dirtydalliances

[dirtydalliances]

I’m crying although I shouldn’t be but I think I’m back in a dark place. I don’t know why this happens and I feel like I put myself in these situations, I just don’t know how to get myself out of them.

I’ve been so sad recently, and I haven’t been this sad in awhile. Or maybe I have been. At the end of elementary/start of middle school I was suicidal. Or as close as someone like me could be. I had some dark moments in high school as well as in college, but it never hurt as bad until I was with the infamous Ex.

I felt our relationship changing and he would come home so drunk sometimes, and I would lock myself in his bathroom and cry. 

I think this despair stems from a very deep-seated fear of being unwanted or not good enough. 

I used to be so in love with him. I guess I’m flattered he still wants to have sex with me but I miss being loved, and loved by him. I’ve only ever orgasmed with him, and the first genuine time in Stockholm, all I remember is loving him so much and being overwhelmed by his love for me. 

Oftentimes I hate myself for losing that. 

I hate being so lonely. I have a mountain of pillows on the other side of my bed so that I don’t wake up so alone. 

[dirtydalliances]

Point Taken

I am excellent at embarrassing myself. 

I say I’m not a very forward person but I’m not too shy about going after what I want. I did it with El Conquistador. I knew we didn’t have time to become anything but I texted continually, trying to insert myself in his life and his plans before he left. He had only met me  a few weeks before and had a lifetime of friends to say goodbye to, but I couldn’t deal with that... 

Similarly with Mr. Pretentious Cowboy. He fills my waking and sleeping moments. I can confidently confirm in my inebriated state that I want him. I’ve dreamt about him, he’s entirely intoxicating for an inexplicable reason. And as I’m 10000000% capable of embarrassing myself through drunk texts, our exchange goes roughly along the lines of --

Me: Your mind is as sexy as your body

Me: Ugh sorry I’m totally embarrassing myself

Him: What do you want to do with my body?

Me: :( hahah point taken 

*dirty things*

Him: Why the sad face?

Me: Not totally sad, I know it’s just physical for you

*continues dirty list*

So I realize. I’m fully cognizant of the fact that he is entirely intoxicating to me. And I’m nothing more than a young tail for him to do what he pleases. And I’ll let him. I’ll come when he beckons. 

I can see him spread out on my bed. His hair is longer than mine and it splays out across my pillows. My breathing is both deeper and shorter as I picture him.

Unlike our time together, I picture curling into his side. He draws me closer into his chest, fingers trail from my shoulder blades down to my waist and over my hips. He kisses me on my forehead while his hand tightens around me and his fingers brush the stray hairs off my face.

I want to snuggle into him and feel so safe. desired. 

But it won’t happen. I have to come to terms with it. 

[dirtydalliances]

Sweet Cream and Pecan Pie

Started composing and was brutally reminded of why I shouldn’t use the app as it crashed on me mid-draft and I lost it all... so here’s attempt no. 2.

I haven’t had many updates as I took a brief hiatus from dating at the beginning of November. I could have used the time to catch up on my other drafts, but alas I was not quite so diligent.

But this had to be written.

He said “darlin’” and my knees buckled.

Bumble, as I’ve said before, is the worst app for me. It speaks to so many insecurities I have as a person with my opening message being rejected by so many. It really drives home the meaning of meaningless matches on these dating apps. But it was three weeks into my dating/intimacy break and I thought I’d give it another try. In other words, I was bored.

His profile said he liked concerts, wine, whiskey, good conversation, and travel. Cool. Who doesn’t.

For someone who enjoys good conversation, his weren’t too enjoyable. Perhaps he’s the type where he likes it to flow naturally from one topic to the other without the customary “and you?” following almost every question, but I had nothing to say to his comments. Surprisingly, he still gave me his number and I thought “why not? let’s see where this goes...”

The texting wasn’t much better. And the date planning even worse. He kept saying he wanted to see me without actually making any concrete moves. Fed up and taking matters into my own hands, I arranged a wine bar and place to meet for a wine tasting. I wanted to go with or without him so it seemed a good option.

If I was hoping for him to redeem himself in the first few minutes of our date, he did not. He showed up 20 minutes late without so much as a status update. I was 10 minutes late, but after arriving and texting to no response, my emotions vacillated between fearing I had been stood up and determined to end the date early should he show up.

Then he walked through the door, and oh dear lord and all that is holy... Times like these and I often wonder if perhaps I’m more shallow than most women...

After so many months, El Conquistador is still my one and only. But when I first saw him, it was more of a “oh he’s cute.” His allure comes from his personality as much as it does from his looks, and I find myself falling for him the more I get to know him.

This was much more visceral. My Id pulled itself from the depths of my psyche and drew me towards him. His dirty blond hair was pulled back in a low bun, beard neatly trimmed to frame his jaw, and a well-worn plaid flannel stretched across his chest. I felt small. My limbs seemed disjointed and my fingers tingled as I sought to look unaffected and casual.

I couldn’t have picked a sexier star lead for my very own Western Romance novel. 

Mr. Pretentious Cowboy was mine. Forgive the childishness but there was no doubt in my mind that I would have him, regardless of our stilted conversation.

I quickly learned he enjoyed talking. Which suited me quite well as I was far too distracted to do much except stare at the V from the front of his shirt and wonder if there would be hair for me to run my fingers through.

We seemed to have different passions, so when I described mine he seemed quiet, but when he steered us towards more neutral territory, he got quite animated. We had the same alma mater, although he felt stronger affinity towards it than I do. So I let him talk. And I let the wine soak my lips and fog my mind.

He stood pressed up against me, his hand running up and down my back. I leaned into his chest a few times to feel its strength and came away wanting more. 

Finally, a seat opened up and he sat down next to me. Almost three hours later and I’m total puddy in his hands. I go to whisper something in his ear to feel his beard against my cheek and possibly to facilitate a kiss. He sees through my actions and his lips are on mine.

It’s a hard kiss. I pull away, but go back for more almost immediately. I want to quench this need. I’m not a rough person, and gentle, teasing kisses are more my style. But his lips press against mine and tug on my bottom lip with such confidence.

He knows he’s good and he knows he’s caught me. I think about how perhaps I shouldn’t give into my biological impulses so often on a first time. But how do I say no when everyone is so perfectly willing?

I’m somehow still able to keep a conversation going with him throughout another glass of wine. He’s taking what he wants. I’m almost embarrassed. almost. But to have such virility stare at me while he squeezes my ass to pull my lips to his? Impossible to resist.

I find myself pressing against him in need. I have his face between my hands as our foreheads touch and I’m saying to him “I told myself not to sleep with you on our first date.” In almost the same breath, I’m inviting him back to mine.

Such physical chemistry hasn’t been ignited since the Ex. There was no doubt a flame between me and El Conquistador. His lips leave magical trails. But this cowboy started a fire. 

If I were driven only by my basest desires, there’d be no doubt I’ll see him again. But exeunt Id and all my baser needs, my ego wants more to this pleasure. Try as I might, sustained passion is nothing without some sort of connection on the emotional level.

And here I am curious about exploring this Pretentious Cowboy outside of the bedroom when El Conquistador comes back briefly in less than two weeks. We speak almost every day and I’m anxious for his return.

My emotions are cross-wired. 

[dirtydalliances]

I don’t know what’s worse: to not know what you are and be happy, or to become what you’ve always wanted to be, and feel alone.

Daniel Keyes, Flowers for Algernon (via books-n-quotes)

[dirtydalliances]

The Way

After brushing off a potential Saturday night date to spend a much-needed solitary night in my own bed, I made plans to meet a near stranger at a bar early in the week.

I have two very distinct tastes in guys, I believe. There’s the Santa Claus version with protruding belly, stylized beard, and unruly hair and then the skinny lumberjack hipster. Lately, I’ve found myself breaking away from the mold. The love of my life a.k.a El Conquistador cannot grow facial hair. Mini David Mitchell is barely my height without a hair on his body (and a thinning sweep of head hair). Frenchie is like a little encyclopedia I’d keep in my backpocket--a pudgy, nerdy and endearing man (definitely all man judging from the hair peaking out above his cashmere/silk blend Brook Brothers half zip). In fact, I’ve actively tried matching/talk to guys who do not fit within the traditional molds of my own desires--possibly to move the focus away from sex and more into the realm of emotional connection, possibly to distance myself from the Ex. 

My Taoist Junkie fits resoundly within ye olde skinny lumberjack hipster trope. He’s replete with long ringlets secured in a half man bun and a slim runner’s build. Without exchanging much small talk or texts outside of details of where to meet, we found each other and spent the next four hours chugging beer, eating a nearly-vomit-inducing oily mass of food, and coffee/horchata. The coffee was mine (as I tried to shrug off my beer-induced hazy sleep), and the horchata was enough for his stimulant-sensitive hipster lifestyle. 

I went into the date viewing it like a kind of burden after a long weekend and disappointing post-date conversation with the Frenchie, but was pleasantly surprised. After a philosophy and political science career at school, he seemed lost for a few years before settling on acupuncture. He’s bought a place out in the country to start his own private practice, and also has an urban location once he receives his board certifications later this month. Refreshingly doesn’t subscribe to any sort of social media, and enjoys ska music (or anything featuring brass with five or more people). 

Anyway, no nagging insights in this entry. This was one of my more enjoyable first dates where there was no pressure or promise of sex, just a highly enjoyable evening. We shared a brief peck right before I went on my way to needy Dom’s apartment. It was a sweet, innocent peck to end a sweet, wholesome date. 

Am I excited to see him again? Not sure. We haven’t spoken since and I’m not in a huge rush to do so. We tentatively made plans to go to a live jazz band performance next week so we’ll see if that comes to fruition. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t at least a little bit curious about how he is bed, however... :) 

[dirtydalliances]

un poquito

I’ve begun and abandoned so many drafts in the last month since my update. Just like all of the unfinished drafts, my own love life has been pretty fragmentary recently.

Between the Bens&Johns&Brians (why are there so many of them), I’ve barely had a moment to myself and I’m going into my third consecutive week of nearly daily dates. 

A quick and dirty update: Octopus is no longer (huge relief), El Conquistador is far away in another country (but still texting and still bringing smiles to my face), Frenchie is my distant new potential, getting tired of my long-distance David Mitchell (so named for his self-deprecating humor which isn’t quite as endearing as David Mitchell himself), unsure about a needy Dom, there’s a Taoist junkie on the fringes, trying to cycle out the Soldier, and the good ol’ Doctor is looking for a comeback. 

There aren’t enough nights in a week for all of them, and I went straight from the Taoist junkie to the needy Dom the other night (who happens to call and text me every day until I agree to see him...). Upcoming posts I hope will be a mix of inner musings and trying to figure out how I got myself into my current jumbled mass of male suitors. 

[dirtydalliances]

Colleen Hoover, November 9 (via books-n-quotes)

You’ll never be able to find yourself if you’re lost in someone else.

[dirtydalliances]

Dysfunctional

There are so many things I want to put down in words and yet all I want to write about is my infamous Ex. “The Ex” isn’t featuring very prominently in my own life but he’s had a few cameo appearances as of late. I think it’s because he’s been relegated to a small town for the remainder of this month and very likely lonely.

Last week, I drafted a whole post about moving on. I finally felt ready to close that chapter in my life (probably from an adderall and El Conquistador-induced euphoria) and texted the Ex asking for coffee and closing that chapter in our lives (for instance, we still have each other’s keys...). 

This week, he texts me out of the blue asking how things are, calls me for phone sex. I forgot how easy it was. 

I got my haircut today. About three inches were chopped off and I am still internally hyperventilating about its length. I don’t have long hair to begin with, and now my hair is non-existent. It’s shoulder length but I might as well have nothing on my head...

El Conquistador prefers long hair, as I found out in texts to him after chopping off most of my hair. And since then I’ve been having slight (incredibly vain and inconsequential) panic attacks about seeing him on our date and what to do with my hair...

So in a moment of weakness, I messaged the Ex. “For no reason other than you willingly slept with me for over a year could I FaceTime you and get your honest opinion.” 

A twenty-minute FaceTime call ensued. 

I forgot how easy things were between us. I’ve spent so many hours, days, weeks trying to pick apart our relationship, recognizing all of the ways in which we don’t fit together. I forgot how much we did. 

Texting all these guys with their generic names (Dan, John, Will, Ben, Nick, Matt, so many I’m getting confused between them and need to re-read whole conversations before responding) is exciting because they’re new. El Conquistador is exhilarating to talk to and, I keep saying, has all the qualities I would want in a future long-term match. Yet the ease at which the Ex and I communicate, our own language in our mocking facial expressions and predictable reactions to particular turns of phrase, it’s enough to make me fall in love all over again.

For twenty minutes, I almost forgot he wasn’t the one for me. 

[dirtydalliances]

γλυκύπικρον sweet-bitter love

Sometimes I wonder if certain people fall in love with the idea of falling in love rather than the actual person in front of them. Perhaps “love” is a completely contrived feeling, especially as different people love and feel loved in different ways. Perhaps we’re taught to think “love” is a certain feeling or gesture because of all the fictional stories and mass media marketing that’s been thrown at us since inception.

What’s truly fascinating is that people have been struggling with this emotion for aeons. For example, in Ancient Greek there exists three words that come to mind instantly: ἀγαπῶ–for divine love, φιλία–for filial love, ἔρως–for erotic love. Obviously I’ve oversimplified some of the implications, but I do find it interesting that agapo is what has prevailed as the main sentiment in Modern Greek–the implications are intense: just as the love between God and man, marriage and the love between a man and woman are chiefly a divine union. 

Love seems to me an imprecise word, yet we use it so broadly and almost carelessly, qualifying it constantly. Philosophy (φῖλος + σοφός) is the perfect word that reminds me of the limits of the English language when we attempt translation.  Often understood as “love of wisdom” the implication in Greek is more of a fondness/affection for cunning/cleverness/wisdom. Someone with sophos isn’t just someone who is wise. The adjective carries an almost sinister connotation in Greek (how I was taught to read it). Liddell and Scott’s lexicon first suggests “cleverness.” Politicians described with sophos are shrewd. Further still, filos does not seem to me fully encompassed by our English words of fondness and affection. Love seems to be appropriate because it captures the intensity that fondness doesn't entail. The passive voice of filos is listed first as "beloved" in Liddell and Scott, with Aeschylus' Suppliants referring to the "φιλίας...γυναικ���ς" (line 533), roughly the "the woman of your love" (Weir translation), which suggests an intensity that supersedes that of plain affection. So in a way, I’ve come to interpret philosophy as the ardent pursuit of knowledge, not in order to become an overbearing pedant but a more discerning and questioning citizen. 

And here I go letting a tangent get the better of me. The more interesting of the three words for love to me has always been eros. It is so fascinating that eros is both a feeling and personified as a demi-god. Thanks to Plato's Symposium and a female perspective from Sappho, eros is unbounded by superficial things like gender or even bodies. The emphasis on eros is not to whom the feeling is directed, but how it actually feels–a third intangible entity. It has no boundaries yet is confined within the boundaries of our understanding of it. In that sense, it seems to me that the preoccupation through the centuries has been on love itself, the idea of it, the implications of it, rather than the person. If that makes any sense at all. The significance is not that i love a person, but that I feel that emotion at all.

And this long digression brings me back to my original intent: some of us fall in love with love, and after the initial sparks of desire flee, we’re left empty and unsure of how to continue forward with someone for whom we no longer feel intense desire, pangs on our heartstrings, flutterings in our breast. And still others of us who have been taught to expect those moments of cursory sensation inflamed by the presence of another individual will be continually disappointed at never experiencing love. How bittersweet.

Lastly, the title is taken from dear Sappho and Anne Carson’s Eros the Bittersweet, both of who illuminated to me that one cannot have love without tasting its bitterness. For love is at first sweet but always bitter in the end.

[dirtydalliances]

Raspberries are perfect

Have you ever had a preference for something that is just so weird and silly yet you can’t help but have very strong opinions about it?

Mine are raspberries. The fruit is delicious, but the act of blowing a raspberry is unparalleled. I love finding that perfect place on a guy’s stomach, usually right above the waistline but really anywhere that your lips will form the perfect suction, and blowing. Now this move doesn’t work so well on the washboard abs kinda guy, which is why I’m not a fan of guys who are too fit. It’s absolutely perfect on a guy like El Conquistador where there’s just the perfect amount of reverberation from the tummy around my lips as I purse my lips and blow.

While giving them is always fun, receiving a raspberry is just as exciting, and El Conquistador was a fan of blowing then on my cheeks as well as smack center of my left breast. I wasn’t complaining in the least. I was a blubbering giggly mess afterwards, and it was a straight shot to my heart.

[dirtydalliances]

Robert James Waller, The Bridges of Madison County (via books-n-quotes)

The human heart has a way of making itself large again even after it’s been broken into a million pieces.

[dirtydalliances]

ephemeral

Guys are only great until they aren’t anymore, and I vacillate wildly between liking a guy and not wanting anything to do with him in a matter of seconds, constantly, every day. 

at one moment, I’ll think El Conquistador is the ultimate ideal I should try my best to impress. But then our text convo falls flat and I’m telling myself that he’s imperfect, just a fling, a casual dalliance that will lead nowhere.

i think this happens because some of us are just such hopeless romantics. i’ve romanticized what our relations will be in my head, through writing this blog and through dwelling on our texts. if only guys could be like a crystal ball.. interesting enough to pick up and examine a bit more closely, but ultimately we set down and walk away without looking back. 

[dirtydalliances]

Que Suadade

A few nights before my scheduled date with this guy, let’s call him “El Conquistador”, I woke up in the middle of the night with a slight tightening in my chest. My first thought was, “oh my god, i’m having a heart attack and dying.” And then I quickly realized that I was physically fine, but my anxiety over El Conquistador was creeping up my spine. My shoulders tensed, my heart thudded deep in the pit of my stomach… “HE’S TOO YOUNG” my mind screamed. 

Now, he’s two years older than I am. That’s not too young at all. My ex is 9 years older, and my other dates have been between 11-24 years my senior so by my standards this little one is quite the child and I went into our date with trepidation.

The initial spark of chemistry can happen quite easily, I think. I knew immediately on my first date with my ex that the sex was going to be good. And in my numerous post break-up rendezvous, I haven’t quite felt that electric energy… until that date.

His energy was intense and contagious. It was almost sinful how much I enjoyed watching him talk and eat the truffle goat cheese. There was one point where he’d asked me a question but I’d barely said the first few words before I was sidetracked by thoughts of how inappropriate it would be for me to lean over and kiss him. Later on in the night, I had to tell him that I was just a slow thinker and talker because he often left me speechless and I had to explain my pauses somehow.

When you’re truly enjoying the company of someone to whom you’re sexually attracted, I think it’s natural to feel a slight cosmic pull. The true test of chemistry comes with the first kiss–did his lips leave yours tingling as he pulled away? did you dread the loss of his hand on your neck when you turned to walk away? did your eyes linger closed for just a split second longer when his lips were just a hair’s breadth away from leaving yours?

our first kiss was… unforgettable. He walked out of the restaurant after me. I turned back to look up at him. He started to speak, but I felt my eyelids grow heavy and my lips began to tingle. I licked them just as he looked down at me, and perhaps he saw something in my eyes but I definitely saw in his that moment of “oh fuck it, I’m just going to kiss her”. He said a little “oh”, smiled, and leaned down to what I can only describe as my over-eager lips. 

A first kiss can be extremely awkward. Sometimes you bump noses, sometimes their lips feel weird, they’ve over-puckered their lips and it hurts, and other times it’s just bad. El Conquistador’s lips were the plush pillow-y kind that you just want to snuggle into. The slight tug on my bottom lip was such a perfect balance of playful and arousing that I even dared to swipe the tip of my tongue out and flick his top lip as I pulled away.

Our goofy smiles matched for just a brief second before we went in for a second kiss. And that was the moment I finally was able to be truly glad that my ex and I had ended things. I felt that first flutter of excitement again, and El Conquistador is so aptly named as he came in, swept me away, and will be leaving in a few days to live in another country for six months. 

[dirtydalliances]

almost a decade in the making

Scottish Heartthrob: Hay you xxx hope your ok x

Me: Hiii! was just thinking about you a bit ago. Things are good. Hope things are great for you!! x

Scottish Heartthrob: Not bad surviving wairking as head chef hours are rubbish no time off but life goes on, how are you xx

**sends selfie and pic of delicious food**

Hello ghost from my past. When I was a day shy of 18, I fell in love with a Scottish brute while I was at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival. We're friends on facebook thanks to my teenage hormones and "detective" skills. We were very close to doing the deed but instead cuddled and passed out. I think I even gave him my panties when he left... but either way, thrilling night for me and thanks to modern technology, I still get random FB messages from my not-quite one night stands.

[dirtydalliances]

if it’s hard to write a post about a guy, then he’s definitely not the one.

this post is dedicated to that one guy you’d love to date but just can’t bring yourself to do it. have you ever experienced that before? It must be a common feeling to be that “nice” guy or girl that is never the one that is wanted.

Let’s call this guy the “Octopus” for an assortment of reasons, not least of which is his propensity to cling to me while we’re in bed. Octopus is actually incredibly endearing, always asks for my opinion, waits for me to finish my thought (because sometimes it takes me awhile to form a coherent thought) before speaking, and genuinely seems to enjoy my company.

I also saw Octopus three times in a span of ten days. I brought him home after our first date because it was a fun date and I didn’t feel like sleeping alone that night. What a mistake.

The guy had to take a shower before and after sex (which I later came to appreciate when I found myself in bed with someone who should have done the same). 

We had made out under an awning to escape the rain (how romantic) for a solid fifteen minutes prior to coming back to my place. While not the most enigmatic of kissers, it was my first prolonged makeout sesh after the ex. The Octopus has this propensity to press me as tightly as possible to his chest. One arm wraps around my shoulders while the other hand rests squarely in the middle of my back. It’s almost as if he’s preparing for some sort of advanced resuscitation move when he moves in with his lips and smashes both his lips and his chest into him. 

Unfortunately, sex with him is much the same. He’ll press his body as tightly as possible to me. My nose is level with his chest so that I’m forced to tilt my head up if I want to breathe. A sticky layer of sweat always forms between our bodies because he’s a sweaty person and there’s absolutely no way to prevent the perspiration from our unavoidable friction. 

As if this random intimate pressing of bodies isn’t enough, he likes to weave his limbs through mine as I imagine an octopus would weave its tentacles through a densely packed coral. One arm cushions the back of my neck while the second arms snakes over my waist and pulls me directly into him. His foot then tries to tangle itself between my feet and this move is decidedly unsexy and unlike any of the Harlequin romances that describe such a phenomenon.

Still, hoping to look past his sexual shortcomings and focus on the brain that I’m sure is beneath his Octopus personality. 

[dirtydalliances]

[dirtydalliances]

How long until we delete each other’s contact info?