He brought me bacon.

It’s been nearly a year since I told The Neighbor I loved him.  A year of more lows between us than highs, honestly. Saying those three stupid words changed everything.

We went from exalted fuck buddies to a couple hammering out expectations and responsibilities basically overnight.  And it’s been really ugly.  He’s an island unto himself — a little squat cactus in my mind — and I am this ball of needs and changing moods, not temperamental, but in motion all the time — an orchid.  We are an unlikely pairing.

I’ve suffered from massive attacks of doubt and suspicion; he’s wrestled with his apathy and worry; our sex life isn’t what I want; I don’t think he’s cum because of me once this year; I feel unimportant; I imagine he feels beleaguered; I’m fantasizing about other men, other lives I could have.

On the other hand we’ve also grown more intimate.  I know him better and him me, he’s a bigger part of Peyton’s life.

And yet, we both agree we’re barely dating.

Last night marked the first time in 3 years that I asked to be alone, away from him.  After a 12-hour day I was down to the bone.  I didn’t have it in me.

He quickly came to my side in the kitchen where I was making us dinner and generously using the last of my bacon for him.  “Hy,” he said, inches from my face and holding my hips, “why not?”

I looked him in the eye and replied, “Because it makes me anxious all night that you don’t really want to be here and sad that we haven’t fucked.  I don’t like it when you drug yourself before even discussing it with me and you’re grumpy in the morning.  I want to cuddle with the dog on the bed and with the kitty and have an easy morning.”

“I wasn’t grumpy this morning, was I?”

“No, but that’s rare.  I’m just tired of it and don’t have it in me tonight.”

“You’d rather sleep with the dog than with me?”

I didn’t answer and went back to cooking.  He was right.

His hands dropped to his sides and I felt like I heard the air escaping from his balloon.  I don’t know what prompted me to be so honest with him other than I felt like it was the best thing for me to do.

I am sharing a relationship with a prickly cactus who might be giving his all, but to me feels like the bare minimum I can get by on.  That’s why we’re barely dating.

And by that I mean there is no future.  Not because I’ve decided there isn’t one, but because we don’t talk about it; he hasn’t committed even the next year to me.  He seems mildly tortured with worry that he can’t give me what I need or want and in his mind that’s a lifelong commitment.  He feels badly, awful, really.  I get sad because I’ve done everything I can to get out of my own way and enjoy him in the moment, but the truth is: without a committed future working this hard seems like too much.  Why am I doing this?  Am I robbing Peyton of man who wants to be in our lives?

Which brings me to where I am at this very moment.  I feel inept.  Stupid.  Unskilled.  I should know how to do this better by now. But I feel as ignorant and blind as ever.

When I was much younger, I ended relationships after a year when I felt unimportant.  With my exhusband I completely ignored all the lights flaring up inside of me and went ahead and married the guy.  I never tried to change the course with us; I accepted the little he had to give and moved on.  And today I’m accepting the little I get, but am unwilling to just move on.  I want something more, but have absolutely no idea how to make that happen.

In moments such as these I like to think about all the wonderful things TN brings to the table which I’ve never had before: he’s a staunch supporter of mine, he loves helping me and needs it, he’s generous, he’s passionate, he’s damn sexy, he’s strong, he’s a wonderful listener, he genuinely likes me.

But I can’t just go all Pollyanna on myself whenever the darker, sadder, uncomfortable shit rears its ugly head, can I??  I have to face it.  I have to state clearly what my needs are, own them, not be afraid of them and see what happens.  It might be that he can’t or won’t meet them and then I have decisions to make, don’t I?  I can’t do what I’ve done in the past and let this stasis creep up and ooze into the fibers of my relationship, an insidious mold growing larger spore by tiny spore.   But I’m terrified.

I don’t want to lose him.  I don’t want to be alone again; I do better in life when I have a stable partner.  I don’t want to feel that stark, shattering pain.

It would be such a sad ending to our tale if this was it; it just fizzled out a year after we shared our hearts after all those long months of yearning.

I don’t know.  Maybe this is how it ends.  With him sealed away from me and me withering on the vine, desperate for a little more sunshine…

After he did all the dishes without me asking he left with an air of sadness. I fell into an exhausted heap on top of a pile of clean laundry on the couch and watched an episode of Louie C.K.  The dog snoozed on the other end as Louie lamented the pain of divorce and the difficulty of attempted relationships post-marriage.  I giggled through heavy lids, my heart sad, but laughing, because he’s right: it’s torture trying to connect when you have no hope and you know it all ends anyway.

And then the dog became rigid and barked at the back stairwell.  TN filled the doorway and I couldn’t help but be lit up.  He still has that effect on me.

“Hy,” he said with one hand behind his back, “I couldn’t stop thinking after you made that wonderful dinner and did all those wonderful things for me — I mean, I just couldn’t live with myself!  How could I! — that you wouldn’t have any bacon for tomorrow!”  He brought his hand around and held out a package of the special, humanely raised pork that I love, Niman Ranch bacon.  He’d driven to a grocery store that was the furthest from our complex to get it.

I almost burst into tears.  It was the most romantic sweet thing he’d ever done for me.  Totally unexpected, totally unnecessary, totally out of love, totally what this little flower needed.

I patted a spot next to me and threw myself into his arms the second he sat down.  “Thanks for everything, Hy,” he said into my hair.  And then he kissed me long and firm and sweet.  There was still sadness there, but there was also a little bit of hope.  And a little bit of sunshine.

The spark is fading, but I’m not alarmed.

Hy early morning
It’s been a while since I took one of these.

The Neighbor and I have been very loving and close, but have had little to no action this week.  I fondle his balls and get him hard, he squeezes my tits, motorboats me while we make dinner — we touch and bounce and caress — but never fully land on one another.

I’m in that weird safe place that inevitably happens to everyone to one degree or another: the spark is fading.  There’s no danger left between us.  He’s mine.

Nearly every morning I wake him up at 8 am at his place.  I’m either up due to the cat or from taking Peyton to school.  I quietly let myself in and creep back to his room.  His king-sized mattress is on the floor inside his bed frame and I laugh every time I see it.  He’ll be wound up in blankets completely passed out.  Then I peel off my clothes and slip inside the bubble with him, press my cold body against his flaming hot skin.  But that’s all.

There are no blowjobs, no early-morning moaning.  He’s inevitably much too tired and I don’t care to make it happen.  I’m content to let the ebb just be.

There’s a very small voice in the back of my head that is worried, but I’m trying to keep her quiet and enjoy what I have instead.   I’m going to keep my eye on it, unpack its real meaning, ask good questions like, Why does my desire for him go down the safer I feel?

I know that successful erotic couples keep a healthy emotional distance from one another and perhaps he and I have gotten a bit too close.  Maybe we need to renegotiate the boundaries a little, create more mystery and positive tension.  Maybe we need more kink — we’ve been awfully vanilla for months and months now.

I should tie his white ass up and beat it until it’s a bright, cherry red and he’s writhing and begging and panting for release.

Or maybe I’ll just let the ebb do its thing and not worry about it too much and stick to taking pictures for my horny Internet Boyfriend.

Hy shows her tits in the early morning
Well, hello there.




I have sex once a week.

I made us a bacon carbonara with butternut squash with some fried sage and lemon zest.  An old friend came over, Peyton cleared the dishes and we all read stories until little top and bottom lashes met and Z’s were had.  With a twinkle in his eye, The Neighbor said he’d wait until my friend left before he’d leave.  “Adults gotta have time alone,” he said into my ear.

We aren’t having tons of sex lately.  I think on average, we have sex about once a week.   It’s a strange balance.  Back when we were a precarious couple we fucked non-stop.  Now that we’re solidly together, it’s once, maybe twice a week if we’re feeling frisky. I’m perplexed at the shift.  I’ve read Mating in Captivity and it explains a lot; it backs up much of what we all already know: We like strange.  And then everything else sort of falls into place from there.

Beyond that, we’re in the stage of maintenance.  We’re figuring each other out, fine-tuning all the ins and outs of our needs.  It doesn’t leave much for sexual exploration or deviancy.  I am just so wrung out at the end of each day.  What he does has little to no effect on my sex drive, either.  Whether we’ve gotten along famously or butted heads it makes no difference: I’m just a whooped ass motherfucker.

But last night, it was the old TN and Hy.  The promise of delayed debauchery kept me on track and after the final hugs goodbye to my dear friend we went immediately to my room and lit candles.  We laid on our sides and talked.  Checked in and tenderly touched with all our words the nooks and crannies of our day.

He’d burned his face with coffee that morning when he’d slipped on a step and had a tiny little fan of red below his right eye, right in all the crows’ feet.  I touched it tenderly and he watched me closely.  When I noticed the look in his eye I moved my hand from his eye to his crotch and found a large, warm and swelling mass of flesh.  Yum.

I worked his cock until it was mostly stiff in my hand then moved between his knees and fell on him with my face.  He wanted me to be extra soft, extra smooth.  I backed off the pressure with both my hand and mouth and let his hard warmth slip through my lips and fingers.

“I’ve had enough,” he said.  “I want to fuck.”

“No,” I replied between sucks.  “Beg for it.”

I closed my eyes and let all of him move over my tongue and through my grip.  I could do this forever, I thought.

He was tentative at first, but once he knew I was serious his urgency increased.  “Please, Hy, please.”  I perked up and waited to hear more.  “Please fuck me.”  It was a whisper now.  “Fuck me, fuck me…”

I popped off of him and looked at his pretty, bearded face.  He froze and looked back at me.  A heart beat or two passed.

“More,” I grunted.  And started sucking again.

His pleas became more urgent, more real.  “Please, please, Hy.  Fuck me.  Let me be inside of you.”  The tone was different and drilled down right inside of me.

Finally, I relented.

He sat up and flipped me over on my back, peeled of my panties and butted the head of his cock at my opening.

“Do you want this?” he asked, staring down at me.

I nodded and he pushed inside, deeply.  I held him there with my ankles linked under his ass.  His breath puffed on my neck.

He moved and he thrust.  I clawed at his flanks.  He rocked and I bucked and moans floated to the ceiling.  Mine and his and all the trivial life things slipped away with each slip of sound.

Our tempo increased and the candlelight flickered on his face.  Without thinking I lifted my hands to his face and covered his eyes.  His hips hit me harder.

“You’re so beautiful,” I said.

And he was.  The sinews on the backs of my hands cut lines across the boyishness of his face.  His bowed-mouth fell open with the passing of his breath and it caught each time he pushed inside of me.

“So beautiful,” I breathed again.

He began to hammer at me and we twisted and writhed together and contorted our bodies until I came and came and cried out.

“Grab my neck,” he said.

I switched my hands from his eyes to his neck and watched the veins in his neck pop as I squeezed gently.  He ground into me and his cock swelled as I tightened my grip.  I switched back to his eyes and blinded him again.  He moaned, I moaned, and he slammed into me until I screamed with an orgasm.  He stopped and pulsed inside of me.

I lowered my hands slowly and he opened his eyes.

We looked at each other in the dim light.  His eyes glowed, light and clear.

We grabbed the vibrator and repositioned ourselves.  He pumped his cock with his hand and I rocketed out with orgasms and many bursts of sound.

Then once more.

When we were done he kissed me deeply and we laid together and caught our breath.

“That was good,” we said almost together.

It had felt different, somehow.  Sexier.

He gathered his things and got redressed.  When he left I felt solid, content.

If this is the kind of sex we have once a week, I’ll be perfectly content… maybe forever.  I just hope we can make it happen.



I think we’re a real couple now.

Hy and her zipper
Me and my boring ol’ shit.

The Neighbor and I have come through the swamps of change and reality.  When I told him I loved him in December after two years of dating [mostly on] I irrevocably changed our dynamics.  I had the willful kind of naivete that only a love-starved divorcee could have: I told myself I couldn’t live with myself a day longer without him knowing.  What if I got hit by a bus and I’d never said the words?!

So, I said them.

And it was anti-climatic, like an ice cream cone in December.

What ensued were months of struggle for the two of us as we tried to recalibrate our feelings with the patterns we’d established.  Patterns like he came and went mostly whenever he wanted to, he never stayed the night, I never spent any time at his place, I kept him and Peyton separate, I kept him separate from my family and most of my friends, we fucked A LOT and late at night, I was kept separated from his friends.

Let me simplify it even more: we had a glorified friends with benefits situation going on where he got his cake and ate it, too.  I felt like I had a pseudo-boyfriend.  Then the L word came between us and shook our silly little asses all the fuck up.

I love you.

Just like that I expected something different.

Naturally, I drove the changes.  TN, I’m willing to bet, would have been perfectly content to never have changed our arrangement.  The man had it made, after all.  I sometimes wonder if he was just waiting for me to pull the plug on it all and walk away.  He’s just that inert kind of guy sometimes.

The first few months post-I-love-you were sticky and weird.   I looked forward to moving away, to getting some space.  Guilt weighed on me — I shouldn’t want to get away, right??  But I did.  I needed air to breathe, sweet and open.  Now that I’d closed the gap I was hyperventilating; the weight of what we’d done suffocated me.

And what happened?  I moved a minute and a half away because it was the best apartment for the best price.  I sagged at the irony, but embraced the distance nonetheless.  TN started staying over for the first time ever and we both realized that Peyton had come to rely on TN’s visits, too, so now there was a day just for the two of them to see each other.

But I still chafed.  TN was often, if not always late.  He changed plans frequently.  He was weird and vague when answering questions.  I felt off, scared, vulnerable.  Too vulnerable.  And the sex dropped off.  Not a lot, but something about the whole shenanigan just changed.  It was the same thing, different day, and instead of pushing boundaries, we were pushing the clock.  Quick, stick it in before I pass out from sheer exhaustion!

When he moved into my apartment complex my hyperventilations increased.  Did I want to do this??  Was he the right man for me?  I’d slipped back into this weird, my-partner-must-be-next-to-perfect mentality.  His likenesses to my exhusband terrified me and seemed all-consuming.  The sex continued to feel rote.  The occasional blowjob, the requisite orgasms and squirting.  It was nothing to complain about — it wasn’t bad — but my mind was elsewhere.  It was in the courtroom deciding our fate.

And then one day close to the end of summer something happened: I began to be honest with him about my apathy, my fears, my knee-jerk clinging reactions to my feelings of vulnerability.  It’s funny how injecting yourself with some no-bullshit bullshit can really work.

The sex got hotter, our times together more sweet, TN and Peyton began to cultivate a special kind of relationship, too, where my poor little baby finally got someone to help diffuse Mommy’s intensity.  Most importantly, I let go of these traditional ideals of “forever,” I swatted away the notion of “wasting time,” and I embraced the fact that I never had him in the first place so I had nothing to lose — relationship Zen and all that.

I felt free to enjoy him and all his differences for the first time in forever.  That space I’d worked so hard to ascend when we were just fuck buddies was once again under my feet.  I’d climbed Relationship Everest once again.

We don’t have sex as often as we did when we shared a wall and my baby wasn’t in school — I’m just too damn fucking tired at 10 pm when he’s raring to go — but we do other intimate things.  He fondles my breasts, I suck his giant cock, he watches me writhe and cum under my Hitachi, we cuddle like beasts.

I feel like we’re finally in a good place as a real life couple.  For the first time ever.

Not surprisingly, it makes all our old, boring moves in bed all the more gratifying.  The same old fuck is now a potent encounter. The same huge cock stuffed in my mouth as I cum is dirty and titillating. The same grope and squeeze is delicious and sneaky.  When he looms over me with a sweet smile and a smack on my ass it blasts through me like a sunbeam through a misty morning.

I feel that unmistakable lift of love: the birds twitter, the leaves whisper, and the wind whistles to me.  I think of him and I smile and when my eyes land on him I swell with bona fide happiness.  I’m almost afraid to be this happy, but then I ask the all important question we should all ask ourselves, “Why not??”  And then I go right ahead and feel the fucking love.


I’m feeling him again.

As he plunged into me as gently, yet deeply as possible, I felt his long, hot shaft more acutely than ever.  It was smooth and soft, yet full and stretching.  It felt like a cross between a hard velvet and thick, viscous cream.   I tried to articulate the sensation, but only pulled him closer to me and kissed his scruffy neck.  It had been 11 days since we’d last connected our bodies and in that stretch of desert pass I had seen mirages of separation, but now I’d passed through it and realized they were truly only visions, not reality.

I’m healing ever so slowly, but message received: there were toxins in me, and two nights ago they boiled inside of me.  My visions of separation did not make me sad; only the blissful nothingness of apathy touched me.  I told him I’d rather be alone that night, “sorry,” and after Peyton’s long lashes met chubby cheeks for the last time that day I went to lay on the couch, a frown carved on my face, but happy I didn’t have to pretend.

And then the phone rang.

Fuck. Shit. Damn.

I was 99% pissed that he was even trying to figure me out.  I answered anyway.

The chat was filled with long, awkward silences until I finally relented it’d probably just be better to face weird silences in each other’s company rather than on the phone.

He arrived with a worried look on his face and left with a smile.  I let something pass from my psyche that night which I had been holding close for too long: I’d felt like a failure that I couldn’t figure us out and I was mildly traumatized by a sense of mistrust which clung to him like the day-old cologne.

He admitted to being deliberately evasive sometimes with me and withholding all the facts, an old defense mechanism he’d used when living at home.  It was as if someone had released a hundred balloons from within me and as I let his words sink in I felt as light as those balloons.  That was what I haven’t been able to put my finger on all this time; he was being opaque, I wasn’t making it up.

I feel for The Neighbor’s plight with me sometimes: a data-, facts-driven guy with severe trust issues surrounding opening up dating a woman who’s highly intuitive and sensitive to her surroundings.  A different woman may never have noticed his little slights of hand — about literally nothing, I might add — and there would never have been a rift.  But alas, I’m me and there was.

The dodging he does is a limping vestige of compulsive lying from his childhood, something we do when we feel powerless.  Lying (and hiding) makes us feel like we have agency in a family in which we may have less than we should or want.  Grown ups do it, too for similar reasons (all things being equal that we’re decent folks and not out to hurt anyone), and sometimes even during times of stress.

In the end we decided neither of us wanted to give up.  We haven’t tried our hardest yet and we both believe that if we can figure out this “happiness” thing, then we’d have one helluva relationship on our hands.

The following morning I woke up and was sick again, but to a much lesser degree.  The emotional purge had the desired effect on my physical body as I’d hoped, I was healing a little faster it seemed.  Or not.  I suppose it makes no difference if there’s a correlation, except that one fed into the occurrence of the other.

When I crossed the little lawn and passed the building between us last night in the slightly warm dusk with my little overnight bag over my shoulder I felt light, excited to see his face.  The dread was all gone.

We went and ate dinner, me gingerly so, and I needed to lie down when we got home.  “I feel like a baby after a meal,” I said.  “I’m exhausted.”  He laid behind me stroking my side waiting for me to feel better.

The love I felt, the patience, the sweetness struck me.  I knew he felt better, too, from our little release the night before.  I told him to take off my bra and he fondled my breasts a little and I could feel my energy coming back a little.  I rolled onto my back and stroked his erection through his shiny, see-through underpants.

He was loving and gentle, made sure to touch me in all the places he knew I loved, his beard scratched my face and I inhaled his clean scent.  When he pushed into me I was still nervous about my belly, but she remained calm throughout and TN’s careful restraint was rewarded with multiple orgasms which surprised even me.

When we were done he lay to my left and my legs were hitched over his, his cock buried deep inside of me.  We lay like that for as long as we’d coupled talking.  “I love you, TN,” I said.

“I love you, too, Hy,” he answered.

I wish I knew more.

Hy in her moment.
For the first time in a while I woke up and thought of taking a picture… and of writing.

The Present.  We talk about it like we know what it means, how it’s supposed to feel.  I suppose it could be the absence of longing (The Future) and regret (The Past), that feeling of awesome timelessness we felt as a kid with the grass beneath our backs and ever-morphing clouds above us which told an epic story that has always been the backdrop to our lives.  That this moment, while fleeting, is the most real thing in our lives.

I remember distinctly wanting to break up with my exhusband about two months into our relationship.  I received awful advice from a friend — who to her credit was taking it herself — who told me to push through my misgivings because on the other side lay happiness.  Basically, that just because it didn’t appear to be what I really wanted I might be surprised to find it was good enough.

I don’t have to tell you how her relationship is today; I personally wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

So I listened intently, took a deep breath, and shut down all my misgivings about him.  Ten and a half years later I see that night with her at some shitty bar with an even shittier cover band as the night I decided to do the wrong thing.  I should have ended it.

I obsess over that night and try to weigh all the decisions after it.  Of course a lot of what I hold dear would never have happened had I listened to my gut, namely my child.  Actually, only my child.  I tell myself there was no way of knowing, that he had us all fooled into believing he was stronger than he actually is, but I still feel responsible for choosing a man who chooses himself and his new woman over his own child.

My friends, with solemn, sad faces, have told me that Peyton will be ok because I am the mother, the mama, but my heart still breaks.  Peyton loathes going back and forth between us and longs for us all to live in a house together.  I might add that includes The Neighbor, the new woman (Kathy), all the besties and their mommies, too, and my mom and step-dad.  Peyton’s Commune, we’d probably call it.  The regret, the first of my life, is at times crushing.

Enter TN.  A man whose limitations may be their own Litmus Test.  Will he ever melt into me and my life?  Can I really sign up again to be with a man who can’t connect in the ways in which I think I want to?  I can’t even say definitively if I’d like it better.  I’ve never dated anyone all the way.

I’ve never had anyone beg me to get closer, to spend time with Peyton, just the three of us or even just the two of them for ice cream.  I’ve never dated anyone who wanted to meet all my friends and loved to plan fun things for all of us to do together.  I’ve never dated anyone who missed me and brought me love notes and flowers.

In the very beginning, TN used to do little chores for me and to a small extent continues to do so, but he is over there, across the metaphoric way, doing his own weird, solitary, introverted thing.  I have noticed that lately I care less and less whether I see him or not.  It’s not a good sign.

When we touch, I am transported to the old Hy who used her body to connect, to slough off the pain and sadness she was wading through after she moved out.  It feels familiar and I’m happy.  TN is as ravenous as ever in these moments, but they are fewer and farther between.  His 70 hour work week must be laughing hysterically at us.

I wish I knew what I should do here.

I have always hung on with him and I have always been rewarded, but this time it feels different.  This relationship began backwards, without me thinking things through.  I wasn’t ready for a real relationship so I wasn’t picking men who were ready for me and my life: my parents, Peyton, my sister.  I wanted a guy who was ok with just the little bits I was willing to give and I found them in spades, TN being the biggest consumer of all.

But now I’ve changed the game, I want a real relationship with someone who comes up with fun kid-things to do on the weekends and who happily comes to dinner to help me manage my mother and step-father, who can’t wait to travel to Pittsburgh to meet high school friends or just a weekend away to a lake to fuck like rabbits and sit by a softly lapping shore.

I feel this longing, this Future, so keenly my body aches with indecision.  Will TN ever be that man?  Is it really all that important?  Am I determined to be unhappy or are these feelings real?  I’d probably be better off ignoring both The Past and The Future and examining my ever-changing Present, right??  I just don’t know anymore…

What I can tell you for certain is that TN gets the keys to his new apartment today and I’m strangely happy about it.  He is, too.

All my worry and self-flagellating doubts about him have fallen away like a spaghetti-strap slip beneath his hands.  I trust him, I got past my fear.  Mostly because I’ve become honest with myself:  I don’t know where this is going.  I wish I knew more — but I can’t — so I will sit and watch the clouds for a while instead as I help him move in three buildings away.

The cosmic joke is on me.

I’m sitting on my balcony, half drunk, tears running down my face.  I’m pretty sure people walking their dogs could just hear me crying as I lay on the couch, clutching a pillow, and moaning like an asshole.

Here’s the thing: I am sad.  Very, very, very sad.

I deny it every day, but all it does is make me feel antsy; full when I’m empty, empty when I’m full.   I can’t tell which end is up.  The heat here makes my skin prickle, but I’m cold inside.

My exhusband is marrying his girlfriend — no, fiancée — in the fall.  It happens to happen the weekend before Peyton’s birthday and they’ve conveniently planned it so they’ll be out of town not only for the big day itself (old enough to notice, if you must know), but they’ll also be gone the weekend before and the weekend after is their big “wedding party.”  Sorry, Peyton, but your dad and future step-mother are selfish sons-of-bitches who know no ends to their narcissism.   They have yet to break the news.

Secondly, I am barely making ends meet, yet my ex continues to go on love-trips with his fiancée every other month.  Expensive excursions, though not luxurious, but I know even a weekend trip by car can cost hundreds of dollars let alone a plane ticket away.  Of course they leave  the kids at home, leaving Peyton thinking there’s something on the child’s end of responsibility to that.  Oh, did I forget to mention the kids (hers and mine) are not invited to the wedding??  Nope.  It’s just the two love birds “and an officiant.”  Good for fucking you, exhusband. 

Thirdly, while my ex is off getting married, moving in, and sending rejection messages to our kid, I can’t even get my boyfriend to stay the night or go away for the weekend with me.  He absolutely refuses most nights and the trips aren’t even an option.  Forget it, Hy.  I hate traveling.  My parents dragged me blah blah fucking blah.  The truth is, he’s ok with hanging out in our apartments for the rest of our fucking lives.

They’re not connected, I know, but yet they are.  I can’t fucking help it.  The Neighbor says he’s forgotten his “slut kit” (a.k.a. contact stuff, toothbrush, etc.) but when I buy him his own he still goes home.  “I just really like my own bed.”  A pause sits between us when he breaks the news last night.  “You’re not mad, are you?”

“No.  But I’m sad,” I say, honest as can be.  Why won’t he stay with me???  Why does it seem there’s something wrong with me that I want him to sleep over?!

Tonight we had plans but he begged off earlier saying he needed to pack and hole up in his man cave.  What-fucking-ever.  Fine.

Lastly, my sister is pregnant with her third baby.  I wanted 3 babies.  That was my dream.  My ex and I tried for a second but the anxiety meds he was on fucked up his sperm.  Even an artificial insemination didn’t take.  She’s living her life — the life I wanted.  Babies everywhere, toddlers in pjs with wet hair from bath time with a strip of sonogram pictures laid out between them on mommy and daddy’s bed.  The perfect little batch of kiddies.  Who aren’t mine.

I am heart-broken a million different ways.  Alone and sad and wanting.

I think half the time the best thing to do is to cut TN loose so I can find someone who expects and wants to spend entire weekends with me.  And holidays and birthdays and friends’ things and to whisk me away on road-trip-weekends and introduce me to his family in Seattle or Burbank or Long Island.  Instead, I have a guy who loves me, but leaves by 11 pm every night, hates sleepovers, travel, family & friend things, anything whatsoever remotely resembling a commitment or a life together.  Like together.  Just fucking dating “together.”  I’m not even talking “forever together”!

Half the time I think I’m nuts and off my rocker, the other half I think, “No woman would put up with this bullshit, you’re either a genius, a saint, or an asshole, Hy.  Anyone would want what you want. There’s nothing wrong with you.”   But I’m not convinced and I haven’t figured out which one I am, yet.

Ok, I am in my cups, and feel sadly clear, like the tears on my cheeks.  I bet they’re see-through, too.

But, I will be silent for a while longer and see what happens.  I will never have 3 babies, nor will I be getting married — possibly ever –, but maybe my boyfriend will finally want to spend the night with me more than 2, 3, 4 times a month and want to be a part of my life — my real life — and if that’s the case, then maybe this will last after all, because as it stands today, all I feel is what I don’t have.  Not what I do have.

There is no filter.

Hy let's the sun shine through
No really. There is no filter and half of me is gone.

My heart is dark.

I cannot shake doubt, this feeling of exclusion.

Something important about him is missing from my vocabulary.  I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s there. 

I want to believe him, he deserves my trust, but something is lodged inside of me.

Whether it’s by my own hand or his is yet to be seen.

What is love when alongside doubt?  I think it reeks of guilt.

There are no details to share.  This is it in a nutshell: either I’m creating chaos or identifying it.

Either choice is humiliating.
Sinful Sunday

He’s a lot like Spock.

The Neighbor is a serious kind of guy.  Not the kind by whom you feel scrutinized, he’s just very straight-laced and totally literal.  His brain is a finely tuned machine which often misses nuance and inflection.  Think Data or Spock, any kind of Artificial Intelligence where the machine grapples with human inference and ambiguity.  TN and I have found ourselves entangled in more than one clumsy Who’s On First? dance.

For example, last night I asked him about the photos I wanted to post today.  We took them Sunday morning as we lay sleepily in my bed and the cat wound his way between us with an elevator butt.  TN checked in with Reddit, his go-to internet hangout.  I snapped pics of half his face, his profile, his lovely furry chest.  No more of his face was visible than the ones he had already approved, in fact, a little less was shown.

“So, are you cool with the pics I took the other day for TN Tuesday?” I asked as we walked the long uphill street to my apartment.

“Sure, whatever you‘d be comfortable sharing.”

“You mean me-me or what I’d be comfortable sharing of you?”

“Whatever you‘d be comfortable sharing,” he repeated slower.

Laughter bubbled up in me as I realized he didn’t see his own double subject and I attempted to rephrase my question.

“I don’t share any part of my face [so that’s moot], but you already have, so I don’t know what you’re saying.  Can I share the pics of you with part of your face?”

He sighed in exasperation and said again, “Whatever you want so long as you can’t recognize me.”  Now we’re getting somewhere.

“Ok, except I can recognize you because I know you.  I have no way of being really subjective about it.”  I covered half my face with my hands.  “This works for Batman, though!”  He just rolled his eyes at me and smiled.

I sighed.

“I wish I could write you some program to download to go from Super TN at Work to just TN with Hy.”

He laughed loudly.  “Hy, I don’t think there’s any program that will ever make me understand you.”

I laughed, too.

And that brings me to what I really want to share with you: I can make him laugh.

This serious, data-minded man finds me to be hilarious.  I tickle him, I tease him, I poke fun at his robotic nature and he melts in my hand as he realizes he’s applied genius brain-power to a Tommy Boy-type situation.

What can I say?  I guess I can bring anyone down to my level.  Even a sexy, furry Spock.

TN giggles
Giggles galore. ♥♥♥

[Ed. note: TN Tuesdays is a semi-weekly meme which will share more of The Neighbor with my Internet Boyfriend (aka, readers).  All photos will have his approval before I post them.  He is eager to see what you guys think and has requested that I share any comments.]