When I participated in the Bare Your Sexual Soul Day I went back to a place that I loved and memories of my exploits with Troy filed my head and my belly. The men, the cocks, the raw, animal sex where I felt nothing but my hole and my cells for hours on end; the emotional upheaval of being connected to a sociopathic narcissist; and the intense pleasure I received for abusing my body via sex. It all felt so good to relive those moments, but I was also walking the edge of concern.
Then, a friend wrote of her father’s passing and another friend wrote of his experiences with a cruel lover followed closely by a run in with my mother — who, besides my father, is the lynch pin in my world view and of my personal views of myself.
The first two things are important because I could closely and strongly relate. I had a tortuous relationship with my father and I watched him die a horrible death. I know now that I would never truly wish it on anyone because even a man deserving of no mercy should be granted it. His spectre haunts me to this day and the pain he caused me is often like a cruel friend luring me into complacency only to rear its unruly head when I least suspect it. And my affair with Troy was beyond my control, my compulsion to fuck him, to do anything he wanted of me, so all-consuming I felt lost and ravaged for months. It left me in tatters. And well, my mother is slowly emerging as a villain to my heart and the realization has been devastating.
I’d already begun asking myself Why do I need sex so much? Why do I like it to hurt? when all of these things occurred and it has become clear to me now: I have always meant nothing to those with the most power over me. Who I am and what I am has never been enough and never will be and therefore I seek out connections that reinforce this belief: I wield sex to fulfill the painful longing in my being.
Last night, a Saturday, I had no plans. Jason decided that our plans were to be cancelled and The Neighbor was going to a party in hopes of getting laid. The night before, Friday, he had ridden me until I was a puddle and narrated my journey as he put me there.
As he’d slid his cock deep inside of me he said, “First, you get wet, oh so wet,” and he continued to stroke my grateful body’s cavern.
When he pounded me into my sheets he breathlessly said over me, “Then, you get incoherent. God, I love watching this.”.
We kept going. He kissed me, stroked me, buried his face in my neck. I ran my fingertips along the ridges of his back muscles delighting in the loss of my control, the sensations of impalement.
We turned me on my side and his long shaft found new spots deep within me, he noticed it, too.
And then finally on my stomach with my face buried into my mattress I cried and shook and pressed back on him with all my might. “Ahhh. The crying. The last step.” And he released himself into the condom, waited a few moments and took me up again to where I was nothing but sensations of a collection of cells and heaving lungs and a tear-streaked face.
We slipped on robes and stood on my balcony watching spa-goers below us. I stood behind him and wrapped my arms around the soft cotten, pet his hard chest and nibbled on his neck. He turned around and we stood locked in an embrace high above the people below us.
I felt safe and important, forgetting that my feelings had been bruised by his request to start our evening at 10 pm. I had been hoping we’d do something more “date like,” but that was folly. This is what I have with him. I am no pseudo girlfriend, despite my wandering, uncontrollable emotions.
After more belly soaking sex and an orgasm later we were playing poker together. Chatting. I said very clearly that I couldn’t rely on him for anything. That I can’t. How could I possibly? He said that was a terrible thing to say and I made it even more terrible for not recognizing it. Later, in his bed after yet more sloppy, delicious sex I apologized for hurting his feelings. He said his feelings weren’t hurt. I was confused. He insisted he felt nothing about it, that it was simply an offensive thing to say, but I still couldn’t understand the logic. I said as much and tried to explain that it wasn’t personal.
“If I’m having a bad day, you’re not supposed to be there for me. You’re not supposed to come and hang out with me and be there for me.”
He said he would be. Which only has caused me yet more confusion.
We talked about our relationship. He believes it will go out with a whimper rather than a bang; he thinks it’s going fantastically; I am down to only one lover now and I can’t have it all be up to him, it’s not fair. Not to him, not to me. If I’ve learned one thing in my life is that I am too much for anyone and my sex drive is among the traits most delicately – or indelicately – rejected in me. I sometimes get the sense that TN thinks I think of nothing else, when in reality, I am inundated with thoughts and feelings so much more pressing I can barely function some days. Like this week.
So, I sat alone last night after beers with one of my dearest friends. Antsy, anxious, sad, in pain. The Neighbor, my crush, gone for the night, and I alone with my thoughts with no outlet for my building release. I scoured OKCupid, but saw no one of any interest. I sipped wine, I watched TV, I read, I ate food that tasted like cardboard. I remembered to drop off my rent check and so layered on warm clothing and walked down to the office. The cold night air coated my arms and body like salve. I felt immensely better for it.
And as I stood by the drop box I looked up at our building and my eyes were automatically drawn to his empty, lit bedroom window. I stood there numbly, dumbly, wondering why I was frozen in place. I breathed the chill into my chest and felt more pain as I turned and walked away and then suddenly I was vomiting into the bushes. Hard and fast, with tears in my eyes and a sense of surrender in my heart. Headlights alerted me of a coming driver and I quickly dashed up the back stairs to avoid being seen such a mess.
I calmly reentered my apartment and headed for my bathroom sink. Cold water splashed on my wrist near a nasty burn, crusted and bright red, and I expelled the rest of my dinner. The burn drew my attention and I contemplated cutting myself and wondered where on earth I’d find a spot on my body that TN wouldn’t notice. And so it came to me that I am truly broken.
I have been thinking about opening up my AFF account again because this calm, this one-man show who has his eye on a woman who has yet to make herself known to him, is bringing me to my knees. I have aligned myself with yet another person who finds me wanting. I am a mother. I do not want more children. He is looking for something better.
I told him last night, while wrapped in his arms in his giant, unbelievably comfortable bed, that if he were older and wanted no children things would be very different. He was surprised. I felt relieved to get it off my chest. I said no more about it. He shared that he has always worried about my feelings for him, though I have revealed nothing outright. It has been a general concern of his. I was somewhat offended by this since I have been above reproach in most things involving my feelings for him: it is a girlish mistake to make this something it is not; he’s never done this before. He should be the one that’s the loose cannon. Not me. He’s never done this before. He’s young and inexperienced.
But in the end, he’s right, and he has no fucking clue. Or maybe he does. This has been extremely hard for me because the better and more brutal the sex, the more bonded I become. There is something wrong with me.
I want so badly to be enough for someone. To be the right fit, to fill his heart and his loins with excitement each time he sees or thinks of me. I want him to strike my flanks, bite me, twist my tender skin and use me until I don’t know my own name. And then I want him to cradle me in his arms, kiss my temples and tell me what a good girl I am, to fill that black fucking hole inside of me that my parents slowly stretched wide with their conditional love and cruel character, and to tell me that he loves me.
That’s what I really want.
And so I sat on my balcony and dragged on a cigarette. Slowly, deliberately. Feeling the hot smoke fill my lungs and mingle with my breath as I expunged it from my center. I got my leather-bound journal and began to write in my chicken-scratch scrawl. I wrote of my pain, where it comes from, why it’s there and, ultimately, my hope for mastery over it. I told myself I could do it, that I would survive. Then finally with tears in my eyes I wrote, “I love you, Hyacinth. I love you. You are enough. Always enough.”