It’s been 23 years.

This isn’t even remotely a sexy post.  My life is filled with less “sexy” these days and a lot more thinking.  I can’t find anyone I’m attracted to, first of all, and secondly, no one seems worth my time.  So I’m just going to write what’s in my heart instead.

I remember standing at the bus stop on my brand new college campus far away from home and feeling miserable.  I felt raw and overwhelmed and I hadn’t yet acclimated to anything about this city.  Not its culture, its heat, its weird streets and freeways, or its university with what seemed to me to be an atypical rabid loyalty from its students.  (Turns out, all colleges are like that, but I had no idea.)

“I just have to work hard and get out of here,” I thought as I watched throngs of students walk by and buses lumber past.  I’d been here for all of 2 months, but had already had a falling out with my father, and the mantra which got me out of California, painted on the wall of my room, didn’t really make sense.  I was where I’d worked so hard to get to.

That was the moment I realized I needed help, because everywhere you go, there you are.

I booked an appointment at the Student Mental Health Clinic that same day.  I want to say that I even walked there from the bus stop, but I can’t be certain.

For 16 weeks I met in one of the dark, windowless basement rooms with a beautiful PhD student whose name I can no longer recall.  Every session was recorded so his professor could monitor our progress and his acuity and I remember surreptitiously glancing at the red recording light on the camera mounted in the corner.

In that stack of email printouts I found recently I’d written someone about my sessions with him.  About how I struggled with feeling comfortable with his shockingly good looks and how much I cried about my dad and my friends from back home who never wrote. Sometimes it feels like my life started in that basement.

When the sessions ended (because 16 is plenty for a girl who’s been completely traumatized by her childhood and is on the brink of engaging in reckless drug and sexual activity) the center gave me a list of neighboring clinicians I could go to out of pocket.  My mom agreed to pay and for $100/hour in 1996 I sat on Sigmund Freud’s couch while he slurped his fast food drink and finished his lunch and I angrily wore sheer white shirts with no bra to get back at him for his disrespect.

It lasted 6 months before I realized he didn’t really give a shit about anything I had to say.  Besides, I felt better.  I felt generally more competent and emboldened: it was ok to do what I wanted.  I dated a girl, made lots of friends, drank and smoked weed with the honor students and smoked Benson and Hedges Menthol 100’s and requested them with a straight face.

By senior year my partying began to take its toll on me and my school work and I found myself back at the Mental Health Center, this time with a drug counselor of a sort who liked to draw me lots of diagrams and give me handouts.

She let my best friend come with me and we’d do a fun little couples session on how to set boundaries with our other friends and make better choices.  Debbie never judged us and she encouraged moderation over a hard line of abstinence only.  Obviously, we liked that.  But then those sessions ran out too, college ended, and I was out on my own in the big world at 21.

Twenty-one.  They say that’s a grown up adult with all the responsibilities and obligations of all the other adults, but when I think of that girl I think it’s a miracle she survived 22 more years.

I moved downtown and worked in a bar after graduation and snorted most of my piddly earnings and drunkenly fucked my way through my “industry” brothers.  Sex and alcohol were like peas and carrots in my book and the attention I was getting from men was its own intoxication as I’d been largely ignored since arriving at school.  What?  Men liked me??

That life only lasted a year before we all moved out and on and by 24 I was more or less behaving myself.  I’d gotten a cat and a dog, found steady work.  I still partied a little on weekends, still had drunken sex, but I also fell in love for the first time and had a “grown up” relationship where I practiced saying No for the first time.  I had varying degrees of success with that.

Therapy wasn’t a part of any of this.  My life was like a hamster ball rolling and bouncing downhill – and I was obviously the hamster just hanging on for dear life.  It worked just fine until my father crossed another line and I fell apart.  I kicked him back out of my sister’s and my lives, but that didn’t stop him from traveling from Colorado to knock on my front door one Sunday morning.

Disheveled and hungover, wearing my white satin Victoria’s Secret shorts and top ensemble I looked through the peep hole.  I should have pretended to not be home.

It was another traumatic visit which found me assailing him with my anger and him deflecting and blaming me.  What did he want?  Why was he there?  Why wouldn’t he fucking listen to me??!  It felt gross and needy and violating on every level and me being braless and in satin didn’t help.

Hours later he left and I crumpled into a hot mess of tears and blubbering.  I called my mom and she insisted I start therapy again.  I was 26 and – with the exception of the times I had a baby and toddler to care for – I have been in an office pouring my heart out ever since.

My last therapist was a father-figure in all ways.  He shared a look with my dad, a similar build, but where my father was disgusting and titillated by the world, Rich was calm and detached.  He was safe and encouraging.  He helped guide me to graduate school and into my marriage and helped me begin to trust men, just a little.  But when I left my husband, I lost him.

My wild sexual ways as Hy befuddled him.  He thought I needed to go to Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous, he thought I was bipolar.  I relentlessly fought both: No, I was exploring and loving and feeling alive.  This wasn’t a manic episode, this was me!  I ended our 10 year relationship abruptly one afternoon and I haven’t looked back.

I was without therapy for another year before I called my couples counselor, the wizened woman who had tried her very best to help me and my husband reconcile.  Would she see me?  Yes, she would.

I have spent thousands of dollars over the years on therapy.  Thousands. That has meant I didn’t have money for travel, for fancy things, for a savings account.  It has been a monetary sacrifice, to be sure, but how do I put a price on saving my own life?  On having one person in this entire fucking world whom I can trust and be myself with?  When I feel so lost and isolated 99% of the time I feel at home on a couch.  I don’t even care that I’m paying her; I know she cares about me.

I cried yesterday on her sea-foam colored armchair because I miss Peter and his steady presence in my life, and where I am resolute in how I handled that situation, I feel less certain about The Golfer.  I am rehashing our times together trying to figure out what I may have done to make him reject me.  It’s a useless and silly exercise, a juvenile one like how little kids think they’re responsible for the terrible things their parents do to them, but I can’t help it.

And then I remember that one time in the very early days with The Neighbor when while walking up to a movie theater he grabbed my hand and I pulled it away.  “Friends with benes don’t hold hands,” I’d told him.  What if that one moment I rejected him shaped the entirety of the rest of our time together?  What if I had just let him hold my hand?

With TG I think, “What if when he was clearly being vulnerable with me and sharing that I was his only lover this year I had lied and said he was my only one, too?”  Perhaps my eluding the question hurt him deeply and that is why he is rejecting me now.

It’s embarrassing to admit such twisted logic.  I am a strong, intelligent, powerful woman after all, with more to give than most.  What is wrong with me??  But I don’t have to fear reprisal from my therapist.  She likes to sit quietly most days and ponder, absorb my flood of emotion, then speak thoughtfully.  Yesterday was no different.

“Hy,” she said at the end of the hour, “I shouldn’t be bringing this up right now [since we have to end], but I can’t help but think that both TN and TG are so similar for you.  With TG everything fun is on his own terms – everything – just like with TN.  He says when and where with no thought to your needs.  TN did the same thing.”

And that is why I will keep sitting on that couch until the day I die – hopefully more than another 23 years – because therapy is, quite literally, life.

 

 

 

Friday, August 9th, is Boobday!

I continue to have my psychic tantrum on a rather large scale, but seem to be fooling everyone that I’m perfectly normal. I guess that’s good?

I’ve been sad about Peter and The Golfer. Sad about Peter because that was a relationship I counted on. Sad about TG for reasons less obvious to me. But I haven’t reached out to him like I said I would and that seems like progress, but the silence is deafening.

And I had a totally crappy first date last night with a man who brayed when he laughed and liked to jam his finger right in my face for emphasis. He also like to use that finger to poke me on occasion. I was looking for cameras because surely I was being Punk’d.

I pulled a “Chandler Bing” at the end of the night and suggested we meet again, though I have no intentions of doing so. I just don’t know how to dismount a bad date…

Anyway, the image I chose this week couldn’t be more fitting: dark and blurry. Like my heart right now.

Love you all and miss you! I’m following your lives as closely as I can am giving all the virtual hugs.

xx

Hy

Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email (hyacinth.jones@hotmail.com) OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent.

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:

It fits.

NOT my tits:

This is a beautiful LaPerla bra that I enjoy wearing under a Coldwater Creek sheer teal blouse.

::

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Tantrums.

I don’t know how else to describe what I’ve been going through except a psychic tantrum on all fronts.

I feel unmoored, terrified, emboldened, devastated, excited, powerful, overwhelmed, gleeful and lost.

Yeah….

It started when Pey left town with my ex for the two-week trip they usually do each year together at the end of June.  If one week without my baby is bad, two is exponentially worse.  Simultaneous to the separation, I embarked on a six-month-long side project at work, that if I pull it off, has the potential to completely change my life forever and those of everyone I care for and love.

Additionally, I have continued to process the enormous revelations related to my childhood trauma and the hole in my heart that ceaselessly demands my attention.  Peter, The Golfer, The Vet, random dates here and there, The Neighbor, powerful articles that sear my heart; drawing boundaries and gaining clarity in my life.  This all seems to be the name of the game for my 2019.

And I am a fucking wreck.

I am smoking again, drinking in excess, not exercising, procrastinating on almost all levels, and I’m going to bed at either 8:30 or staying out way too late with anyone I can get to spend time with me.

The funniest part of all of this is that I doubt anyone would have a clue.  Nothing but Me is falling through the cracks.

Everyone at work thinks I’m doing a bang up job, Peyton adores me as always and things are better than ever, my family are proud of me, my very best and closest friends don’t hate me and continue to support me, my animals are all fat and happy and get lots of scratches and pats and even the plants aren’t dead or even wilting.

I am living in an upside down world where shit smells like roses and the pretty things make me sick.

I’ve never been a “successful” person.  I have never dated anyone who really got and understood me, loved me wholly and rooted for me in all ways.  I have never been deeply vulnerable and connected to anyone.  I have never been financially stable.  Ever.  I have never treated my body like a temple – I’ve always been more partial to a Caligula type of lifestyle.

Yet, I am in the midst of casting aside everyone in my life who treats me like I am worth about as much as a pack of bubblegum: fun to chew for a little while, but ultimately disposable.  I have distanced myself from friends who aren’t caring about my heart and time and done the same with the men.  I am listening to my inner voice for the first time in my life and embracing the awesomeness of that: I get to choose whom I share Me with.  I’m not interested in just anyone anymore.

Still, I’m horny, lonely, and terrified.  I cum each morning and then cry as I whisper to no one, “Leave marks on me.  Please.”  Who would?  I don’t know.  But I yearn for that person in all of this all the same.

I’m allowing my tantrums to play out and watching myself carefully.  Yes, I am making poor decisions, but I think what would be worse would be to beat myself up for them.  I am a steady ship – always have been – I will course correct eventually.  I just may be fat and asthmatic by the time I do, but so what.

One of the most powerful things I’ve realized this year is that seducing someone and getting something from them is not actually love, affection or validation.  It is a nutrition-less elixir that keeps me high and distant from what I need most: grounding.

I look at all of my relationships – from those that involve throbbing cocks to those that include bottles of wine and confessional hearts – and I can see how much I hold back and how impenetrable I really am.  Everyone thinks I’m so open and I still can’t understand why.  No one knows my heart; I never show it.

I’m never brave enough to draw lines and demand better and more and different.  I accept – sheepishly, gratefully – and live on emotional scraps.  I send all the wrong messages that this is ok.  But I actually want people who are as strong as me.  After all, I could handle a boundary set on me and to be asked for better, more or different from someone.  I’d jump at the opportunity to show my love and loyalty.  If a relationship crumbles because I express my needs then so be it; let it scatter in the wind.  Good riddance.

Good riddance to the men who say they want a strong and sexy woman, powerful in who she is, but when she expresses herself shut down and retreat, taking their ball with them.  Fuck the men who say all they want is casual, never showing up to see what’s beyond the playgrounds of our bodies and eliminating the joy of more.  Screw the people who are so fragile they can’t reach beyond their own fingertips to be careful with others’ tender hearts, tromping on everyone on their little private, selfish trail of tears.

I’m tired and cranky and flipping the fuck out.  Excited and enormous in my hope, equalled only by my terror to fail by not trying.

My life is waiting for me just around the corner.  I swear I can feel it.

Fuuuuck.  This is so scary.

 

 

Fighting it all.

I feel tears somewhere in my throat, or maybe packed deep behind my face.  If I allowed myself to sit with my feelings they would be there, but I don’t have the time or the space.  I should be working right now, but I recognized the pull to pour it out, so here I am pouring away.

I said it before and I’ll say it again, I have to teach people how to treat me and I am no longer going to accept scraps.

Since Peter became single and took up with One-Month-Girl he’s been a total shit.  When he had a girlfriend being second fiddle (or 13th) was fine, but now that he has the freedom to spend more time with me, his friend and confidante of three-and-a-half years, he isn’t.  In fact, I am being treated like the ex-girlfriend, and I am not here for it.

Last Friday he texted to say Hi and tell me he felt good as new and incidentally was too busy to see me that weekend.  Well fuck that.  I haven’t heard from him since.

I texted this morning asking if he could hang out or at the very least have a quick chat “to say Hi (and other things).”  The last time I drew a line in the sand regarding how someone treats me was three weeks ago – with him – and he essentially talked me out of it.  So today the line will be deeper and possibly scratched in wood.

And before that it was with The Neighbor and he cried and begged me not to – repeatedly – and I ignored my gut and flapped in the wind for three fucking years wondering when he’d leave me or I’d finally catch him in a lie.

I’m a little crushed.

I’ve recognized that my damage extends to my appearance of having no vulnerability or neediness.  If you met me in real life you could see quite clearly that I don’t need anyone.  I am an island, self-made, big and tough.  I have weathered an absolutely brutal post-divorce relationship with my ex-husband and my heart breaks every single fucking week my baby leaves me.  I’m like a fucking soldier in a 20-year war.

I run my house, have 3 animals, have built a career from literally nothing, and take care of everyone around me.  I don’t need anyone.  And men need to be needed.  Peter has made that abundantly clear.

He just texted while writing this – his tone seems different and he confirmed he’s “back at OMG’s.”  Yeah, duh.  He says he wants to see me still. 

I’ve effectively erected walls to block out The Golfer from my consciousness with varying degrees of success.  I can’t think of Peter without thinking of TG.  Together they were a great pair for me: one was sweet and kind and caring and the other was passionate and intense.  Also combined they were a colossal butt munch: TG forever lost in the mist of alcohol and golf and Peter submerged in lies and betrayal.  But their basic unavailability felt safer than them being available and still rejecting me – which is how I feel with Peter now.

I’ve had to tell two other men that I wasn’t interested in pursuing anything because to be honest, my heart isn’t in it.  I feel so worn down, desperately searching for my center.  I’ve considered so many “themes” for July that I’ve decided to literally take each day one at a time.  Is it a “dry July”?  Do I throw myself into working out?  Do I not date?  Do I abstain from contacting TG?  Do I indulge the skin crawling urge to smoke or do I just loosen the belt?

We’re going to try to see each other tomorrow or later in the week.

I’m so busy this week I’m not able to schedule moving my body and am desperate for it.  I almost want to hyperventilate over it.  I contemplated going this morning just past dawn, but the spiders are busy spinning their beautiful little traps and I’m not really excited about walking through 30 of them.  The last time I tried that I was moderately traumatized and began jumping at wood formations that lurked in the corner of my spider-seeking eyes.

Everything feels like I’m holding back and in.  My breath, my feelings, my life.  I need to exhale, let it out in one big whoosh.  Yell from the rooftops.  Something.

TG has summarily ignored all my attempts at interaction and I have resigned myself to it: he has been completely honest about what he’s willing to give and so long as I continue to stand with my hand out, I only have myself to blame.

And yet I know that the second I see The Golfer’s name pop up on my phone the butterflies will dance in my belly and I’ll forget to breathe all over again.

 

It’s time for quiet now.

The Golfer ignored this.

Just a few things running through my mind today:

Working out for three months, moving, shopping for new furniture, my career, friends, Mens, sex and losing it, drinking, loneliness, excitement, determination, hope, warmth, longing, anger that I keep seeing my fucking ex-boyfriend everywhere I go on my apartment property, why I care that The Golfer won’t text me back and why Peter is being a dipshit, my dog might be too fat like me, how I caught two women at the party saying complimentary things about my looks so I must not be a troll, smoking again a little, the married British man trapped on a Fourth of July holiday hahaha, becoming friends with The Vet, chatting with my mom like a normal person, missing my baby who’s so far away, only one more week to go!, tomorrow is the beginning of the second half, a fresh start, that curry makes my belly ache, I can’t wait to be done with Cheers and move on to Frasier, I am both lonely and ok.

Thank you for being here with me and for me, guys. Internet Boyfriends are really the only boyfriends worth having anyway.

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It’s time for quiet now.

The Golfer ignored this.

Just a few things running through my mind today:

Working out for three months, moving, shopping for new furniture, my career, friends, Mens, sex and losing it, drinking, loneliness, excitement, determination, hope, warmth, longing, anger that I keep seeing my fucking ex-boyfriend everywhere I go on my apartment property, why I care that The Golfer won’t text me back and why Peter is being a dipshit, my dog might be too fat like me, how I caught two women at the party saying complimentary things about my looks so I must not be a troll, smoking again a little, the married British man trapped on a Fourth of July holiday hahaha, becoming friends with The Vet, chatting with my mom like a normal person, missing my baby who’s so far away, only one more week to go!, tomorrow is the beginning of the second half, a fresh start, that curry makes my belly ache, I can’t wait to be done with Cheers and move on to Frasier, I am both lonely and ok.

Thank you for being here with me and for me, guys. Internet Boyfriends are really the only boyfriends worth having anyway.

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Clarity.

My sister sent 2/3 of her kids out to stay with me and my folks last minute yesterday. I was in the middle of the beginning of a posh meal with an old friend and ex-lover, Zed, when my step dad asked what time I was coming over.

I side stepped my assholery and killed two birds with one stone: I’d be there around 8, and no, that meant I couldn’t hang out and “play,” Zed.

I have zero interest in ol’ Zed which fascinates me because we’re legitimately friends. Isn’t that the type of man I should go for??

He was the best friend of a graduate college friend and once I’d chewed him up, I moved on to Zed.

We hit it off with our appetites for food and cocktails and penchant for long, dark nights out on the town. I was 36 at the time, or 100 years younger than I am now if you want to know the truth.

I thought he was a fantastic kisser, but our bedroom chemistry fell flat. He tried to be cute with criticisms about my “performance” and not surprisingly, I wasn’t amused. I was also hungry for giant cock at the time and Zed was just a normal human male.

I got the sense not long after that he had caught feelings for me, but I was on the war path and couldn’t be bothered. Then one night while playing with my Book of Questions with me and The Neighbor, Zed had some allergic reaction to one of my answers and stuck his steel-toed boot in my face and derided me menacingly for what felt like an eternity.

He also wasn’t good with Peyton, falling back on an old school “I am the adult, hear me roar and kowtow to me!” sort of mentality with a fucking sweet little 4 year old. Uh… NO.

I chalked it up to his PTSD from multiple tours in the Middle Wast, but that essentially ended my sharing my time with him in any capacity for some years until we crossed paths on a dating app in 2016.

He’d calmed down, softened, been through more shit. He’d missed me he said. I agreed to see his new house and go to dinner with him.

The night was decadent and hedonistic, though also completely sexless. I was irritated with him the majority of the night and felt like I was putting up with him as I danced just out of arm’s reach. Last night was no different when he made it very clear that he’d like to date me or at least fuck me.

“My physical needs are met,” I said frankly. “Plus, I think I may just be done looking for more than that anyway. It’s too hard, my bar is too high, and I need to focus on other things, anyway.”

He made an ill-timed joke about the “coincidence” of me reestablishing contact. Which I hadn’t – it was another internet crossing, but whatever. Peyton is gone for two weeks and I’m sick of Mens, so I took him up on an offer to see each other.

I’ve been thinking about it pretty much non-stop – this idea of “giving up.”

I had yet another boring, go-nowhere date on Tuesday and when I saw a lone man sitting in the bar my first thought was OH NO. Never a good sign. What’s it called when you feel absolutely nothing for another human being? Apathy?

I just looked at him and couldn’t imagine him giving me half as much pleasure as The Golfer gives me. Also, his five o’clock shadow reminded me a little of my father at his age, just before he died. Also never a good sign.

If things between me and The Golfer stay the same then I can expect to have the best sex of my life 1-3x a month. I’d rather have it 3x a week, to be sure, but I wouldn’t be sexless and I could focus on other things. Like moving and working up the ladder at work and organizing my sock drawers and blogging more.

He’d be a known and familiar quantity in my life; I could just relax a little.

And Peter has to go. He just has to.

For more than three years I have been a willing side piece gobbling up whatever stolen moments and scraps of him I could get and since he’s met One-Month-Girl I have been relegated right back to that role without ever getting the chance to grow tired of him from a marathon weekend together or even a motherfucking sleepover.

His recent illness has put an even finer point on it: despite me being his destination when he was struck down, I was probably the last person to learn of his condition and status and was left completely in the dark overnight and stood up. Again.

He apologized in a drugged haze and I struggled to think of what to do about feeling so cast aside and disrespected; this isn’t a text conversation and I also felt badly for him. He has no insurance and spent the night in the ER.

I decided to focus on him first and offered to have food delivered when he was up for it, and yesterday he called in the favor. I even remembered his ex-girlfriend – who’s nursing him back to health – is a vegetarian and a picky eater so got her Pad Thai with tofu as a way of apologizing for my intrusion.

He was grateful and called me baby and sweet and kind and caring and said he felt almost cured since the beef pho I’d ordered for him. He passed on her thanks.

You’re very welcome. I can imagine how stressed out you are by all of this and I wanted to help somehow. I doubt you’ll take me up on my offer stay with me (One-Month-Girl wouldn’t like that lol but it’s still there), but I can at least feed you, so feed you I will 🙂

He never denied that OMG was his ultimate destination once he’s well enough to leave his apartment with the ex-girlfriend in it, which confirmed how far from the top I am in his mind. It sticks in my craw like a lump of ice, cold and painful, but my righteous anger is swiftly melting it. Fuck. That. Shit, man. Fuck that shit.

I am fully done inviting people to stay in my life who treat me like a faithful dog, ever ready to forgive and always searching for a pat on the head no matter what the fuck they’ve done to me. That goes for everyone, not just men.

Clarity will be my word for the back half of 2019. Clarity to protect myself and clarity to be patient, but most of all, clarity to be real and bold and stronger than ever. No one needs boundaries more than I do and it’s gonna be tough.

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I’m just a fool who wants to be loved.

So Peter has kidney stones. And the pain was so great, the trauma so overwhelming, he couldn’t text me until after he’d gotten his ex girlfriend to drive him home this morning. Never mind he was en route to my house and I texted worried and freaked out several times.

And before I heard from him, I texted The Golfer a hot pic of my breast hanging out while on a walk with the dog this morning. Surprisingly, he responded relatively quickly. He’s still spent from our night together, he said. I’m quite satisfied by that.

I’m having conversations with Peter in my car and kitchen, with The Golfer in my office and on my couch. Of course they can’t hear them, but it’s where I am strongest and most clear: Do not mistreat me! I say. Do not make me feel insignificant and worthless! I will not stand for it!

I’m fighting the urge to ask The Golfer to spend the Fourth or July with me poolside and in my bed. He will only say No.

And then I remember that giving them access to me despite how they’ve treated me is a hand written permission slip signed by me to keep doing whatever they fucking like.

One, I can handle. The other is going to have to go.

Ah naturale.

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We’re all just here to hurt one another.

I’m in a mood.  A bad mood.

I spent another magical night with The Golfer last night – our eighth since February.  He’d texted to confirm that morning that he would be too busy to hang out and said he didn’t want to disappoint me by making plans.  Two hours later he took it all back and asked me to come over at 4.  He apologized again.

Suddenly it all made sense.  He was actually thinking of me all week, worried about letting me down.  He wasn’t being a dick; I found it a kind gesture and agreed to come over at 6.

He met me at the door with a giant, sparkly smile and wrapped his arms around me from behind and filled his hands with my breasts.  He may have nibbled on my neck.  He told me his plan to talk to me, bathe me, tease me, feed me, then fuck me and that’s just what he did.

We took a shower together then fit ourselves together like a puzzle in the Japanese soaking tub and he massaged my chest and breast bones and watched me intently as my head lolled and my eyes pinched shut from the attention.

We sucked and fiddled with each other and both came close to cumming before we remembered The Plan.  Sushi arrived, we dove in to the food, me wrapped in his monogrammed robe, and then we went at it.

I clawed and bit him as he ravaged me with his perfect cock.  He rained down blows on my ass and hips and twisted and bit my nipples until I cried.

I came so hard I hiccuped my ecstasy and when he finally came buried deep in my ass I sobbed and laughed as eveyr cell I have seemed to fuse into one giant ball of molten feels.

We took another shower and fell asleep an arms reach apart.

I didn’t sleep again.

I dreamt that Dream TG callously dismissed me the next morning with a brushing away motion of his hand as he looked at important papers.  Go, Hy.  I won’t be walking you out.  Bye.  I was devastated and humiliated.

I awoke with a headache and sense that I’d only been asleep for an hour or two.  I got some water and went back to bed and hoped we’d fuck again in the morning.  We didn’t.

He quietly got up and let his dog out and got in the shower.  I took that as my cue to leave and got dressed while he casually watched from the shower.

“Do you want me to help you with the bed?” I asked him.

“No, that’s ok,” he answered, looking me up and down with a hungry look.  That was new.  Usually it’s just a look.

“Ok.  I gotta get home to the dog.  Thanks for everything last night.”  I opened the shower door to kiss him goodbye.

“Thank you,” he replied and gave me my usual peck on the corner of my mouth.  I’d hoped using his mouthwash might encourage a real kiss, but I was wrong.

I drove home listening to Lizzo with the windows down.  The post-dawn roads mostly empty, my body and mind still.  So this is how it is.

We smoked pot and drank wine and laughed so hard I cried.  We flirted and fucked and talked about what I don’t know.  Then the sun rose and it was all over.  Poof.

And as much fun as it all was I spent a tremendous amount of time processing our interactions: why don’t we touch when we sleep?  why don’t we fuck in the morning?  why won’t he kiss me on the mouth?  why has he said stupid things to me about other women?  why don’t we see each other more often if he knows what we have is so rare?  I was completely emotionally exhausted and couldn’t wait to see Peter for our Sunday pool date, to fill up on his sweet, loving energy.

I needed a hug and I knew he’d wrap me in his arms, kiss me, tell me how much he loved hanging out with me and hang on every word I said.

Home and still warm and buzzing from TG I texted him before 8 asking if he’d like to come over around noon or 1. At 10 he texted back to say he’d just woken up, but wasn’t feeling that well.  He was hungover; he’d be over at 1.

At 1 he texted to say he was freaking out – he’d found blood when he went to the bathroom -and he was en route to an emergency clinic and he’d call me as soon as he could.  I haven’t heard from him since and am not all that surprised.

I also don’t believe any of it.

I think he’s hungover and wanted to hang out with his new lady and I couldn’t quite argue against blood in his urine, now could I?  Short of emergency surgery or death, there’s no reason he couldn’t text me an update or answer any of my worried follow up texts.  None.

But the point is: I don’t trust him.  And if I’m honest, I don’t trust anyone.

People are dangerous, men even more so: they take and use and discard.  They’re precious and weak.  They’re selfish, unenlightened, and fragile.  And I bear it all like blisters on my skin, suffering, but still able to function and hike the mountain.

The Vet answered some recent veterinarian questions for me the other day and we briefly caught up.  I called him on his offer to be friends, but I know that was just bullshit.  He’s done nothing to foster a friendship since he said that’s what he wanted.  And despite saying he couldn’t handle even something casual I can see his online activity in search of such a thing.

My loneliness hit a peak as I sat on my couch, my makeup recently touched up for Peter’s imminent arrival, and my child’s absence palpable.  I put my head in my hands and cried.  Why does no one want me?  Why am I so bad at this??

Then I thought of the wife of the married man I’m talking to and how she thinks her life is perfect.  She thinks she has a loving and devoted husband – and she does – but he is also duplicitous and conniving.  She would be obliterated with the knowledge of what her husband does for his survival.  She’s “got someone” and it’s about the cruelest kind of fantasy one can have.

And I thought of the friend with a lifelong partner who’s a raging alcoholic who’s nearly lost his job because of it and only miraculously not killed anyone when he’s wrecked his car during blackouts.

And of the friend who’s cheated on her husband over the years as she’s dealt with his neglect and battled her depression and sense of unworthiness.

And of the friend whose baby daddy comes and goes as he pleases and isn’t reliable.

They’ve all “got someone” and I wouldn’t want what they have just so I wasn’t so alone on a sunny Sunday afternoon in June.  But I’m still sad.  I’m still lonely.

I swiped a thousand times on my reloaded dating apps and lazily browsed through Instagram when I came across this:

View this post on Instagram

 

I have such a crush on this guy. He repeatedly shows me how big his heart is and that it’s the little things that make up the best part of a relationship. After replacing my license plate covers at 5:30 in the morning because I forgot to the night before a road trip, and then setting out a beer in ice for when I returned from said road trip after being stuck for HOURS without snacks and a bathroom break (and not letting me enter till I had a few sips to relax), I’m reminded how lucky I am to have him as my sidekick through this life. He constantly makes me want to be a better version of myself and to continue to grow in love, patience and kindness ❤️ now I just gotta find some creative ways to repay him 😉

A post shared by Becca Kufrin (@bkoof) on

It hit me like a ton of bricks.  Everything this reality tv star wrote is what I have longed for my entire life: to be seen.

I’ve never had a boyfriend or husband do anything remotely close to this.  I’m so starved for attention that when anyone does the absolute minimum that would constitute human decency I feel softened from the inside out.  It’s nothing short of pitiful.

I haven’t lost sight of my two big epiphanies, either: I have long entangled getting something from a man with him loving me; I do things for others in order to make myself feel special to them – they don’t make me feel special to them.

These broken survival skills are most obvious in my dating life, but easily apply to my life in general.  I don’t feel seen by my friends, either.  They overlook me and fit me in when convenient, even when I’m explicit in my need for help or caring.

It’s like we’re all just here to hurt one another.  Take one look at the news and it’s confirmed: babies crammed in rooms with no beds, separated from their families, my rights to my body being stolen away, one state at a time, more assault victims being panned and crucified.

And in my pocket, my little corner of the world, wives are being lied to, burdened and hurt, men are stifled and stunted.  I’m constantly being slighted and cast aside.

I’ve come at it from every angle.  Caring, not caring, hard, soft, all ages, all attractiveness levels.  I’ve abstained, I’ve indulged.  I’ve paid for dating services and done all the free ones, I’ve done nothing, too.  I’ve been Me across the board and all I feel I have elicited is an erasure of myself.

No matter how hard I try to draw the outlines of myself to the world I seem to remain hidden.  Except here.  Here I am seen, here I am real, here I am heard.

I’ve never needed Hy more.  I’ve also never needed someone more.  Looks like it’s gonna have to be me…

 

 

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I’m invisible.

When it’s quiet, it’s a roar.

Stillness doesn’t suit me, yet I’m certain it fits like a glove.

Goddamn I wish someone loved me – even a little.

I keep seeing men from my past who swore they weren’t interested in a girlfriend Now, with girlfriend!

I am like a stinky cheese.

I sound decadent, but when I’m on the palate once is enough.

I suspect Peter is with his lady friend as I haven’t heard from him all day.

The Golfer is likely busy wooing some other woman he’ll probably make plans with 5 days in advance without bitching about it.

Or making love to a bottle and some Titleists.

It’s so quiet I can’t hear.

I can’t breathe the suit is too tight.

I am so completely invisible to the men I am in front of.

I don’t exist.

Hy, Hy, Hy.

Why can they not see me?!

I must just be too quiet.

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