Mr. Marry

I suppose I didn’t respond with what you wanted to say. Your current words. Light, funny. You write the word “Phew.” and “I guess I was just trying to figure out stuff that was happening, so what the hell I thought I’d ask.” You also tell me you are going to DR, then Thailand, and perhaps, moving to Spain with the guys in July. WHAT?

Ok, so a note to all. I know what KidRobot is doing. His reactions would be fine had I wrote him I wasn’t interested, that I didn’t think about us as well. But, that’s not the truth. Clearly, my words were not what he wanted to hear. But, now his emotions are so indifferent he has sealed their fate. I want to say “Fuck you.” I know his indifference is a safety blanket, a retraction of the emotions, an attempted way to save the potential hurt. But, again, fuck you. If you are a man, stand by what you say until we discuss it and figure our own truths, together. You are proposing being partners and you cannot even do this?

So, it’s not that I am angry, but I write this as a note on the decisions we make and the games we play when dealing with the heart. He chose a route I do not recommend. I suppose perhaps, all routes arrive at the same destination, but I think less of him for his withdrawal. For his inability to stand by his words. His emotions. There is a reason I hate the words I love you and why I prefer my bouts with “unavailables”.

So, I thank you for leaving me empty, leaving me distrusting.


The evening

The evening. It was Saturday. 

I am the most beautiful girl in the room. The most beautiful in all of Puerto RIco. I am told every time I frequent here. It is not the truth, but nevertheless, the mouths that say it, genuine. The pool reflects purple and green. The night is perfect. The lights shine in the crystal of the champagne glasses and in the eyes of those searching to get laid. The music echoes from the lobby. I sit. My shirt. Intricate as it ties around me. Requiring no brassiere. Exposing my tanned back. Tight jeans. And unnecessary heels for my 5’11” frame. The weather, warm, yet not humid. The energy and laughter, effortless. Is this intoxication or good energy? The answer does not matter.

It is here where I feel admired. If only he knew, I so often think. But tonight, he is here too. Perhaps his eyes will see it, and he will think I am pretty, be grateful for the knowledge that I choose him. And I ponder, do I do so stupidly? He is just a few feet away, engaged in conversation. He watches me from the corner of his eye. At our cabana, the odds are in my favor. Enrique, Marc, Luis, Jorge and Benicio. I welcome the attention. But they are merely circles I dance around him, he the center.

His two athletes, akin to family, are too beautiful. Polite. Perfect. Dark hair and chiseled features. I cannot fathom them only 19. Yet, any older and they would be too aware of their power and I would be distracted. We want to dance. The expensive ambience too sophisticated for our desires. We propose leaving. After a round of drinks, Caballito says. An hour passes and we are on our way. But then the girls we picked up cause some disarray and need to stay.

An apartment soiree no longer so appealing. I suppose we are staying. Enrique, his athlete, his “brother”, comes to me and says, “will you drive us to our car?” He says it quietly, from a few feet a way. I know our cars are equidistant. My curiosity piqued. I will return I tell Caballito. Jorge, his bestfriend, offers me his accompaniment. I decline–not gracefully.

The athletes and I are at my apartment. The ocean pounding against the rocks. We are sitting. Vodkas. Talking. Horses. We speak about Caballito with no relationship significance. Aware of their loyalty, their kin, I wonder, were they flirting?—knowing Caballito has likened me to nothing? He’s gay they said. Or was it an interrogation, an attempt to gather fodder.

Enrique says, it’s time to go. The phone rings. It is Caballito. As Enrique leaves, he peaks into my bedroom. His eyes widen. My gigantic posted bed. A sea of white sheets. The ceilings high. The ocean. He sits . . . on my bed. I am not sure what then was said. 


To be cont.

Gift me with anything but indifference

The moments in which I am frustrated exceed those that I am not. Was it not but a week ago where we reconciled? Where my body had one of those nights she will never forget?

 Last night you danced with me to Fonseca. Moments before, Jorge spun me around effortlessly; my legs and hips performing the salsa perfectly. But with you, I had two left feet. You had patience. I stepped on your sock. Don’t move your hips. Just your feet. Painful minutes with no success. You stole a kiss. And my heart skipped a beat.

I suppose dancing is not necessarily an indicator of the rhythm of two in bed. Despite our unlikey matching, last night, I saw you for the first time as a future partner. You were smiling, singing and I felt just how much I adore you. How attracted I am to the wrinkles that surround your eyes. I would be willing to make you mine. Perhaps, our wedding could be without the newlyweds’ dance?                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                  

The night was far from perfect. Yet, that moment was. But, it, just a moment. As are we. Infrequent moments. Rotten milk more consistent.

And now I sit. In thoughts, recurring, more common. Frustrated. Wondering. Telling myself this isn’t worth it. It should end.

As succint as your parting bye this morning. I stared at the rearview mirror as I departed the back seat, searching for more. Your glasses hid your eyes. And you offered nothing else. I called moments later. You didn’t answer. I assume you are angry. No, I hope you are. Your indifference would hurt more. Anger received by indifference. The sum of which may be our end should you be an indifferent man unwilling of the effort. Am I this naïve? I, a masochist? Tell me I am wrong. Tell me I am worth at least this. I wait. With each ding and vibration of my phone, I jump. But it isn’t you.

It has been 24 hours now. 

Like an addiction. I search for the willpower. To refrain. At this point, all I want, a conversation. Perhaps, gift me with our end.

Paltry Subterfuge

I pull closer. I cannot get close enough. My body is yearning for yours. I can feel you inside me. A wave of calm mixed with a resurgence of sexual energy,

My mind and my movements take on a prowess. I feel seductive, sexy and  . . . free. My sensuality had been on an extended sabbatical. Hello again 😉

I drive over the bridge. Unfortunately, my sensuality has only returned in my thoughts. The dance with my lover/my companion has been postponed. The “to be continued,” still pending.

The saboteur. I am. 

Yesterday, I recalled my typed words–my request of myself to not sabotage my reunion with Caballito. I knew he wouldn’t call me until after the gym circa 9pm. However, my vulnerability demanded that I distract myself. Not wait on his call. Avoid wondering why he will not make concrete plans with me, secure seeing me, and the corresponding pain that I am not a priority.

I acknowledge that a woman, a relationship, falls second in his value hierarchy. I acknowledge that this does not reflect his emotions for me and the amount he cares. He simply cares about himself more.

Sigh, the traits of a Mr. Unavailable. I complain, but these traits are also my safety.

I initially hung out with the Artist, escaping the pain of waiting on a ring. I dropped off the artist who has fallen for me, who does cute things. Who shines a light on the failed actions of my Caballito. I left the Artist hoping to see Caballito.  I received a call from my father, family circumstances. I called Caballito, tears building, he didn’t answer. 

The Trainer called me thereafter, as I was driving, looking for a place to cry. And, he said, “Come here.” PS. I barely know him. When Caballito called back, I was already driving to the Trainer, the Stranger. To cry.  

I told Caballito I just needed to drive. I was upset and that we would talk tomorrow– which is today.

SUBTERFUGE. At least, it wasn’t SABOTAGE .


The current summary of my peripheral men are the following:

1) The Artist new man who I have spent time hanging out with. As friends, in my mind. As more, in his. Nothing has happened physically so I assure myself that we are just friends. Yet I can see that look in his eyes. He is on a high. He is a puppet, and I hold the strings.

2) The Lawyer- I attended a Grammy winner’s birthday with him on Tuesday. he has written me these texts since: 


Haha. I met this guy at a business meeting. He is the opposite of what his texts make him out to be. He was so shy when we first met. Couldn’t even look at me. And, when I was friendly, as I normally am, he told me he has never fallen in love at first sight before. He thinks we should get married. What’s really sick is I am pretty sure he is serious. 

This will go nowhere. I include him to illustrate the contrast in courtship.

3) MattDamon- A character in this blog since its inception. A coffeeshop acquaintance in New York who fell for me. I toyed around with giving him a shot. Yet, couldn’t as my feelings weren’t quite there. I wanted them to be. This has been on a hiatus as my days are in PR and he lives in NY. This was Jan 1st’s email:

“What I do know and it was confirmed to me last night is that I miss you despite my repeated attempts to forget you. Even though I was hosting yet another great party with my some of my closest friends – when midnight came and went – I had a moment of sadness instead of joy because you weren’t there to share it with me. Then I even became a little angry because you hadn’t texted, called or replied to my last email . . .

So when I ask you to tell me what you want – I’m really asking you to have the courage to tell me what you already know but haven’t directly said.

If you like me but are afraid of getting close because in your mind that equates to a relationship and I’m not someone you envision as a boyfriend – then say that. 

If you don’t have any greater feelings beyond wanting me to be your friend – then say that.

If you miss me as much I miss you and want to see what comes of it – then say that.

Personally I’d rather have this conversation while sitting on a beach, holding you and watching the sunset but I guess an email will have to do for now.”

4) KidRobot- One of the first men I dated in New York. Now, my oldest friend. He came to Christmas with me. These are his current words:

“Why do I miss you so much? What’d you do to me?”

and then, “I also don’t want to go out. I really miss sleeping next to you and wish I could roll over and wrap myself around you.”

Mind you, the Christmas week we shared a bed, we didn’t even share an embrace. Not even spooning.

5) The Trainer- for now, a new friend. 

6) Rediscoveringme– On a good note, I ended this yesterday. It’s been many months, yet he still texts me, how much he needs my body, how much he misses me. I told him I needed more. Goodbye, my soulmate. 


I will stop here. This is too depressing. Blah. I am horrible. A horrible horrible person. Mark was right. “You make people your world. And they become addicted . . . ” 😦 We can all deal with Attainingme’s issues later. People always assume I am afraid of getting hurt. No, I am afraid, of hurting others. Deathly afraid. I stay far, guarding my kisses. Yet, I still hurt.

My kisses however are extended to one, Caballito. The one who cares the least. The one who is safe . . . 

. I miss him. I want him. I am craving his cock. His voice. His laugh. Crystal-light.



The Return of the Dance

He is back. A day early, without a phonecall. Caballito (Mr. Unavailble) texted me the news. He said he would explain later. I await “later.” I cannot lie. I am trying to ignore the emotions. History tells me that “later” will calm them, that there will be an explanation that satisfactorily contests my sentiments that he mustn’t care.

Yet, as I wait, I am upset. Anxious. Anticipating. And hurt. Trying to ignore any feelings until their appropriate time. A time when he didn’t have to rush back to this country to solve issues. A time where it’s just us. A time where we are actually speaking.

I search for an “off” button. A “ctrl-w” for this window of thought that can’t be worked on now. Perhaps, a “ctrl-q” would be better. Quit-without having to return to these frustrations.

Our bodies. Will our bodies meet? WIll these thoughts leave me long enough so that I don’t sabotage their reacquaintance? Will it be the second act of a shy dance between lovers? Or even better, will it just be a dance?

Please, I ask myself, don’t become a saboteur, not today . . .

To be cont.

Those dresses . . . inhibiting our end.

I search for rewind, erase, ctrl + D. A conversation precipitated on seeing each other. Details. You questioned why I had been so “pissy” today and yesterday . . and an hour of pointless dialogue unfolded on the telephone. I driving in circles. Us never seeing each other.

The conversation- Why so many questions? Why was I pissy? I searched and now, search, for an explanation. And the only one I can find is that our growing companionship still has needs. Yes, we are not in a relationship. Conversations regarding such do not exist in our reality. The closest resemblance of such was your stated discomfort of not knowing where this is going, wanting a plan. This statement conflicted with your actions– the actions where seeing me takes a backseat. Yet, I know you “really like me.” You ask me to stay until Sunday. Yet, you have to go to sleep. The push and pull. The dance to see each other. Our departures nearing. The pressure felt. The dance failed. The emotions, vulnerability, heightened– the core of us, the freedom, dead. 

Our words danced circles around nothingness last night. Air. Nothing created. Nothing achieved. Yet, EVERYTHING was lost. Moments after we said goodbye, I called you back. My mind realizing the damage, the silliness. Can I come lay my head? Let’s just melt into each other and realize that when we see each other none of this exists. You didn’t answer. I wrote a text. “I was just going to say can I just come over, and we can go to sleep. That conversation was horrible, and I don’t think positive . . . ” You answer, “I think we both need to chill out, and talk tomorrow . . . ” 

Chill out. The words, a dagger. They take my breathe now. Words meant to follow drama or heightened emotion. Our conversation was neither. Simply silly. Pointless. You tell me I am leaving. You may never see me again. Are you building walls? Saying good-bye. Because with that dagger, that statement “I think we both need to chill out, and talk tomorrow.” the wound is irreparable. There will be no tomorrow. 

I want to delete your number. We didn’t have the backbone to support our conversation. There is no answer. There is no repair. I can only see this working should I find REWIND. Seeded in reality, the button doesn’t exist. We are not in a movie. A goodbye without words, it would be easiest. A dissipation of all that we had.

But, those fucking dresses. Why oh why, must I have clothes hanging  . . . I leave tomorrow. Fuck. What do I do now?


Those dresses, a second chance. However, I don’t believe this saboteur, our vulnerabilities, our hearts have time and energy for the sequel, the to-be continued

Adios, mi companero. Who needs dresses?

Attain Me.

I took a personal call this morning, a rare occasion during “work” hours. My girlfriend needed to speak and I called her on my way to the office, thinking five minutes would suffice. Five minutes became sixty.

She shared intimate details, and a gift was given to me–she allowed me to open up to her. Forever grateful I am, for the revelation borne in that phone call.

Caballito. The dance. The unease. My confusion at this unease. My neediness. When did I become that girl? Everything is perfect, I don’t wish for the dynamic to change. It’s a puzzle I cannot complete. A piece is missing and yet I don’t know what to look for.

What, I wonder, am I seeking? What words could reverse my insecurity or satiate this unidentifiable void? Perhaps, this situation is not sustainable for me. I, not cut out for this companion, FWB.

The journey to the truth.

Caballito put it all on the table when I met him. I don’t want to be your boyfriend. I welcomed the departure from the men in New York, the Journalist and Matt Damon, who wanted just that. Between the falling snow and cold last week, I was disappointing them. Creating pain. Running away . . . .  to Puerto Rico, to Caballito. My companion. I, now the disappointed.

I vary between the extremes, I think.  The Available Man who is unappealing versus the Unavailable man who is addictive.

“It’s all the same,” my girlfriend said. I search my mind, attempting to find the common link.


The revelation.

Someone asked me in April what I wanted. I said, continuity. Ever since, I use this word often. However, I never realized how this unfulfilled need and my search for such, is the basis of the unhealthy relationships in my life—and the deterrent to a proper one.  These men and my relationships with them, stem from the temporary fulfillment of this need, a fulfillment that cannot sustain itself.

With Matt Damon and the Journalist, they liked me, truly. I liked them as friends. My ex-boyfriend told me, “You make people your world and they become addicted to you.” These men. We become friends. We establish the continuity I want. I seek. Yet, it is a lost pursuit, as the foundation is created on their desire for more. It will inevitably, end. And it does.

Matt Damon. He wrote me an email on Monday, “I still feel now as I did then that you are clearly not a platonic friend to me and it only takes you walking into a room to remind me of that.  I’m confident enough in what I want to tell you that I don’t want to pursue a faux friendship with you as I place you on a pretty high pedestal so it would be dis-ingenious for me to do so.” It’s over. That’s that.


Caballito. I love our companionship. It is beautiful. But built on words that promise no continuity. “I don’t want to be your boyfriend.” We have, however, established a continuity. And the obvious conflict between the foundation and the continuity that is making me so happy precludes it’s death.

And here Attainingme realizes, that without a solid family, without a solid home, with two lives, she has a very crucial unfulfilled need. Some people need to be liked, need to be appreciated, need to be in control—I  need continuity. And I can’t put this burden on men. I need to fulfill this elsewhere. And I have a feeling, that once I do so, life will change, yet again. 🙂 
And this is how I grow. This is how I attain me