At this point in time I fully admit to avoiding some things.
My fitness, for one, not to mention my creativity, my mental health, and my peace of mind.
I feel like I’m floating on a little raft of seaweed just past where the waves swell and form. I can see the beach with my towel and my things, but my senses are consumed with salt, long, low pulses of waves crashing, and the tickle of the sea.
Peyton flew unaccompanied to San Francisco for a couple of days during my most recent custody period then went straight to my ex’s upon arriving back home. Today they all leave by car for a family vacation and won’t return until mid July.
My phone remains mostly quiet except for my frantic checking of world news. The list of heartbreaking things seems never-ending lately; it’s been a particularly brutal late spring for the entire world.
Knowledge is power, but it’s also paralyzing. I feel overwhelmed as a member of our global society and even in my own little life. Tributaries of thought and feeling merge into a raging river only to split off a few miles away. I have a clear idea of what I need to do, but then remain sedentary. Not taking care of my body is the main signifier.
I stain it with alcohol and lack of movement, my dietary choices aim to hurt, not nourish.
Yet meanwhile in the other parts of my life I am dedicated and driven.
My work continues to bring me significant pride and satisfaction and my Summer of No Men (or really, Summer of Very Few Men) has brought a sense of calm and balance I have never felt before.
I blocked The Neighbor from being able to view my AFF profile and with that single keystroke the weights attached to my ankles which threatened to drown me were gone.
He remains in my complex, but the sight of his car somehow bothers me less. My empty, boring nights are a result of my choices and I feel empowered even as The Good Wife and a bottle of Casillero del Diablo keep me company.
I chat with Ben on occasion and have a couple of other irons in the fire, but they’re on low heat and I like that just fine. My standards for a date seem impossibly high after London. I want someone to look at me and think, “Fucking shit I’m a lucky man!” Not, “She seems ok for now.” Effort means everything to me now.
My avoidance of my physical and creative health is the natural reaction to my career and dating health. I have yet to master all aspects of my life simultaneously and that has been a lifelong pattern.
If I’m working out regularly and my diet is on point, then I am making risky decisions with my heart. Slacking at work? Then I’m probably drinking less. It’s like squeezing a balloon that won’t pop: it just squirts out somewhere else; I can’t hide it. At least I haven’t had a cigarette since December and that seems unlikely to change any time soon.
The biggest question I’m trying to answer is why do I have this deeply driven need to balance smart, healthy decisions with their opposite? Why can I not allow myself to revel in all the sun? Why must I always be cast in shadows?
The immediate answer that comes to mind is I am not comfortable with that level of success and/or happiness and I’ll admit to that; it’s what I am working so hard to change. I want all the sun.
The second I hit Publish today I will feel better. It’s a very caring thing, writing, and I have been actively avoiding things I know will make me feel better. It seems I want shadow in addition to all that sun — perhaps I need it, I can’t tell the difference — but I’m trying to honor the pull nonetheless and not beat myself up about it.
I’m supposed to see Remington tonight, a reschedule from the weekend, but I’ve asked if we can move it to tomorrow. I’d like to see him in an old friend sort of way, but I’m content if it doesn’t happen. Not quite ambivalence, more like acceptance. That’s a sunny thing.
I’ve skipped lots of opportunities to work out this week, though. Shadowy.
I’ve focused on my work and goals. Sunny.
I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine every night. Shadowy.
I’ve been highly selective about the men I interact with. Sunny.
I haven’t written all the things I want to say: good v. bad sex, UDP (unsolicited dick pics), the strangely dangerous and beautiful world of IG. Shadowy.
My hope is that while my little one is away for so long I will get my sea legs and stop floating, overwhelmed by the current and unmotivated to move. I’d like to honor my quiet mornings and my need to write. The summer is short, though the heat is long, and I have to get my shit together.
The cicadas are chirping. It’s time to get started.
His sphincter clenched around the middle knuckle of my index finger as I stroked the hot, puffy flesh inside. He moaned and I pushed in all the way.
His wrists and ankles were bound to the bed with various scarves I’d kept in my trashy cardboard sex box. I hadn’t tied anyone up since The Neighbor.
I nestled myself up between his long, pale legs and sucked on his great big hardon, cupped his balls, reveled in the spasms happening around my buried finger. My eyes closed and I lost myself, drunkenly, to servicing this young, supine man.
The details of the evening are generally blurred, but altogether hedonistic. I climbed up and rode him every which way, let him watch my bottom bounce on him, helpless to touch my warm, writhing body. I kissed him everywhere and nowhere, whispered filthy nothings in his ear, and bore down on him in darkness until I exhausted myself.
We stood next to my bed and I took the long fingers of his right hand and gently showed him how to hook into me and beat my pussy until she wept. I filled his hand almost instantly and he was pleased with himself, I was pleased with him.
He loomed above me, the movement from his pumping arm shook the bed, and I waited below until I felt the hot streams of his cum spurt across my closed lids and open mouth. That was fucking hot.
Remington had resurfaced roughly 10 days before, single and available once again. Our first date last summer ended with his fingers in me with my back against my car. Dog walkers passed by unimpressed. We’d tried to meet up again after that, but failed to launch. And then he got a girlfriend. “Well, when you guys break up, hit me up,” I’d said. He hadn’t forgotten.
Our reunion was sweet; I was surprised by how good-looking he was. A Malibu Ken doll sort of man, 25 now (not 24!), 6’4″, lean, dorky glasses that somehow intensify a man’s hotness. We talked for hours and caught up and when one more drink would have tethered us there for the night I invited him to my apartment instead.
On my couch we talked some more until I could bear his flashing smile no more. I leaned across and kissed him and was instantly reminded of that hot summer night in the street. His hands crawled all over me and I straddled his lap, my breasts in his face. He groaned and pulled one out and I let him suck and bite until he got it just right.
I led him to my bedroom, lit a candle and asked him if he had any condoms. “Do you have any Magnums?” he asked. Well, well, well! As a matter of fact, I do!
Deep inside of me he moved and crushed me to the bed, filled me up. We passed out in a heap even as his snores kept me up half the night.
The next morning the cardinals sang me awake and I accidentally brushed against his massive morning wood. “Mmm,” I said.
“Mmhm,” he answered, nearly comatose.
I stroked it harder and told him to put on a condom and backed up into his big spoon. I came, he came, I got up to make us coffee and we spent a pleasant hour or two together while he tried fervently to blink back the morning.
At my door he bent down to kiss me goodbye repeatedly. “Let’s do this again,” he said.
“Yes, definitely,” I answered.
A week later I texted, “Hey! Wanna hang out tomorrow night and drink in my hot tub then fuck the shit out of each other?? lol.”
His reply: “That sounds like a great idea!!”
That was the night I found myself drunkenly defiling him like a horny teenager.
I’d gone back and refreshed my memory of our first date together; he was curious about submission, something I had forgotten about him. We met at a dive bar and he brought his guitar. It sat beneath his legs like a sleeping dog as we joked and flirted.
When it was time we climbed into his convertible and raced back through the chilly night to my place, though our hot tubbing plans were foiled by large orange cones warning us of broken concrete and black, rancid looking water at the bottom of the tub. We sat on the poolside chairs and drank wine instead.
Remington is different: he’s an artist, a virtuoso. A musician who almost can’t enjoy music anymore unless it’s the product of another great artist. As I recall, his profile on AFF spoke of his ability to find rhythm, harmony. He’s trained most of his life to achieve his success and is on the brink of the next big chapter: a full ride to a very prestigious masters program in the fall.
As we talked over the course of our two dates I found myself longing to talk about my own art, of Hy and this blog, my writing. I wanted him to know I knew — even if in the smallest of ways — what it was like to need to create something. There was also something about his obsession with his own talent, his drive to succeed that spoke to a greater understanding about self-expression. I knew he wouldn’t judge me.
The decision to tell him that not only do I have a sex blog, but that I am Hy, was an impulsive one. As he spoke about his achievements I felt an all too familiar pull to share my own successes — a feeling I’ve spent 4 years repressing. But I am tired. I’m tired of the double life, the hiding, the allusion to my talents but no proof of their existence and so I decided to unhook my armor and open wide.
“So I have something I want to tell you and it’s a really big deal.” We sat on the couch, hips to knees pressed against each other, the B.B. King station playing on Pandora, spent from our raucous fucking and just barely clothed.
I explained to him the danger of telling anyone what I was about to share (“It could ruin my career.”) and the significance of me sharing in the first place (“I have never told anyone like this before.”).
He listened with rapt attention and poured us yet more wine. Good, I thought, that’ll make this less painful.
When I was done he said, “What’s my name on there?”
“Remington.” He remembered the joke from our first date about “Remington Steele.”
“Ok, do you say where I live?”
“Then I’m ok with it!”
His smile took up half his face.
“Would you like to see what I wrote about our first date??” I felt shy, expectant.
We sat on my couch and together reread our first encounter.
“Wow. You’re really good!” he said when he was done. I preened.
We scrolled through more recent posts and he saw the Top 100 logo. He was duly impressed all over again and I blushed. It felt like I had finally stepped out from the shadows into the sun — I was free! — and after years of hiding Hy from people in my life this moment stood out. Yes, it was risky, but the bondage had dropped from my limbs, even if only for a short time.
I explained to him my ethical codes for writing about men on the blog. “Since you know about it, I won’t post anything without your knowledge and you always have the right to veto.” He nodded. “But don’t worry, I won’t write ‘shit’ about you, just my feelings and stuff we do together.”
He took his guitar out of the case and played for me and the dog until it was time to sleep again. I floated on Cloud 9 and sipped on red wine with my breasts hanging out like a true reveler.
The next morning he had to get to work by 10 and so we dragged ourselves out of bed by 8:30. I made us breakfast and he got things ready for work. I still felt comfortable with sharing with him, but in the glare of the day I wondered how much he remembered about Hy and the blog. What if it had been lost in our cups? Should I bring it up and remind him??
I’ve spent the last few days since our debauched evening feeling reclusive and busy with other men. I’d told him I had 5 dates this week in order to illustrate the value of my time, not brag (he didn’t seem to hold it against me), but the distance from this young man who knows my deepest, darkest secret has been well-timed even if coincidental.
As each day goes by I feel more exposed, more vulnerable. Not to attack or even judgment, but simply to the elements. I do not share all the facets of my person with anyone. People either get Me, the woman with the career and child, and the open-mindedness about sex and relationships (very humdrum, by all accounts) or they get Hy, the writer, the photographer, the exhibitionist, the lover of sex they can never have (which seems to be highly exciting to most). No one gets both and I’m not even sure Remington will, that’s entirely up to him. After all, TN had access to both, but didn’t want to read Hy because he felt it was too personal to him. Perhaps Remington will be the same, I have no idea.
Not only that, but what if it was a mistake? What if he tells everyone he knows it’s me?? Or even just one person that’s the worst person to know? That’s the more deeply seated fear that prevents me from telling even my closest of friends that I’m Hy. It’s not that I don’t trust them, but maybe they’ll tell their best friend in the strictest of confidence and so on until just one wrong person knows and decides to blow up my fucking life. I can’t expect people outside of my therapist to not share their lives with those they trust, can I??
Ideally my worries will be moot and he and I will have an artist’s appreciation for what the other does; we will get to paint on the canvases of one another’s bodies until he leaves town and nary a thought to public revelation will be had.
All I really want to do, though, is fuck the ever-loving shit out of him until he’s in another time zone. I wish I weren’t so complicated.
“People are coming” I whispered into his neck. The two people and their dogs I’d spotted down the street continued to walk toward the two of us leaning against my car under the streetlight. The thick night pressed in around us.
At 6 foot 4 he he stooped to hook his long fingers into me and straightened as he removed himself from between my legs. I moaned a little.
As the dog walkers passed, he rolled me to the side and pressed my back against my car door and bent to kiss me again. We’d been kissing for minutes on end and my neck was beginning to hurt, my feet cramp from lifting up to meet him, but it was magnificent.
He paused and I said, “What should I call you when I write about you in my diary?”
“You can call me Remington Steele,” he laughed, in reference to a lame character reference I’d made earlier in the night. I had been surprised he’d even heard of the show. Remington is only 24.
When we first met at the dive bar yesterday I wasn’t at all sure how our date would go. He was trim and wore a button-down dark green shirt and had his sleeves rolled up to the elbow; he wore black sneakers and Ray-Bans and was quite dashing, but also obviously very, very young. He’s also wickedly smart, but too busy for a girlfriend. He wants something ongoing, fun, exploratory and respectful.
When he saw me walk in his eyes lit up and we hugged, got some drinks and began to chat. His face cracked into a smile often and he was open and interesting. This was his first date off of AFF.
I ran into a girlfriend and as we ordered beers at the bar she lowered her voice and whispered, “He’s awfully young, isn’t he, Hy?” I laughed and shrugged.
“I’m totally your Mrs. Robinson, aren’t I?” I teased him when I returned to our table.
“Yeah, kinda. I like older women,” he admitted.
He wants to be my pool boy and shyly shared that he wants to explore his submissive side which is why, out by my car in the dark with random passersby, I was so taken aback at his bold moves, his confidence. He blew me away with his skill and expertise and each time he released my mouth I would lower to my heels and shake my head, dizzy with desire, not sure where to catalog this young man.
We’ve made a date for Friday afternoon where we can test out his pool boy skills.
Fifteen years between us… holy shit, what am I getting myself into??