So here I am–back, and not knowing where to start. I should probably start with the reason that I’m back, which is–I feel like I would like to implode my entire life. What does that mean? What am I saying?
Just that I am sick of being who I am–or pretending to be who people believe me to be–and I want out. Permanently. I want to take out a billboard and tell the world everything about me, and ex-communicate anyone who doesn’t like it.
Ex-communication–such a harsh act. Yet for some reason it’s what I crave. Last year Tyler Glenn came out with an Album called Ex-Communication, themed around his act of coming out of the closet and leaving the Mormon church. It’s not exactly my preferred style of music, but certain songs of his, I love. Not just because of clever lines like “I found myself when I lost my faith,” but because he was brave enough to write and record them. He gave no shits. HE ex-communitated no one–yet made it clear that anyone who didn’t support him could fuck right off. He was done hiding.
I can’t explain what hiding has done to me. The fact that I feel like I am always looking over my shoulder, afraid of what others might see, the questions they might raise, the conclusions they might draw.
Am I a cheating whore? My husband a poor, blind schmuck? My children, doomed to be scarred? Am I a pervert, who has no preference for whether she fucks men or women, as long as she is fucking? A sex-addict who will go there with whomever? A heartless bitch who must not love anyone at all, if she is unwilling to remain faithful? It’s all open to speculation. The world stands in judgement. And who am I? Just a woman who is tired of hiding, tired of shame, tired of pain. A woman who has been through a fucking lot in the last few years, and just wants to take a deep breath and be herself. A woman who, by many standards, is selfish, yet still feels like she is sacrificing herself in order to not hurt others.
Who am I? I have no fucking idea.
More to come.
I kissed three boys today.
My sex drive runs on a cycle and right now it’s in hyper drive.
Of course, one of the boys I kissed was my husband and one was my boyfriend, but I’d have had sex with all three if I could have.
Alas, I only had sex with one. Papa Bear invited me over for a post-work romp and I hungrily accepted.
Less than 6 hours later and I’m already desperate for more.
When the cab pulls up at his place, he is waiting outside. In the pitch dark, I can only make out his silhouette. The howling wind blows my dress and his shaggy, hipster hair as I walk towards him.
I close the space between us and grab his shirt, pulling his mouth to mine. His lips are soft–so impossibly soft. Our hands roam all over each others’ bodies, as we fumble our way through the door and down the stairwell.
I drop my bag. He pushes me against the wall. My hands under his lumberjack flannel shirt, his in the space between my short green dress and my thigh high boots.
“Do you want a smoke?” He asks. “Because otherwise the dress is coming off.”
I need a minute. “Yes,” I say. “Smoke.”
We go outside. We smoke. I have no idea what we talk about. Our lips find each other again and he pulls me back into the apartment, then begins kissing my neck from behind.
“I wish I could date you,” he murmurs into the space between my shoulders.
“Why can’t you?,” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“Because I would want you all to myself. That’s why.” The tenderness and passion in his voice floods all my senses.
He flips me around and I fall back on the bed. We pull each others’ clothes off and he slowly kisses my body, and then he’s inside me.
I gasp. “Oh god.”
He moves in me until I come over and over.
“Get on your back,” I growl. He complies.
I climb on top and ride him. “You feel really good,” he moans. I moan back.
When we’re done, we lay together, kissing passionately, running our hands up and down each others’ bodies.
“Can you believe we did this?” I laugh.
“Yep,” he answers with a smile.
He softly asks me why I’m not single. I softly ask him why he’s not poly. Then our mouths are together again, getting as much of each other as we possibly can in this one night.
“I hate that I want you again already,” he admits. He kisses my neck, as I run my hands over his body, moaning. He enters me, this time alternating between pushing into me with his cock, and licking me to orgasm. I scream, grabbing his hair with my hands, digging my nails into his back, until I am spent.
And then we talk. Office gossip. The kinkiest thing we ever did. When we got our tattoos and why. The most fucked up thing we’ve ever done in heartbreak. Whether or not we believe in forever. What happens after we die. The moment we each realized we wanted each other, and the moment we each realized we wanted each other for more than sex.
“This is the most interesting post-sex conversation I’ve ever had,” he admits.
“What do you normally talk about?”
“It’s usually ‘I see this going somewhere…'”
“Ah,” I replied.
“Can we agree, no feelings?” he asks me.
“Define feelings…”I press.
I agree. Ownership, I do not need.
We smoke another cigarette, talking the whole time, and then take turns going down on each other. After another round of viciously delicious orgasms, I fall back against the pillows, panting.
“Let’s get breakfast,” I say. It is 2:30 in the morning.
We get in his car, and go for breakfast. We talk about what it would be like to keep seeing each other. What would happen if this one night turned into a full-blown affair. What would happen if we got caught.
Pancakes and bacon, and then back to his place to fuck and talk some more. Every time I pull on my panties to go to sleep, he asks why I am wearing underwear, and tosses them back across the room.
I start to giggle. “Well, if you can’t laugh during sex, you’re doing it wrong,” he says. And then his head is between my legs. We are insatiable.
So much of it is a blur of touch and hands and mouths and grabbing and bucking and kissing and petting. So much of it, except, this one moment:
Our heads in a cloud of blankets. Faces inches apart. His hands on my skin. Mine hands on his. Our eyes locked, hazy from exhaustion and wanting. His auburn hair mussed. Both of us floating. Not saying things we shouldn’t be saying, but definitely feeling things we shouldn’t be feeling.
If there is one moment from that night that I will take with me wherever I go, it will be that.
Around 4 AM, he tells me I must sleep. I’m in a meeting the whole next day. I tell him not to boss me. He tells me he is being a good friend. We spoon, and crash, pressed against each other.
My phone’s alarm blares at 6 AM. I rip it out of the wall. We both laugh, looking at each other in amazement.
“Good morning, ” he says. He uses my name.
“Good morning,” I say, using his.
We are kissing and then we are fucking. We are both wide awake.
We smoke, then make love again.
“What’s your weak spot?” he asks.
I smirk in response.
“I will kiss every inch of your body until I find it.”
I raise my eyebrows. Challenge accepted.
He starts at my hips. He kisses my belly. When he pulls a nipple into his mouth, I moan instantly. I moan again when he gets to my neck, and then our mouths are together and I flip over so he can enter me from behind.
He dresses and goes to the kitchen to get us something to drink. I follow , sliding up behind him, pulling open his shirt, pulling off his pants, until he is naked. I run my hands up and down his shaft until he turns and I kneel, taking him into my mouth.
He groans, and I stay there for a few moments, on the kitchen floor. “Back to bed,” he says, lifting me to my feet, carrying and tossing me onto the mattress. His head is between my legs again. I am so sore I can barely stand the contact but our time is almost over. I want as much as I can get.
He says he is going to shower, and then take me to my meeting. I wrap my arms tighter around him.
“You can’t pin me,” he laughs, so I wrap my leg around him too. He slowly kisses my neck. Runs his lips over my collarbone and towards my mouth. He turns me onto my back, gets on top of me, and fucks me into ecstasy one last time.
Then he chuckles, and walks towards the bathroom.
“It was totally worth it,” I laugh back. “I don’t even care.”
In the car, we are quiet. I pull a cigarette from his pack. “Do you want one?” I ask, and he says “Yeah.”
I put his to my lips and light it, handing it to him first, before I draw on my own.
“And they say romance is dead,” he says.
I know, I know I’m not supposed to think about you.
I know, I know, act natural around you.
I know I’m not supposed to think of your thirsty rose.
I know I’m not supposed to see you when my eyes are closed.
Or run my hands across your skin real slow.
Or think of how we come together and explode.
What you know and what you do are two entirely different things. Apparently.
Being around Boss Man is pure hell. I feel like I’m in high school again. Part of me wants to fabricate excuses to talk to him, and part of me wants to avoid him at all costs. I haven’t had a legit crush like this in so long, and I have no idea how to handle it. Sixteen year old me just fantasized. About kissing. About sex. About him or her asking me out. About being a couple.
30 year old me does not have time for that. 30 year old me just wants to be done already. 30 year old me feels giddy sometimes, an anxious wreck sometimes, and like looking for another job immediately the rest of the time.
It’s fucking weird. Today, when our eyes met and he held my gaze and I knew what he was thinking, I felt incredibly sexy. Like even though we will likely never do anything, we have a secret: We want each other.
When I stabbed myself with a staple, he burst out laughing, and then said “Thank you for being you.” And I felt lit up from the inside.
Hours later, he licked his lips, and I visibly went weak in the knees. To the point where he said “Sorry,” and I refused to look at him for the rest of the day. I just want to die. I am so goddamn embarrassed. I want him so hard.
It was manageable before I drunk texted him a pic of myself in my underwear. But then the hot and heavy texting started, the fantasies, what we wanted to do to each other, and now…good goddamn. I literally can’t even.
We have talked about spending some time together in the next few weeks. I’m fucking terrified. If he is 100% sure that nothing can happen between us, I may not be able to be around him. I prefer not to humiliate myself further. Plus, he just started dating this chick off Tinder, after three months of celibacy, because he said I made him want sex again. Awesome.
I don’t think they’re exclusive (it’s been one date) but he tends to move fast. They could be a couple in a matter of days. Or maybe he’ll have lost interest by then, as he’s prone to do.
I don’t even know why I feel like this. He is just some guy. He is not poly or non- monogamous. He can be a dick. He is my SUPERVISOR. But while months ago you could cut the sexual tension with a knife, now it is literally suffocating.
This has bad idea written all over it. Someone save me from myself.
I am not having enough sex.
I don’t know how long it’s been since I had sex with The Husband, but I’m going to go ahead and guess it’s somewhere around two months–at least–and probably closer to three.
A strange thing has been happening to me.
I feel like–with all the logistical shit getting in the way–I am starting to close in on myself.
I hate the way I am, and I hate the way my body/mind/emotions work. I hate how strongly connected every part of me is.
I hate how not having enough sex, or a certain kind of sex, can make me feel like I am coming apart.
But its not just the lack of sex that is fucking me up.
It’s the lack of intimacy in general. I feel like I am starved for it.
The Husband and I touch each other so rarely that it actually feels awkward and unnatural when we do. We are used to sleeping spooned around each other every night, and that is honestly the only physical contact between us that feels genuine. I tried to kiss him the other day–must have been a couple of weeks ago by now–and it felt like he was pressing his lips together. Like he was purposely keeping me out. I haven’t tried to kiss him since then because it is too awful, but we kiss so rarely that honestly I don’t even want to kiss him anymore. I don’t know how.
Same with sex. I have to be drunk to have sex with my husband. If I am not drunk, I can’t get turned on by him. And its not because he’s not attractive–he is very attractive and is actually my physical ideal.No, it has nothing to do with the way he looks.
It’s just that we have been living together for so long as basically platonic co-parents, that I just don’t feel that way about him anymore. It may sound cruel, but I talked to him about it for years. on. end. I begged him. Pleaded. I told him I couldn’t take feeling rejected anymore and that I couldn’t live without sex and romance and dates and all the things we used to have and be. I cried and wailed and screamed. I wrote pieces about it and showed them to him. I told him that one day it would be too late. That eventually we wouldn’t be able to go back. That I didn’t want us to be ruined beyond repair. And every time, things would improve for a couple of weeks, and then we’d end up exactly where we were before.
The problem, is that we have never had it good. We’ve never both had decent paying jobs or not lived under a mountain of debt or not had babies or toddlers or preschoolers underfoot. We’ve never felt like we’ve had a handle on things. We’ve never had family or friends around to help. Never known what its like to not be diagnosed with anxiety and depression–the both of us. So, while under ideal conditions it would be easy to say “Fuck him–you deserve more than this,” we don’t live under ideal conditions. We never have.
Sometimes keeping us above water is all we have the energy to do. Sometimes we try to cuddle and are immediately screamed at by one or both of the little terrors who share our DNA. Sometimes we try to have sex and are interrupted. Until eventually its just easier to give up.
I feel a heavy, heaving, hopelessness. I feel like I want to burrow into the ground and howl. I feel like we will never get to a place where we can even see what we could be capable of being. I feel white-hot anger. I don’t know at what or at who, so it just bursts out all over the place, at the most inopportune times.
I need to be sedated. I feel like I am out of options. I don’t know where to go or what to do.
I made a “bad” sexual decision last week. And the result was happiness. I felt like me. I felt like a person. I had patience. I had a sense of humor. I walked around smiling. It didn’t fucking hurt to exist. I don’t want to have to make bad sexual decisions to feel like a fucking person. But everything else hurts. It’s too much, or its not enough, or its both and I just. can’t. breathe.
I physically cannot bear the loneliness. I can’t bear the emptiness. I can’t bear the now-you-see-me, now-you-don’t, “here’s an appetizer, you aren’t covered for the main course.”
I can’t. I can’t. I can literally. not. bear. it.
I do not want to have sex with strangers. Its dangerous and seedy. And frankly, the risk of bodily harm is actually less off-putting to me than the risk that I will have done the work of finding them and setting a date and primping and showing up only to have them disappoint me. I am looking for something very specific, which is why no one on the loop of men who keep. texting. me will do.
I’m not sure what I am supposed to do. Just continue to hurt? To not feel the way that I need to feel in order to function? What is the point of being smart, of taking the long view, of assessing the risks or behaving responsibly if doing all of those things just makes me feel like shit? I am unbearable to be around right now. I am either numb, or I’m snippy, or I’m teary, or I’m hurriedly shoveling indiscriminate amounts of random food items down my throat.
I CANNOT DO THIS. I AM A FUCKING BASKET CASE.
This past Sunday was supposed to be the next round of my bad decision. And I cancelled. And now I am so angry and resentful and pissy I can barely see. I need what I need. Period.
And the worst part is, I can’t talk to anyone about it.
The Husband, who will listen to me whenever I ask, who works his ass off 16 hours a day, who struggles with depression himself, who will support me in any and everything I want do do, who asks for NOTHING–cannot help me. He cannot hear this. All it would do is pile guilt on top of all of the horribleness he’s already feeling. All it would do is make him feel like he HAS to fuck me. And it hurts too much. It’s too pathetic. It’s too fucking sad. I can’t. I can’t be honest with him one more time. Not one more time. I’m done. If he doesn’t want me, that’s not his fault, and I can’t ask him to try anymore.
I can’t talk to my boyfriend about it, because what is he going to do? It’s not his fault he isn’t around most of the time. It’s just not possible for him to be.
But none of that makes me feel better. None of that makes me feel like I have any options at all. All I feel…is that parts of myself are gradually being erased…and that if I don’t connect with that primal part of me, on a regular basis, I am going to disappear entirely.
And as I was writing this? Just now? The Husband told me that he would “really like to have sex tonight.” Probably because A) he’s been stealthily reading this over my shoulder, or B) He can tell that I’m starting to come completely un-fucking-hinged.
But it doesn’t matter. Because he doesn’t want me. I cannot get turned on by pity sex. Maybe I will get plastered enough to do it (I am on my third glass of wine), and maybe it will scratch the itch or do the trick or make me feel slightly less like I am dying of something horrible…
But he doesn’t want me. And even if I can pretend, while drunk, that it doesn’t matter? It does fucking matter. I want mutual hunger and heat and need. There is nothing more electric than when that explodes. And the man cannot even let me kiss him. I swear to god I have no idea when the last time we kissed for real was. We don’t even kiss when we have sex. He just fingers me and then we fuck.
It’s too horrible. It’s too painful. I can’t leave but I can’t stay either. I just want to distract myself. I want to step out of this into my own little world where everything feels good–the sun, the food, the sex, the music, the drinks–and nothing hurts. I want to indulge, utterly. It’s like bingeing. I want to gourge myself on pleasure so it doesn’t hurt so bad when its gone.
The Husband is working evenings now. I get home from work sometime around 4, 4:30, and he is gone by 6. We needed to rearrange his schedule so we wouldn’t need to put our preschoolers in daycare, but that means I get significantly less time away. Obviously, someone needs to be here with the kids.
When I worked afternoons, I could go out right after work, because regardless, the kids would be asleep by the time I got home. I was with them in the mornings, but I always missed bedtime.
Now if Papa Bear wants to spend time with me, he needs to come to my place. And last time, for the very first time, we fucked at my house. I got drunk and he bent me over the couch and pounded me. It was hot. I squirted everywhere, soaking the throw we keep on the couch.
In a way, this is a good thing. It means that I can’t go out for random sex most nights, and on the nights The Husband is home, I either want to spend time with him, or with Papa Bear. But I can’t help feeling frustrated at the same time. Old lovers are coming out of the woodwork. No one I was ever serious about–just people I’d hooked up with, plus men from dating sites, hoping to hook up with me. I am booked solid. I cannot do it without taking time away from one of my existing relationships, or my kids.
But I really, really want a random fuck. A no-strings attached rendez-vous. I’ve actually been thinking about Sugar Daddy, if you can believe that. That asshole! Yet I’m strangely tempted to text him with nothing but the words “fuck me”.
I will make time. I will spread my legs. I will sneak away and say I am shopping for work clothes, or meeting a friend for a long lunch, and I will let him go at me for three or four or five hours. Oh fuck yes.
Also, I’m drunk. That’s how I cope now. I read The Buddha and The Borderline, as recommended by Little Miss Lola. I have been trying to be zen, but the problem is that its hard when you literally feel like everything in your life is swirling around you. I tell myself to breathe deeply. Focus on the moment, or if the moment sucks, attempt to not view it as “good” or “bad”, just fact, and think about how to get through it instead. Sometimes it works, but sometimes my nerves are shot to hell and I need wine to calm me the fuck down so I don’t lose my shit.
I want pot brownies, but I think I’d be going over to a bad place if I added a substance that tasted delicious to my list of self-destructive tendencies.
I wrote the beginning of this post nearly a week ago. Here’s what’s happened since:
I looked in my “blocked” folder on my phone, and saw that Sugar Daddy, wonder of wonders, had texted me a couple days before. I sent the text I mentioned above–the one with the words “fuck me.”
I thought I’d get laid, then not hear from him for awhile. Get laid again when similarly horny, not having it be anything or cost anything. Instead, he said he’d broken up with his girlfriend and Jailbait. That he wanted to start seeing me again. He asked about my relationships, and I told him they were still in tact and going well. He said he was fine being third behind The Husband and Sugar Daddy.
I did not want him to be third. I did not want him to be anything.
He asked which nights I was free, and I told him. He said he was booking me for a couple, and listed the dates.
My “oh shit” meter went off. This wasn’t what I wanted.
He asked about my husband’s career. He said he’d help him get a day job so we could hook up more often.
My discomfort grew. I thanked him, but didn’t forward him the information he requested. I talked to The Husband, and he said this was bad news. I talked to Papa Bear and he asked me to please stop.
I was horny. So horny. I didn’t want to make love, or look into anyone’s eyes. I did not want to hear that I was loved and treasured. I wanted to be fucked into oblivion. It was a palpable need.
I went on OkCupid and went through my messages. A cute blonde guy one year younger than me wanted to know if I was into casual sex. Bingo. I would fuck him instead.
I told Sugar Daddy I didn’t think it was a good idea for us to start seeing each other again. I blocked him once more, and set up a date with The Blonde.
It was supposed to happen today–we are both off work for the Easter long weekend. It was supposed to happen in an hour. But I cancelled this morning. This isn’t what I want or need.
Maybe this did not happen of my own volition. The Wifey has been away, so Papa Bear has been hanging out with me and my family during the day, and we have spent two nights together, fucking like rabbits. He took the edge off. It was delicious. We watched porn. We did not get emotional. I stroked his cock under the table when we went out for dessert, and he fingered me in the car on the way back to his house, calling me a slut. So. Much. Sex. So much screaming sex.
He loves me and he likes to show it when we are in bed together, but I think he realized what I need in order to not relapse again. I’m still horny–but not unbearably so. Just a warmth spreading from my tits to my cunt.
I have things to do today. Paperwork. Chores. Errands. Work stuff.
I will see my Papa Bear tonight, and he will bend me over the side of the couch and fuck me like I need him to.
But I’m proud of myself for evading this potential crisis. Nothing has the power to control me, if I don’t let it.