Peter and I met today at a little pizza house down the street from my office. I kicked off my Calvin Klein pumps for my battered Chucks and walked under rain-heavy clouds, my laptop in my tote. I was immersed in my work and a glass of white wine when he arrived all long legs, lean hips and a shy smile.
He looked worried which kept me rooted to my seat. What was he here to tell me? Were we going to say goodbye? I wasn’t sure what would happen; I have no experience telling people they can’t treat me a certain way.
We made pleasantries and I marveled at his dashing good looks. “So, why did you want to meet besides showing off how pretty you are?” I said breaking the ice, smiling slyly.
He made a coiffing motion with his hand and smiled back, laughing.
He explained the circumstances that prevented him from coming over Sunday and apologized again for hurting me. “You deserve to hear from me in person and not over text,” he said. He’s disoriented and lost since ending his relationship last month and he’s been couch surfing. He’s also somehow already gotten entangled with another woman who wants him to move in with her. He looked hurt as he told me.
“I don’t want to repeat my past,” he said. “But she seems to think we’re a thing and it’s not what I want.” I did a little probing and discovered she’s a woman I noticed on his Instagram despite no social media trail I could see. (“I’m psychic,” I told him.)
“Get out, Peter, you can’t keep staying there with her. You don’t seem to realize your effect on women. You are so pretty and so kind and so sweet and we are all so horribly treated that just the most minimal humanity shown us is seen as interest or intention to commit. You need to be sensitive to this about you and be responsible for it. Get the fuck out of there before you hurt her.”
“This is why I love talking to you,” he said. “You’re so mature and respectful and straight forward. I believe everything you say.”
“We’ve known each other for years now and I care about you. C’mere.” I moved my purse and patted the seat next to me. He moved closer and we embraced. I nibbled on his lips and he stroked my hair and back.
I told him about The Golfer and The Vet and how hisflakinesshas been coinciding with their whatever; I wanted to show him what a woman typically deals with.
“All my friends who date experience similar things: men are fucking awful to us. Please, you can stay with me when Pey is gone, sleep on that bed, you don’t have to share mine. We’ll get high and watch cooking shows and I’ll play with your penis.” I pulled him down to my lips again as I laughed. “It’ll be like a slumber party!”
He laughed into my kiss. “Thank you, and I may…” he hesitated. “It’s just I’m never jealous of you and all the men you go out with, but I’m jealous of her.”
“That’s your gut telling you to get the fuck out. You have got to end it now before you hurt her more. Look at these men I’ve been dealing with: yeah, it hasn’t been awesome for me, but they’re being honest and setting boundaries. They’re not interested in a relationship with me and they’re being very clear; I’m free to leave if I wish. You need boundaries.
“I was in a 3-year long relationship with someone who loved all I offered him, but didn’t really want me and it was devastating. Don’t do that.”
“I heard that “you teach people how to treat you,'” he replied.
“Yes, exactly. That’s why I called you out yesterday for hurting me and why I called The Golfer out for ignoring me for 3 weeks. If I decide to accept less than I deserve or want it’s on me, but I have to set the boundaries. We all do.”
I don’t know why, but I feel like it’s a losing campaign with Peter. He’s catnip to women and he doesn’t know how to be on his own. I don’t know why I care, but I do. I just really don’t want to see him ‘shipped up so soon.
I also feel something – that this one-month chick is being so damn nutty and capturing his attentionand being rewarded – What about me?? Why is her fucking ridiculous behavior attractive?? Am I chopped liver? It kinda sorta feels like it. I’m in the Sex Silo, but not the Girlfriend one. Maybe if I were clingy and inappropriate I’d have a boyfriend by now, maybe Peter would want me – except I don’t want Peter, he lies. It’s all so fucking fucked up. I’m fucked up.
I “taught him” not to treat me like that and I was rewarded with a warm smile and a kiss of friendship. It wasn’t half bad. And hopefully I’ve spared some idiot chick years worth of heartache loving a man who was “too nice” to hurt her to her face and instead cheats on her for relief behind her back.
I paid for my glass of wine and he walked me out. A line of cars on the street waited for the light to turn green as we kissed on the sidewalk in front of them; I cupped his buns and pulled him closer and we smiled into our kiss at the little show we were giving. I walked back to my office and the clouds let loose little kisses of rain along the way.
This weekend was a roller coaster of emotions, highs and lows and vodka and shitty men.
I had an incredible weekend of mommy-ing, one of the best. We loved on each other, laughed a ton, cuddled, played in the pool, I rooted and cheered at a swim meet, we saw a movie. It was fucking great. Just what a summer weekend should be.
With school out, Sunday swaps make more sense, so this weekend was my first Sunday free. Peter and I made plans for him to come over – he’d cut out of a poker game early, he said, and would be at my place around 7 or 8.
Meanwhile, Saturday night I’d gone out with friends and had vodka, which I never do. At 2:30 am I drunk texted The Golfer whom I still hadn’t heard from – that liquor sure did a number on my resolve to not text him. Fuck. And it’s almost worse than drunk dialing of the ’90s because the worlds stay foreverrr, but I digress.
I texted asking if he were mad at me because I hadn’t heard from him knowing full well he wasn’t, but I thought it was a good enough ice breaker. And then I asked him how he managed to not drunk text me. I thought I was so cute! But I guess it worked because he texted me Sunday morning.
Of course he wasn’t mad at me, he texted. Then, “Come over and squirt all over me…”
I had plans with Peter so demured. Also, I wasn’t crazy about being ignored for 3 weeks then invited to bring my pussy over to play. I decided to tell him his silence was confusing and that I’d like to continue our affair, but wasn’t sure he wanted to. His response was to simply reiterate his invitation. But, Peter…
I suggested this coming weekend instead, but he said he couldn’t due to “some shit going on.” I was disappointed – both in the scheduling conflict and myself over all. I shouldn’t be entertaining this, right??
I decided to focus on Peter’s visit instead. We’d texted a little Saturday, but I hadn’t heard from him yet. I texted and… nothing. But I didn’t fret. It was Peter, after all. I trusted him to keep our plans.
But 7 and then 8 o’clock came and went and no Peter.
Concurrent to all of this, a friend of mine asked if we could go swimming together yesterday – code for using my pool. I told her I had plans to swim after a 1:30 movie. At 3:36 I texted her letting her know we were headed to swim, but she’d found another pool and said she “wasn’t sure when we’d be done.” Peyton was disappointed and confused, my friend’s kid is a bestie. “I thought it was us she wanted to hang out with.”
“No, baby, she just wanted the pool, I guess.” Nice, thanks, Amy.
I texted Peter this morning:
WTF Peter ? You completely flaking on me last night really hurts my feelings. That was so disrespectful and not at all what I expected from you – which is why I told someone else I wasn’t available to see him. I figured you would keep your word even though I hadn’t heard from you. Seriously, what happened?? If you don’t want to see me, just say so, but don’t fuck with me like that, please. My time is far too precious and you know that ?☹️
I’m pretty fucking pissed right now, but I don’t hate you. Please text me back so we can work something out. I’m thinking we need to put this on the back burner or maybe say goodbye for a little while. Both make me sad, but getting stood up is worse and not good for me and I’m not going to put up with it from a man I like and trust.
He just wrote back.
Apparently he got his work truck towed with both his phones in it – though that doesn’t make sense because he said he would be too tired to come over Saturday night after work, so not sure where his truck was that it’d get towed seeing as he should have been at home. He apologized and asked if he could see me for a quick minute to talk in person.
I didn’t post yesterday. I thought about it, but just couldn’t bring myself to put words to paper. I was humiliated and hurt and embarrassed.
And then this morning I texted The Golfer a video of me and my breasts on my balcony and, long story short, I’m headed to his place tonight after work.
I had a horrible dream about Peter last night. I dreamt that he came over to my house and asked if he could bring some friends. Of course I said, Yes.
I had other friends already over by the time they showed up: Peter, a blonde woman in her 30’s and a dude. I flittered between rooms hosting the best I could when it suddenly occurred to me that Peter hadn’t really said hello to me since arriving.
I walked back to the room they were in, sprawled on a big couch together. I scanned the scene: the dude was to my right, siting with a beer in his hand. Peter was to the far left, with the woman in the middle. His hand was just barely under her tee-shirt at her waist. Casual and intimate.
“What the fuck are you doing here??” I hissed instantly and without regard for decorum.
“Get the fuck out of my house. Now.” The three of them blinked at me. “NOW!” I shouted.
“I don’t have time for this fucking shit! Get. The. Fuck. OUT!!!”
The two strangers scurried out, but Peter ran to me and flung himself at me bawling. “Hy, Hy, Hy!” he cried. “You’re just too good to me! I’ve wanted out for so long, but you’ve kept on being so amazing and I couldn’t let you go!”
Snot and tears ran down his face as it reddened against my bosom, his arms wrapped around me.
I stood still and hard looking down at him hating myself for making everything so easy, yet so hard for poor old Peter.
I pushed him away and told him to get the fuck out again. Then – as dreams do – I was lost in the dark alley ways of some city in Italy.
When I woke, the dream lingered like a hangover and pestered me for hours. I checked in on Instagram and saw that he’d posted again. I liked it like I had all his posts the past week. Then I decided to fuck it and DM him.
He responded almost immediately.
I told him that I’d dreamt he was very sad and I hoped that wasn’t true. He replied that he was stressed, but otherwise ok.
But Dream Hy knows what’s up. Peter is also a liar and duplicitous and there’s a part of me that doesn’t trust him as far as I can throw him. In the mean time, he’s the only person I know that wants to be nice to me when it fits into his schedule and I need someone to be nice to me.
I’ve been in California with Peyton since Thursday night watching my sister’s three kids and their new 9 month old rescue dog. If there’s one thing I’ve [re]learned about myself it’s that I’m mother fucking amazing.
I gave up 3 days of income to do this and went full throttle with all the kids. I hit all the school pick ups, all the dietary needs, all the bathing, curls-combing, dog-training, basketball playing, refereeing, loving, cuddling, book reading, cooking, bed-making, and kitchen cleaning with almost no guidance whatsoever.
My sister kept texting me from NY with little things to do, but I was already on top of it. “I’ve got this,” I texted more than once.
Twice I had to say, “No, I’ll do it my way and however I can manage it,” but largely I did it the way the two of them would with only 3 kids in tow. No, dear sister, I will not walk the dog with 3 children while the 4th is at swim practice because that’s what her husband does.
This is the kind of sister I am. The kind of person and woman: someone needs me and I show the fuck up 100%.
I remember the night I moved out of my house in December 2010. I was devastated and terrified and so I’d made arrangements for my best friend to stay the night with me. She bailed hours before because she hadn’t spent that much time with her husband that week.
I remember the night I was heartbroken and bereft about The Neighbor and I asked another best friend if I could come over and talk, I’d bring the wine. She said she wasn’t drinking during the week anymore, so no, I couldn’t.
I remember telling my group of friends in February, emotional and through tears, about this blog and my trip to London and what a huge deal all this was and how scared I was to share it with them and then they never even asked me about my trip, let alone said anything about my writing.
I used to show up for all of these people like I did this weekend for my sister, but I don’t anymore. I kind of just hang back in the periphery. I reserve my efforts for my family, but it hurts. I can’t help but wonder if they even love me*.
I’ve syphoned off a lot of my giving nature in the form of sexual contact with men over the years – they’ll appreciate my efforts, right?? – but looking back at the data they’ve all just been opportunistic and not really all that interested in me either.
I still haven’t heard from anyone in 8+ days. Not Peter, not The Golfer, and not not surprisingly, The Vet. I matched with an interesting prospect on OKC last night and I quickly lost interest in the conversation when he only responded to my questions and never asked me one fucking thing in 6 messages, save for my thoughts on fucking crawfish.
I don’t give a fuck about crawfish.
I’m beginning to feel more and more panicky about my future. No one is remotely treating me humanely. I’m an afterthought, a good time when convenient and when horny. Necessary in a pinch, but not worth any effort.
I’ll end this with a non-sequitur: my new love is white Bordeaux.
*This isn’t some passive aggressive message to my friends. The one who bailed on me that first night away from home knows how I feel. We had our only big rift because of that night and we made it though to the other side [mostly] intact, albeit altered. The others, the ones who encouraged me to share the URL for my blog with them, I truly believe they haven’t read me and really don’t care to. Not in a malicious way, just lack of interest way. I must not have made it clear what a big deal it was to share this with them and that I wanted their feedback.
This past week was a great big, fat downer in my World o’ Mens. I summed it up in my last Instagram post:
Let me tell you about the last week of my life in relation to men. On Monday The Golfer ignored my text about our previous night (blog post; link in profile). On Wednesday he told me he’d “let me know” about getting together this weekend. Meanwhile, The Vet and I made and confirmed plans for Sunday afternoon – day drinking, bike riding, pool, dinner, and banging – and we texted a little every day. Peter asked to see me Friday, but I had my kid. Saturday I texted TG a sexy pic and said to “Win golf!” He ignored the pic and said he was losing. He never did get back to me about seeing each other. I deleted our thread, but he’s programmed in my phone. Then at 10 am Sunday The Vet texted to say he’d had dinner with his exgf the night before – and while they didn’t talk about reuniting – he realized he couldn’t even handle something casual so he same-day cancelled on me. I told him to hit me up when the timing was right for him, then deleted the thread without ever programming in his number. I actually don’t give a shit about a jerk who can’t handle himself. I’ll never hear from him again. I texted Peter hoping he could pinch hit, but he never replied. I figured he was dead, but he texted yesterday, Monday, to say he’d been camping. I invited him over, but he was busy, so he suggested he could come over tonight. I gladly accepted his offer. This morning he texted me how excited he was to see me and then at 4, two hours before we were to get together, he texts that he’s “in a mood” and needs to reschedule. I told him it’ll be a couple of weeks and I’ll let him know, but the truth is I won’t. I deleted his thread, too. If he texts me, great, but I’m not chasing anyone down. So then I reopened all my dating apps and got to swiping only to run into my ex, TN, and two old lovers. Time for a new batch, I suppose; hopefully with men who respect me, my time, and my little broken heart. ?
And I was wrong about The Vet; he texted me yesterday. An image of the back of his cat’s head looking out over the river from his balcony with the caption “Chillin’ with my villain.” I responded with “Dragon kitty!” and he lol’d. That was it. Not sure what the fuck he wanted [from me].
I ended up grabbing a drink with another fella named Peter (Peter 2.0) the night Peter late-cancelled, but I didn’t feel a thing other than total wonderment that he asked me so many questions about my life; deep, meaningful questions. He lost me when he said people have described him as Eeyore… this Tigger doesn’t have time for a project like that.
I suspect Peter thinks I’m pissed so he’s avoiding me.
And The Golfer… I don’t even know what to say about that dude. I haven’t heard boo from him. I’m just trying to get to California with my kid despite cancelled flights and thunderstorms. I don’t have time for any of this bullshit.
Oh! And I almost forgot! Remember “Early Afternoon Lunch” guy?? He was this guy back in February that I chatted with a bunch for about two weeks. I gave him my Saturday night on a custody weekend (those are extra precious to me) and then that morning he texted simply, “Early afternoon lunch.” Uh….
I didn’t appreciate the downgrade to a fucking brunch so I asked for clarification. I never heard from him again… until yesterday when I noticed he’d liked me on OKC so I swiped right, too, to see what the fuck he wanted. The chat went like this:
Him: Hey Hyacinth
Me: Hey Early Afternoon Lunch Guy
H: How you been?
M: Good, you?
H: I’m off today
M: Ah. Good for you. So what’s up? Do you remember me? We met on The League, texted for a couple of weeks, set a date for a Saturday night then that morning you switched it up to a “late breakfast” then never texted me again when I tried to clarify what was going on.
H: I apologize about that. I wasn’t quite ready to get back into dating, and I should’ve told you
M: Yeah, you should’ve. It was super inconsiderate of you, particularly since all you had to do was tell me how you were feeling. I’d have still been bent out of shape about the late cancellation, but it’d have been better than ghosting on me like that. I lost a whole night of *something* because of that since I couldn’t scrounge up anything to do on such short notice. Not to mention being treated like that didn’t feel all that great.
H: I understand and you’re right. I’m sorry I was so inconsiderate
M: Thank you
H: No problem
Should I leave you alone?
M: Lemme think on it
H: That’s fair. Lemmeno
M: Sure. I need to know – from you – why I should let you back in
H: I’ve been working on myself the last few months. Trying to get to a better place mentally and financially. I feel I’m getting there…not fully realized yet, but I’m doing the work and going in the right direction
M: Do you want to get to know me? Will you not pull that shit on me again?
H: Yes. On both accounts
M: I gotta say I’m a little underwhelmed by your answers! I mean, I was at least hoping for something about how awesome I am and how you regretted fucking shit up before because of said awesomeness ??♀️
Well, I’m sorry but I was with my son yesterday afternoon and wasn’t able to expand appropriately
Just another way of saying, “I’m sorry you’re such a bitch for being unimpressed with my lukewarm and apathetic responses, but I was with my son and how dare you expect more of me even though you had absolutely no way of knowing I was with a child under 5 all day to the extent that I couldn’t possibly give you the attention you deserve and which you so graciously gave me the opportunity to give.. twice.”
I wanted to write back, “I’m sorry you’re such an idiot Man Baby.” But I didn’t; I have nothing to say.
I’m so fucking done with men who leave me to do all the emotional lifting. Fucking done. Where are the adults who say “I’m sorry I can’t do what I promised, but how about [this alternative that lets you know I think you’re important and worthy of respect]”? Or, “God, Hy, I’m so sorry for being a twat. You really didn’t deserve that and I’d really love the chance to start over with you.” Or, “Hy, I’m really sorry for not getting back to you; I won’t do that again.”
The thing is, these men are adults and I’m just not that important to them or their lives are a mess or they’re stunted or they’re whatever, and that’s the real message. They don’t seem willing or able to communicate that to me with anything other than neglect.
So, ok. I hear y’all. I’m not the woman for you, but mostly, you’re not the man for me.
[Ed. Note: Peter is lumped in here mostly due to proximity to all the douche-baggery I’ve experienced this week. He’s a different bean on the scale and I hope we can get back on track soon. I genuinely care about him. But I meant what I said: he’ll have to reach out to me. I can only make everyone else’s life so easy before I just call myself a doormat with a pussy.]
I had butterflies and little lead balls tossing around in my belly. The Golfer kept changing his mind about where to meet him. Country club, no, his house. Then country club again, no, house! I called him en route. “You can’t keep changing your mind! Where do you want me?” He clearly wasn’t sober.
We agreed on his house, but when I arrived with my sex toys, bottle of wine, and his pack of American Spirit Yellows only the dog barked back. I pressed the doorbell button again and heard loud music coming up the street. Windows down, head banging, white country club baseball cap on, there he was in all his smiling glory. He waved emphatically at me, his teeth glinting.
He was so happy to see me, he said. I was so nice, he said. He held me and cooed into my neck, told me how hot I was. We went out back to smoke and he laid down in the shade of a tree. He’d picked out his outfit just for me, had his house cleaned just for me. I told him I didn’t believe any of it, but he insisted.
We laughed at his drunky drunkenness and I sipped my rosé, nonplussed.
He suggested we take a bath together in his Japanese soaking tub, a deep, circular shaped tub with a little seat in it. The water was cool-ish and we contorted our bodies so that my knees were under my chin and his legs were wrapped around me. We were nose to nose as he massaged my breasts and chest and shoulders.
“I really like you,” he said. I could see the amber shine in his brown eyes.
I looked him squarely back, “I like you, too.”
“We have this… connection,” he continued. “This chemistry. It’s special.”
“It is…” I answered noncommittally, but sincerely. He was drunk, after all, and while lovely to hear, there’s a lot of salt to add to this.
We sat in that tub for what seemed like forever, folded together like twins in utero. His penis tapped against my vulva from the Jacuzzi bubbles and I laughed. It was like my own fleshy vibrator.
He spoke about his general loneliness and how much he looked forward to seeing me each visit, how it took him days to recover from our sexual escapades and how much he loved fucking me.
I decided to give him the better spot in the tub and, wrapped in a towel, sat on the edge. We laughed hysterically as he drunkenly tried to maneuver up onto the seat. It felt good to feel something other than lust with him.
He asked me to guess how many women he’s slept with since meeting me. He seemed to think we’d been seeing each other for 4 or 5 months (it’s been since the end of February, so… 3 months, I guess). I knew the answer must be zero, but I guessed 2.
“Ha! Not even close!” he said triumphantly. He made a “zero” with his hand. I suppose there was some implied significance for him on that. Of course, I couldn’t say the same. I’ve been sleeping with Peter and The Vet since I met him. Combine the 3 men and I’d say I have a pretty great relationship.
Peter is sweet and loving and listens to me with rapt attention. The Vet texts me on the reg and takes me on dates. And The Golfer is a blast to be with and fucks me senseless.
The other side of all those coins is that Peter had a girlfriend and is a liar. The Vet wants a swinging partner and is newly out of some crazy relationship. And The Golfer ignores me for days on end.
I guess they’re also all the worst relationship.
The Golfer didn’t press me for an answer on my number, but he did want to know how I felt about us, sexually. “Do you have this with anyone else? Have you ever??”
I answered him honestly. “No, I have never.”
And it’s true.
I have never in my life been ridden over such cliffs of sheer rapture. Each time together seems to top the one before and I never think I’ll actually survive. I didn’t explain it quite like that to him, but I assured him that I wholeheartedly believed that what we have is special.
The rest of the evening’s timeline is blurry for me. I’d finished the bottle of rosé on my own in an attempt to level the playing field and was feeling no pain. We ordered sushi and he promptly passed out. I tried to wake him up, but without success. I dozed and woke disoriented. His phone lit up in his dark bedroom and I looked at the locked preview screen.
Someone said they were 15 minutes away.
Another girl wrote simply, “Heyyyyy.”
Forgetting that we’d ordered delivery I panicked. What if some girl was on her way over right now?? He’s passed out in bed, I’m all alone! Shit fuck fuck!
I tried to wake him again, but he was incoherent, so I moved his phone to touch his hip and texted him myself in hopes his phone might reach the lizard part of his drunken brain and wake him up. It didn’t work. However, I did get to see how he has me programmed into his phone.
“Extremely Wet Hyacinth.”
Jesus Christ. Well, that’s better than Old Gross Hyacinth. I’ll take it.
It was about then that the doorbell rang and it occurred to me it was sushi. I ate alone at the coffee table and put his half away and padded back into his room. It’d been at least an hour since he’d fallen asleep and I’d kept myself busy patting his dog and generally trying to sober up.
I easily roused him this time. “Sushi came,” I said. “Yours is in the fridge.” He grabbed me and pulled me in for a kiss and we rolled around. I reached for his cock, but it was only half hard. I kissed his neck and he sucked on my nipples. He was apologizing about his hardon and I was telling him to shut up about the time I stuffed it inside of me.
He was hard now and I moved clumsily on top of him. The roller coaster drop was tamer this time; I wasn’t screaming and holding on for dear life. I was cumming, but more quietly. We stopped after a few minutes and he apologized some more. I could see him struggling to be present, the booze continued to tug at his consciousness.
We moved to the living room and he ate and we watched the finale. I barely paid attention, it sucked so bad, and he was asleep with his head on my lap anyway. When it was over he took my hand and led me to his room where we fell asleep spooning.
I can’t say that what I experienced for the next handful of hours was sleep. He snored, a drunken buzz saw. I didn’t bother to wake him, but my pussy was wet and ached. I pushed my ass into the cradle of his hips hoping that when he awoke in the morning we could finish what we started.
I got up and peed, I drank some water, he kept snoring, I pushed my ass into his belly again. Finally, a little before 6 am he stopped snoring and slept peacefully and I, too, sunk into slumber.
At 6:13 I felt him sit upright in bed and fling off the covers. He started the shower. “Hey, you,” I said sleepily.
“I’m already 30 minutes behind,” he said.
Without a word he got in the shower. I took it as my cue to leave and gathered up my clothes and things. Fully dressed I opened the shower door and he leaned out to kiss me. Once, twice, three times on the lips.
“I’m so sorry for being so lame last night,” he said. Also once, twice, and three times.
“Don’t be. I had a great time.” I fondled his warm, wet penis and sac. “I want to see you this weekend. I’m out of town next.”
“I might have a golf tournament,” he answered.
“Well, we’ll figure it out. I want to see you.”
He kissed me again, on the corner of my mouth.
I grabbed two cigarettes and left.
On the way home, dawn just barely over the hilltops, I wondered why I’d had such a good time. The man was hammered when I showed up, remained drunk, passed out, wasn’t able to fuck me due to his inebriation, and was non-committal about seeing me the following weekend.
But he’d also been sweet. So sweet.
And complimentary and funny and fun and easy to be with. I wasn’t inhibited – who was he to judge me? the guy was plastered on our date – and that chemistry he spoke of was palpable. Half the time I can’t even remember what we talk about, but there’s a constant stream of chatter between us. It’s easy.
When I got home, still high from it all, I texted him a photo of me on my balcony, legs up on a chair with my coffee mug on the patio table.
“You weren’t lame at all in case you’re still thinking that. I had a great time – hope you did too!”
I sent it knowing I wouldn’t hear back from him. The night had been intense, intoxicated or otherwise; I was still processing it and I hadn’t been a drunken fool like he had. I would give him space, me too, and then text him today, Wednesday to check in about the weekend.
I sent a pic and decided to be direct.
Good morminggggg. I want to cum see you this weekend. Are you working Monday? I’m out of town next weekend
I wasn’t expecting to hear back for another two days, but not long after I got this:
I’m not working [on the Monday holiday] but have a golf tournament
True to form: exact, factual. That’s him. I decided to stick with my directness.
Is any day this weekend good to hang out for you? I’m flexible so…
He didn’t respond to my pic, he didn’t offer a solution, he hasn’t replied to my last text as of this moment. My Irishman sits on my shoulder and whispers sweet, positive nothings in my ear. He’s a big fan of The Golfer and thinks that he and I will ride off into some delusional sunset together. We routinely make bets that end with his scrotum decorated with a fanning of clothes pins because I won (or lost).
He thinks that TG will call or text me in a timely fashion. I say he won’t. Currently I won the Monday morning bet that I wouldn’t hear from for at least two days. MI said that of course he’d call me because of everything he’d confessed to me the night before. I think we just like playing our glass half-full and -empty roles at this point. TG isn’t relationship material, lets be honest.
And here’s where I repeat that: he isn’t relationship material. Not like this, anyway.
Not drunken, non-communicative, golf-obsessed, and neglectful. He doesn’t fit into my New Universe.
Then why keep going? Because I genuinely enjoy spending time with him. It’s easy. I have 90-95% of my energy going towards mothering, my career, my home, my friends. Five-to ten per cent gets siphoned off to worry about whether or not I’ll hear back from him. If that.
I still struggle with why he feels the way he does about me and I fight hard against any body-shaming my mean and shriveled inner voice wants to cast my way, but I am learning to accept whatever comes my way for however long it feels almost-effortless.
My Irishman said this to me in his beautiful lilt: “So you know he likes you now, and every day after that you have with him is just a bonus.” How very “in the moment” of him, but things now feel weird between TG and I.
He shared a lot of stuff that felt really great to hear and I just don’t know where to stick that. In my cap, I suppose, but he’ll inevitably return to the planet Hyacinth and beg me to cumm [sic] all over him again and things won’t be weird anymore.
For now he’s left me hanging with one more text:
I have golf planned all over the place. I’ll let ya know
Except The Vet has asked me out, ready to see me any night of the weekend I am free. When I find out from my mother which night they want Peyton I’ll let him know.
And since I am languishing in TG’s communication purgatory I’m not committed to his inattention and am ostensibly free; I’m a busy woman! Unless TG gets back to me first and it matches with my night off in which case that’s where I’ll be.
It will be a race to see who fits into my busy schedule first – The Vet or The Golfer – not whose schedule I can fit into.
Something has happened to my brain in the last 4 weeks since I identified my daddy issues. I am lighter, I am more energetic at work, I feel more excited about the blog than I have in months, maybe years (not that you can tell, but I feel it!). I am more clear about my dedication to my friends (that’s all of you!) and my commitment to Eroticon. I feel less guilty in general about life, my needs, my choices. I am a sparkling mother fucker, y’all.
I’m even reading more blogs! Like, 10x as much as I have been, which is basically 100000000% increase because I was barely reading anything. I’m still not commenting as much as I used to way back in the day, but I am reading and it feels so good!!
I’ve also decided to take a page from other memes and do a roundup of my favorite Boobday posts each week. I’ve noticed that my wifey Rebel has been highlighting her favs on her SOSS posts and I realized that it’s not “mean” if I say which ones I like best (something I have worried about since day one of starting this meme).
Also, I will be asking for participants to send in 3 photos from the same “shoot” that they’d like submit for Boobday and I will detail how I would edit them and tell you which one I’d pick as my fave and why (this would be separate from posting Boobday). Kind of like a sexy selfie clinic with a photographer’s eye.
I don’t know how often I’ll ask for those pics, but I’ll figure it out. Every Damn Day in June is coming up, so that might be a good month to start.
I have 2, possibly 3 dates this weekend. A 3rd date with The Vet, an over-night with Peter who has recently dumped his girlfriend, and possibly with the Rich Golfer* Sunday (it’s dependent on if his contractors finish up the remodeling job they’re doing). No new dates, no new dudes, no new anything. Just maintaining my little status quo.
Ok, I think that’s everything. Still no new boobs from me. Just not feeling it. The image I chose this week is from May 10th, 2012. I was 36, The Neighbor and I were en route to imploding. Fun times!
I’ve been in a super funk all week. I even bought a pack of smokes, which I have done only twice before in the past 4 years. So that should tell you something about my mental state.
Lemme just give a quick update and I’ll fill in the gaps later:
The Golfer – the drunken hookup – and I have met up twice more. Both glorious. Of course now he is ignoring me.
Milwaukee – A guy I met on Seeking Arrangement because apparently I lost my mind for about 5 days and reactivated my account for no good reason, but turned out to be a total surprise of a human. He’s flying down next week to see me for a couple of days.
Peter – my longtime FWB – came over last Friday and we had a proper date and fucked like monkeys. In my butt. I loved it.
The Dom – a 50-something fella I stumbled on on AFF who also is on Fet. Obviously being openly submissive is NOT my thing, but we met for coffee before I left for London and he emanated dominance and it felt so warm and lovely. We’re meeting for wine next week.
The Vet(erinarian) – another AFF discovery. He’s a GenXer like me and also wants to see me soon. We’ll see.
“Mm… I love being with you,” he said as he wrapped his arms around my naked body and pulled me closer to his.
“You’re so curvy and soft,” he kissed my hairline and stroked my hair while his other hand slid along my exposed hip and buttock, “and I could just pet you forever and ever. I don’t want to stop.” His hand gripped my skin and kneaded it gently.
I cuddled in closer and hitched my knee up higher over his thigh and wound my legs through his. This didn’t even feel real.
Looking into his big green eyes didn’t seem real. Watching his broad shoulders square off above me didn’t seem real. Feeling his rock hard cock deep inside of me didn’t seem real. Breathing his breath as I came hard like a river pounding down a mountain didn’t seem real.
“I wish I could stay here all night,” he murmured against my temple.
“I wish you could, too.”
He’d arrived with a blast of cold air at his back and scooped me up into his arms and maybe called me Baby. His lips were cold and the dog tried to steal my thunder. I poured him a glass of white wine and we talked about our week apart across my kitchen island.
He periodically came around behind me and nibbled my neck and ear as I shared my silly travails. I periodically walked around to his bar stool and stood between his knees, a perfect fit for a kiss with this ridiculously tall man.
I ran my hands along his lean sides and I melted into him. Nothing felt more sexy than his wanting to talk to me about my day. No one is ever interested in my day. But Peter is.
And so I took his hand and led him into my pink bedroom with the soft afternoon light and lit a candle. When I turned around he was on his knees, his face squarely at breast height. We laughed at the hidden bonuses of being such different sizes and I crushed his pretty face between my jugs. Oh, Peter.
Our afternoons together are not predictable, but I rely on their presence in my life and he predictably listens, laughs, licks, lusts, and empties his balls into me at least twice so I may leak with his jizz as I go about my night. No aroma is better than a well-fucked woman with rosy cheeks, after all. Eat your heart out, perfumers.
We like to compare ourselves to the Joy of Life painting beside my bed while we bask in our sweat and the fluffy remnants of our orgasms. Sometimes we are the couple on the lower right, that afternoon at one point we were the couple on the middle left, upright and reaching for one another.
No matter what, we’re on the right track for finding joy in life: naked, together, wanton, dancing in a motherfucking field of velvet hedonism with meadow-scented air.
And if we were actually in that painting, then Peter would never have to go home.