She’s forever gone.

It’s strange how you can be reminded of how alive you really are, I thought as I sat on the toilet emptying my body and holding a tampon in my hand. Absolutely nothing stops for death.

I learned yesterday afternoon while navigating rush hour traffic — racing the dickhead clock to pick up Peyton before school closed at 6 — that a friend of mine killed herself the night before.

I’d known someone had died by the voice of my best friend on my voicemail and I’d had to sit through 3 agonizing hours before I had the space to call him back and then it was only as good as my moving car. “So, I got a call from someone I hadn’t talked to in a long time,” he said. I paused, waiting. “Sara killed herself last night.”

I blanched and tears sprung to my eyes which were riveted on the bumper of the car in front of me. This couldn’t be…

I sat transfixed, trapped in my car listening to the details, the how and the when. Dark and sorrowful details of her excruciating ending. Tears streamed down my face as I thought of her last moments, the days leading up to her decision to do this, her best friend and her boyfriend who were instrumental in getting her to agree to inpatient rehab.

Sara was my friend’s ex-girlfriend. A woman whom he’d dated twice, loved always, and she fought against life like a lioness. She suffered through traumas with willful force, falling hard first, but then always righting herself. Sunday night, her pain was so great it blacked out everything. Even the thought of her daughter’s life without her.

I picked up Peyton and through my tears had to explain why mommy was crying. I didn’t — couldn’t and wouldn’t — say how or why. We talked about mommies and death spirits. Then:

“Mommy, I want us to die at the exact same time.”

I pulled into my Parkin spot and cried some more. Took my baby’s hand and climbed the stairs home, thought about what to feed my child.

Eventually, I sat bound to the commode doing any number of very alive things while Sara was in the morgue, forever not being alive.

Peyton was fed and had been given the ok for watching TV. My baby hadn’t just lost a mother; my baby wanted to veg out.

So, I’d said ok.

With more space now, I cleaned up the dinner dishes and crawled into The Neighbor’s shirt he’d left the night before and tucked myself into bed and cried some more.

I cried because when I imagine the pain Sara must have been suffering to be able to take her own life it feels blacker than death, more sinister than evil. She loved her little girl with the force of the sun; fought for her, nurtured her, bore her into this world with inhuman strength under the watchful eyes of birth’s pain and chaos and fear. And yet her own gaping wound wiped it all out somehow. She was to enter rehab yesterday morning when her boyfriend found her, in a space she held dear surrounded by objects of love, alone. And I will miss her.

She was here in my house two months ago. Her baby and mine were caught giving kitten Faisal a bath. We all laughed as we scolded the children and they looked at us with big round eyes and pudgy cheeks, all innocence to the core. She and I had spent a lot of time together when our children were younger, our marriages intact, yet shaky. The night they left my home she and I made plans to get together again, hugged each other tightly and just assumed that day would come.

She was sober then, looked better than she had in a year. But apparently, it was just the calm before the end.

I dreamt of a tornado last night, in a dark, storm-ridden land. The funnel cloud was only barely visible in the distance against the charcoal grey night sky. TN was driving us to dinner, but when he saw the monster before us, he knew just what to do. He veered off the road and out across a wide prairie (because this was the safest place to go in my dream). He gave me blankets and helped me help others to safety.

Last night when I felt a hiccup in my sorrow I texted him asking him if he were around. He didn’t answer, he just came over. I could hear him and Peyton’s banter by the front door then he filled my doorway. “Hey,” he said and sauntered over to me. “How’s it going?”

I burst into tears as I told him about Sara. He rushed to me and held me tight while I sobbed, then came around and lay with me. He held me some more as we talked and I processed. He jumped when he remembered he had water boiling. “I’ll be back in 3 minutes.”

It was when he was gone that I realized what a salve he was to me, what a gift and opportunity. When he was back under me, my warm, furry pillow, I asked him if he would come back later that night after Peyton was asleep and remind me of just how alive I was, help me forget. He said he would.

Time passed and I kissed and read Peyton to sleep and let TN know when to come over, but warned him I was tender and needed tenderness in return. I felt shaky and uncertain if I was fit for company. He said he would do what he could.

And he did.

He kissed me like a man in love, sweet and soft. He told me I was filled with good things, a good person. He nuzzled me and squeezed my breasts and my heart was full and still and loving him so hard I thought it would burst because I had this life, this love, this baby across the hall, a world filled with people I knew loved me and a heart that sings with the sun and the moon and the stars and my heart cried too for my friend who felt nothing but blackness when there could be so much light, proof of an end happier than her own and then he parted my knees and sunk into my bloody body and he moved even more slowly while I begged and wept for the world knowing Sara would never feel the touch of her lover again, her daughter’s angel kiss, and I moved against him, surrendering myself to the moment of life and love and bliss and the one thing I can always rely on to remind me that I am alive.

And this morning, my heart is still with ache and love and sorrow. I don’t know what to think or how to feel. Do I go into work? What do I say? She was a friend I loved and had known for nearly 20 years, but we were orbital friends, not daily. Am I allowed to feel this way? So distraught and wrung out? I suppose I am because I am. I can’t help it. She was dear to me, an inspiration of determination and verve and now she is no longer, snuffed out like a candle. And by her own hand. It’s just so incomprehensible…

I hope she knows now how much we all truly loved her and that she has obtained the peace she was so terribly desperate for. She was so much more than this awful choice. She was a lioness. But apparently she was a sad and wounded lioness who took the darker fork in the road. It’s a reminder to always seek the light at the impasse. It’s there, somewhere. Always. And I will. I have no choice. I am lucky to not have that demon inside of me, I know. So very lucky.

I love you, S. May peace be with you, always.

 

I had low standards.

II originally wrote this in October of ’10 and I’ve had to update it with more truth. Specifically how he had whiskey dick. I don’t know why I hid that originally. It’s not like he was reading my old blog. Ethan ended up calling me all the time, but eventually flaking out on me. The last time we were supposed to meet was the same night I met Troy. He reminded me that sexual chemistry and promises mean nothing. This is part of my Memories Series, not to be confused with current lovers. This is me reliving my sexual history and seeing what I can find buried in the last year and a half.

I’ve had sex again.

And quite a bit of it, all things considered — two nights’ worth, actually — which sounds inconsequential, but what it means for me is that I’ve found someone I really like, whom I trust, and who has that rare combination of sexual chemistry that really does it for me. This is amazing news.

I met this guy on a whim and we hit it off immediately. He looks like a less muscular Clark Kent and if he wasn’t so damn cool I’d just call him that. I actually canceled my Sunday night date with some dude to hang with him instead. We met at a local pub and I drank Guinness and he had Stella until the place shut down at midnight. We met at 5.

I was so taken aback by his easiness, his sense of fun and calm. We decided to head back to his place to keep hanging out. I didn’t want the night to end and neither did he.

When we got to his apartment we opened more beer and he sat down behind his piano keyboard and started to play. I squirmed on my seat and tried not to feel so overwhelmed as he serenaded me. Eventually, I committed to relax into the experience and let my eyes drift across his bare walls and quintessential bachelor pad. His ex-wife had taken everything.

We sat on the couch and listened to The National and talked, inching closer and closer as we laughed and talked, until eventually kissing was the only thing left to do. We were leaning in together at first, then he stood up over me and pushed me back down into the plush pillows of the couch and kissed me so perfectly, effortlessly, skillfully that my breath was stolen from me. My skin began to buzz and my mind race. I thought, “This is what I’ve been waiting for,” as he continued to stroke my mouth with his tongue and my hair with his hands.

He broke it off for a moment and stood back a little and I breathed with a heavy-lidded, dazed look, “You’re kissing the fuck out of me.” And back onto my mouth he went.

I love kissing. I think that a good kisser is more than just skill. It’s intuition, empathy, creativity, and skill; and this guy had them all. We rolled around on the floor, he grabbed my breasts, I grabbed his cock through his jeans, we laughed some more. Then it was either keep kissing, fuck, or go home, and since it was past two in the morning and neither of us wanted a first-date fuck I went home.

It took 7 glorious little minutes to get to my house where a “Thanks for tonight, pretty lady” text was waiting for me.

I canceled a date with another man Monday night to hang out with him again. We grabbed dinner at his favorite local Thai restaurant and I bought us some wine on the way back to his place. We chatted, but things were cooler. I was a little confused; maybe it was just a one-night thing. He doesn’t have many friends here due to his travel schedule so perhaps he was just looking for friendship?

We sat on his patio and I smoked a cigarette. I was just about to ask him if he was at all interested in a repeat of the previous night when he says, “I have no game, and no idea if a woman is ever interested in me. I don’t know if I should ever make the first move.” That was all I needed and told him as much. I got out of my chair and held his jaw in my hands and kissed him deeply. My body tingled as he kissed me back. I straddled him and he wrapped his arms around me and squeezed. I melted into him.

We went inside and tore each other’s clothes off. His cock was beautiful, his balls soft like buttery, kid-gloves. I wrapped my mouth around him and tried to show a little bit of how much I enjoyed him; not really knowing whether or not our swift slide into sex would really be enough. Then, surprisingly, he pushed me back and spread my knees and suckled and kissed my pussy like it was honey. He made little grunts of pleasure and hummed into my curls. I looked down past the swell of my breasts to see him alternately watching me intently and with his eyes closed in pleasure.

He sat up, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and started ravaging my mouth again. I purred at the taste of my own juices. He broke off for a moment and was back over me, bare, the head of his cock pushing at me. Then he sunk in deep and long. We both sighed.

Why was I fucking him without a condom?? And then he stopped and I couldn’t feel him anymore.

He pulled out and shrunk away from me. I was afraid to say anything. He seemed tortured. I ventured something, but he cut me off with a, “Please, don’t… this has never happened before. Just give me a minute.” I waited patiently while he stroked himself and abruptly he was back and launched himself into me.

His thrusts were as relentless as the kissing had been 5 minutes before. He flipped me over and onto the ground, never breaking contact and got better resistance against the floor.

Suddenly it was over, and all too soon. It wasn’t even close to great. He went soft, was temperamental and slightly cruel about his erection, and then only went for his finish line before he lost it. My expectations for sex are highly metaphysical and an orgasm is never my goal, but even I felt used after that.

I pulled my dress back on and we smoked another cigarette. It was extremely late again and I went home exhausted where I jacked off with my vibe.

He left town for work the next day, but we made plans for him to stop by my house when he got home Thursday night. I got a text at 11:30 pm that said, “Ding dong” and I opened my door and there he was. All 6′ 1″ of him in a black suit and tie and an adorable smirk on his face. I gave him a tour of the house, but my hopes of immediate sex were dashed when I sensed some shyness from him, but I didn’t really care.

I gave him the six pack of Stella I’d bought for him for the next day to celebrate his divorce becoming final and I opened a bottle of wine. Fifteen minutes in his phone rings and he excuses himself. It’s a woman he’s been seeing out of town and someone he’s been having a difficult time with. I can hear her voice on the other end asking him if he wanted to go to Miami with her. He’s rolling his eyes and making pained faces. He’s doing damage control for standing her up earlier in the week.

For whatever reason, I see this as my chance to shine. I give him a look and bend over and untie his shoes, peel off his socks. Next I loosen his tie and pull his shirt out; unbuckle his pants, zip down the fly and pull out his hard cock. His voice is cracking as he speaks, my lips are smiling around his heat. I start to suck in earnest, then come up to whisper in the ear without the phone to it, “You better get off the phone.”

I have no idea how he hangs up, but he does and I pull his pants off the rest of the way and lead him into my bedroom. My bedroom that I’ve so thoroughly reclaimed as my own. My bedroom with the brand new sheets and rearranged belongings. We tumble onto the bed and fuck passionately. We talk and lay around, drink some more, have a cigarette and end up back in bed. We decide that we’ll be each other’s #1; that we both want the relationship trappings, but not the commitment. I’m over the moon. I’ve found my motherfucking unicorn. “Now,” I tell him, “I just need two more.”

He laughs, “You want a stable of ponies!”

“Yep. Pretty much!”

I don’t remember how we fell asleep. I just remember waking up in his arms and feeling his long, muscular legs next to mine. I slid my hand down his belly to the soft nest of hair where his semi-aroused cock lay peacefully. I wrapped my hand around it and stroked until it was rock hard, then pushed him onto his back and straddled him; slid him deep inside me. His eyes were still closed and he was moaning softly.

I rocked on him and kissed his ears and neck. I worried a little that maybe he might want to sleep, but continued anyway. His cock hit my g-spot and I started to giggle as I always do. I reached under my bed and grabbed my vibrator and sat up tall on top of him and placed it on my clit. He moaned a curious, “Oh??” sort of sound as the vibrations hit his pelvis. I came hard with him inside of me and shuddered forward, took a few breaths then lifted off of him, and dove onto his cock with gusto, my scent filling my nostrils.

I sucked and fondled and teased for only a few moments until I felt his cum hit my mouth with a hot rush; his body tense and shivering. He pulled me up and said, “That is my favorite way to wake up.” Funny thing is, it’s one of my favorite ways of waking up a man. Lucky us.

I left to go make us breakfast and let him sleep. He hasn’t had anyone make him breakfast in years. I haven’t had anyone eat a breakfast I made and truly appreciate it in years. It was a win-win.

That was the last time I saw him and I won’t have the chance to see him again for another two weeks, next Thursday, and even then I’m not sure how that will work. I have my kid that weekend and week he gets back. But I don’t even really care.

If there’s one thing all of this is teaching me is that life, at least some parts of it, are extremely temporary and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s up to us to take meaning out of our lives no matter how short or long an experience.

He and I text frequently and I know he thinks about me — something I’m still shocked about, I mean, why does anyone think about me?? I have no idea — and he’s said some amazing things to me like he expects us to know each other for a long, long time; that I’m awesome; that I’m a “sexy beast”; that he’ll call me if he ever needs to talk to someone. I have no way of knowing if any of this is true, but my new found zen about the whole thing is telling me to take it for what it’s worth and enjoy the sounds of the words in the moment even if they never come to fruition.

[Post script: My hope and naivete runneth over. This is where the walls start to go up, up, up. I never did see that guy again, but it mattered little. I was knee-deep into Troy.]

I have dreams that come true.

Good lighting. Who knew?

I’m sitting at an outdoor cafe dappled in shade, a cigarette dangling out of my mouth.  I have on a white v-neck shirt and a black and grey striped cotton skirt, high-heeled wedge sandals and a black bra.  My new short bob is gently blowing in the breeze and my stylist will be hearing from at least 3 of my friends since she worked her magic on me last Saturday to memorialize my heartbreak.

I have a sequined work bag and a large navy purse tossed on the picnic table and notebooks strewn about.  I ran into a colleague earlier and went and said hi.  Shook his hand and made nice, long eye contact with his cute, nerdy (and sadly married) friend.  I’ve made some phone calls, done some research.  Fidgeted.  I look like somebody, I’m sure, but feel like nobody.  And I can feel my naked pussy expel its juices on the hard bench beneath my bottom.

I am ready.  It’s the second day of my cycle, the worst week of the month for me.  I’m like a mare in heat.  I pulse, I drip, I devour with my eyes, my sashay, my curves.  I want cock.  And bad.  And how lucky am I that I no longer have one at my immediate disposal?  Ah, sarcasm.

I have a second date tonight with Alex.  Our first date went swimmingly enough.  He’s rough around the edges, lanky, suggestive.  Not overly handsome — like I like my men — but self-assured and goddamned funny.  We laughed so hard I cried and he kissed with passion and verve.

I plan on going spelunking in his pants at the bar tonight.  I will not have sex with a man who isn’t big enough to fill me up.  I tend to have better luck than most women when it comes to attracting well-endowed men, though, so I’m not too worried.  Hate me, call me shallow, call me whatever you want, but I have a deep well and an even deeper need to be filled up and split wide open and that can only happen if he has a baby arm between his legs.  I don’t discriminate based on height or skin color, but I do on cock size.  Sue me.

When I ended things with Troy I never thought I’d find anything remotely as amazing as him as a lover.  He worked my body like an instrument and he was the master musician.  He made my body do things I didn’t know it was capable of, taught me to control it and to wield its new tricks.  I mourned and searched for months for a replacement.  Enter, The Neighbor.

The boy next door with a giant cock and the innate skill to learn and grow with me.  I feel like a shallow little asshole for missing that more than anything right now.  Yes, he’d become my closest and best friend and I miss that desperately, but we’ve begun the slow march to repairing that.  The sex, however, I have lost, and my heart and pussy are bleak at the prospect.

When TN came over the other night, at his initiation, and I told him everything about 4 am girl he spanked my legs and I told him not to touch me.  It was too thrilling.  We barely flirted, but my pussy clenched and pulsed at the memory.  My breasts jiggled under their white v-neck, my thick, curvy legs peeped out of little ruffled pj shorts.  It wasn’t my plan to be dressed so when I saw him next.  It just happened.

The last morning we were together I told him about a dream I’d had that night.  We were rolling around in his bed, tangled in sheets, when I felt something slither on my legs.  I reached down and pulled out a black and red silk  nightgown; lacy on top with spaghetti straps.  “What’s this??” I’d asked.  Dream TN looked innocent and said he didn’t know.  Then he’d called the owner of the nightgown and she’d come over.  She’d invaded our sacred space together to retrieve her intimate garment.  She was disheveled and messy.  I felt nothing but disdain for her, no jealousy.  Dream Hy thought, “Hmm, I have nothing to worry about.  He can have her.”  She spoke in a British accent and revealed herself to be a huge mess.

The real TN laughed and promised me nothing like that would ever happen.  He was buried to the hilt inside of me and I was on top of him.  My ejaculate had pooled into his navel and I was splashing it on him as we laughed at the ludicrousness of my dream.  Only, it all really happened.

Sunday night 4 am girl spoke to me in a British accent for 20 minutes.  And she’d invaded our sacred space in more ways than one.

He asked me what else I’d dreamed about.  “Jesus Christ, Hy.  When am I going to die??”

We laughed amicably and then I told him about my dream from the other night.  “It was like an Escher drawing.  We were on our stairs, trying to avoid one another, but we couldn’t get away.  Then you caught up to me, pushed me against the wall and took me.  Fucked me hard.”

He visibly cringed — it’s too soon to talk about, but I was glad to see his visceral response to my dream — and I assured him that the feeling was good.  “It was like we were protected, on our balconies or something.  I think we might be able to do it again,” I ventured.  And I meant it.

After all the hurt, all the betrayal, all the heartbreak I don’t want him.  But I want his cock.  I need cock.  My wet, needy pussy needs it.  “I know I’m naive, but I’m not naive enough to think it’s a good idea right now.”  I assured him I didn’t want him now anyway, but maybe, later, one day.  “Maybe.  The TN in a month-and-a-half might feel differently,” he offered.

After Alex tonight I am to see Matt tomorrow, a man I cancelled on a few weeks ago.  I met him on AFF and know he’s well-endowed and he has a sick sense of humor, which I like.  Kevin also showed his face a day or two ago and his dick is prettier than most.  If only his lean 26 yo body could keep up with my soft 36 yo one.  He often complains his abs hurt for days after we fuck, “You’re more athletic than most, Hy,” he once said.  I told him to shut the fuck up and do more situps.  And Friday, I have another second date.  Josh.  We met for lunch on Friday and he’s tall and lanky too and has a quiet self-confidence I hope translates to some good, hard spanking in bed.

I told TN of my dates and he seemed slightly taken aback.  “You sure don’t waste any time, do you?”

“I can’t be alone.  You know that.  I need something to do.  And look at you.  You fucking had a girl over within hours…”

I told him I wouldn’t be his friend if/while he dates 4 am girl.  He didn’t argue and didn’t disclose that they were together, either.

So I’ve made my decision.  I’m going to rush headlong into the arms of men.  I need them.  It’s part of who I am, what I am.  Sex is cathartic for me.  It’s healing and painful and glorious and for those minutes I’m tangled and panting and being impaled I am above everything else.  It’s my meditation.  Some people need a bell, a chime and some incense.  Well, I need a naked, slobbering, sweating and thrusting man.  It’s that simple.

And since I’ve lost my key mediation partner in all of this I will have to hunt down some replacements.

Fuck me.

Please.

REBLOGGED: I limited you…from the start

My dear friend, Jayne, just posted the following.  I am verklempt:

 

I wrote this from my own experience but

I dedicate this to you Hy, a fellow artist of the grandest colors.

.

I painted him well

A Bruegel or a Van Eyk

Such a fine and clever forgery

to sandbag my love like a dike

.

A barricade,  in essence

Such a lovely man as a front

How ideal my set up was

How beguiling was the hunt!

.

You were limited from the start

Only now can I see the flaw

I lessened,  I padded, I believed

Your benefits were more than what you are

.

This is NOT to downplay your worth

a goldmine I would never give back

It’s that now I can see clearer

The desires in which I lack

.

I was so engrossed in the process

We travelled the realm of sublime

Your body and soul exquisitely matched

at a level intertwined with mine

.

But, the facet of love within me

that matched you – as I still wanted more

has limits, as I, in succumbing

which tells me, I need to explore

.

“Eyes Up!” for the prize of my heart

Who am I to settle for seconds?

The lesson: Pain is a call I must hear

” There IS a truer love that beckons”

 

~ by jayne ayres on July 11, 2012.