What does monogamy mean to you?

I ask myself that question.

I don’t know if I have an answer. Stability perhaps. I am sure some will same commitment–but only in one sense: sexuality. Is commitment in other ways more important?

I found myself falling heavily for DJMF, but is it just a raging-teenage hormones type of relationship? Could it be anything more? I so very much would like it to be, but it is hard to tell if he likes me as much as I like him. And there’s the whole long distance issue, which is not insignificant. The practical one and the romantic are always at war with each other.

With Seabiscuit, I don’t know how to describe it. Is there a word in English to describe this? I don’t think there is. I keep thinking about it, but words fail me.

He says that he probably would not be a good boyfriend for me. Why is that? Is it just monogamy? But do I care about that? And what is a good boyfriend anyway? Why the label? Technically, my last boyfriends were not good either.

Sure, there is an age difference: 32 and 55. But that does not bother me. I like him. We have had fun together in person when we went bird watching. He inspires me. He excites me. We have had meaningful conversations on hard topics. If I were to die today, I would want him at my funeral tomorrow. I feel close to him, and it’s different from other relationships and friendships that I have had. There is silliness and great maturity, honesty and great kindness.

But we both know you want and deserve a boyfriend.  Maybe DJMF or maybe someone else, probably not me.”

Why not?

You are that Kind

Well past 200 emails now, my relationship with Seabiscuit has taken quite an unexpected turn.

It is a special relationship, unlike any I’ve ever had before. We are friends and yet there is this graceful dance between us, an artful, erotic tension ever present. He has a girlfriend, and my heart is captured by another man, DJ MF, across the sea, but still that attraction lingers.

He is kind. Even when his emails are disappointing (confirmation of the girlfriend, for example), there is kindness in it. He is quite thoughtful. I’ve been given an open invitation to pursue him should I ever want. Otherwise, he will treat me with respect and as a friend in person and allow our erotic tension to play out by email.

His desire for me was a bit intense, only fully felt and revealed recently in one particular email this weekend. “But we both know you want and deserve a boyfriend,” he also wrote. And that is true. He has been very clear in not being good at the monogamy side of things–not that it bothers me as much as it might have once before.

I look back at my poetry–so much he has inspired. He is a muse! He said his mother once wrote a poem about cutting his hair. I have no doubt that he inspired her as a child, too.

I almost feel as though this is the deepest friendship I have ever had–and from Craigslist! Who knew. And still he continues to inspire me, and that artist and muse relationship continues to kindle the tension between us.

To go from who I was 6 months ago and to what a person I have become!

In a few months, I almost feel as if a phoenix risen from some ashes. I am me, and yet it as if I have been hidden in a cocoon for far too long, and here I am now: The Mistress of the Sapphire Seas.


Measuring Intimacy

Text messages from this evening:

Phil: Long time no see

Me: Indeed.

Me:  I think I am falling for Seabiscuit.

Phil: Huh? 

Phil: Who dat? Specs. You date so much I can’t keep track.

Me: Lol, you have heard about him. The older guy, photographer.

Me: We have exchanged 90 emails now in 33 days.

Phil:Your metric for intimacy is rate of text/email exchange. I’ve always found that interesting. Not in a bad way mind you. Just interesting.


He is right though. I do seem to think of intimacy in words exchanged. With Caleb it was texts. With all these men from Craigslist, it is by emails (and soon recordings–Lord, I can’t wait to hear Seabiscuit’s voice! But Lord Byron may particularly make me swoon with that special fondness I have of British accents and their effects on me.)

Despite Patrick being an idiot, he did get a few things right. He said once about me having an ethereal mind: “For you, words are real.” It is very true. They mean very much to me; it was always disappointing when I would ask J to write something for me and he never would. So it goes.

Now I’m just measuring intimacy in words–and how much variation there is in the quality I receive!

In my head, I am all kinds of confused

I’m feeling it now–the loneliness has gotten to me, and it hurts.

It has been 3 months since I broke up with J. I miss relationship stuff, but not in a way that makes me miss a relationship with him. Anytime the thought of getting back together passes through my head, I immediately remember how hurt I was when he made me feel neglected and rejected, and I vow to never go back.

I am feeling lonely. I want a relationship. Hell, I want friends. Friends! Why is it so hard to find people to share life with?

I am sad to remember that C never finished “digesting my email” from June. I emailed him a week ago to ask if he finished it and if he were playing Pok√©mon Go now like everybody else, but only silence has followed. 

He did not wish me a happy birthday and missed that date. I am especially sad when I remember C saying he would be my friend because he knew my best friend, Guy, is moving abroad soon. So much for that. I will stop trying.
And the loneliness gnaws at me. Fuck it! I don’t care about a long term relationship! Let me just find friends I can share my life with, who will enjoy my musings, who I can exchange delightful letters with. Why should this be so hard?

Why must I keep feeling alone?

I felt inspired this morning to write Don his poem. It came to me that I should write him a ghazal, and I set to work. 

I liked what I came up with tremendously, working on it during my commute to and from work, it felt finished by the time I got home. I got my mic and recorded reading it aloud; most poetry is meant to be spoken, and especially a ghazal needs a performance.

I had asked him his birthday, but was disappointed to learn it is so far away. I can’t wait that long to give it! I emailed him the recording this evening as a belated / very merry unbirthday gift.
Will it scare him off? Will he take my poem and vanish into the night? Will I once more find myself with no one left to write?

I cried in bed earlier. I haven’t done that in a long time. I just wish I didn’t feel so alone.

Thoughts on a Don Juan named Seabiscuit

I went back through my exchange with Seabiscuit, rereading every email he sent. I think there was some romantic interest that I failed to pick up on. I find it terribly amusing that I missed it. How did I miss it?

I think perhaps I was always so focused on the others in the lead that I missed the underdog of the pack making his steady gains on his competitors who fizzled out in the first few laps.

Also, I realized that I may have misinterpreted one of his lines early on which led to my missing the signs later. He wrote he found a girlfriend on Craigslist–and I took that to mean he was currently with someone. I wonder now if he might have meant he found one previously through CL but that they were no longer dating. That would make a difference now, wouldn’t it? But I assumed he was with said girlfriend and approached our emails as just a friendly getting to know each other exchange, with no hopes or expectations beyond friendship.

While he is a photographer mostly, he does have some nice lines in his prose. He asked me to write him a poem a few weeks back, and I brushed it aside as friendly banter–is it as significant of a request as it feels it might be?

I have shared with Seabiscuit the many haiku I have exchanged with others. He has enjoyed them very much and always lets me know which lines he likes best. But it feels too late to write a haiku for him. Another form of poetry seems to be required.

But what shall I write, and what form shall it take? Sestina? Ghazal? Pantoum? Free verse?

It is a fine line to tread now. I like him–I like having a friend who writes back and enjoys my writing. Does a poem risk it all?

Seeking a friend across the Pond

Mostly disappointed with the results of Craigslist so far, I have wondered if posting further out might help. I see the same boring, horrifying M4W ads on Craigslist in the Bay Area and am not impressed. With the exception of the first CL ad I ever responded to since this adventure began, I have found I can hardly expect any replies from the select few I have responded to.

If I cannot be in a romantic relationship, perhaps I should try more earnestly to find friends–and what better way to set expectations to that level than posting to CL in the UK?

I would not expect a long term relationship out of such a great distance, nor would I want one. I have been in long-distance relationships in the past, and even a neighboring state is too far away.
I haven’t posted yet, for I am still putting the finishing touches on my prose. I want to set the expectations clearly, and I need to decide on a clever title. Depending on what happens, maybe I will post in other countries too. Why not have a few penpals to make it feel as if a friend is not so far away, wherever I go?

I have been browsing a bit, after all one must learn one’s audience first to succeed, and the types of posts is certainly different from this area. There are more interesting posts, and the writing quality and style appears to be much higher than here.

The sea of dick pics is also overflowing, but I suppose that should be expected. It wouldn’t be Craigslist without those, now would it?

A fire in your heart

I like him. I feel all the physiological symptoms of it. Just the thought of calling him was exciting. And at the same time I was terrified, hesitating, requiring deep breaths before pressing a button, and I questioned how to even start the call.

“Hello, Patrick.” 

“Good morning, Patrick.”

Are they the same? Do I jokingly add, “Should I call you gramps or dad?” How long should I pause to make that joke? Do I make it?
I didn’t know he was 60 until over halfway through our exchange of 30 emails thus far. He wrote that he hoped he had not been deceitful in any way of this fact. I knew he had to be older by his song choice and his jokes, but didn’t know how old until he said it. And I liked the jokes.

My heart sank when I read that line. I felt depressed. I felt lonely and I cried.

But, after thinking it over, speaking my heart as I have with other messages, I wondered why should anything be different?

We are both mature, competent adults well over 18, so why should age matter? I am not blind to what differences and conplications such an age difference might bring. My own parents were 11 years apart, and it did rise to the surface over the years.

Our correspondence continued. Why should anything be different just because of age?

I want people to enjoy my life with. I want to be with people who make me laugh. I want to share my life with people who make me happy.

Reading his emails before bedtime makes me happy. Reading my saying so made him happy.

I dialed. Voicemail. Damn.

But I like his voice. I hung up and dialed again. I really do like his voice. I left a brief message that time, nervous and unsure what to say. It’s not like I had prepared for this. I hope he likes mine.

Is it terrible that I want to dial again just to hear his voice again?

The Fall Out

How quickly feelings can change! It is funny to me to see my post on jealousy now. I had started it a few weeks ago but have had so much to do these last few weeks that I didn’t get around to posting it until much later, and the same with this post…

Things have ended with C. Is it temporary? Is it permanent? I do not have the answers this time. What I do know is that any feelings for him have been replaced with pity. I feel sorry for him.

He won’t talk about feelings, any kind of feelings, and keeps me in the dark. We’ve had moments where I feel he is drawing me in, and then when he seems to realize what he’s doing, I am cast back out again. It has been very confusing. He will feel comfortable around me and let slip something personal, but once he realizes how deeply personal it is, he clams up.

We had a real nice time together, chilling and listening to music at his place on Tuesday. I haven’t had that pleasure in a long time, not since a college roommate and I would play vinyl records together and chill.

But on the same day, we had our falling out. Our humor slipped past each other, and there may have been hurt feelings both ways. Maybe my joke was too much; maybe a double entendre with a 42 year old is a bit much and hurt too deeply. It’s possible that he’s never been in a relationship before, and if he has, he never let slip any details or mentions of them. So a joke about lack of sex may have hit home for a 42 year old virgin, at least that’s the only explanation I can fathom.

Or he just became upset at me for unearthing feelings, and he doesn’t know how to handle feelings. Or he doesn’t even know his own feelings and how struggles to understand them himself.

I guess there are many possibilities.

I asked him to be direct to me and tell me if he was upset or angry with me. At least then I could apologize, but he just became silent and refused to answer. I tried to make light of the joke with a fitting set of gifts that had been in our conversation. 

When he saw me for an event we had previously planned to go to together, he returned the gifts. I felt an anger, a deep-rooted, buried anger in him. And it hurt my feelings to return a gift. If he had dropped it off at Goodwill, I would have been none the wiser. Maybe I know too much about Vikings and gift-giving, but to refuse a gift, to give it back, is practically a declaration of war and hostile intentions.

I spent a week writing an email to him. I am here for him if he needs a friend. If he doesn’t, then he can continue as he was before I met him and go back to his life as if we had never met. It is terribly sad though. As they say in the sagas, “there are few words between us now.”

He responded to the first paragraph of my email and said he was still digesting the rest, that I read too much into things. I have heard nothing else, and it’s almost been a week.

I really did like him. I had fun with him. But I guess that’s how it goes sometimes.

Hello, Darkness

Yesterday was a fairly normal day, minus the butterflies in the stomach for 12 hours and confessing being in love to a friend.

The rejection that followed also seemed fairly normal. If things had ended there, I would have called it a pretty good day. Got my feelings out, and now I can put them behind me. That is a good thing. And now we can just be friends–and that’s much better than the alternative of him freaking out and never talking to me again (I’ve had that response too.)

But C’s next question I had not anticipated: “Why is JL stealing my vicodin?”

My heart dropped. The magnitude of a migraine ripped my heart apart as I sat on a bar stool, looking at some ugly gray clouds heading in.

Major fight number four heading in with those clouds, at this rate we’ll soon average one a month.

I am tired of fighting. I was not looking forward to confronting JL, but I already knew it was true. JL broke down and confessed as soon as he was confronted. The look on his face when I asked said everything, as if it were Nagasaki, crumbling away with the blast.

“Is it over?” He asked, getting choked up.

“I don’t know what you want from me.”

I was too tired and just wanted to shower and go to bed, so that’s what I did.

I slept only 3 hours at most. I didn’t cry when I was C, but at some point in the middle of the night, I cried.

From a very young age. I struggled with depression. I remember being seven (if not earlier), taking my deceased grandmother’s lipstick out of a box in my closet and writing “I WANT TO DIE” over and over again on pieces of paper I stuffed under my mattress.

I was a lonely kid. Not many friends, often bullied for being fat, resented for being the intelligent kid who skipped a grade and was always the youngest in my class.

I was a lonely kid. Still am. Not many friends.

When I really wanted to die, I couldn’t go the razor route. Too messy, too obvious. In my mind, I should freeze to death in my sleep. I would close my bedroom door and leave open my giant window, then sleep without blankets. It got down to freezing at times in the desert, but not much below that.

The disappointment to wake to another sunrise, my parents clueless, exclaiming how freezing cold it is in my room and expressing that they have no idea how I can sleep in such a cold room.

Kids do the darnedest things. I guess I am still a kid, but where is my window now?

Interrupting a Kubla Kahn on 420

Despite the signs being everywhere about the significance of yesterday’s date, I admit I didn’t quite get why I kept seeing so many people acting funny and so much marijuana out in public.

We had a national conference of sorts for one of our remote teams, and my small team was invited to join their large team on a bus tour around San Francisco–one of those really bad tourist, double-decker type tours where the bus is entirely plastered with advertisements for Angry Birds.

The bus driver, Steve, was a better driver than entertainer. His jokes were bad, becoming worse with every cross street. It devolved into a painful kind of bad, and eventually his heartless commentary became the “I wish I could throw rotten tomatoes at you” kind of bad.

We had passed an intersection where a large cloud of marijuana reeked, and Steve joked, “And there goes a guy who is smoking his lunch.” Oh, Steve.

The colleague next to me rolled her eyes and muttered , “It is 420 today, Steve. A lot of people are going to be blazing today.” And then I went Ohhhhhhhhhh. Everything clicked.

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