Claude.

He is #9 on my list. The only man who has had sex with me in three of my four decades – at 18, 24, and (spoiler alert!) 43. We missed my 30s due to marriage. My first and only serious foreign crush – one which went from desire to implementation after a few years of hoping. 

We met in France the summer I was 15, on the cusp of 16. My father and step-mother had signed us all up for month-long language classes in a beautiful university town. We stayed in campus housing. In the classic style of my father, my class was supposed to be for age 18 and over, but he signed me up anyway. They never checked. 

My classmates were young adults from around the world. I still remember the man from Botswana who told me there were more cows there than people. The wealthy Texan. The fun women from Spain. And Claude. Tall and handsome, with light blue eyes, eight years my senior, foreign, I was instantly smitten. 

With good reason, he assumed I was 18 or over. He treated me like an adult – or perhaps better said, he didn’t treat me like a child. We drank Kronenborg 1664 in small cafes. I had my first glass of Dom Perignon on the roof of the school with the Texan. We talked for hours upon hours. 

In classic teenage girl style, I was desperate to be physical with him, but he never touched me. I have to check my diary, but I think he did kiss me goodbye and it was heavenly. When he found out how old I actually was, he assumed I was a virgin. He also had a girlfriend at the time. She came to visit one weekend and I was so intensely jealous of her. Older, European, and his girlfriend. 

I later learned she assumed we’d had sex that summer. It even caused an argument with her (they remain friends) and his then-wife within the last year. Which I find hilarious. While she had no reason for concern at the time, I do wonder what they’d say if they knew what transpired this past week. 

After we parted all those years ago, we stayed in touch. Before the days of the internet and smart phones, we wrote letters to each other. I still have all of them, tied with a ribbon, safely stowed. They were magical to receive. His life was exotic to me, his letters creative and sent from various countries he’d visit. They spoke of romantic things and they fed my desire.

A few years later, Claude was living in New York City. I had a boyfriend who was unsurprisingly intensely jealous. Plans were hatched for us to visit a friend studying opera, and see Claude as well. When, at the last minute, my boyfriend’s work schedule changed and he couldn’t come, he insisted I stay back as well. I refused. He gave me an ultimatum: if I went, it was over. 

I went.

I stayed with my friend but Claude and I had a late night together. We had sex in his tiny New York apartment. I was ignorant of truly how expensive a city it was, and expected something much more glamorous. But I’d gotten what I wanted for so long. 

He also came to visit me in my city. My Mom let him sleep in my bed. We had sex for hours in our outdoor hot tub. We had an overnight trip together. 

It was another few years before we saw each other. This time, he was travelling to my city for work. I was around 24, the year before I met Will. I stayed in his hotel for a couple of nights. We had showers together and a huge water fight and made good use of the hotel bathrobes. We had sex in the big king bed and it felt glamorous. 

Something happened to me with him during that visit. I didn’t specify it in my diary, but I mention there were things in his personality I hadn’t noticed before. The lustre wore off somewhat. I suppose it was inevitable. 

I met Will, and Claude and I fell out of touch. I married Will. Claude married a Spaniard. At some point we reconnected, probably thanks to social media. He has never forgotten my birthday. He had two children around the same age as mine, and was unhappy in his marriage, although he split more recently than I. 

We’ve texted back and forth fairly steadily for the last many months. We’ve talked about the breakdown of our marriages, our separation agreements, and sexual exploration (we share some similar kinks), and he even reads this blog (hey, babe). 

And when I decided to visit Spain with Liam, we talked about seeing each other. He didn’t know whether his house would be available for us to stay there, as he “nests” with his wife. The children stay in the house, and they switch week-on week-off. As much as I appreciated the offer, I was also not sure what it would be like to stay with him – it had been a long time since we’d seen each other. 

As it turned out, it was like no time had passed. 

Vacations are the kiss of death for my relationships.

I broke up with Leo three nights ago. I’d been writing about how I felt about him and doing my usual processing of things. I’d spoken to my Mom earlier in the week and decided I’d just see how things played out. There was no “burning platform” to break up. No crazy blog-finding (Fox) or police action (HWSNBN) or wives who found out about a relationship (Tony).

I decided to see how the next few weeks went, now that I’m finally relatively physically mobile and we could have more active dates. It had been 5 weeks without any Tony contact and I was working my way through that.

But the decision wasn’t sitting well in my brain. Continue reading

It’s not him, it’s me. Or is it?

Previous Post

I have to be honest about the key male relationships in my life, starting with my Father, and how unavailable men (in one form or another) are the archetype.

While I’ve moved past much of the bad behaviors that would otherwise continue to perpetuate the past, I can’t ignore the reality that those relationships are familiar. And even if painful, they are therefore comfortable. So what happens to me when I don’t have to fight for men to be available to me?

I had practice with Johnny Id, Fox, and even HWSNBN. There were other men who I dated briefly who were smitten. So this isn’t brand-new. When I don’t need to spend my emotional energy fighting, what do I do with that energy? Do I need the chase to be interested? Continue reading

I’m not smitten.

I’m back from my beach vacation with Leo. Despite it being a relaxing time, my brain constantly buzzed. It’s still buzzing, cycling through thoughts of men, needs, past relationships, and what it is I really want.

I planned to write yesterday but instead stayed in bed most of the day catching up on social media and work emails. I spoke to my Mom for an hour and gave her the lowdown. She gave me lots to think about, as always, commiserating on the downside of our shared analytical nature.

Why do I have anything for my brain to be buzzy about? I’m not smitten with Leo. Continue reading

Period sex, exclusivity, and a boyfriend.

I’m writing this on my phone, on the beach on the sun, whilst Leo is playing beach volleyball 100 metres ¬†away. Apologies for any mistakes…I will fix them when I’m at my computer again.

We are on Day 3 of 5. It’s been very nice so far.

My body failed me and decided to start my period the first day of our trip. I knew there would be some overlap but was expecting it to be wrapping up by the start. Leo said he didn’t care, thank goodness. But menstrual cramps and having to jump to the bathroom to take out a tampon as a man starts to put his hands down your pants is super annoying. Continue reading

Leo and I are going places.

The only thing I’m going to say about Tony is I haven’t heard from him, and it’s okay.

Leo has been a consistent presence since I broke my leg mid-December. He is mercifully drama-free. My only emotional hiccup so far was feeling somewhat bereft of attention last month, which led to nothing more than some flirty texts and a single romp in my bed with Clark.

No, Leo and I haven’t had an exclusivity discussion. I’ve been putting it off, and he seems perfectly content. Continue reading

The reason Tony and I can’t be friends.

If you haven’t read about the recent “developments” with Tony, you can start with this post.

I know I’ve said it many times: this blog is extraordinarily helpful for sorting out my crap. I was in a good place with Tony, because I’d blocked him for weeks, successfully. I missed him but it was abstract, and I didn’t feel a pull to reach out or reconnect. When I unblocked him, I experimented with what it was like to be completely reactive – I let him call or text.

It was very minimal contact. It was platonic.

It was a fucking slippery slope.  Continue reading

I can still get really angry – at Tony

I am writing this post fresh. Freshly angry. Apologies in advance for a lack of editing and shitty structure.

You’ll surely recall he (Tony) fucked me on Christmas eve, in the midst of family-oriented errands. He was fully ensconced in family time for Christmas and days afterwards. So naturally, he didn’t reach out. I am not part of that part of his life.

Which honestly down to my core was just fine – because it helped me put more nails in the coffin of what was left of our relationship.

It boils down to this: Continue reading

Alan, Lewis, Clark, Todd, plus one.

I’ve had a busy week. I’m writing this on a plane, having had just 4 hours of sleep last night, but boy was it worth it.

My life is normal to me, because it’s mine. But sometimes I see myself through the eyes of others, and I think – whoa. I have been in the arms of five different men in the last 7 days. None were new to me. Two were at the same time. One I didn’t have penetrative sex with. But still.

You know what? It was awesome.

I saw Alan and it felt like a repeat of earlier dates. Nothing new to discuss.

But Lewis and Clark both came over during the week and sweet holy heck was it amazing. Sometimes threesomes can be repetitive – being “spit roasted” (sucking one while fucking the other) and literally just switching from one end of the bed to the other. Continue reading

What I think about when waiting for a lover.

On my stereo: Little Fluffy Clouds by The Orb. A trippy song I used to listen to in college. Next is Cat Power’s version of Dark End of the Street. It’s an odd mix on my phone tonight.

I’m waiting for Lewis. He was supposed to be here now but texted to say he’d be a half an hour late; his work event keeping him longer than he thought.

Sitting at my kitchen island, I’m drinking Chardonnay while unsuccessfully trying to decimate the fruit fly population. The little fuckers must have an hour long incubation period.

It’s late but the work emails are still trickling in; they never stop. Continue reading