Tag Archives: sex

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With Loving Eyes

I stood wearing my only pair of expensive heels, a silky scarf from Urban I snagged during a fabulous sale for $10, a lacy black dress belted at the waist and my Longchamp dangling from my wrist. The ring I picked for the day was actual ruby, the necklace a diamond from Mr. P back when we were happy, and I was hanging out by his side as he chatted with a chairman.

We were in the VIP section of an Oktoberfest, wearing fancy bracelets that gave us free beer and grub. We even had a slightly fancier port-a-potty than everyone else. Girls in skimpy German outfits (even in the chilly weather, God bless ’em – they’re practicing for Halloween) served us bite-sized German-themed appetizers and we were part of an interesting, powerful group – ambassadors, diplomats, prestigious journalists, a dude from Beard Wars, and I even met a song writer.

Mr. P was going on about something with his friend and I started to drift away in my thoughts. I was still slightly hungover from my birthday party the night before but beer seemed to make the headache nearly existent. From the fun times had last night, I had nearly lost my voice, so even if I wanted to be part of their conversation, I sounded like a frog. I let him do his thing while I did mine; still thinking and analyzing our relationship. Or really, our lack of anything that looks like a relationship. I mean, we didn’t even last my birthday without having some sort of a tiff. I know it’s about as unhealthy as the amount of carbs I consumed but resisting is always easier when it’s something we really don’t want, in terms of food and especially in terms of love.

His hand was wrapped around my belt and I became distracted by a family within sight. The father was handsome and tall with glasses, his 3-year-old son looked about the same. The mother was shorter and tanner, their daughter an adorable little blond. The kids were dressed up in traditional German clothes, suspenders and braids and all. They were running around and giggling, making funny noises and genuinely having a good time. There was no alcohol involved, they didn’t need it to loosen up because they were simply that happy.

As the children played together, the wife walked over and I caught a glimpse of the husband’s eyes when he looked at her. And what I saw was purely love.

I obviously do not know anything about who they are or what language they speak or if those feelings are true or not – but his eyes said a thousand words I could never write to give justice to. He showed the same admiration (rightfully so) to his children – scoping them up and tickling them, kissing the side of their rosy cheeks. It all seemed so intimate and innocent, natural and inviting.

Here I was, among the distinguished and more intrigued by the ordinary. By the gentle, calming and warm feeling that comes from seeing people who really love each other. If given the choice, I’d trade the fancy clothes and by-invitation-only invites to have simple clothes and an open invite into someone’s heart who actually wanted to love me in return.

I didn’t watch them very long, maybe a minute or two, and Mr. P grabbed my attention, looking me in the eyes as he kissed my forehead. I smiled cautiously and attempted not to show my disappointment. This was fun, it really was, but is it what I want? Can he give me what I want? Does he have the ability to feel about me how I want him to? Could I picture any of this with him?

Could those eyes that I’ve looked in, searching for a solution, for a sign, for an indication, for anything, ever give me what it is I really need? Could he ever look at me with those loving eyes?

Or is it time for me to look elsewhere?

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Once a Cheater

Anthony Weiner, Jesse James, Tiger Woods, Arnold Schwarzenegger and Eliot Spitzer. And those are only the ones I can think of off the top of my head. All prominent, successful and some would argue, talented men, who had wives equally as brilliant. And yet, they cheated. Some by sleeping with an unbelievable amount of women, others through sexting – the coward’s way of showing his goods to someone who isn’t supposed to see. Others even fathered other children, keeping their love babies hidden for a decade.

The lack of guilt is astonishing to me. If you decide to get married, why would you stray? If you think there is a chance of that happening, why get married or enter a relationship anyway? I try not to be of the mindset “once a cheater, always a cheater”, considering I did give Mr. P a second-go after the Dubai frenzy. I’d like to think that people make mistakes – some worse than others – and if they really want to change, if they really want to be better for themselves and their partner, then they can be.

But if they’ve promised to be faithful and they continue to jump from bed-to-bed – is there a way to build that trust back up?

I’m not sure. I’m not convinced that once you’ve introduced infidelity into your relationship, that the relationship can ever repair. Even though Mr. P & I weren’t official then, when he explored other possibilities with a woman I had never heard of before – it wasn’t easy to continue with the then-friendship. But I thought he was worth it and I thought he sincerely cared about me, so I swallowed the fear and went forward, promising myself I’d learn to trust him again.

I never really did, though.

Partly because of his hesitation to introduce me as his girlfriend when I was introduced to others. I was usually just “Lindsay” or when absolutely necessary or flat-out asked, he’d balk at the title before actually admitting it. He didn’t want to be claimed by anyone, I suppose – and yet, all I wanted was for him to claim me. This, plus an awful, incurable wondering-eye, always put me on the edge, wondering if he’d repeat history and cheat for real this time. After exclusivity is accepted by both parties, any confusion can basically be put to bed if one strays. I hoped he was getting what he craved at home so he wouldn’t be tempted by the fruit of models in meatpacking, which he constantly commented on, but who knows? You can’t blame your partner for the reason you decide to dip into other parties or to let yourself out to play with others a little too nicely.

He promised up and down, and continues to swear that he’s only been with me and will remain true. I can’t say that I don’t hope this is the truth but I also can’t deny I have my doubts. Even if he does spend the evenings with me, call and text me, keep in touch constantly – there’s a whole world out there that’s changed the face of cheating.

Simply by making it instant and anonymous.

Technology offers limitless opportunities to connect with others, which is great for my parents and I and for video-conferencing at work, but problematic for relationships. With the click of a mouse, with a simple BBM, with a Facebook message that no one can see, by hiding your wall from others, by locking your phone and having everything you own blocked by passwords, you not only welcome others into your world, but you block others out. I’ve never been one to snoop, I find by looking you always find what you think you will, regardless if it’s based on fact or implications. So I don’t log into personal accounts and fish, I just try to remind myself that if anything is hidden, it’ll eventually be uncovered.

Cheaters may make incredibly convincing liars but they are often messy. Tracks will lead to something, or better yet- someone.

I don’t understand why betrayal is so common but we’re all surrounded by it. I once met a guy who has cheated on his girlfriend dozens of times, yet is considering proposing. He reasons that once he’s married, he’ll stop. He’ll make a choice to be faithful. Someone else I know doesn’t think cheating is really wrong unless you are married – in dating relationships, all is fair game as long as you check “single” on your W9. I’ve heard of open relationships that actually work well, and people with different levels of cheating: grinding on a dance floor and a little kissing doesn’t count, but foreplay does. (What’s the difference?)

So will Mr. P cheat? Will I even know if he does or if he has? Can you build trust once it’s shattered? Are celebrities and technology making the road to infidelity surprisingly easy and even alluring? Does monogamy work?

I’m not sure I know the answers to these questions but I will say that for me, being with someone is simple. If I decide to be true and faithful, I will be. If I sleep with you, you’ll be the only one. If someone advances, I’ll pull away. If flirting seems outlandish, I’ll change the tempo.

And if you cheat on me and I figure it out, you better be able to run as fast as I type.

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Pigs Can Fly & Hell Freezes Over

I prefer to do my crying in the shower. Naked emotion seems to pair well with literal nakedness, plus mascara used as blush just isn’t cute. The issue though, is that I tend to bathe in the mornings before work, so my hair is freshly pressed for the day. Or as it is in most cases, unpredictably wavy in all the wrong places. So when I retreated to the bathroom at my designated time (with four roommates, you have to auction out privacy), with warm, salty drops splashing on my cheeks, I wasn’t concerned with why I was actually crying but frustrated that my eyes may be puffy for work.

Luckily with some careful washing, I managed to escape any noticeable marks of sadness that anyone could see. However, the raw emotion that caused the tears didn’t wane as easily.

I’ve been attempting to put it into words, both here and in my own head, what I feel about Mr. P. We haven’t been able to go even one night without an argument or without me crying in quite some time now. For a relationship that has always been chaotic, this isn’t exactly out of the norm, but it’s most certainly out of my comfort level. The thing I always loved the most about us, about him, was that I could talk to him about anything. Nothing was off-limits, no crazy outburst was too crazy, no ridiculousness distracted him, no irrational fear seemed irrational to him. For the past year, he had a way of putting me to ease and he offered a secure shelter from any New York frustration I battled.

I think I fell in love with the friendship and then as I started to fall in love with him as a man, as a partner, as a lover – I started to pull away. I stopped conversations about exes, even though we had always analyzed our lovable (and unlovable) pasts together. I stopped being able to stomach the fact that he had lingering feelings toward women who refuse to talk to him. I also stopped being able to ignore that as a gaudy red flag right in front of my face. My preferences in bed changed, I wanted our weekend plans to change, I wanted him to march up to his rooftop in Brooklyn that’s cleverly decorated by his domestic-fied roommate, and shout that he loved me, that he was crazy about me, that he was so happy to be mine.

But I knew that wasn’t going to happen. I still know it won’t. Mr. P may be infamous for too many little white lies to count, but he won’t scream something so absurd. Especially if there’s a chance someone could hear that he was smitten. Because…he’s not.

Sure, he loves me. I know he cares about me. I’m confident if I needed something, if I was in dire danger, he’d come to my rescue. I think he could see a future here, he could picture us together in the long run and he knows I’m marriage material (whatever qualifies that anyway). But he’s not there yet. I think those were the words he used. And if I could just slow down my feelings, if I could just take a breather and stop wishing and demanding that he feel the same, we could go back to that easy happiness we once had.  If I could just relax and be that carefree, easy-going woman that he fell for. The one who didn’t pressure him or who didn’t want anything more than what he could give, then maybe I’d have a shot at holding the prized title that so many women are eyeing by blowing up his Blackberry and Facebook. I could have the opportunity to be The One.

But to do that, to stay in the relationship, to keep him in that role in my life, I’d have to put my feelings on hold. I’d have to fall out of love enough to meet him down at that level he’s at. While I’ve progressed the last six months or so by gradually becoming more attached to him, he’s stuck back in February when everything was new and unsure. I’m not questioning how I feel anymore, but I can’t stop doubting how he does.

And so, I cry. I pick fights. I stop in the middle of foreplay because my mind won’t shut off. I don’t return calls and I ignore emails. I attempt to go an entire day without a text message. I try to resort back to how I was before I fell for him, before I told him I loved him, before I started imaging visions of happily ever after with him. I try to convince myself that I want this, that we could really be something one day, that we could come out of this and he could see that I’m irreplaceable. I keep reminding myself that it’ is possible for love to bloom out of complication, that so many relationships have rusty beginnings, that he could very well end up changing his tune and be the man I crave.

I see the facts, I understand the reality of the relationship. Yet I’m stuck in dreamland, lingering on some hopeless prayer that Mr. Possibility still has possibility, that he’s still capable of releasing the past to build a future with me. That just because I fell in love with him before he fell in love with me, he could still feel all of those things I want him to. That if I can fall in love, can’t I fall out of love so someone else can fall in it?

Or am I waiting for pigs to fly and for hell to freeze over, spinning my tires on some dirty gravel road that leads to a bleak dead end that’ll only waste my gas and piss me off? I suppose we’ll have to wait for my give-a-damn to weaken to find out.

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To Love Myself

A week from today, I’ll post my final post on this blog.

I’ve started to scroll through the archives, reading the first couple of blogs and noting my progress throughout. I’ve noticed where I’ve been sloppy and lazy with not only my writing but the concepts, and some entries are so deep and intense, I don’t even remember writing them. It’s interesting to have a year of my life chronicled on these pages. All of the vulnerability and honesty I’ve felt over the last 365 days, along with some remnants from the past, remind me of all that I’ve been through and how thankful I am to be where I am now.

My birthday is on Friday (guess how old? Anyone?) and I’m finding it difficult to comprehend the 12 months I just experienced. So much has happened and it all went by so fast. I’m not quite where I thought I’d be. I’m actually in such a brighter, happier and more stable position than I could have imagined.

When I started this blog, I didn’t have many friends at all — now I’m so thankful to count many wonderful New Yorkers and transplants as my confidants. When I started this blog, I lived in a miniature room posing as an apartment, where I shared a communal bath with two people — now I live in a lovely four-bedroom with three fabulous roommates and one adorable kitten. When I started this blog, I worked at a business magazine that wasn’t my style — and now I work for NBC, though I won’t reveal which of its properties. When I started this blog, I was happy to be in this city but I hadn’t found my way yet and I didn’t feel like I belonged — now, I know it’s home because it feels like it. When I started this blog, I had just met Mr. Unavailable — now he’s somewhere between Mr. Possibility and returning back to Mr. Unavailable.

When I started this blog, I despised the single life — now I find myself longing for it. When I started this blog, I could count more insecurities than qualities I loved about myself — now I’m confident in who I am, just the way I am.

I don’t know if the 12-steps work, necessarily. I based them off of AA’s program and since I’m not a real “love addict”, I can’t speak for what it really is like to overcome a sincere addiction to relationships. I also have to admit that I didn’t follow too closely to the steps, I just went about them haphazardly, moving onto the next step when it felt right, not by any certain number of days or by checking off growth on a mental checklist. I didn’t do everything I set out to do but I did follow my heart, and I though I waited a while to reveal certain things, I tried to be honest about everything with readers, with my friends, and with myself.

It certainly wasn’t easy.

Writing everyday not only cramped my plans and my style, but it forced me to dig deep into parts of my past and my present that I wasn’t ready to face. I made a commitment to post daily and I had to keep it, no matter what life sprung on me or how much haters wanted to hate. I didn’t allow their opinions to get to me and I stomached my own opinions of myself, no matter how difficult it was to face my own music. I told my story how I saw it, complete with run-on sentences and constant contradictions. I’m not perfect, neither is my writing or my skin, but I’m confident in what I have to offer. And finally, after putting up with lack-luster love, Ialso  know what kind of romance I deserve.

And now, I won’t settle for less. A year ago, I may have stayed in a relationship just for the comfort. I may have continued dating and texting someone just to be entertained, just to have a body to lay next to me. But the space doesn’t need to be filled anymore, by Mr. Possibility or any man, because I actually feel just as secure without it. And if I have to swallow my heart and silence my thoughts to be someone’s girlfriend, I’d rather speak my mind to all who will listen and save that love for someone who can handle it. There are plenty of women who have always felt that way — but it took many prayers and paragraphs for me to reach that peace.

I still find lonely nights, though. I’m still in the middle of preparing myself for a heartache I think we all know will inevitably come. I still have ugly days and fat days, I still don’t always notice all the beauty I have to offer this world. I miss North Carolina sometimes, or at least it’s low prices and simple quietness. I still wonder if it’s in my cards to have a great love and if I’ll be one of the lucky ones who drinks lemonade while swaying in a rocking chair on a wraparound porch with my husband of 50 years. I still tuck away love quotes and photos, and when I’m feeling really down, I browse wedding blogs, torturing myself with visions of wedded bliss.

But now, it doesn’t upset me. It doesn’t break my heart. It doesn’t make me gravel at the base of heaven, begging for a partner so I can feel complete. It isn’t a desperate longing, it’s just a longing. A little voice that reminds me of what I hope for, a padded warmth in my heart that keeps me believing that if I never give up, I’ll find some schmuck who will love me to the ends of the Earth.

I’ll miss writing this blog every day, but part of me will be relieved too. I won’t think in terms of blogging anymore. My thoughts will just be my own, my experiences just adventures, not meant to be written into tangled sentences for the world to read. I’ll revel in the privacy that comes with invisibility, though I’m sure I’ll miss the feedback that always enlightens me. Maybe I’ll take a vacation from blogging but I won’t be gone forever — I’ll come up with something new, something that’ll keep me spirited and fulfilled. I’ll share some other piece of myself, of my viewpoints with the web again.

There really is no end to journeys, not even this one. The 12 steps will pass and the blog will end, but I’ll work every single day, married or single, happily in love or bitterly resentful, with or without children, in Manhattan or out of it, to be the person I want to be. I’ve accepted I’ll never be satisfied, I know happiness is always something you work for, not something that remains forever.

But I’m okay with that. I’d rather work toward the sweetness of happiness than to remain still and stagnant. I’d rather believe in love with all I have then to give up on it. It’s just now I know you don’t have to have love to be happy, and that just because you have love, it doesn’t mean you are happy. They both come and go, but if I work at it, I can always be happy and always have love all at the same time.

Because to love myself…is to be happy.

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When Will Loses its Way

They say where there is a will, there is a way. I’ll agree — but what if there is no will? Then is there a way? Or are they mutually exclusive?

I almost always have a will to do something — even if it’s just to have that Champagne-infused brunch or to see a discounted show for Broadway week. My wills are bigger too –I willed to live in New York, to be an editor, to have the things people come to visit in my backyard. I’ve willed to be better and stronger, more independent and sufficient, and here I am financially, emotionally, adult-ally all on my own. And I’ve willed myself into overcoming an obsession with men and their presence (or often, their absence) in my life. Though I’m teetering between possibility and impossibility, I’m still standing firmly and finally, not compromising what I need to feel needed by a man.

All of this willing has always found me a way to something, to someplace, to someone. It is rarely the something, someplace or someone who I crave – but whatever it is, it’s always there. But what happens when it’s not anymore? What would happen if I lost my will?

My life bloomed when I stopped waiting for it to change and changed it for myself. I was stuck in a pattern that I had made inevitable: meet a guy, fall for him, ask for commitment, be denied, cry, moan, whine, obsess, think I’m the ugliest thing ever, blow my confidence and money away on exercise and Ben & Jerry’s, then meet someone new….and start all over again. My oh my, did I find it exhausting. But I willed to find love and love was what I wanted, so there would be a way, right?

A year and 12-steps later, I wouldn’t say that will is gone but it has most certainly lessened. I don’t long to get married or to start a family. I don’t need an engagement ring to feel settled and secure. I’m not crawling into bedrooms, looking for remarkable sex because I know I’ll most likely just find a heartache hangover the next morning. I don’t feel the pressure to rush down an aisle as my cousins and my childhood friends have done, and when it comes to wondering if the stranger on the next cart is my mate – that curiosity has mostly killed the Tigar.

But does that mean I’ve lost my will? Do I not hope for love anymore? Do I not value how wonderful, how overpowering, how incredible it can feel when it’s right? When the man is right? If there is a man that’s right, that is? If I have indeed lost my will, will love still find its way to me? Or without that will, is there surely no way to one day stumble across holding-hands-in-Central-Park-while-raising-babies-in-a-brownstone-in-Brooklyn bliss?

I’m still willing to be successful, willing to find happiness in my single shoes, willing to make New York more of my home than it already is, and most importantly, willing to just be myself and be okay with that. So a will for love is still there, it’s just not in the spotlight. It doesn’t get front-and-center attention because it’s not at the forefront of my attention. It’s still there in something, in someplace with someone I haven’t met — but it hasn’t disappeared. My love will hasn’t lost its way, it’s just found a new way to exist.

It’s found a way to exist without being all-consuming so that I could do more than just exist. So I could really, remarkably, beautifully, live.