To my almost . . .

Almost my better half-

My thoughts are devoted to you right now. I am trying to not think about you, let my thoughts just be. But your eyes and your words are too distracting. I hear the charming words, I see you on top of me as you pinned my arms and tried to tickle me, I see you next to me in the car, staring and touching my beauty marks, I feel the heat of your body as we passed each other in the gym, touched lightly and made everyone take note that perhaps someone had me, I feel your hands on my hips as you taught me balloneta, your fingers on my lips as your attempted to teach my tongue how to roll it’s r’s. The many moments of silence as your listened to me and always digested my words, pausing before you spoke. Truly soaking in the minutia of what I said. My heart hurts with these memories. My heart hurts more with the knowledge of what could have been.

My girlfriend’s words last night on how much she likes you, how great you are. I could only think in anger then that she should have been using past-tense. I felt she was not helping. How attractive you are. What a gentlemen. Yes, I know. I said. Can’t we just focus on how him and I were not right?

I wonder now if that was truly our end. “Take care Smith”. (Substitute Smith for my last name, which is what he called me) I wonder where you are in this moment. Your childhood friend/other business partner is visiting and your itinerary is booked. I imagine you laughing, enjoying. I sit typing, hearing the crashing of the ocean. My lights dim as a second light has met its end in the 24 hours since ours. Perplexed at how I change these lights that are 14 feet above me. I wish our end had a solution—was simply challenging but fixable, like this hard to reach light fixture.

For now, I will sit in darkness, the white saliva of the ocean as the light to this dark. 



My ocean before the darkness:dusk-on-oceanMy ocean the temptress


When women close off

Turbines in my mind. The words I should have said, but those for which my lips would not part. I have felt these gates before, but they are years removed.

Now multiple variations of these words dance in my mind. And I wonder if your day will be as plagued as mine—your mind taking pit stops to guess what happened, for I know my distance was without logic.

But baby, I feel involuntarily closed. When I saw you at the gym, the feeling was unrealized. I left high with emotion and attraction, my body and my mind roused with the memory of your magnetism. But your surprise arrival as I stood stark in the shower revealed a shyness, a lost comfort.

We did speak as always. Intimately. We played. We laughed. It was the first time I had seen you in five days. Five days that were devoid of communication—I was left instead consumed by the waves of you penetrating my thoughts, missing you, imagined conversations, retellings to never be told of the daily happenings and the mishaps that are my unconventional life.

Every ounce of me is not trying to punish you or play games. I loathe these gates of mine. I loathe them for I know they are without reason. Although, I feel that I don’t trust you. But those words, too easy to misconstrue. I don’t imagine another woman or ulterior motives. What I don’t trust is us—your feelings regarding us. Am I still being tested? When can I sigh, receive my grade?

I am unzipped. Vulnerable. And raw.

My body in charge. For it cannot pretend. My explanation poor. “I am not feeling physical.” It was beyond my control. My body and my mind no longer one. I know that you care. But my subconscious demands more and my body protects. Needing reassurance, security. I hold on to the infrequent expressions you have gifted me. Your penned name and on date on my wrist as you joked that I am yours. Your retelling of “the girl I am seeing.” Of the investors and your best friend substituting your nickname for me in conversations. I attempt to fill my thoughts with your actions, actions that should provide me with the knowledge that you and I are indeed a us.

My body argues. And I am sorry, cognizant for I truly must be a saboteur. I think of my lips and my desire to speak, to explain. Of my inability. Wishing I knew our unit was secured. Realizing that your love language may be actions, but that I may be one who requires words. And I am at a loss.

With lips that only part releasing an empty breath.

The Dance of One

24 hours later. On the couch where his eyes could not meet mine. Where his voice was lost. The couch I walked away from . . 

I thought I would never look back.

A conversation, a teaching of my needs and here we are again. The break up, deleted.

You open champagne. A gift you have saved forever. And you gift me with the knowledge that you want to share it now. Your eyes tell me your emotions are deep. We sit. We talk. Like old times. Hours pass. 2am approaches and we start kissing.

I touched you? Or you touched me? I don’t remember.

In seconds, you enter. Foreplay not on the menu. My body was ready, wet with missing you. My lips part. That gasp of disbelief of how you feel inside me. That disbelief that never leaves. As if I have never felt this feeling, felt this good.

I am sitting on the couch and you are standing, entering me. You flip us around. I straddle you. My body moving selfishly, how she wants—but, it is also the rhythm, the movement, your cock desires. Your eyes. My body, in one continuous orgasm. You lie on the couch and we continue. Perfectly in sync, so much so, it is almost a blur.

Somehow we move, effortlessly, across the room. You sit on a chair. I, on top. You never leave from inside me—how, I don’t know. The pleasure, the choreography is overwhelming.

You stand up and are holding me. My 5’11” body feels weightless. And you, a professional jumper, are so much shorter. I feel acrobatic. Upside down in the air, somehow. Intense . . . I scream. Moan, even louder, if possible. Poor neighbors.

We are moving. I am stepping backwards. Choreographed. As if my legs are a part of yours. How? We enter the bedroom freezer. You turn on the light and look at me.

And throw me on the bed. The mirror. We continue. The emotions–our connection is intolerable.

We are one. We come. Together. It lasts forever.

Minutes pass. Our bodies still going.

 There are no words. 

The continuing saga of unavailable guys

Someone help. I lie here and there is a deep-seeded longing coupled with a confusion. Wondering what I really want . . . My ex, my bestest friend in the whole world, I, the “love of his life,” wrote to me a month ago, “stop looking and you will find.” I denied my looking. I knew I longed to meet someone, but I also knew I didn’t want to just meet anyone. I wanted to meet someone who really made me tick. I longed for continuity in my life. Someone to share my inner trappings and musings. Someone that was there as I straddled my disparate lives.  Someone that could have my heart, albeit a sometimes missing presence. Someone that I knew I could be utterly devoted to.

Yet, I fail to see anyone that makes me tick. And my seeking thoughts are comprised of only that. Not searching for someone to spend lonely moments with, or that I just thoroughly enjoy, I want someone that could potentially be the one.  However, I am in no rush. No ticking clock. Just a clock that doesn’t know what to do as it passes time.

The time is passing and as I find myself incapable of exploring great men unless they make my heart leap, my relations are short bouts of great men who are emotionally unavailable. With them, I am not concerned about losing feelings for them and being confronted with having to confront them. I don’t press fast-forward on our future to discover a potential ending of me ripping their heart out and breaking it in two. I acknowledge that they will do the heart breaking, however I am much less concerned with them breaking my heart than me breaking someone else’s.  I can venture into waters and risk someone hurting me, yet I can’t venture and risk hurting someone else. (I assure having my heart broken from someone hurts and perhaps more, but I tend to shut off and throw walls up and all sorts of things. I hermit in my misery. It is awful. However, it doesn’t have it’s day until its due. I let it play out, unlike my inability to give a man who truly adores me a chance.)

I may sound like a martyr, but I assure the above dilemma is borne from a selfish place. As I write this, it becomes clear that I have some great pain with confrontation. I recant the moments of feeling trapped and suffocated–unable to confront and thus prolonging my discomfort. Perhaps, I am so scared of confrontation that the discomfort I have endured in the past haunts me.  And so I doubt that I am so concerned about hurting someone, I am concerned about hurting myself, just in a much less obvious way, perhaps. (I can’t tell you if this in fact true or the life behind my obsession with unavailable men, but for this evening, err morning, it is my theory.)

So to the men in pursuit of me: Matt Damon, MiCarino, Navy Seal, Short Beckham, and Rico Suave, I apologize, but you are killing me. Matt Damon, I believe your amazing email about me is the catalyst of my lonely inactive heart starting to audibly ache. A heart that has been alone and a body that has not had regular service for 18 months!

And yes, I hate the way this post reads. But I needed to write this, for these thoughts would turn friends’ ears deaf. I am so sad. So empty. So lonely. The fact I am adored and liked, yet unable to love back when it’s all I want to do makes me feel like an ice-princess. Not cuddly, not loving. Soulmate made me remember that I am . . . yet his presence in all of this now is too much for me to handle.

I am supposed to see him tomorrow. He wanted to come over tonight. Our bodies drawn to each other. I made other plans. Then, he was to come over after. I failed to write back. My thoughts running rampant from my dinner with two recently single women. Feeling as if I couldn’t listen and be there anymore for them. As if I started to resent them for having great relationships even if the guy turned out to be an assclown.  My thought being, if we are all destined to meet someone at a certain time, the time before is better spent in relationships where great memories were created than single indefinitely. Maybe I am having an Attaingingme Pityparty . . . maybe I sound crazy, and I am, I am crazy sad. 

Are you tall, dark and handsome? Can you be my Mr. Unavailable that is Available . . . I am willing to travel 🙂