Archive for September, 2011

I adore you. I think it all the time but I realized I hadn’t told you.

I was an asshole Saturday night. Very unhealthy. Several layers of unhealthiness piled up and I broke down.

I promised myself last week I would get good sleep every night for a week because I could feel myself starting to crack. And exercise. I didn’t. Instead I let you come over and stayed up late with you. Then I went out drinking and stayed out late with my friend. That was all my responsibility.

I also let my anti-depressant medication lapse and didn’t refill the prescription fast enough. I went too long without it – 10 days. Withdrawal took a toll.

I know how to take care of myself. But I have gotten swept up in being with you and in your projects. This wasn’t your fault. I made those choices.

My communication with you became really disrespectful and bad. My feeling invisible goes back to old old childhood things that crack through when I am tired and drained and not taking care of myself. And I lashed out.

This is part of who I am. It is not all of who I am. And I am always trying to be healthy. And to learn how to be even more healthy.

I truly apologize. These are the true, embarrassing true things that were going on with me last week and last Saturday night that I was too embarrassed to include in my last apology. I wanted to be good and strong for you. That was my intention. But I didn’t take good enough care of myself to be able to be strong and healthy with you.

I miss you badly. I am available to listen if you want to talk. And I understand and respect if you don’t.

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Passionate, aggressive sex with you over the last several weeks had given me a relentless yeast infection that burns and itches. Monistat suppositories have not helped and have caused more agony. I read up on natural remedies and then asked for your help when I found out about the magic that is apple cider vinegar.

Basically, for prevention and gentle soothing of yeast infections, you can take a lukewarm bath and pour a cup of organic raw apple cider vinegar in the water. But if you have crossed into the land of no return. If you are in agony like I have been and have not been getting any relief for over a week. You need to just pour that shit right on. It will not be pretty. Ow!

Here’s where you my beautiful man come in. We went to the grocery store at 11 o’clock at night to pick up the vinegar. Back at my apartment you changed into white t-shirt, shorts, and sports socks. Tired and ready for bed, you looked like a cross between a grandpa and a sexy sports coach. You had my small camping flashlight hanging by it’s rope around your neck. I couldn’t stop giggling nervously and putzing around my apartment like a putz.

You got impatient, “What’s wrong with you? Take your clothes off and get over here.” You patted the towel on the floor in front of the couch where you were sitting. I got down on my back, you took my legs up onto your thighs, and pulled me closer to you by my feet. “Are you ready?” as you turned on the flashlight, leaned down from the couch, and took a look at my angry vagina.

“Hmmm, it looks really red. You ready? Let’s get started.” You spent a half hour pouring apple cider vinegar all over my vagina and even in the hole. I could never have done it myself. It burned like a motherfucker and I would never have been able to get the perfect angle you did. You didn’t laugh. You weren’t grossed out. You were serious and nurturing and compassionate and gentle. We snuggled in bed afterwards. I never trusted or let anyone besides a doctor do anything like that to me before. The vulnerability was extreme.

I felt as safe and loved and partnered at that moment as if you had put a fucking diamond ring on my finger. I adore you.

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You seem to lose your mind with lust when I climb on top and ride you. Because you are built like a rock I can use all the force of my hips and long runner swimmer legs by pounding you and grinding and undulating and bouncing up and down slowly or fast. I don’t have to stop and think. Don’t have to be careful. You told me “Nobody has ever fucked me like you. So sexy. So hot. Your long legs. You are the sexiest bitch ever.”

Last time I thought you were exhausted. You came totally fiercely to life. I was exhausted but so did I and I climbed on top of you.

You told me a few times over the last month you know you have a kinky side. I told you I do too. You liked the idea of dominating in bed. Me too. Other bitches you slept with were lawyers, corporate bitches, powerful in business, and wimpy and submissive in bed with you. Well my career is a dead-end and I never feel listened to with my friends, at my job, or on the street. So submission in bed is not my thing. Your slapping my ass hard was all that really followed.

Until this Sunday afternoon. Something unlocked. You grabbed and pinched my little nipples so hard. You slapped my little white breasts repeatedly. I was lost in lust and didn’t care. You put your big hands around my neck and squeezed just enough for me to start to feel what it’s like to be choked and to lose air. I was lost in lust and didn’t care. You slapped my face. Repeat. Slap my breasts. Squeeze my throat. Slap my face. I was lost in lust and didn’t care. I took it all. With lust and growing love for you. Trust in you.

But you have opened the gate. Unlocked the fence. Cracked open the safe. It’s on.

You have no idea what I have inside me. Next time I ride you. When it’s over – you will be bruised.

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My ears prick up like an animal on nervous alert every time you announce how you will always be single.

Exhibit A.
You tell me this story. You are 40 and so are your friends. All have wives and kids. They wonder about you. You tell me you explained to them you aren’t married because
1. Latina women are devoted but not intellectually stimulating.
2. Black women are the hottest with the hottest bodies but you can’t relate to their loudness and their manners.
3. White women are most compatible with your personality and lifestyle but you could never fully trust a white woman to be faithful and loyal because of their independence, which you claim to love.
Wow. Way to excuse yourself from a commitment with racist stereotypes.

Exhibit B.
Your friend gifts you with a prize, expensive bottle of wine. “For a special occasion. Tu boda (your wedding).” You laugh, “I’ll never drink it then. I will never get married.” I am in the room. Everyone in the room knows we are romantically involved. Everyone in the room is a traditional Latino. Everyone looks at me for my reaction. Lovely.

Exhibit C.
Several events we attend together you must network for the young entrepreneurial business you have built over two years. You explain the women (many with money) must think you are single. They must believe they have a chance to get their hands on you. Big muscles. Nice teeth. Handsome face. “It’s sad I know. But it is the best thing for the image.”
Do you have any idea how much of a fucking asshole and fucktarded whore this statement makes you sound?

I could go on. Writing these disgusted me enough.

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I want you to feel what’s it like to be second. For a year, you filled me with false hope that we would be together after you ended such an awful relationship. Well, a year has gone. You broke it off with the devil you called your girlfriend and now here I am. Still waiting around like the desert ground waits for rain. I can’t wait anymore, and I shouldn’t have to. You know me. You either know that you want to be with me or you don’t by now, no matter how long the relationship you just ended lasted. I am worth it. And one day, you’ll regret not jumping at the opportunity to jump on me.

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You said: Damn, you are such a fucking GOOD WRITER. Wish I can express my self with such beautiful words the way you do.

I said: Yes, and I wish I was strong enough to play six soccer games in one weekend and win them all. So I will write this world down with beautiful words and you will win it.

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The first day we met, you asked me how many times you could sleep with someone before you had feelings for them. i laughed and listed so many variables. How many times had you hung out? How much time had gone by? Does it count if you have sex three times in one day? How many other lovers do you have?

You laughed and said you think 6 is the magic number. People have “feelings” for someone after six times doing it.

Naturally, a blogger at heart, i kept a spreadsheet of the first six times we fucked. You may die upon learning this.

After the sixth time we hung out, i said “that was six times.” You were all, “huh?” When i reminded you, prying to see if you had said alleged feelings for me, you said i was ahead of the curve, and you liked me all along. i wonder a little what your definition of feelings are.

Number crunch:

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Does this count as a commitment? Does this make me your girlfriend even if you don’t know if you want to be my boyfriend? Should I think of you special friend, boyfriend, partner, lover, husband, man, or what.

1. I don’t want to have sex with anyone else.
2. I don’t want to kiss anyone else.
3. I don’t want anyone else to touch me naked.
4. I don’t want to sleep in the same bed with anyone else.


1. I want to touch your naked skin all the time.
2. I want to talk to you all the time, even late at night when I am tired, even when I am sick and feel awful.
3. I want to know that you are ok and people are treating you well.
4. I want to know so many things about you and show you so many things about me.
5. I want to tell you funny stories and hear you laugh and see you smile.
6. I want to be the one that notices how shy your face becomes sometimes.
7. I want to be the one that makes you happy and that you turn to in a room, in a crisis, in your best moments.

This counts.

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I call you from my Saturday errands. You are on the soccer field between games halfway across the state. Paid to play soccer even though you’re almost 40 years old. Surrounded by men.

Still you listen to me talk about my brother, my visit to the healthfood store, my plans for the afternoon. You tell me you won your first game this morning and your roommate for the weekend is a soccer legend you admire. We talked for over an hour last night while you rode the van with six men to the tournament. You invited me to your best friend’s wedding celebration next weekend. You want me to see you play soccer. To help you with your next tournament. Dumb dating advice books tell me these are all the signs: picking up my call and listening to me babble even when you’re with your boys, wanting to know what I’m doing, inviting me to parties with your good friends.

You don’t admit it. Don’t say how much you want me. How much you love to talk to me. How much you think about me. That you jerk off thinking about me and my ass that you love and how good I make you feel when I suck your dick. You never had such mind-blowing sex. Think my face is beautiful. I make you laugh. You won’t admit it. But I know. You are mine.

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