An epic lesson in relationships – Part 1

I learned a shit ton this evening. I read his message at a marketing event this evening.

My lungs longed to collapse. Minutes that were languid and onerous turned into painful seconds; a thousand needles penetrated my skin as each one passed.

1, a thousand needles

2, a thousand needles

3, a thousand needles

4, a thousand needles

I doubted if I could survive five more minutes. Undeniably, thirty minutes would consume me.

I could imagine how one’s mind could become psychotic.

The message was not dramatic. Not mean. It was simple and perhaps, my above reaction unwarranted. However, the danger was in its subtlety. I knew. And I was right.

“I am a really bad partner until I finish my divorce. I truly apologize for that.

We need to sit down and talk. I really, really appreciated your effort to have a light and joyful relationship on Sunday and yesterday. I know it was a big effort for you and I really enjoyed it. However, I know you have feelings and I have not been dealing with them and we need to understand if what I can do at the moment makes you happy.”

Let’s stop here and just talk in person! I like you too much to risk another misunderstanding.”

Like? What happened to all of the “loves” . . the “love you’s” I never trusted?

I pressed for a phone call. He refused to speak about the above. “I don’t like speaking on the phone. Let’s speak in person.” I prodded. He’s away through next week and I refused to be left questioning, miserable, broken. Suspended in a relationship with someone who was already emotionally gone.

I’m not sure how I succeeded but I did. And this is what I learned:

  1. My being open, light, and passionately sexual, ironically, made him realize how much of an ass he is. Giving him what we wanted forced him to admit he could not do the same. His first admission to his not being loving.

Sunday was an amazing emotionally feat for me. I will expand in a separate post, but I have Esther Perel “Mating in Captivity” and my mother to thank. They allowed me to change my perspective and put aside the hurt, the longing for intimacy, connection, etc. We were that jealousy-inducing couple at Perry Street. The couple cab drivers hate. The evening was as passionate as when we first met, if not more.

I left. Refused to spend the night. He wrote that I was the guy, he the girl. I felt in control. Safe, happy, and open. Monday Night – repeat.

What was unexpected was his reaction. My actions changed him. My physical actions drew the parallel to the lack of commitment and emotional intimacy. I am not sure if this is in opposition to “Mating in Captivity” to which I so resonate . . but illuminating nonetheless.

To be continued . .


Intimacy Issues, A new chapter

I haven’t written much and so here is the backgound to my next post. My life now a vast departure from the days of sand between my toes and wind flying through my hair as I rode my horse through untouched Puerto Rico. My surroundings now are touched, built up, the concrete schoolyard of New York City. Work is now aligned with my passions, but my soul left elsewhere. I am with A. Our relationship, slow in its intimacy, but intriguing, a long juicy novel that seems never ending. He is my Tiger Woods. Charismatic, successful, funny, and generous.  Unfortunately, I, Elin.

He has let me into his life. My dog and I now stay, basically living, in his Tribeca sprawling elegant apartment. He travels and I stay. I am careful to invade. With precision, I strive to keep my belongings unobtrusive. An easy task in grand living.

Our life amazing. However, with the slow progress towards coupledom, our sex life has flailed in the opposing direction. Intimacy issues. The platitude. I care enough to stay. To see my own faults. Take note of my lack of words, the emotions I hold close. Our actions speak loud, but not loud enough. Two salts. I, better with pepper.

I long for one more dance

Text from Caballito: “I guess you don’t want to see me anymore, right? I will stop insisting eventually don’t worry . .  . ”  

My companion. The smiles, the ease, the comfort and the dances– the memories remain. The words on this blog cement them. The emotions I survived, the attachment to a connection that remains unparalleled. A connection that was never intended to be more. 

And a text received Sunday. I do want to see him. I feel his longing, his missing me. But my life no longer affords him a window. Perhaps, the window will reopen. But the longing is what I find most intriguing. For my emotions past written are now his.

Timing. Sliding doors. Life. And I think of S. And the Impulsive Gentlemen. And a pile of coins. Hands. Time. Options.

Just bring your passport. -the stranger.

I wonder what it is. I note a difference-one that transcends the now that is relevant.

A perfect weekend. My thoughts drifted to S but not without relief. A heart wasn’t pained, just pensive. This weekend isnt what I expected. A man who I have never before dated spontaneously invited me to the British Virgin Islands. Hours later we were in flight. I welcomed the adventure and the departure from thinking about S.

Now truly “what next?” is something I wonder- I am not sure. I am apprehensive. Commitphobic. I can continue and will, but without pressure, without being bound. As long as I can see where this goes before it involves rules. I now wear S’s shoes. I am the one that doesn’t want the tethers of a relationship with this new man.



I sit writing watching pelicans nosedive into brilliantly clear water. My toes crinkle the fine sand that engulfs them. It is Monday morning. He is in the room sleeping. We are in a famed romantic hotel on the the most amazing unspoiled island. This place secluded and exclusive. A truly special hotel. The spa perced on the mountain offered a blissful Sunday.

I feel extremely comfortable with this man, and more importantly, I am happy. But I question what home will bring. Could this be a relationship? I am not yet ready. With S, I never questioned. However, it was not effortless. The process was vulnerable. I believe we didn’t trust eachother, trust a future us.

The new relationship is intimate without pretense, comfort. But, how could it not be? A business lunch with a casual last minute invitation to an island I knew nothing of. Hours later I filled out one custom form per his deciding we were “married.” The holding hands and “dear” to play the part, soon became the norm. He kissed me later and every hour since has been as if this is the way it has always been. Him and I.

But I think of S. I think of my desire to not publicize this and be bound. And I think of the strangers’ comments on Friday just hours before I came to BVI. I spoke briefly of S and she noted how much he meant to me. How I changed when I said his name. How he clearly struck a chord with me and is in my heart. How right she was and is. I recall his words and take them for face value. “Take care Smith.” We have spoken regularly since. I question if it is out of courtesy. I desire to see him and say something. I am not ready to let my almost go and his actions tell me perhaps nor is he.

But a man would reverse an end not meant. I need to see him and close the door, to know if it is open for I return now, “married” in an effortless romance to whom I deem, the Impulsive Gentleman.

The waiting game

He knows my beauty marks. He touches them. He stares at me intently. Captivated and engaged.

His eyes pierce mine. And his ears listen–to words shared and to those left unsaid. 

He is honest, brilliant and ambitious. Not to mention stunningly handsome. He is complete with values and goals. Many aligned with mine. He is a rare one with who I match. Our courtship has been effortless. I have lacked the unease or giddy high. Simply made better. Intrigued and complemented. A path too clear to a fulfilling relationship . . 

He tells me my eyes do all the speaking. I argue his speak louder.

His words flow freely. While I digest mine. 

Last night I wish he left the speaking to his eyes. For his words have evoked my desire for a hiatus. I am angry. And even worse, unemotionally so.


The facts are simple. Our first night together ended at 6am. Back in his apartment, in his bed. The alcohol took over. Intelligence we lacked. However, I left without feeling as if our actions sabotaged us. I felt the “us”  more connected.  . . . What rules?

The following evening. A late dinner. Followed by sitting in his car for two hours speaking. Each night after has been hours on the phone or more of the same, food followed by conversation amongst streetlights. Intrigue consuming the air. Kisses withheld. The passion of the first night forgotten. As if it was yet to come.

Friday and last night, I spent the night. Reading Spanish in bed together. Working. Teaching me how to roll my rr”s. Light kisses. And some playing. I halted the progression of sex on Friday. Saturday, four more hours of talking in bed and an expression of how much he liked me. Last night, his head disappeared under the covers. And I stopped him for he need not make this any harder. I knew whatever waiting period was required had not come due. He continued. I won’t do anything, he said. And then he did. Ahh. And I stopped him.

But then he asked me why. Stating that he knew his reasons, but what were mine. My words fumbled. 

And when he shared . . . I turned my head. My mind wanted to leave his apartment. Swiftly and succintly. 

S had tested me.  “In a relationship, one of the most important things is being able to respect your partner and I believe there is a cycle that has to happen.” He had previously expressed how I was different and the positive aspects to waiting, but last night, he set me up for failure. And I am angry for I almost failed. And I say, fuck him. I can’t understand how he could determine my relationship worth by this barometer. Reality is, we did so once already . . . If he gave other reasons I may agree and perhaps, I do. But, a test is not sweet. It is not wanting to get to know me or build the passion or whatever else it may be . . . Sighyves_saint_laurent_-_ysl_m7

And now these expressive eyes of mine are viewing something so many of us women often question. Will a man only see you as relationship material if the sex is postponed? I suppose the answer sometimes is a very definitive yes.

For today, I am done with tests. And stubborn.  .  .

A story in eyes

Thoughts indistinct.  Movement without significance. No moments this past weekend elicit a painting. I write of noise.

A weekend in Vieques. Following my last minute decision, an impulsive text was sent to the very handsome man stranger from the gym Friday morning:

Going to Vieques if u want

One wrap following a work out and two lunches is all we had shared. I had always noticed him and while we had spoken, our eyes never had.

The quick meals shared in the last two weeks unveiled intelligence and shared philosophies. A heart and a gentlemen. Something was still missing. Our eyes still failed to speak. Though, curious about his continued lunch invites. And intrigued with my combined attraction and indifference, hence the text.

What time
Calling you

“Well, we’d have to share a room, but there is a seat for you on the plane. I won’t take advantage of you,” I joked.

In my mind, I didn’t foresee a budding romance or a weekend of sex. I simply was inviting a man on a plane, to an island, to my bed and was more or less, indifferent. Sleep like siblings should I wish.


The weekend was not a catalyst for emotions of color. Highlights. Experiences. Memories. However.




Dancing with Mr. Handsome. Physically, we are the perfect pair. Such ease and sexuality, our bodies seemed as if every inch had been explored. The truth is it was their first meeting.  A couple that you couldn’t watch without imaging them fucking. A comment from my dear gay, “What a hard on everyone had watching you two.” A weekend that brought a second truth to the fact that dancing is not a perfect indicator of the horizontal same. Decent. But my thoughts shift to Caballito with who I had two left feet. I enjoy Mr. Handsome, but emotions, there are not.






2am. Our corner spot was closed. We waited for the crowds to leave. To reenter and dance after hours with just our group. The locals walked to their mode of transportation-horses (a species higher in population than people in the amazing island of Vieques). I approached. Bored. Waiting for the doors. “Quieres montar?” One said. Thinking I was just some pretty gringa , he would lead me for a little walk.

I mounted. My legs bare. Took the reigns and one kick. In a minute, the crowds were far behind. Rhythmically gliding in the saddle. My hair flying.  His friends attempted to ride alongside me. Their faces shocked, in awe. I noted my continued amazement at the fact that languages divide, riding never does. Hugs envelop me without words or touch. Their eyes, their acceptance. Applause from the crowds. The boys following me as I turned the corner, bringing the canter to a halt.


Highlights. Memories. A lesson in eyes. 


What do you have?

Can the world execute a well-crafted plan? A series of events. Is there a camera rolling? This isn’t happening. I am not this girl. . . I see the mirrors. I am secure in my self, but my ego is in check and this insanity, is not . . . 

I am already missing U. What do U have? I do not know but I love it. The text reads. From the guy whose table I sat at Wednesday night as they exchanged Secret Valentine names a la Secret Santa. As he gave each of his friends CDs with a quote inscribed on the packages inspired by the recipient. I was in awe at the group. The friendships. The amazing guy, who I thought gay. Perhaps, this is what I need. Perhaps, this group could be mine.

That evening, a lift of my depression. I felt full as I ascended my stairs. Friends. Being social. A sabbatical from which was too long. I laid down, calm. A departure from my usual “read, write, do” or numb with addiction until I pass out.

However, last night was different. That text. The fashion show. Even Rediscoveringme was there. The tug of war. The trying to be gracious, hating the required hover when one buys you a glass of champagne. I was leaving to meet Caballito. And then his phone went unanswered for half an hour. I sat in my apartment as I received that text from the man I thought gay. I am already missing U. What do U have? I do not know but I love it. And I was angry. Why? What do I have?

Caballito called twenty minutes after. I went and met them at Latin Star at 2am. I watched him and Enrique eat. The lie from weeks ago, a faint memory.


Today. Friday. Thank God. I am glowing. I don’t know if it’s the weekend’s nearing, my prospective career, or the fact that I am no longer emotionally attached and vulnerable to Caballito. Last night, I listened to him as he stumbled on words such as “I haven’t been good to you,” and “make love.” You mean fuck, right. I said to myself. Happily.

This morning I must have woken up on the right side of the his bed. I worked out and as I showered and dressed up for work, actually blow drying my hair. I walked around my apartment in black lace shorts, sipping my coffee, dancing and feeling irresistibly like me. I told the parking attendant, “Creo que tienes el pelo mas bonita.” The window washer, barista, bikers and joggers all waved, “Hi, Attainingme.”

I love it here in PR. I really do. I will ride a rodeo horse tomorrow- it will be a first. I will go to the beach. Work out. And happily spend time working and avoiding the Artist, the Man I thought Gay, and a few others– the men who have presented their emotions. Unzipped, raw and tender.
I walk into my office and Jose, attempts to speak English. “Flo- ers.” What? He chuckles. Laughter- his default response to all things said in English. I walk to the back thinking there is something wrong. More guns? No, he points. To my office. I walk. Flowers.

I assume they are from MattDamon or my sweet 80 year-old friend Tito or the Artist. . . but, then I read the card:
Ha sido un placer conocerte. Espero que tengas un lindo y bello dia. –The Engineer.


Disclaimer: I post this, because these are stories and moments that no friends want to hear, tellings that elicit nothing positive to the listener. But, this is my place. And I write this, because it hurts.