The Back of my Heart December 21, 2008
I’m not happy with that last post. It doesn’t do justice to how tender and loving things are between Donny and me. How he kisses me tenderly, how he asks me if he can get me anything when I’m sick. How good it feels with him. How right things often are. How happy I’ve been.
A friend told me that the front part of your heart is the part you show to the world; the part that holds the love you give and get. She said the back side of your heart is the part you keep just for yourself. It is private and precious and special. I think I connect to the back side of my heart here in this blog. That’s why you have been so important to me.
So that last post wasn’t exactly what I wanted to say about my relationship with Donny. But I also can’t completely disregard what I wrote. After all, it was the back of my heart talking to me.
HH
Hungry Heart December 20, 2008
What is the difference between feeling love and being in love? What is the difference between feeling loved and being loved?
I remind myself that just because I feel love for Donny, that doesn’t mean I should spend my whole life with him. As I’ve written before, I am an extremest. My mind tends to wander towards the most extreme outcome for any situation, and then my wits work to plot a strategy for getting to that most extreme point. I have to stop that.
I remind myself that just because I feel love for Donny, that doesn’t mean I should spend my whole life with him. As I’ve written before, I am an extremest. My mind tends to wander towards the most extreme outcome for any situation, and then my wits work to plot a strategy for getting to that most extreme point. I have to stop that.
Things are most passionate, loving, and satisfying between Donny and me when we are laying in bed together. Outside of that, things are nice, but not fabulous.
There is another man. Let’s call him Bill. I think about going to meet him sometimes. I think someday I will, but not while I am still seeing Donny. That’s not the person I want to be anymore.
So for now, I’ll wait and see and enjoy everything I have. (I have so much.) I worry about how I will know when the time to end things with Donny will be. I worry I won’t be able to let go of everything that’s good with him, although my instincts tell me I should, that he is wonderful, but that we are not right for each other. I love lying in his arms. I love fucking him. I love how he holds me and kisses me. I’m not sure how he feels about me. Do I really want to know, or am I just looking for a notch to fill my ever-hungry heart?
I don’t know. But when I talk to myself, here is what I say: “focus on the flow, horny housewife, focus on the flow.”
Florence and Bobby Poised December 18, 2008
A short story that gives a flavor of things between Donny and me…
They dozed after sex. At one point, Bobby woke up and said to her, “I just had the coolest dream.” Florence opened her eyes. The room was dark. The light from the street outside the window shone through the blinds of Bobby’s empty apartment just enough for her to see the black shadows where his blue eyes would be.
“There were these little Catholic school girls and they were hunting teddy bears with uzis” he said.
A whole world opened up before her: his religious southern upbringing; his disgust with anything falsely sentimental or cute; his love of violent Japanese karate films; the harsh language his mother used to communicate with him. To Florence, Bobby’s dream was a wonderful web of clues to his psyche, and if she could scale the sticky, intricate network of clues, then when she reached the center she would understand not only him, but his motivations. That just might lead her to the answer to the question that seemed constantly in the back of her brain, like a hungry, pulsating bell: “ding, dong, ding, dong, what do I mean to you, Bobby?”
“Why do you think you dreamed that?” she asked him.
“I don’t know, but it was cool,” he answered.
“Well, don’t you want to understand it, to know what it means?” she pressured.
“No, not really,” he said. “I like that it doesn’t make any sense. It’s just random. It’s like a ride I can take in my mind. If I knew what it meant, then I wouldn’t be riding it anymore; it would be riding me.”
Bobby thought about the women before Florence: the professional boxer who needed him to hold her after each of her bouts while she cried; the suicidal Ph.D. student who finally had slit her wrists, relieving him of the responsibility for keeping her alive; the lawyer who insisted he tie her up while they had sex. To Bobby, the women of his life seemed like an endless parade of requirements. Florence was different.
Bobby was different for Florence, as well: he was available. Her parade had featured an actor who recited lines convincingly, but wasn’t intelligent enough to follow anything she said; a husband who had lived alone for five years in the bedroom next to hers; and then a string of married men whose bodies were hers for an afternoon, until they went back to belonging to their wives.
After Florence’s divorce, she and Bobby had met online. Their conversation was challenging, but relaxed. The sex was close, hushed, intense, and satisfying. It had been almost three months.
Florence spoke again. “You’d just prefer not to understand it?” she asked him once more. It was dark in his bed, but she felt him nod “yes.”
“Okay,” she whispered, and she let go of the web. She closed her eyes and felt herself begin to float out into space. Her trajectory was slow and pleasant, but nonetheless disconcerting. The stickiness of the web had been soothing, if confining.
The teddy bears and the Catholic school girls with their uzis were calling Bobby back. He looked at Florence. Her brown eyes were closed. He could see she was trying to get somewhere, and he knew she needed him. She opened her eyes. He rested his warm lips on her forehead and held her hands in his.
They laid in bed like that for a long time, holding hands in the dark, and looking into what they were sure were each other’s eyes.
Vote No on Prop 8 November 3, 2008
My blog is not about politics. It is about love and sex and being a parent and figuring out how to do that and not lose yourself or go crazy in the process. That is also what California Prop 8 is about.
Same-sex marriage became legal in California this last June. Living in a place where any couple who loves each other can be legally married made me feel proud to be a Californian and an American. Proposition 8 threatens to amend our State Constitution to eliminate the right of same-sex couples to marry.
“Who would vote for that?!” I thought. And then they began to appear. Remember in August I wrote that ants slowly appeared in my kitchen, and then one morning I woke up and they were everywhere? On my kitchen counter, in my shoes, in my refrigerator and freezer, swarming, annoying, infuriating? That is what those people on the street corners of my neighborhood, holding “Yes on Prop 8” signs are like. They are everywhere. And they want our food, our piece of mind, our sense of ourselves, our confidence in our families, and our right to love.
If you live in California, please VOTE NO ON PROP 8.
If you do not live in California, call someone you know here and urge him or her to vote no on Prop 8.
No matter where you live, consider going to www.noonprop8.com/ and reading up or making a donation.
You may know me as the Horny Housewife or as the Real Woman, but if you know me you know I know love. Please consider my advice:
Vote for love.
Vote no on Prop 8.
On Becoming UnStarved… November 2, 2008
When I was starving, I looked out into the world and saw only food that I could not eat. I fell asleep at night salivating, imagining I could almost taste the oranges that hung, juicy and plump, on trees my hungry fingers could not quite reach. My long-empty stomach longed for sustenance.
When I did find food, I ate greedily. I gulped down drinks without tasting them. I swallowed chunks without chewing them. I never considered whether I really wanted whatever it was my mouth was full of. I only thought about where I could find more, as I temporarily revelled in the relieved, full feeling of my tummy.
Love was my food and my heart was starving. So was my mind and my mouth and my ego and the passenger seat in my car. I was married and I had five lovers and yet I was always alone. I had a big, impressive refrigerator, but it was almost always empty.
My husband moved out of my house two months ago and things are better, massively better. But of course, I am still struggling. I struggle to learn how to live as though I am not starving. I lived like a starving refugee for so long. It’s hard to really believe that I will wake up tomorrow and find my refrigerator full of food. Sleeping with Donny on our fist date was the act of a starving woman.
Baby, you don’t have to live like a REFUGEE.
♥♥♥
I have been seeing a lot of Donny lately. Do you remember how I first described Donny to you?:
“Incredibly handsome, smart, quirky, ironic, good job, thoughtful, sweet, complementary, 31 (THIRTY-ONE!!! A child by my normal standards), considerate. I sat through lunch, nervous, uncomfortable, not enjoying myself, and not connecting. Afterward, he asked me if I wanted to go out with him on a real date, but he also said it seemed like I felt nervous, so he wasn’t sure whether or not I was in to him.”
All of those adjectives I used to describe Donny were good, yet all of my reactions were bad. Why was that?
Do you remember how I described date number two, later that night?:
“51, brilliant, funny, a mess, slightly mentally ill, dirty hair, a little down-on-his-luck, sweet, nervous. A writer, for God’s sake…The longer I sat with him, talking about Hepburn and Tracy, blow jobs and kissing, love and death and happiness, the more I thought maybe I wanted him. But I don’t. I don’t. I don’t. That is not what I want anymore for my life. Even if it’s who I want, it’s not what I want. Not anymore.”
Packed with descriptors indicating Date Number Two was wrong for me, and yet full of yearning and hunger. Starving. Why?
Because I am more comfortable starving than I am nourishing myself.
Donny was available to me, in his heart, in his head, and in his body. He was an all-you-can eat, twenty-four hour buffet, and he handed me a Free Admission ticket. Because he liked me. I didn’t know how to handle that.
“You mean,” I asked him, “I can just come on in any time and eat and drink, and you’ve got soup, salad, bread, sandwiches, and chocolate dessert?! A well-rounded meal?! No comprendo,” I said. ”I don’t know how not to starve.”
♥♥♥
I just got off the phone with No-Nickname Mike. About a week ago I told him everything. How I’d had sex with Donny. How it wasn’t good. How I regretted betraying him. How I like Donny now, more than I ever thought I would. How Donny offers both Peanut Butter and Apples.
No-Nickname Mike was fairly understanding. He told me he wanted to continue with our master-slave sexual relationship, even with Donny in the unknowing picture. I told him I needed to think about that.
The conclusion I came to was that I don’t want to live like a refugee anymore. I want to become accustomed to nourishment. I don’t want to see Mike anymore.
When I told him, Mike went on the offensive. He said I’d strung him along. (Those were his words.) That I’d been “flakey” and “selfish.” I know. I can see your face, Constance. (Or, what I’ve always imagined is your face.) It was unfair and unfortunate. It was like he expected me to go on with our sexual relationship even though I didn’t want to anymore. It’s crazy.
But do you want to hear something even crazier? The whole time Mike was telling me how bad I was and how he was right and I was wrong, I was masturbating. It turned me on. I know. Weird. And when we got off the phone I made myself come. And then, of course, I felt very bad and mucho confused.
I sat down at my computer. There was a new e-mail from Donny. (There is always a new e-mail from Donny. We are in constant electronic communication. I love it.) I felt so bad that I just wrote “I need a hug” and pressed send. I almost didn’t send it. There was nothing snarky about it, or ironic, or funny. It was just honest and emotional and needy. And needy means I was hungry and I asked for food. That’s new for me. You know what happened?
Donny was on my IM in an instant. He was sweet and concerned and he sent me this picture:
He came right over WITH A FLOWER FOR ME! Unbelievable. I told Donny I was feeling a bit peckish and he arrived with a feast. I knew I’d made the right decision about Mike.
♥♥♥
I’ve been studying meditation and Buddhism just a little recently. (I know you’re pleased, Lankrypt.) One of the most profound concepts that I’ve learned, in a nutshell, is this: all of life is suffering, and suffering is caused by craving.
Over and over, I have organized my life so that I was craving or suffering or starving, but now I am ready to accept that nourishment, satisfaction, and happiness are possible. I just need to decide that I want them.
A bountiful feast is at my disposal. I can wander the earth, begging for food, or I can just go home and set my table.
I am trusting that there will be vegetables and bread and meats and even some chocolate. It will be nurturing, rather than hedonistic and it will be delicious.
Finally, my friends, my fellow seekers, my lurkers and commenters, first timers, and readers from way way back, I will save a seat for each of you.
Much love,
A Woman
Once again not obvious… October 17, 2008
An addendum to my last post:
Maybe with illicit sex, the cheating is the connection, but with sex where you’re not cheating, you need to connect and get to know each other first.
I know: sounds obvious. But once again, it wasn’t.
The Thing That Wasn’t Obvious Last Week October 17, 2008
Went out tonight with Donny. I know, I know. The sex last week was weird. It was uncentered. We were disconnected from each other. But I do like him. I do. He’s smart and funny and sweet and strange and he’s not boring.
And he’s so different from the kind of man I’m used to. He’s not older than me. He’s not married. (Never been married.) He doesn’t have kids. He’s really handsome and boyish and when I’m with him it’s like I’m trying on a new style of dress that I’ve never worn before. I feel a little uncomfortable in it, and I’m not sure if I recognize myself in the mirror, but I like seeing a different me looking back at me. It’s refreshing.
I wasn’t free until late tonight, so we met at a supermarket. We bought Pop Tarts and iced cream and then had a picnic on a quiet bench outside the market. We kissed and held hands and talked a lot. I think I’m also different from the kind of woman he is used to. (Maybe the kind of girl he’s used to.)
It sort of left me wanting more. It felt good in his arms. We kissed slowly, just connecting and getting used to each other. I think illicit sex is good when it involves meeting and fucking shortly thereafter. But maybe with regular, non-cheating sex you need time to establish a connection. It sounds obvious, doesn’t it? But it wasn’t to me last week.
A Woman
A Woman at Sea October 12, 2008
The Donny sex repercussions are zapping me in the head, blinding me and knocking me down. What was I thinking? It’s all like a dream. If it feels like a dream, and if it feels like it didn’t happen, then does that mean it actually didn’t happen? If no one knows it happened, and if I want to forget it, can it be that it never occured?
I’m stressing over No-Nickname Mike. He is such a good person. He is such a great lover and a great master. Our sex has consistently been the best sex of my life. But safety is very important to him and I’ve always promised him not to fuck anyone else. And then I just did. Just like that. Without a thought. Without consideration of the repercussions or the hurt or the danger. WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING?
What does it mean when you jeopardize the things and people that are important to you, in order to find some kind of unattainable satisfaction with strangers? Does it make you a love and sex addict? Why, yes it does, Joe. I guess you’ve been right about me all along.
What do I do? Can I go back to No-Nickname Mike? Should I confess to him and say goodbye? Should I not confess (It would hurt him a lot), but still say goodbye? Should I hope I didn’t catch anything (the condom broke at one point, but Donny never came), and just go on with Mike? I don’t think I can do that to him. That would feel like an even bigger betrayal.
♣♣♣
So, you know date number Two? The one I liked so much and felt so connected to? I e-mailed him when I got home from our great date, because something funny happened on the way home that I wanted to tell him about. Because I was already feeling so attached to him. And I liked him so much. And I really wanted him to like me as much. And I really thought he did. And when I was talking to him, I felt like I just fell right into his eyes and his face and his beard. And I liked the way it felt there. Like a warm, cozy, happy home.
Date Number Two never e-mailed or called me back. I’m astounded and hurt and disappointed and sad. I spent yesterday making up excuses for him: ”He fell at soccer practice and hurt himself;” “He likes me so much that he doesn’t want to appear too eager;” “He suddenly had to go out of town.” But I know that’s all bullshit. He would have contacted me if I had been important to him. I was hoping he would be Mr. C’s Bachelor C.
♣♣♣
How can it be that a person I’ve only met once is so important in my life? What kind of a huge, ugly, black, wet, bubbling, gaping fucking hole is in my soul, that I so define myself by the men who are in or not in my life? Or that I define myself by the men I know I can find and conquer?
I’m thinking of shutting down the shop. Ending things with all of these men. Taking my profile off the online dating site. Just being alone. I know it’s a terrible cliche, but I don’t know if I can be alone. Watch out, here comes another cliche: if I can’t be alone, how will I ever be with a man again. Really be intimate with one? I mean, look what I’ve just done to Mike. Betrayed him for a Gen-X blondie I barely knew and hardly liked. What the fuck?
At sea,
A Woman
I Can Feel Myself Changing… October 11, 2008
…from sex kitten to cat…
very good date last night. no sex. not even a kiss. just lots of truth and laughter. He had sparkly, welcoming eyes. He paid for dinner and opened doors. And he was quirky and funny and so smart. Can’t stop thinking about him, but I want to be careful not to jump back on the roller coaster.
Easy does it, kitty…
