I couldn’t go.

I was nearly done packing.

I’d sorted all my toiletries, added thoughtful touches like a scented candle and sparkling water, a bag of citrus and kolaches, lots of sun screen and self tanner. I needed to only pick out which bikinis I’d take, but the thought was close to revolting.

While I lay out tanning my soft, middle-aged body, there would be a hotel full of people there not by choice, but out of necessity and 6 blocks away people protesting for the lives of black Americans.

It just didn’t feel right despite everyone I talked to telling me I deserved it. Do it, go for it, you need it. Truthfully, what I needed was to stay home and be that person.

The person who wept when she watched the videos of people bravely hitting the streets and peacefully protesting get mowed down by mounted police or thrown to the grown by big, muscular men in riot gear, a septuagenarian harassed and left bleeding by callous officers sworn to protect us.

The person who yearns for a world that feels safe. For women, all people of color, every sexuality and every religion, every different mobility and health status, every height and size., every gender identity.

When you think about it, this world is set up to be kind and accepting to very very few types of people. The lane to acceptance is narrow: attractive, tall, fit, straight, Christian, white, cis, preferably male, [college] educated, never incarcerated. That was a very easy list to write down versus the hundreds of other combinations I could come up with that are not that.

My decision made and my heart light, I called the hotel. I explained that with the uptick in COVID cases in the last week coupled with the protests, “It just isn’t a good time now.”

She was perfunctory and efficient in her response and in less than 4 minutes I’d rescheduled my stay for the end of August. Perhaps then it won’t feel so gross.

I texted The Vet. He was sweet. “Want me to come over instead and bring a pizza?”

“Nah,” I replied. “I have a shit ton of kolaches.”

We sat on my back porch, the cicadas drowning out our conversation from any possible eavesdroppers. We drank and talked and laughed. He’s leaving in one month.

I felt tears, but ignored them. We have never talked about our feelings regarding our friendship and what the move will mean for us. He’s happy to be leaving; it’s good for him. I’m happy he’s happy. But I will miss my best friend and I wanted the weekend at the hotel to be a last hurrah for us. Strictly platonic, of course.

At 1 am, fighting the urge to close my eyes in my chair he bid adieu. He stood tall and bald, casual in cargo shorts and a t-shirt that clung slightly across his broad chest.

“I read an article about how to hug safely if you’d like to,” I said. “We just can’t have our faces face the same way and I have to keep my face in your chest.”

He answered by opening his arms and I stepped into them. I turned my right cheek against his chest and wrapped my arms around him. I breathed in the scent of him, his detergent probably, and wished we’d held on a few beats longer.

I quickly stepped away per the safe-hugging instructions and felt awkward, like I’d just been caught with my hand in the cookie jar.

I walked him to the door and said goodbye. My entire night was the right thing to do and just what I needed, and today I slept until I could sleep no more then walked the 1.45 miles to my ex’s and played for an hour with Peyton and a hose and some slippery grass.

I don’t need fancy right now, all I need is simple: friendship, love and rest.


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I am not a happy accident.

Last week The Vet(erinarian) and I met up at a fancy restaurant by his place for a drink. We sat at the bar – not far from where we sat on our second date – and laughed and talked and ate. Our glasses kept full by an attentive bartender.

Plates of decadent food later and with a deep, warm buzz we looked at one another when she asked if we wanted more.

“I’m down to go for it,” I said. “Is it ok if I crash on your couch?”

“Yeah! Of course!”

So off we went deep into our cups, jokes, and disagreements about the intimacy of “ripping a huge, juicy fart” in front of your partner.  I didn’t feign my disgust even as I laughed uncontrollably. 

Tipsy past the point of what could be called responsible, he paid our enormous bill and we left.

Back at his place, on his giant leather couch, I would eventually and quietly lean over away from him, close my eyes, and sleep.  Alone.

As the sun rose in the east and painted the sky with pastels he padded out into the living room in his underpants and a t-shirt.  “You could’ve slept in my bed,” he said. I told him I was cool where I was.

We talked for a while and then I walked the long halls and rode down 10 levels to the garage.   The truth was, I’d made a promise to myself that if I were to fuck him ever again, it was going to happen sober, and had I gone in that room with him I don’t know what would’ve happened.

As close to him as I felt, as safe and appreciated, it didn’t come close to feeling actually wanted by him in a deliberate and mindful way, and these days – when it comes to him, anyway – I want to be a choice, and not a happy accident [for his dick].

I want more than that.  Dicks are a dime a dozen and I’m a precious mother fucking gift. 

February Photofest
 

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.]

 

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.

 

 

It’s time for quiet now.

The Golfer ignored this.

Just a few things running through my mind today:

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

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

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It’s time for quiet now.

The Golfer ignored this.

Just a few things running through my mind today:

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

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

You are invited to the Inlinkz link party!

Click here to enter


Worth the 20 bucks.

Pooh-pooh Amazon dresses all you want, but this dress delivers.

I wore it last night for drinks with The Vet and it ended up in a pool on his bedroom floor next to his. It was like The Rapture.

We didn’t have sex – he had whiskey dick and I passed out – but apparently the dress was a good choice.

Also, The Golfer will be too busy with end of Q2 craziness for the next two weeks to see me.

But let’s get back to The Vet. Despite the naked debauchery, I think I found a friend, and that feels nice.

Now I’m going to put my phone down and rejoin the 31st birthday party I’m at.

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We’re all just here to hurt one another.

I’m in a mood.  A bad mood.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I didn’t sleep again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I also don’t believe any of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

View this post on Instagram

 

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

A post shared by Becca Kufrin (@bkoof) on

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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A quiet night.

It’s only Wednesday and I’m exhausted.

I’m meeting a married man at 8 am for coffee.

I have no plans this weekend. With anyone.

The Vet texted me this morning and we had another inane, short chat.

I’m still angry at the 20 lbs I’ve gained since 2015. Wtf.

Im sipping white wine and watching the third season of Black Mirror and am terrified.

I wish I was obsessed with something that hid me from the rest of the world. Like golf.

The pic from Saturday night that never saw the light of day.

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You teach people how to treat you.

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 his flakiness has 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 attention and 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.

But whatever.

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.

I’ll see Peter again soon.

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