I wonder if friends with benefits is even real.

The Neighbor and I slipped and tripped two Saturdays ago and found ourselves entwined in bed together come daylight. The frustration and continual embarrassment over not being able to control myself around him is a constant burden, a screeching, shitty little monkey on my back.

I try so hard to set boundaries and then he reels me in. I am caught up in the companionship because the bottom line is, I am motherfucking lonely. Capital L O N E L Y.

I’ve never been so lonely in my life. I ache for someone to care about me and have me in his thoughts; to do kind deeds for me and buy me little things when I need them; to play with me and to talk to me; to while away the hours at night or a lazy Sunday afternoon. TN fulfills many, if not most, of these basic needs for me.

He is braided into my life in all aspects: my home life, my friends, my sports, my health, my down-time, and even my entertainment. He needs me as much as I need him. Without me, he’d never leave the house and would be isolated in his little cave possibly never socializing outside of work for weeks at a time.

But, he doesn’t love me. That’s what’s missing and that’s what hurts the most. It’s the final piece to the puzzle which makes tossing the rest away seem so impossible. Would anyone throw away a 10,000 piece puzzle that’s missing a few craggy bits? I honestly don’t know. It seems I wouldn’t.

His friendship with me is based on mutual likes and beliefs and a genuine caring. When love is introduced, it goes to pot in 10 seconds flat. Every time.

We talked a few days after our Saturday slip up, it was Peyton’s birthday. I had spent the evening with my baby, a best friend and her child, my parents, and my ex. I wished that TN was there. He cares about Peyton and he’s a big part of my life, but it wouldn’t have fit. My parents would never understand why he was there and my ex would have likely launched forkfuls of food at him when he wasn’t looking.

I was desperately sad all day long; the anniversary of my child’s birth a wondrous thing, definitely, but also a stark reminder of how differently I felt just a few years ago. When I gave birth I was happily married, full of hope, starting a family. I imagined that this year I’d have two babies at my feet, a thriving marriage, and security and love. Instead, I have very little but the belief I did the right thing in leaving that relationship and a wonderful child.

I am alone, unloved, and pining.

I told TN earlier that day that I was sad and would be crying into my wine glass. I was cryptic because I hated myself for even bothering to reach out, but I wanted him to see how I was feeling. He reached back and was worried about me and when I came home from dinner he came over.

I told him how lonely I felt and how hard it is for me, how badly I want someone in my life for real. A man to wake up with me in the morning, to want to spend the entire weekend with me, to hold my fucking hand.

He was supportive and kind, mildly flirtatious. I was tearful and uninterested as he kept my glass full and I spilled my guts.

“Do you judge me?” I asked him. I felt embarrassed that at my age I haven’t figured it all out, yet.

“No. Not at all. You’re doing an amazing job. Look at how far you’ve come since you met me. It’s just that those doors are closed to us.”

I frowned, confused. “What are you talking about??”

“You know,” he said with a frown of his own. “I really don’t want to go over this again. There are just some things that we can’t change that will keep us from being together.”

It suddenly occurred to me that he had misunderstood me and thought I was asking him why he didn’t want to be with me. “Oh, are you talking about your Deal Breakers?”

“Yes. I really don’t want to talk about them right now.”

“The ‘You’re too old, etc’ ones?”

“Yes. Please. Don’t make me say all this again.”

“Ok, but that wasn’t what I meant at all. But, seriously, it’s the same ones? Nothing’s changed?”

“No.”

His answer significant because lately I’ve been wondering if there might not be something besides my age, my marital, and parental statuses standing between us because surely he can’t still be hanging onto those.

Maybe he thinks I’m an idiot or too out of shape or something other than those things, but no. Those are still the barriers keeping us from doing a real relationship, keeping me securely in a “friend” holding pattern with him.

And I still think they’re ridiculous. Fucking utterly stupid and regrettable.

The mood shifted then and we became more flirtatious. I felt buoyed by the reaffirmation that it really was him and not me. He touched me here and there and I grabbed his bat and fondled it suggestively. I stroked it with my hands and ran the handle along his erection. We kept up a steady stream of conversation.

“We are never going to be able to hang out and not have sex, you know,” I said.

“I know. Maybe we need to just think about this in a different way. So we don’t feel so stupid after shit happens.”

“Maybe.” I climbed up on his lap and straddled him, my belly warming as his hands massaged my breasts. He lifted my tank top and suckled on my nipples. First one, then the other. Our breathing grew labored and my head spun. I wasn’t sure I wanted to do this.

I sat up and pulled my shirt down. “We shouldn’t do this right now,” he said. I agreed.

“We need to come up with some ground rules,” I suggested.

We talked about what each of us felt we needed. I needed respectful communication, he needed the right to back away. We tabled the conversation and never fully laid out the rules before it became too late and he needed to leave. We made plans to watch the debate on Thursday and to go shopping for patio furniture and watch Bull Durham Saturday.

Thursday rolled around and we flirted and lay together watching the politicians squawk. I had too much to drink and lost interest. He led me to his bed, laid a towel beneath my bottom and made me climax until I passed out. I awoke in his bed and we snuggled, my morning passes gently refused. I left and went home in a fog.

Saturday we went shopping and he was at once flirtatious, distant, and kind, as usual. He went to lunch with me and an old friend and drove me downtown and picked me up later when I needed a ride. I slept alone that night and happily.

Sunday, we saw Loopers and had lunch. I was becoming sadder by the minute. I need to set my boundaries, lest I wind up back at square one: yearning for sex, but a slave to his desires.

Today, Monday, I feel grey, blue, whatever. I’m tired of all of this, yet I have nothing to replace it with. I need another monkey bar in my grip before I let go of this one. I am afraid of free-falling and crashing on the rocks below, a broken doll with her heart missing.

I can’t help but worry.

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Not what I wanted to hear.

My breath is caught in my throat like a grasshopper in a bird’s beak. Is this the beginning of the end or will I continue to enjoy the sweet smelling meadow of our tumultuous affair?

I texted him earlier that I wanted his cock in me and would he make that happen? He’d said he’d try, but didn’t commit. I smiled to myself. At least it wasn’t a No.

I received this particular note a little before 10 pm last night. He rarely goes to bed before midnight. None of this makes sense if you stand it next to last week.

Last week we had sex more nights than not and spent nearly every one together. He was the catalyst for nearly all of it. It was passionate, tender, and fun, sometimes infuriating, mostly connected, a little confusing, and a lot loving.

It was a lavishly furnished room.

This week, I am standing in a white box with only a window.

And what looms large in my heart and mind is the fact that in November we will have not been dating for a year.

I’ve been sitting with this for days since we wordlessly picked back up again. My approach leans towards patience, while my heart roars for any kind of closure: together, apart; in love, in mourning; happy, sad.

I continue to dangle from a sliver of hope like an errant celestial being might from the moon. Where am I really going with this??

Silly me. Silly, silly me. I should know by now that my sweet, baby lover isn’t up for this and confusion is a permanent listing on the menu. I may be making him who he is as a man, but I don’t like the woman he makes me: off center, worried, insecure.

Ella said to me, “It’s the bitter with the sweet. You light up when he pays attention and dim when he doesn’t.” Am I really that dependent? That predictable?

I’m trying not too read too much into this. We watched a movie Sunday and he came over when I needed a friend Monday. It’s been comfortable, yet chastely innocent, I admit, but we are tinder boxes are we not? Perhaps I’m putting too much on sex. Or perhaps something has happened in his heart. I have to work hard to appear calm.

The next two weeks will be filled with my little person. Peyton’s father is traveling for work so my custody period is doubled. I love mothering and welcome the opportunity to focus on something other than the tangled mess that is my heart — there is always something more important, after all — but I can’t shake the worry.

I tell myself this all could mean nothing. Try to relax, Hy. Maybe he has a belly ache. Don’t over analyze! But then reality stalks me like a cutpurse and won’t let me be: He doesn’t want this, she whispers, he’s going to leave you.

Well, ok. If that is so then this time I will let him close the gap. My back is broken from all the heavy lifting over the last few months. If he has something to say, if something has truly changed, then it’s his turn to behave like an adult and end it. I’ll be busy focusing on other things. Or trying to, anyway.

Yet hope refuses to leave me and is as cruel a lover as any other. When you look up at the shiny crescent moon tonight, think of me will you? I’ll be lounging on the tip, my heart on my sleeve and my fingers sweetly crossed. You may shake your head at me, but I will remain on my perch.

I went spelunking and found nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I fucked up: A follow up

This is really an add-on to my earlier post. I want to be completely honest with all of you. I fucked up by letting 4 am girl in my house and betraying The Neighbor’s trust by discussing our breakup with her. I want to elaborate on those things because I feel so utterly horrible about them and I want you all to see my ugliness.

The thing that people love about me is my openness and generosity. It’s one of my gifts I don’t even work at, it just is who I am. However, it also means my filter is sometimes off and it’s been something I’ve worked on for years to buttress with firmer boundaries. But I was drunk (my fault) and weak (my fault) on Sunday when I let her into my house. Oh how I wish I’d turned her away!! And when she blithely asked me to explain my feelings about TN I felt compelled to and it was oh so wrong. So, so, so wrong. And I have to live with that.

After he left my apartment angry, but somewhat mollified by my honest explanation, and he left her behind I should have kicked her out for lying to him about what I’d told her about our breakup. When she ranted and raved at me and told me she was going to go for him I should have had her leave. When she touched my breasts and caressed my face, I should have had her leave. When she proclaimed obstinately that I was intimidated by her, I should have made her leave. When she said he was obsessed with her, I should have had her leave. When she cried that no one but him had ever called her beautiful, I should have had her leave. When she still wouldn’t listen and insisted I’d lied, I should have slapped her and made her leave. When I noticed that she’d pissed herself, I should have made her leave. When she stole his champagne, and brought it over I should have made her leave. When I caught her in bed with TN, I should have slammed the door in her face. When she couldn’t walk to the corner store, I should have made her leave.

How many opportunities did I have to make that night right and I squandered every single one of them and why?? I was a weak, drunk piece of shit from drinking with friends all day. I have no idea. I felt paralyzed. Like I was watching a train wreck. I was morbidly curious, yet destroyed simultaneously. It was like it was happening to someone else.

And why didn’t he come and get her? At what point did he think it was ok to leave the new woman with the old??

I have to live with the idea that I nailed my own coffin shut with the man I love and want in my life. I have to suck it up, own it, move on, see his car gone overnight.

Cruel said it right:

True happiness is not found in the arms of a lover be they stranger or soul mate.

The ability to be happy is innate in each of us we are born complete free from prejudice once we learn the concept of I, Me and Mine we taint the primordial wisdom we were born with. By continually grasping at the idea of permanence of things and wishing for happiness to be found through emotional means you will never be happy.

I know this. I truly do. I tell people this on a daily basis, but when I feel I am at fault, that I have brought it down on my own ears I cannot help but think it is my suffering to bear. To witness TN literally run into another woman’s drunken arms is my punishment for all of this, for not being free of my prejudice, my own vices, my relationships with emotion and others: my need.

I’m telling myself all the usual things. He can have her, they can have each other, they’ll be miserable together, etc., but I don’t know that. Maybe they’ll end up happily married with kids. This is my journey, not theirs, and I need to somehow extricate myself from their bullshit affair so I can rise above the pain and the betrayal. But how can things change so swiftly?? Just Wednesday morning he was designating a pillow for me of his while we lay tangled naked in his bed bathed in the morning light.

I am still confused and wondering if I even have the right to feel this way. That’s my other big hurdle in this life: believing I have a right to anything. Happiness, anger, love, anything. You name it and I wonder if I’m worthy of it. I readily admit to my mistakes in this clusterfuck, I do. I’d been drunk and I’d been weak and I’d betrayed his trust.

It can’t all be my fault, though. I blame TN for leaving her there, for causing a scene, for having her on his balcony again only two days after breaking my heart knowing I’d see them, for letting her stay in his bed, for going to her last night. He is stabbing my convulsing body at every opportunity since Wednesday. It’s one of the cruelest things anyone’s ever done to me and I am numb. A doe with an arrow in her side, confused and in pain, wandering aimlessly through the forest. Where is relief?? I need another arrow. Is that another man or another insult?

Tears aren’t an option — I’m too swirled up with anger and disbelief to conjure any. I know this will all pass with time — all of you have reminded me of that — I just have to stay focused, try not to beat myself up, let the dust settle. I can’t control everything; I certainly can’t control another person. I can only try to heal. Somehow. And keep my fists firmly at my sides instead of on me.

I am so sorry, everyone. I feel like I’ve let you all down. Me, TN, all of you who have been my champions through all of this. I was above reproach and now… I am a piece of shit and fucked it up. I was weak and stupid and I’m so ashamed. I’ve lost the man I love all over again. I wish a hole would open up and swallow me up.

And I’m sorry for even going on and on about it. It’s just coursing through my entire system. I need it out. OUT. I can’t breathe, I can’t think. It must get out of me. Now, forever, fast, forever. Time. time. I know, I know. God, I know. How long have I wished that I were 6 months from here? When will that ever stop?? Will I ever be safe from me? From them? I don’t know anymore. I feel slightly better. I just lost some of it to you. Thank you.

I don’t want to be alone.

The pain is worse than when I left my husband.  With him, I knew it was because we had no future. This time, I know there’s a future and it’s being denied me.  It’s like the death of someone who hasn’t yet lived their life.

He came and got his things just now and the look in his eyes — so ice blue and shut down — nearly took my breath away.  I choked on words.  Asked him how he was doing.  “I’m doing ok.  How are you?”

“I’m doing horribly, actually.”

He’d let himself in when I didn’t answer.  I’d fallen asleep and awoke to him entering my bedroom.  I asked him to stay and chat for a minute.  We sat down on our spots on the couch.  I told him how furious I was at my best friend for abandoning me and laughed sadly that normally he’d be the one I’d complain to about such a thing.

I asked if there was anything he wanted to say that he hadn’t already.  He said, “I pretty much said everything I needed to.”  I agreed.

He admitted he wasn’t doing all that well.  He was burying himself in work and video games.

He was wearing board shorts.  I asked him if he was going swimming.  He said he’d just gotten back from kayaking around downtown with someone, who, I didn’t ask.  I silently wondered if it was 4 am girl, but tried to push it out of my mind.  He’d told me he had no interest in her, they are only friends.  And really, it doesn’t matter anymore.  He can do what and who he likes.

Then he stood up to get his things.  I was hoping to touch him one last time, to feel his arms around me, to smell his sweet scent.  He gathered up the bag and movies before I could move into his arms.  “And you still think this is the right thing to do?” I asked.

His face was pained, slightly irritated by the hurtful question.  “Yes.”

“Ok.  Just asking.”

“I’m going to go back into my hole now.”

He moved to the front door and I opened it for his laden arms.  He walked out and looked back.  Our faces a reflection of each other.  Sad.  So sad.

I quietly closed the door and began to sob.  My body is betraying me.  My heart feels like it’s going to stop, my hands shake constantly, I burst into tears when someone innocently asks me how I’m doing.

I cut off 10 inches of my hair today.  He didn’t mention it, but I know he knows why.  It’s ritualistic, like the angry red gashes on the white undersides of my breasts.  Stripes of pain, a show of loss.  I have to feel this. Last time I stuffed it all away and it ate at my core.

Tomorrow is the 6th anniversary of my father’s death.  A bad man who hurt me, molested my sister, died alone and in utter misery.  It’s easy to remember the pain of his death because this pain reminds me I’m capable of being alive.  I am going to breathe this fire and cry and sob and do whatever it takes to expunge it from my depths because I don’t want it residing in me.

I texted him asking him the name of his softball team; I don’t want to play that night. He’s pitcher, I’m 1st base.  He said he’d bow out and let me play.  I texted him back that I regret nothing, but will miss everything.  Thank you for loving me in all the ways you could.

And then I texted and called everyone I know.  No one answered. My best friend has been too tired to come over any of these nights and today she decided to go swimming with another friend.  I’m struggling not to tell her to go fuck herself.  Internet “strangers”, people who have never laid eyes on me, heard my voice, or felt my hugs have provided more support.  Why am I so alone?  If I’m such a great person like everyone keeps telling me, then why isn’t anyone here with me??

This is the ugly side of a secret relationship.  I will be mourning and no one will know and my cries for help aren’t taken seriously.  What have I done?  What am I going to do?  How can I possibly handle more loss?  I feel extended to the max, stretched tight.  I have responsibilities and people who rely on me for support.  Can I get through the next few weeks without a ripple?  I will do my fucking best.

The outpouring of love and support from you, my sweet, secret friends, is my lifeline.  I don’t know what I’d be doing right now without you.  You keep me honest, you keep me present, you keep me from slipping away to numbness.  You are all so loved by me.  I hope you can feel it.  You’ve helped a lonely woman in great pain with your words.  I know you’re helping another woman through her pain.  You are wonderful and brilliant and are reminding me that relationships can be a fortress of love, not just an attacking army.  I don’t have to know your faces to know your friendship.

I don’t want to be alone.

He told me it’s over.

I won’t even go into the roller coaster that’s occurred over the last few days, but needless to say, I raged and ranted and screamed at his deception, his carelessness with my feelings.

He apologized, but stuck to his guns: he doesn’t love me and can’t be with me in any capacity without feeling those things.

We talked for hours, he cried some more, I balled. I told him a tale of a time I felt so desperate and lonely I cut myself. And then, after he left, after that last hug and squeeze and tear, all I could think of was those manicure scissors and I slashed and slashed at the breasts he loves so much. FUCK HIM.

Don’t feel badly for me. Don’t preach to me. We all have valves through which we release and this was it for me. So save it. Don’t tell me not to do this to myself because I feel better about these marks on my body than anything else I’m feeling on my soul right now.

It’s over.

He said, “NO.”

Numb.

I give blowjobs in hot tubs.

“I had a really great time tonight,” he said sounding surprised and pleased.  He kissed me then walked out the door.

“Me, too,” I answered back.

My feelings about The Neighbor, as everyone knows, are complicated.  I’m not sure what the split is for me between being cool and being a mess, but there’s definitely both residing in me.  The messages he sends me are all over the map: leave me alone, come to me; I want you, I don’t want you; we’re dating, we’re not dating; you’re the hottest woman ever, I want a woman who looks nothing like you.  I’m beginning to forgive myself for my mood swings.  I’m only human, after all.

Last night we had plans.  Around 7 I texted him to ask when we were hanging out.  He said, “How about after dinner?  At 8?”  Immediately, I’m put out.  I’d turned down a dinner invitation with Roy because I figured eating would be part of my time with TN, but ok, whatever.  Again, more mixed messages, no communication.  He’s not to blame, the fact we don’t talk enough is.

I read something today that really resonated with me: There are three things typically at the root of what upsets us: 1) an unmet expectation, 2) a thwarted intention, or 3) a communication issue.  Makes sense, right?

Last night I was in a foul mood.  A mood Hyacinth rarely indulges in, actually.  I’m uncomfortable with being angry or irritable; I’m afraid that no one will allow me to feel this way and then reject me.  When TN came over I was sleeping in my robe.  We laid down together and dozed and chatted.  I told him I was in a bad way and he took my hand and put it on “my security cock”.  He immediately got hard.  I stroked him while I told him about my date with Mitchell, my ambivalence about my second date, my long week, my fairly good day.

We inspected his bumps on his belly which were fading and he pulled his cock out.  I gripped it, but couldn’t bring myself to suck it.  I wasn’t even in the mood for his dick.  “Wow.  You really are feeling bad!” he commented.

“Yep,” I threw over my shoulder as I left the bedroom.

He followed me out and caught up to me. “What can I do to make you feel better, Hycie?” he asked kneading my shoulders.

Leave me the fuck alone, is what I thought, but instead I said, “I don’t know… I just feel like shit.  I’m hungry for one, and don’t have any wine.  Let’s walk to the store.”

I got dressed and he watched me while lounging on my bed.  “So tell me more about Mitchell.  Do you guys have chemistry?”

I didn’t know how to answer.  “I can have chemistry with anyone for two hours.  I don’t know.”

“What’s our chemistry like?”

Now I really didn’t know how to answer.  “What do you think our chemistry is like?” I volleyed back.

“It’s good.  Really good.”

“Ok, then, I agree.  With Mitchell, it’s hard to tell.  It’s not like what you and I have.”

We went next door for him to put on his pants and send an email.  I laid down in his bed.  He came in and turned off the lights.  “Hycie needs to be spooned,” he said and crawled in behind me and wrapped his arm around me, his hand filled up with a breast.

I wanted to just disappear.  This push and pull on me has exhausted me.  I don’t find it remotely amusing anymore.  Either come at me or just leave me alone, but don’t be kind to me when I need kindness.  It’s not fair.  Then I felt his arousal against my bottom.

“Is that your thigh or are you hard?” I asked.

“Both.”

I wriggled back a little and he drew my skirt up over my hip and hit my flank hard.  Sparks flew through me.  “Do it again.”  His heavy hand came down again.  And again.  He traced the hot spot with his fingertips between spanks and my mood shifted.  This felt better.  This physical pain at his hand.  I arched back harder into the cradle of his hips.  “More,” I said.

He hit me some more until even the traces hurt exquisitely.

Soon, his clothes were off and my skirt was hiked up over my waist, panties flung to the floor.  He entered me slowly and plunged deeply, with care.  We rocked in slow-motion, eyes locked together in the darkness, his hand on my head to  keep it from bumping the headboard.

“Your pussy, it feels so fucking good.  Oh my God, I love fucking you.  Jesus Christ!” and he continued his slow punishment.

My cunt pulsed and vibrated around his cock, my chest grew heavy and emotion swelled into my throat.  I clung to his buttocks and wrapped my arms around him, his face was buried in my neck.  Still slow, still powerfully deep we locked together in the embrace.

He lifted up and drew my legs up to his shoulders and kept at me.  All I could feel was him inside of me, his hands firmly gripping my ankles.  Then he crossed my legs and I lost it.  My pussy cried with my face.  Finally he stopped and disengaged.

“We’ve never fucked this gently before,” he said.

“No, but I wouldn’t say it was ‘gentle’.  That was incredible.”

We got dressed and ran to the store.  He decided to make me a snack since my mood seemed to prevent me from making any decisions.  We bought what we needed and headed back to my place.

Crossing the dark parking lot with our bags he mentioned he didn’t think he could ever date someone who smoked.  Ok, yet another tick against me seeing as I currently smoke.  “Smoking is just something I do.  It’s not who I am.  I haven’t smoked for years.  It’s just a phase.”  He’s never criticized me before for my indulgence; this was the first I’d ever heard of it.  I felt defeated and my mood tanked some more.

Back in my kitchen he mentions that we’re dating.  I’m in no mood for these games and so I said, “We’re not dating, remember?? We’re just fucking and hanging out.”

“We’re not?”

“No.”

“But I’ve taken you on dates to redacted and redacted!”

“Yeah, so?”

“Ok, then we can start splitting the bill in the future.”

He had me there.  “Ok,” I laughed, “we’re dating!”

But really, we’re not.  Because remember, TN? I’m too old, I have a kid, and [now] I smoke.  I’m not your number 1, like you are mine.  Or maybe I am?  I have no fucking clue.  You’d just told me on our way to the store that I made you feel amazing and you were so grateful to me for that; that you hoped you made me feel as special as I did you.

I give up.  I bloody give up.  You give me so much and this must be the toll, this constant confusion.  If having a loving, warm, sweet, kind, sensual, endowed, smart, funny man in my life means I have to put up with his indecision and cat-like introverted qualities, then so be it.  You’re mine, I’m yours.  Let’s just call a spade a fucking spade and move on.  I’m doing my best to do just that.

We played poker, ate his guacamole, watched some SVU.  He sucked my tits when I lost, then he suggested we go swimming.  I said, “Sure.”

The pool deck was dark and empty and we headed straight for the hot tub.  Steam rose off its surface and the bugs chirped merrily behind the stone walls.  I slid into the heat, my back sighed, and soon I had closed the distance between us where I discovered he was wearing gym shorts.  No mesh, free cock and balls.

I slid my hand up his leg and he was hard as a rock.  I slipped it out and sucked quietly.  He threw his head back and said how much he loved it.  He grabbed my head and increased my tempo.  “You’re such a dirty little slut, aren’t you?” he said.  My answer was a whimper and a suck.  “Such a dirty, exposed little slut.  You love this.  You want to be caught.”  Again, my answer was a whimper and a suck.

I stopped and looked over my shoulder.  “There’s a nook right here,” I pointed to a hidden spot from eyes, “we could fuck, you know.”  He leaned forward off the edge and then pulled back.

“I want to, but I think I’ll have to be drunk for that!” he seemed embarrassed at his own inhibitions.  I went back to him and stood up.  He pulled my bikini top aside and let my breasts glisten under the moon- and pool light.

“They’re so beautiful,” he remarked and dipped his mouth to each in turn.  “Your skin is so hot,” he murmured against me and pulled me closer.  My belly touched his, his arm wrapped around my waist.

And then, just like that, I was done.  “You wanna go up?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

We climbed the stairs and he walked me into my foyer dripping.

“I had a really great time tonight,” he said sounding surprised and pleased.  He kissed me then walked out the door.

“Me, too,” I answered back.

There’s something wrong with me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s what I really want.

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

I’m freaking out.

The Neighbor’s handiwork.

I’m all kinds of anxious today.  The Neighbor came over last night and we played Scrabble and chatted.  I was a mess: nervous, weird, odd.  I tried to explain to him about my work week — which involves FEELINGS — and it made me more a mess.  We laughed about it, I admitted I was feeling strange and we moved on.

Then, he undid his pants and hefted out his cock to distract me from my turn and we spent the next hour or so fucking each others’ brains out and drenching my bed with my juices.

I like this guy so fucking much.

Way  more than is good for me.  He told me he’s hanging out with this girl friend of his tonight – a chick he doesn’t really like, but really wants to fuck.  He said he’d consider dating her if she admitted she was shallow and all wrong about the kind of guy she wants to end up with (older, rich, Republican, religious, and conservative).  I take comfort in knowing that’ll never happen.  But still.

I’m pretty certain he has no clue how I feel about him.  He makes jokes about Jason and my Frankenstein boyfriend not knowing that he makes up the bulk of that person.  He’s the guy I want to spend time with, he’s the guy whose cock I transfix on when masturbating, he’s the guy who knows and is liked by all my friends, he’s the guy who knows my kid, he’s the guy who I am totally myself with and rarely is even out of pajamas around.

The others are peripheral beings.  Jason is rich with compliments and affection, Phillip cuddles me and fucks me till morning.  Add them all up and it’s what I want in a partner — oh holy shit, did I just say PARTNER?

But all TN and I seem to do is remind each other how wrong we are for one another.  He’s not older or a parent; I’m not younger and childless.  Other than that, I got nothing to reject him from my prospects list.  Nothing.

And I have been talking out loud to myself all morning saying things like, “TN, here’s the thing, you’ve gotten into my icy heart and I don’t think I can keep doing this knowing that one day soon you’ll stop by to tell me you’ve found a hot girl to date for real.”

… or…

“TN, you’ve weaseled your way into my heart and I don’t know what to do…”

… or…

“TN, I don’t think I can keep having sex with you because I’m beginning to have real feelings for you…”

That last one makes me want to cry.  I have to decide to take what I can get (what I have now) or call it off.

I wish what I have now was enough, but it’s not.  I want him to stay the night, I want to go running with him, I want him to come with me to events of my friends, I want him to check on me, I want him to think of me and tell me so.

Goddammit.

I so didn’t want this.

And, of course, the sex was off the fucking charts last night.  He cupped his hand deep inside of me and made me fill it with ejaculate.  I slid my hands down his muscled torso and panted and cried and told him that my panties would be in a wad if he ended up disappearing with his date tonight for the weekend.  He took notice when I said that.

He also asked me how many times I’d want to have sex with someone if I loved him and he had a huge cock if we were to spend, “say, 4 or 5 days a week together.”  I told him I’d never been in love with anyone I saw that much with a giant cock, but if I were, maybe 3-4 of those days.

“Not every night?  Multiple times a night??  I thought for sure you would.  I think you love sex way more than I do.”

“No,” I countered, “not unless we felt like it.  I got shit to do, you know; a life.”  He hmphed.

I vowed a long time ago to not try to decode a man’s behavior towards me, but here I am doing it.  This is what no communication, and an utter refusal on my part to do so will get you: an overwhelming feeling of being clusterfucked.

Hyacinth got spanked.

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I asked The Neighbor to spank me harder. He usually gets a few good swings in during a fuck, but this time we were lounging between goes and I told him to keep hitting me until he left a welt. It took about a dozen tries, but eventually, it worked. Oh, how it worked.

Then I requested an ice cube rub down to ease my flaming skin. And he cradled my ass in his arms as he slipped the ice over my redness.

I tried a spank or two on him but it hurt my hand with equal measure. I slipped a sliver of ice in his tight little anus and spanked hard. He writhed and absorbed the piece. It was fun for 30 seconds, but I’m thinking I’ll just stay the spanked and not the spanker.