It’s been 12 weeks and a day.

I have so much to say because it’s been 12 weeks and 1 day since I last wrote something here.  I’ve missed it and I’ve not missed it.  It’s in me, always, a ticker-tape of thoughts and plots and stories to share.

I’ve been buried in work and life and my baby.  Sorting through years worth of misuse – largely at my own hands – and struggling to get my head straight about it.

Picture an inverted pyramid where that broad, flat top expanse is what I want for the rest of my life, the layer below it, what I want in the next 20 years, then 10, next year, and it just keeps narrowing down to, what do I want tonight?

And for months now, the answer to that is: no one and nothing.

I don’t want another ridiculous first date with a man who brays in my face at his own jokes and I wonder if I’m being filmed for some kind of prank show, or another first date where he won’t take no for an answer, so I go ahead and angry fuck him simply to feel empowered in his 6’4″ presence, or another first date where I’m sexually assaulted both physically and verbally and I return for more because of my perverse daddy issues.  I just don’t want it anymore and I can’t be bothered.  There suddenly seem to be far more thorns than there are roses out there.  I’m also in mourning.

I’m in mourning in general for the girl I was, so eager to close the gap of love and acceptance that literally anyone would do, but I’m also mourning about things in the more recent past.  The Golfer, for one, Peter, and The Vet, for being ghosted on and constantly disappointed by what the Universe keeps setting in front of me.

The Golfer was special and magical.  Despite not having set foot into his house in the hills in seven months I could draw the layout and probably even the decor, it’s so imprinted on me. 

I can smell the WoodWick candles – a masculine, fir scent with a faint crackle sound – and taste his tart semen.  I remember how his hot piss felt on me, different from the hot water that streamed down my body, and how his handsome, Hollywood face looked as he bore down into me all the way to my throat from the apex of my thighs.

I also vividly remember how it ended, though I was unaware at the time that it was.

Q2 was a real bitch, so busy, overwhelmed, omg fucking kill me now, he said.  No promises to get together in the future, but that wasn’t his style anyway.

And then my texts changed to just saying Hi and he would ignore them for a week or more before another cryptic non-sequitor about his rich-guy struggles (apparently, home renovations are quite the bugaboo).  Until eventually I asked if I should refrain from reaching out and asking to see him, if that’d be better for a while – I hope it sounded cooler than that sentence, but whatever – and he ignored it.

So a week later I sent an, “Ok, I’m finally getting it,” note where I said I’d no longer contact him.  I was thankful for our time together and told him how special I thought it and he were.  Blah blah blah.  Goodbye, I won’t text again.  That also went ignored.

Then I went back on my own word and sent, a “Merry Christmasss!” text.  Also ignored.

I wrestle with thoughts like, “What did I do wrong?”, “Did I say something that I shouldn’t have?”  Ultimately wondering what I could have done to prevent this separation, but all the while knowing I had no control.  It’s been an exercise in self restraint and love.  It stings, though.  It really, really stings.

That was by far the best sex of my life and it was suddenly and unexpectedly stripped away from me, like someone snatching my plate away in the middle of my orgasmic pleasure in it.  Nope, dumb dumb.  GO.

What I’m mourning with him is a quasi connection born out of mad and intense sexual chemistry.  We literally had nothing when I stepped out into the real world from his house.  I was back in Kansas, the trip was over, I was no longer necessary.  Maybe it’s because I thought I knew the parameters and I could rely on him lavishing me with attention and pleasure whenever I crossed his threshold that it hurts so badly that it’s gone.  I honestly can’t tell.

Then there’s Peter.  I came *this* close to texting him last week.  I spent every morning before work at the coffee shop where his tall frame would darken the doorway and every eye in the place would follow his beautiful face as he closed the distance to me.  We would canoodle and kiss and he’d say sweet nothings to me.

I was hesitant and cautious, our reunion uncertain and new from back in the summer when I’d told him I was through with him.  But he’d texted and I’d accepted it and I found myself right back in his long arms gazing into his dark green eyes wishing he weren’t such a broken soul of a man.

We never left the coffee shop in Round 2 of us.  I moved in early November and I asked if he’d like to come see my new place.  “Yes,” he said.  “How about tomorrow?”   I’d said great, he’d said he couldn’t wait.  But he never came.  Never texted.  I was forgotten again in the drama of the relationship he’d swung right into from the last.  I blocked his numbers and deleted all threads.  What a fool I’d been.

Two weeks later I opened my laptop and saw that I had an unread text.  I scrolled down until I saw it.

“Hey stranger, what are you up to?”

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Turns out he’d just plumb forgotten he’d made plans with me.  Whoops!

He was apologetic, I was pissed.  And flabberghasted, embarrassed, humiliated.  He tucked his tail and ran.  I told him, NO YOU STAY, why, I don’t know why and he sort of did, but then I asked if he wanted to see me again and before he could answer I answered for him the following morning:

“It doesn’t really matter, so don’t answer that. I’m gonna say what I did to you this summer when I ended things: I’m not interested in feeling invisible and unimportant to someone.

I don’t believe that you “forgot” about our date which then led to a two week amnesia of my existence. That was selfish and inhumane of you. And I don’t really know what the truth is, but I know it really doesn’t matter. Clearly, you don’t give a shit.

I’d blocked this number and deleted all your numbers the next day, but apparently my laptop didn’t recognize the blocking and that was when I found your text from Saturday yesterday. I don’t know why I responded other than morbid curiosity. “What could he possibly want from me??”

I was letting you back in – slowly – bc I didn’t trust you and I was right not to. I wish you had this part of your life in order, Peter, bc I adore you and spending time in your presence, but none of that is worth being treated like this.

It’s humiliating and painful and I can’t in good conscience accept this bullshit, therefore I’m asking you to no longer contact me. I’ll miss you and your pretty face, but the door is no longer open. I cannot be treated this way and I simply cannot trust you to treat me differently.

I’m truly sorry it had to end. Again. I wish you the best.”

It was a monumental morning for me and I cried.

I cried because I loved having him in my life, maybe I even loved him a little in that heartbreaking way we all can love someone that’s no good for us.  I cried because I felt like I’d let myself down and because I knew I’d miss him.  And for some reason I cried because I knew it’d hurt him for me to do this.  I understand this mourning.

And lastly, at the top of the year, just after I’d met TG, I met The Vet(erinarian).  A man my age, an animal lover, open-minded, adventurous, sensitive, funny.  Also horribly hung up on an ex-girlfriend he’d dated for less than 6 months and hours before our second date – wherein were were going to day-drink and ride around town on rented bikes then eat and fuck all night – he begged off.  He couldn’t handle anything, even casual, since having dinner with her the night before.

Masochistically I offered friendship instead and he jumped at it, relieved.  He was hoping I’d say that, but didn’t want to ask.  Since then it’s been nearly a year of confusion and mild panic for me. He texts me every day, makes sure he sees me nearly weekly for dinner, drinks, or just hanging out at my place.  I can’t understand what he wants from me.  Truly friendship?  Is there an ulterior motive?  Am I dating him and don’t know it?

One night when the weather was thick and wet and the cicadas obnoxious we met at a bougie hotel around the corner from his house.  I felt sexy and powerful and I wanted to flaunt what he couldn’t have.  I don’t know what my goal was, but I woke up naked and sideways on his bed.  He was asleep in his scrubs on his couch, our clothes two piles side by side like we’d been snatched up by The Rapture.

We’d attempted sex, he said, but he couldn’t get it up and when he left the room to get water he’d come back to find me asleep on the bed and left me there alone.

We laughed about it and never discussed it.

Which was exactly what we did when we took some shrooms and he ate me out for an hour and I jizzed and ruined my couch and came so many times I saw god.  I woke up in my bed with his big body next to mine, anxious and unsure how to proceed.  A man in my morning is about as rare as Bigfoot.  I never know what to do.

He gathered his things, kissed me goodbye, and said he’d text me later.  And sure enough he did.  Memes and musings, normal stuff.  We haven’t crossed that line since and that was in August.

This past Friday he finally told me he was moving, something he’d been saying he’d do all year.  It’s a long way away, 15 hours by car.  It’s the thing I’ve felt most panicky about: him going away.

He’s my best friend here in the sense that he always wants to see me, hang out and talk.  He’s available and safe and I love hanging out.  When he leaves I’m back to being alone, maybe back to dating to fill the space he vacates?

I hadn’t realized until now how important his presence in my life has been – he’s kept me more honest with myself because I’d rather see him than go on some shitty date with a man who hasn’t earned the right to my time and energy.  I’m going to miss him.

But then in the midst of all of this, I stumbled upon a little gem, Francois. A young man 18 years my junior who loved to be beneath me, his face buried in my breasts as he thrust and curled up inside of me while I ran my fingers through the luxurious pelt on his muscular chest and nibbled his ears, scraped my teeth along his neck and came like a Banshee.

His body made me cry to look at it.  Thick, strong legs, broad shoulders, soft hair from collar bone to upper thighs and a perfectly curved cock that fit everywhere.

Our first meeting we met at my new favorite neighborhood bar and I reveled in the attention, his quick wit and tender focus.  He asked me the name of my kid – such a small kindness, but so often ignored – and I was surprised by how it touched me and was eager for more of him.  I hadn’t been touched in four months.

I bought us wine, he bought us things to nibble on and we laughed and grew closer over the course of the night.  He was new to town and didn’t know where to go or what to do, so I suggested a pool hall not far away.  There we leaned in for our first kiss, his floppy dark hair tickled my cheek and I placed his hand on my ass as the embrace deepened.  He told me later he’d never made out in public before.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” I winked at him.

“Yeah, it was fucking awesome.”

That night was a blur of passionate kisses and release of pent up sexual frustration as we drank ourselves silly and fucked like it was our last day on earth.  He was so achingly beautiful it was distracting and I worried about my middle-aged body with the creases and expanded hips.

I awoke the next morning with him breathing deeply beside me and a heavy does of anxiety.   Should I wake him?  Should I let him sleep?  I had no clue so waited until I could wait no more and got up, made us some coffee and woke him up with some morning sex.

Turns out waking up with a man isn’t that complicated: just do whatever the hell you want.

He stayed for several hours and another pot of coffee and we made plans to see each other again in a couple of days.  That’s when I rode him on my couch and tried to kill him with my energetic enthusiasm in the bedroom.  Then again that Friday when he asked that I tie him up and play with his pretty little asshole.  He was stunning with my blindfold on and his hands bound, his dark cock turgid with anticipation and arousal for my sole enjoyment.

That was a fun week with a nubile, kind, smart, interesting young man… then the bubble burst – as it tends to do – and he moved states away 2 weeks later.  And incapable of handling the move and of being emotionally present he made motions to see me before he left, but in the end morphed into a ghost right before my very eyes.

He eventually apologized and we’ve texted a little here and there since his move.  He makes grand proclamations about driving the 5+ hours to see me for a debauched weekend, but then doesn’t follow through.  It’s just another fluff connection, hotter on the text machine than viable on land.  Thanks, Francois, for the one week of fun.

I’ve had other first dates with men with bad breath, who dressed inappropriately, who still lived with their parents, and men whose only focus was their own voice, so I have rightly stayed away from second dates and naked romps.  I had sex with maybe 6 people in 2019 – something I might have pulled off in 2 months in previous years – and I feel rather contemplative about it.  It’s just a data point.

My biggest fear is that I will let Hy slip away completely and the rest of me shrivel up and die in defeat.  She is a badass, fearless, sexy, devouring, big.  I’d like keep her around while also not destroying my passion for life, people, and play.  Surely there’s a middle ground and I’m intent on finding it.

And blogging more is integral to that. 

I’ve loved the last 36 hours that it’s taken me to write this [ridiculously long] post.  I’ve felt more connected to myself and finally eager to share.  I know what I have to say again.  I think the break may be over.

Having said that, I’m still very, very ambivalent about Boobday.  It’s too confining and constraining.  I want to be free with my writing and when I’m supposed to show up here.  I don’t do well with that kind of structure – as you’ve all witnessed with your attempts to link up and no post being available.

I’ll still run Every Damn Day in June and even participate in February Photo Fest, but as far as running my own meme… I just don’t know that it fits in my life as Hy anymore.  Y’all know I love you and your gorgeous bodies and I think it’s served its purpose.

It feels really good to be back here.  Maybe it’s more than a coincidence that I have a couple of dates lined up this week and I’m ready to write again.

 

[Ed. Note: It’s actually been 12 weeks and 2 days.]

 

Friday, August 16th, is Boobday!

Holyyyyy shit.

Another intense week.

I reopened Bumble and feel strong and potent and ready to fuck. Easy come, easy go. We’ll see what I can manage next week.

And… I texted The Golfer. He replied. Three whole times even!! Lol He’s the last one who texted and I’ll just let that hang for a bit.

Also, online culture has changed a lot it seems in the few months since I’ve been on. In at least 5 instances I was propositioned within a page or two of dialogue. Hard and fast.

Like, Hi, Hi, let me stick my fingers in your pussy to see if you’re wet kind of fast.

Whoa.

Anyway, I’m digging deep into my stash of pics. I haven’t taken pics in so long. Oh well. My tits are still the same!

Love you all.

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:

NOT my tits:

Miss B in her pretty bra.

I enjoyed wearing this bra today under a very unsexy blouse at work (jean day), remembering that this bra shows my breasts in a very flattering way if they were seen (boyfriend would like knowing that…..?)

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter


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.

::

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter


A month of celibacy, possibly more.

I haven’t had sex since June 22nd.  I have a period tracker I’ve been using for years to mark my sexual activity and all of July was e m p t y.  I had one tryst at a guy’s office that was hot, but it wasn’t sex.  We were both in the middle of our work day and I didn’t want our first time to be over his desk.  It was certainly a better lunch break than most others were having, though.

Other than that, not a thing has happened to me.  It’s so still, so quiet.

The Golfer is heavy on my mind and I’m deciding what to do with him.  The best sex of your life with a drunken, wealthy, golfer with issues basically balances out to a zero sum game.  I feel trapped in my own lustful desires.  My heart isn’t involved, but my molecules are.

Sex like what we share doesn’t happen every day and I feel closer to the Universe in those moments of release and abandon.

I can’t stop thinking about his turgid member pounding me in all my holes, the twinkle in his eye as he pulls out a new toy he’s bought for me, for us, or his sweet, praising words.  “Fuck, you are so fucking sexy I can’t keep my hands off of you!”

I haven’t heard anything like that in so long and I don’t see any respite in sight.

I pop onto some sites here and there and engage, but immediately disengage.  Do I even have the time or energy to expend on searching?  Perhaps the best course is to commit to celibacy and wait for my lover to resurface then greedily drive to his little suburban paradise and lose myself in our buckets of cum.

Perhaps the best course is to cut all ties and just focus on other things.

Perhaps the best course is to find a replacement.

Perhaps the best course is to sleep.

Perhaps the best course is to make love to my Hitachi more.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

I am lost, but a little found.  Fuck, I want to fuck.  Fuck, is this what it feels like to be lonely?  Is this loneliness?  I can’t tell.

I’m fidgety and angsty and frustrated.  I want my atoms to mingle with the stars, but I also want to get lost in a love’s eyes.  A love’s.  But I don’t know if I’m built for love anymore, just lust.  Lust I know, lust I trust.

I wish TG would hurry up and just come back already so I didn’t have to feel a thing.  I like not feeling.

 

WickedWednesday

A quiet morning.

I woke up this morning to quiet, a stillness. No one was texting me and – more importantly- no was not texting me.

I told The Golfer last week that I was busy for two weeks and would hit him up when I got free again. This morning I realized I could see him tonight, but my resistance to rejection is either high or low, depending on how you look at it: I don’t want to process yet someone else not wanting to spend time with me.

I don’t remember the last time my life was this man-free. I have always jockeyed for attention and sex from someone. If there wasn’t someone on deck, then I was plotting how to get someone there.

Today, I took my baby to the airport at 5 am to fly to the west coast to be with my sister, took the dog to the river for a two-hour hike and binge-watched Broadchurch on Netflix – the entire first season.

And I completely forgot about The Golfer.

I also avoided doing some administrative life things, but oh well. Sometimes I’m a shitty adult. Sometimes I kill it. Who’s signed up for 4 gym classes this week? This girl.

I took a selfie for the first time in weeks while on the trail and it’s so not sexy, so not revealing, so not sexual in any way I felt like it was worth sharing.

Just me being me. Hot and sweaty at the water’s edge sitting on an exposed root of a 50 ft tall cypress. No nipples, no nudity. Paddle boarders and kayakers rowed by in the baking sun while the dog cooled off in the dark waters along the bank behind me.

I felt calm. And relieved. No one was hurting me and more importantly, I wasn’t allowing it.

Sweat it out.
Sinful Sunday

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.

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter


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.

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter