some elemental level.

I felt my chest constrict and my face fall.  “It’s also why I hang out with you,” he quickly added.  “You’re also a positive influence on my life.”

I stared at my drink infusing the liquid with my pain, leaching it out of my body like a magic spell.  I couldn’t fall apart there.  I nodded and smiled vacantly, but he seemed to buy it.

He’d stared at my breasts all night and flirted.  I looked good: thick, healthy, bouncy.  Men ogled me everywhere we went.  In the parking garage, the waiting area, the mini-mart on the way home.  My breasts felt heavy and I’d cum multiple times throughout the day with a sadness wedged between my legs alongside the vibrator.  I wanted him to reach out to me so badly, to touch my face, to cup a heavy breast, to feel his warm fingers on my neck and his sweet breath on my lips that I feared it was obvious.  But he kept his distance for every minute of the night.  Not one slip; a calculated, iron grip reigned supreme.

We played another game — one I’d win — once back home.  Naturally, he was tired.  I waited for something to shift, for a new attitude to indicate he wanted me back, wanted me, something daring, anything, but I couldn’t bring myself to say the words that burned in my throat.

“Is it natural for you yet to not touch me?” I wanted to know.  “Do you not love me anymore?”  But those words never left my lips.

My plan all along has been to treat myself with this last night together with him, as friends and former lovers, and to take my emotional temperature after.  How did I feel?  Was it excruciating?  Was it bearable?  If it was excruciating, I promised myself I would exorcise the source of my pain, but even thinking about saying goodbye to him forever guts me, draws me inside out and wrings me out.

I feel trapped between complete heartbreak and hope.  I miss him, I still love him, I still want him, but I don’t want that old relationship.  I want this new man wrapped around the good man I know he could be.  The shady, distant man I knew can go fuck himself.  The idea of him with another woman is so repulsive it proves that what I’m doing with him today is not a friendship.  I’m sleeping on our grave.  It’s a lie.

I can’t go on like this.  I can’t expose myself to this level of pain over and over.  I would advise anyone I knew to cut it off, but taking my own advice seems impossible.  Never seeing him again is raw loss, a primal wound re-exposed to the light that I can’t imagine bearing.  But I don’t see any other way through this.  My tears make it impossible to see.

I had the most excruciatingly wonderful night tonight.  He did everything he knew I loved.  We played games, he took me to a fancy restaurant, we played some more.  We talked about our lives as safely as we could.  He touched me here and there in a friendly platonic way.  It felt like lightening.

A sadness hung around us when I hugged him goodnight.  I don’t know if it was mine or his.  Maybe both.  Surely he knows this is hard on me.  Or maybe he doesn’t.  All I know is I can’t keep going.  I just can’t.  I have to end this.  The most sensitive parts of me are becoming blackened bits of shit.  When the tears are dry I’ll cry some more.  Love is the most important thing in our little lives.  I feel its truth in my marrow; it’s not true for him for me.   It’s time to scorch the planes of my aching heart and let it rebuild anew.

I didn’t know I could hurt even more, but I seem to be an endless pit of despair for unrequited love.

That must mean it’s time to say goodbye.


I’m another year older.

The first day of my 40th year is almost over; less than an hour as I hit Publish.

Thirty-nine was a rough year, start to finish.  Being a late-summer baby meant that I spent Year 39 Thanksgiving and Christmas in a relationship that left me feeling hollow and by the Year 39 New Year soundly dumped.

For months after I floundered, desperate to find my footing.  I waited what seemed like a reasonable amount of time and then flung myself into dating to plug the hole that had widened over the course of the previous year, though it was like using a finger to stop the flow through a whale-sized hole.  At least I tried.

Then July hit and the fissures in my heart tore apart completely and I was re-broken.  I felt the loss of Sara keenly, the loss of The Neighbor, my father, my cat, just everything I’ve ever lost seemed to come rushing back up to me in a way that spun me around and hung me by my ankles.

And then I realized I was still in love with a man who didn’t want me and who has told me from the beginning that he didn’t believe I was the right one for him.

Putting the brakes on dating was not only the logical thing to do at that point, it was the only thing I could do.  Being trapped in drain-spiraling, half-assed dating “relationships” only highlighted what I didn’t have.

I wiped my slate clean throughout July and most of August then bumped into an amazing fellow whose boundaries precluded me but who also helped highlight my need to be both Hy and me with someone, and then boom, here I am back in late summer: September.  This has been a lightening fast molasses year.

Today has been both ordinary and extraordinary.

I spent the day with the people who love me the most, my child and my parents.  I worked my body in the early morning on dewy grass and relished the sting of sweat in my eyes as my muscles screamed.  I thought about how I never give up, I never stop moving while a thick, muscled body is pounding into me so why would I stop moving just for me?   And so I dug deeper into my lunges and sprints repeating, “I don’t give up.  Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!”

I also worked my ass off at the office, impressing my boss, then picked Peyton up from school with a surprise cheeseburger snack.  We watched Part 2 of The Deathly Hallows and as we cried while passing each other tissues we also  hiccuped with laughter at our emotional states.  It was magical, no pun intended.  Next was dinner with my parents which included balloons, chilled white wine, blistered shishito peppers, and lots of selfies.  Finally, it was time to come home.  But I was nervous: yesterday I came home and noticed some things were moved in my apartment again.

I checked with everyone who has a key and they all denied playing a prank on me, including The Neighbor.  He kindly offered to help me if I needed him, so when I was a mile from home tonight I asked him to meet me outside my apartment.

We cased my place to make sure no one was there and he watched Peyton for me while I took the dog out for his bedtime romp.  I asked if he wanted to stay for a bit and surprisingly he said yes.

On my balcony, changed into my pajamas of stretched out white v-neck and white shorts we caught up.  He’s trying to be a different man now.  He works out every day, sometimes twice a day.  He’s making friends, he’s being social.  I don’t really know him anymore.

I felt compelled to share how I’d changed, too.  How I had withdrawn from the world over the past several weeks and liked it.  “It’s like we’re switching places,” I said.

Why was I doing this?

He’d texted me a couple of days ago asking if he could take me out for my birthday.  I’d told him I was too busy this week, maybe next weekend.  I couldn’t bring myself to say No completely.

Sometimes hysterical bubbles well up and I want to just end this ridiculous 9-month long experiment of separation.  I still love him, I miss him desperately, I want things to go back the way they were.  But then the bubbles burst; I don’t want that old relationship or that man.  He wasn’t a good boyfriend, I didn’t trust him and I was deeply unhappy.

I’m stuck in longing for something that never existed with a man who doesn’t exist.  It’s like wishing for Santa to bring me a different kind of flying pony.

He stayed much longer than either of us intended and extended a hand to me to help me up out of my chair.  His hand was warm and I was self-conscious as I took it.

We walked to the front door and he opened his arms to me.  I walked into him and he held me tight — too tightly — hips to shoulders, my breasts crushed against his chest.  I rubbed his back with flat palms as he wished me a happy birthday again, sweetly, intensely.

I broke away and wondered what it was he wants from me.  He seems so happy to see me and hold me close, but it makes no sense; like a robot who can’t understand tears, I don’t think he understands his impact on me.  I don’t want this anymore.  It hurts too much.

My 40th year has commenced on a strange note and I am faced with an opportunity to shut the door completely on TN, to tell him how heartbroken I am and how painful it is to see him.  I have finally decided I’m worthy enough to say No, I can’t see you anymore. You don’t get to have me while I hurt like this.

It’s odd even typing those words.

Hi, 40.  I think I like what you’re puttin’ down.

“C” is for…

Hy Cookie Monster 1

Cookie!  Get your mind out of the gutter. 

I have had too much wine on this Tuesday  night.

Tomorrow morning, at the crack of dawn, I’ll haul my body out of bed and to my boot camp again.  The preternaturally youthful looking silver-haired personal trainer will flounce around on his toes and correct my form and I will sweat all the sweaty bullets and feel really accomplished by 9am.

Tonight, I will stay my fingers and text no one, though truthfully, I want to text no one, so that’s good news.  I want to do what comes naturally to me, but I’m sick of being rejected and rebuffed.  

The mathematics involved in dating today exhaust me and infuriate me.  I thought if you dug someone you made sure they knew it.  I was wrong.  You actually do your own thing and think about them whenever.  That’s when you let them know you think of them.  If then.  Maybe not.  Probably not.

I’m so over it.

Hy Cookie Monster 2

I don’t like it when men are up in my grill.  I like the chase.  Everyone does.  So do they.  Me throwing myself at them eliminates the challenge.  My openness, my clarity, my transparency.  It’s a turn-off.  That’s what I’m surmising.

And it’s all I can do, surmise.

I’m not privy to the Man’s Brain Handbook.  I’m getting hit on from all sides and I’m bouncing around the room, not sure where I’m supposed to look.  I just know I’m not biting.  I’m not interested. 

Hy Cookie Monster 3

I’m going analog, though.  No more online dating.  It’s going to be old school for me.

I’ve asked a man out on my softball team, but he appears to have ignored my invitation.  I only have his email, so I had to use what I had.  Cheesy and less than ideal, yes, but whatever.  I’m just not going to be anything but me.  Awkward, vulnerable, awful me. 

I want something, I can feel it.  Can you feel it?  It’s real, it’s wonderful, it’s solid.  It’s also embarrassingly humiliating being this exposed.

I hate it.

Hy Cookie Monster 4

“C” is for completely confoundingly crushingly clueless.


I can’t quite figure my way out of this heartbreak.

I’ve tried dating, I’ve tried fucking, I’ve tried not dating and not fucking.  I’ve created a pretty clear illustration of what it is I’d like to have in my life in the form of a male companion and articulately shared it with several of the courser sex only to, when kindly offered it, wrinkled my nose, shut it all down, and walked away.

I downloaded Tinder two days ago after a 2 or 3 week hiatus.

It was after I had slipped up and texted someone I didn’t want to text, two stupid little words sent out into the ether to be blithely ignored yet again.  I thought it would be better to get some sort of exchange from brand new men rather than beg for it from one who’s already proven himself to be a less than stellar communicator.

First, I wiped out all the matches that hadn’t developed into a conversation dating all the way back to February.  It took me 30 minutes of tapping.  Surely the Tinder Gods can develop an easier way of clearing that kind of shit out of there.

Then I checked in on old chats.  If I wasn’t truly interested I unmatched those, too.  I went from close to 300 matches to less than 75 and I still wasn’t done.  I felt immensely lighter.

Last, I started swiping.  Left for NO, right for YES.  Nothing written in the profile? LEFT.  Not local?  LEFT.  Too young, too old, too fat, too skinny, too irritating sounding, too emo, too bro? LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT, and LEFT again.

I quickly began stacking up matches again and felt some excitement.  I started talking to a 26-year-old soccer coach from Scotland.  He promised his mum wouldn’t mind him chatting up an almost 40-year-old soccer mom.  We jumped to text and I sent his pic to Amy who exclaimed at his cuteness.  I felt the momentum building, the excitement.  I could do this!

He asked when he could see me and I told him I was free Friday.  He was quite happy with himself and we settled on meeting for drinks somewhere between our two houses.  Lots of smiley faced emojis were sent my way.

And then I immediately regretted it.

I don’t want to sit across from him for even 30 minutes.  He’s 26 years old, for Christ’s sake.  He lives with a host family and can never have a sleepover, his tiny man nipples are pierced, something I find rather unappealing, and he’s teaching soccer for a living.  This isn’t the kind of man I want in my life long-term.  It isn’t even the kind of man I want in my life short-term: he’s not The Neighbor.

Just when I think I can open myself up to even the littlest amount of male entertainment I am overcome with this feeling of repugnance.  TN once told me that he had zero desire to date anyone.  At the time I couldn’t wrap my head around it, I was in the middle of my mad frenzy to find someone to fill his spot, but I get it now.  Truly.  I really am undateable.

I feel badly for the men I’m hurting and leading on.  I don’t mean to do it.  I honestly believe that when I reach out or respond that I can follow through with a normal human interaction, but it’s like I am seized with a cramp mid stroke across the Channel and I just can’t go one foot further.

The Lawyer asked me last night when he could see me next.  I optimistically told him next Friday.  Realistically, it may never happen.  He’s just not TN.

I am often routinely by friends for my feelings towards The Neighbor, but I very strongly reply that I am no more in control of my feelings than they are.  If I could figure out how to control my fucking feelings, I would rule the world.  There would be no homicidal rages or deep depressions, no panic attacks and no stupid decisions made under the influence of love.  I would teach everyone how to feel exactly how they wanted to whenever they wanted and we would float along in a goddamned Utopia heavily weighted on the end of the “happy” spectrum with ne’er a sad tear or blemish of unrequited love in sight.

I’m sick to death of hearing myself go on and on about all of this, but I am circling the drain.  I just am.

I’m eating right, exercising, being creative, focusing on Peyton.  I’m doing delectable things for myself that feel like treats along with a few things I know are naughty which bring me pleasure nonetheless.  I’m getting organized, I’m looking forward, I’m doing everything one is supposed to do in this situation probably with the exception of being patient.  I am impatient.

I’m tired of feeling this way, lost and untouchable.  I want to be past this point in the healing process so badly I keep trying to run despite my broken leg.  It’s like I’m the Black Knight and I refuse to acknowledge I’m not fit to fight.  I’ve utterly lost the battle to heartbreak.

I need to stay away from people still, clearly, and I need to redirect my angst whenever the mood hits me to reach outside of myself.  My current plan is no contact with TN for 3 weeks — a whole week longer than I typically last — and then I’ll reevaluate, possibly add on time.  Or maybe I’ll indulge my urge to touch base and see how he is.  I don’t know.

We spent time together on Saturday and it was no different from before.  It was easy, it was sad.  I felt no better or worse.  Naturally, I’ve kept it a secret from my friends, but I just don’t feel like defending myself to them.  It’s my heart and I can care for it in any way I see fit and if that means occasional contact while I figure things out, then so be it.  The heart wants what the heart wants and until I become Ruler of the Universe that’s just the way it’s going to be.


I’m a hot mess and that’s fucking ok.

Hy laying down

WARNING: Post-break-up, bullshit post ahead.

Look up “hot mess” and you’ll find a picture of me next to it.

First the good news:  I canceled my date last night with the nice man who liked to climb rocks from a couple of Fridays ago.  He was totally cool with it like a normal person would be.  We may or may not hang out again in the future.  That’s entirely up to me.  Instead I folded laundry and made different bad decisions on my Wednesday night.

Now, the bad news: I solidified my plans with The Lawyer for Friday, so he’s definitely coming down, I texted The Neighbor, and I texted the Bad Texter.


Hot mess.

Yesterday felt like I’d been holding my breath and I needed to break the surface for air.  Not contacting men felt foreign and weird.  I’m the contacter in all my relationships, romantic or otherwise.  I’m the planner, the follow-upper.  I don’t know if I attract people who don’t give a shit, or if my threshold for not knowing what the fuck is going on is much lower than everyone else’s.  I’m not sure what that’s all about.

It’d been a week since I’d heard from The Lawyer, since the 4th with TN, and the 9th since the Bad Texter who had promised to text me when he got back to town after a 9 day trip.  Yesterday was the 15th.

The Lawyer had left me alone, which I appreciated, and the last things we’d said to each other was to set up our second date.  I pinged him with my first sip of vino verde last night and we firmed up our plans.  He said he’s excited to see me.  It’s foreign to hear and know it’s genuine.  I feel like I’m cheating on TN.

Next, I texted TN.  I was two glasses into my favorite summer tongue-tickling drink.  “Hey” was all I sent.  We texted for a hot minute before my phone was lighting up with his caller id.


“Hello, Hyacinth!” he chirped on the other end.  It felt amazing to hear his voice.

We talked for an hour and as each minute passed I sunk deeper into a strange mix of sadness, light and tension.  We laughed, we questioned, we answered, we joked.  Each time he told me about some new amazing thing he’s doing now, some thing that I wished so badly he’d have done with me, I heard my voice change.  “Oh.  You do that now?” I’d squeak.

“Uh, yeah,” was his flat answer.

Before we ended the call I went for self-flagellating-broke:

“I was wondering how long it’d be since you called me.  It’s been two weeks.  You know, you can call me.  It’d be nice.  I don’t have Peyton right now; I can hang out.”  Gasoline, Fire.  Fire, Gasoline. 

I don’t know how he responded because I was silently berating myself for the desperation that dripped from every word.

We hung up and I lit my last cigarette and sat on the balcony in the warm night awash with regret and shame.  Bits of our chat came back to me.

Hy laying down with one breast out

“Why didn’t you invite me?” he’d asked when I’d told him my friends (formerly categorized as “our friends”) had come over to the pool on Sunday.

“I didn’t think you’d want to,” I’d said.

“Of course I would!  I haven’t seen Amy in two months!”

“It’s been six months since you’ve seen Amy,” I replied matter-of-factly.  “Since we broke up.”

“Oh, right.”

“And don’t you tell me ‘of course’.  I had no idea you’d be interested in anything like that.”

“Well, I am.”

I wish I’d told him I had thought of inviting him and then decided against it.  He doesn’t get to hang out with me and my friends anymore, right?  Right.

I finished the bottle of vino verde and watched more of season 5 of Seinfeld.  At 10:30 I decided to bring it back around to the last remaining man on my radar: the Bad Texter, the fat guy ginger who intrigued me so.

I never told him anything about my feelings and I never saw him after our bacon date.  He shined me on, gave me excuse after excuse, never took the conversation further, and now was clearly not texting me when he had promised he would.  I wanted to have the last word, as stupid as that sounds, so I simply told him, “I still don’t hate you,” and then, “Take care, tiger.”

He’d worried multiple times that his bad texting and busy schedule was making me hate him.  It would’ve been easier if I had.

Naturally, I haven’t heard from him.

So now I’m filled with anxiety each time my phone chimes with a text.  I worry it’s the Bad Texter and that this stupid thing isn’t actually dead like I hope.   Also, I worry it’s not the Bad Texter and that this stupid thing is actually dead like I hope.  You read that right.

Then I’m fearful that TN will discover The Lawyer at my house tomorrow, in my bed, and that I will then have lost him forever.  That idiotic, hopeful part of me just won’t die though I beat her and torture her in nearly every way I can imagine again and again and again.  I am the definition of a sad, delusional, heartbroken woman. 

I’m worried that I won’t be able to get The Lawyer out of my bed fast enough Saturday morning.  Hy laying down with two breasts out

I’m embarrassed that I’m a hot mess, but I’m also not all that surprised.  I’m also pretty comfortable with it.  I’m a firm believer in that wonderful cognitive zen-y thing that we do that whatever it is that I do is exactly what I should be doing.  I’ll figure out the whys later.

I’m not looking for advice on how to not feel this way; I’m not looking for sympathy.  I’m just sharing because it’s one of the things that I do best: I share myself, I bare myself.  It keeps me fucking honest and seeing it on the page helps me understand it.  Like, for instance, I know I need to chill the fuck out.

I understand that this isn’t fun to read about — it’s not all that fun to live — but I want to explore solutions.  I don’t know how to fix all of this.  All I know is what feels right to me and sometimes it looks like Hot and sometimes it looks like Mess.

Hello, my name is Hy and I’m a hot mess.

Images were taken by me while thinking, “I used to send these to TN, but now I have no one to send these to.”

It’s hard to move on when you can’t move.

July 9th was the anniversary of Sara, my friend who decided to leave this world by her own hand.

I wrote two posts about it specifically and re-reading them now I am sobbing.  I miss her and I am reminded of how great her pain must have been in order to remover herself from her daughter’s life.  And then I am reminded of The Neighbor and his role in my life during that time.

The anniversary of my father’s death was the 8th, 2006.  TN broke my heart before, during, and after the 4th of 2012.  I had to put my beloved kitty down the 6th, 2012.   My most-loved grandmother’s birthday is also the 9th and she’s been gone for 6 years now.

Grief is a tricky thing.  There are stages, yes, but they are not linear, nor are they finite.  You might come to a calm place of resolution, but that doesn’t mean you won’t come back around to denial and anger and all the sadness.  I learned this with my father.

He was a cruel, awful man and wasn’t in my life when I got a call from a friend of his one dark February night.  He was riddled with cancer and in the hospital, she said.  “This is part of his plan,” she said tearfully.  “It’s bad.  That’s why I’m calling you now.”

He’d moved in with my grandmother, the one whose birthday is in July, to take care of her in her decline, but instead was struck down with his own illness.  His older brother was dying of cancer, too.  A man who never drank or smoked a day in his life.  My father, on the other hand had dabbled liberally throughout his life.  Funny how that works.

His passing was excruciating.  For him, for all of us.  My grandmother was out of her mind; her older son had passed finally in March and my father, her baby, was in hospice by April.  My sister, mother, exhusband, and I flew out to see him the minute he was there and we spent a week in a boozy, sobbing haze.  I made my peace with him, for him, but left knowing that had he somehow miraculously survived the gallbladder, liver, lymph node, lung, and brain cancer that he wouldn’t be invited back into my life.  But I’d told him he would, because that’s what he needed to hear.

It was devastating on a cellular level to watch him truly disappear from my life; the little girl in me truly losing all hope of ever  having a real father, a safe, loving man.   But go he did, because that’s what happens in life: people go.

Two years later I had to put my four-legged best friend down.  He, too, was riddled with cancer and it was during the mourning of his innocent soul that I realized that grief is stored in the same place inside of us and when you open the drawer to access one file, the others all open, too.

I was confused at the intertwined grief I experienced: on the one hand so pure and loving for my dog and the other so conflicted with rage and loss for my father.

As the beginning of July began to become more and more complicated for me that grief drawer got bigger and bigger.  This year I’ve added The Neighbor’s birthday, the 4th.

I want to slam it shut, but I can barely move, barely think.  I waited all day yesterday for the impulse to write to come to me and I couldn’t lift my hands to press the keys.  I stayed busy with errands and a meeting and a long run in the hot sun under the serenading cicadas.  I ended the day with some white wine, two hot pink Benadryls and a chick flick.

I’ve been crying about Sara and my father, TN and my grandmother.  Even the dog I lost in November of 2008 because he’s in there with all of them.  I feel like I’m living off of sadness like a vampire.

I have dreams about men with giant cocks where I am desperate for it, for them, but the men don’t want me.  Or I have dreams of mistaken identity and I end up with the wrong man again and again, but I scramble to cover and make it all ok.

I made plans with a nice man for a drink tonight, but I don’t want to go.  I also made plans for The Lawyer to come down Friday, but I don’t want to do that, either.  I feel trapped in a place of trying to move forward, but my legs are gone.

I told one fellow who checked in with me the other day, the rapey guy, that I had recently discovered I was much more heartbroken than I knew and that I wasn’t ready to date others.  He sent a shitty reply saying he smelled bullshit.  I didn’t respond.

A friend of mind said something to me the other day that’s been rattling around in my head ever since.

“I’m not surprised that you’re still in love with TN.  He gave you a lot of things that you really value and he withheld some things that, whether you like it or not, you seem to be drawn to the withholding of.  It sounds tortuous and awful — and I’m sorry.  I wish you didn’t have to endure it, but hey, we all endure our shit.”

This is about the most accurate description of my draw to TN that I’ve ever heard.  It’s the combination of the push/pull that has me on the hook.  I can’t get away from trying to solve this riddle.  Why doesn’t he want me?  I must figure it out!  I am like a dog with a bone.  But then he is filled with things I do want.  I wish so badly that he will wake up, stop being a shit, and come back to me.  A dangerous wish, I know.  Like wishing to know what people are thinking.

I’ve been catching up on life, attacking the pile of papers I’ve been moving around the house for the last six months, and in this stack I found the season passes I bought for TN, Peyton and I last summer to an amusement park nearby.  We never went for some reason. Too busy, TN just couldn’t be bothered, I don’t remember.  Seeing his name on the ticket made my stomach clench.  I also came across foreign handwriting on a piece of paper with my budget.  He was staunchly supportive of me when I struggled and he’d grabbed the sheet of paper and jotted down everything I was worrying about the night he’d come over to discover me in a tizzy about money.

I burned them both in the dog’s water bowl and set off the fire alarm for a few piercing shrieks.  I felt empty when I was done, but like it was the right thing to do.

I wish I could burn my desire for huge cock.  It haunts me and reminds me that no one is him again and again.  It’s an exhausting and sad loop.

I haven’t heard from him since our trip down memory lane.  It hurts, this silence, but of course he wouldn’t contact me.  It makes it all the more obvious to me that we were actually never really together.  We never decided to be boyfriend/girlfriend.  I drove us forward after we said I love you and he was the same as always: dragging his feet, not wanting to commit, forever married to the belief that I wasn’t the right one for him.  I can see it more plainly now than ever before.

He never wanted to date me.  He loved me, yes, but he didn’t want to be my boyfriend.  My hope that loving each other would change the direction of our relationship out-weighed logic, clearly.  I was going to muscle us into something regardless of what he wanted.  He was overpowered and maybe even a little hopeful himself.  I don’t know.

So here I am, nearly 6 months from the day he said he wanted a break from me and I am as heartbroken as ever.  I long for a man exactly like him, minus all the bad stuff, thus keeping the loss of him front and center.

I’ll know I’ll have moved on when I can tell myself the man I want isn’t defined by his similarities to The Neighbor, either great or small.  However, that time isn’t now.  Right now it’s July and July hates me.

Fuck you, July.  You can go to hell.