That Failin’ Feeling

I’m going to stop whining. I swear. I’ve just been feeling sorry for myself lately.

I hate the fact that i can’t find a job with my shiny new/old paralegal degree. I feel like a failure that I’m 26 and only making 32k at an entry level data entry job. I feel like a failure that I don’t have a bachelor’s degree. I feel like a failure that I can’t be so awesome that my bf took forever to want to be with me (a year. and I had to LEAVE HIM for him to realize I was gf material) and that I cant be certain I’m so awesome that he will stay. So I’ve been self-sabotaging, and driven him to warn me to stop being insecure or he’s not going to trust me and going to “lock down.”

I feel like a failure that I can’t initiate sex because I’m not confident that he finds me sexy. He won’t tell me I’m pretty. He doesn’t comment on my assets the way EVERY OTHER GUY has or make it clear he’d want me whenever. He only seems to want to get frisky once or twice a week if I leave it up to him. But it’s not his fault, I guess. He’s just “not the hand-holding type” he says. He’s hard to read. I’m used to everything being transparent. He’s secretive. 

I feel like a failure that I cant run my 5K route continuously yet. I’ve only been training for 2 months, so it’s stupid I’m beating myself up over that. 

I feel like I’m my worst critic. I should go easier on myself. I should be nicer to me. We all need to be nicer to ourselves, honestly. How do I do that?


Sometimes I forget to breathe. Like I’m waiting for the ball to drop. I’m waiting for my world to fall apart as soon as I think I’ve gotten it together. My glass is neither half full nor half empty. The damn thing is cracked.

So, every now and then, I realize I’m holding my breath. I begin a detached inner monologue

“hmm, why does my chest feel tight…oh..yes…I should inhale now. Why was I not breathing? whoops. Okay. concentrate. breathe innnn …1…2…3…out…1…2….3”

And this is how I keep it together. Just counting breaths.

Back to normal

I walk back in the cold. My breath fogging with every step and my skin freezing where it was bare under my coat. That silk lining does nothing for you when you’re wearing a crop top. I had this nagging feeling in the back of my mind that maybe I should take my time. The dirt road wasn’t going anywhere and at 1AM no one was on it. Maybe some time to reflect and It’s not like I had a cell phone to stare at while walking the 15 mins back to the house.

So this is what I thought about. What if I get caught? Where do I say I’ve been? Certainly not in the front seat of a black camaro. I’m 15.. That won’t go over well.

I can’t relate that he had to remove multiple piercings from his genitals before we could have sex. I can’t tell anyone that he was my first after what happened last Christmas. That I just voluntarily lost my stolen virginity for the first time. In a car. Like other teenagers. I almost feel normal. Except this is a guy from a chat room who lives 100 miles away and drove to this Podunk town to hook up with a 15 year old. Very normal.

Brahm’s Lullaby

I hear this melody and I can see a snow globe in my head. It’s blurry. I think there’s a snow man in it, but all I can see are sparkly rainbow prism pieces floating down and hear the music slowing down. I feel my childhood self smiling and remembering Christmas and snow when I still associated it with joy. That was before.


There was heat, the smell of stale cigarettes, and a musty smell, like any other basement would have. Grey concrete has a smell as well, and the sickly sweet smell of dr pepper mixed with sex. Any one of these smells can trigger scenes, like a movie, running through my head. The smell of the wood furnace burning, scorching heat radiating out, like the heat in my blood when I closed my eyes and pictured something else. The pleasure, the pain and the shame all rolled into a melody all its own. Brahm’s melody fades as the sounds of crackling fire and heavy breathing take center stage. I block it out and snap back to the present.

Cool night air whispers across skin as I throw my head back and see the stars, literally. The sounds of water lapping gently at the boat’s side mixed with harsh breathing and moans of pleasure. I refuse to meet his eyes, opting for the night sky as once again my body betrays my better judgment, and in this moment I am alive. We move across the length of the boat in a controlled frenzy.. Never enough. All there is is feeling, sensation, this moment..

We were always good at this and nothing else. Bitterness gives way to just being here. Now. And now is all that matters. Collapsing in a tangled heap on the bow, feeling the breeze on heated skin, breath calms slowly as reality comes into focus.

I push it aside, as it doesn’t matter. Nothing changes. That was a moment. Nothing more. In the big picture, moments are just moments and they all come together to illustrate life. In that moment I was more alive than I’ve ever been. I drive home in a daze, but no regrets. Guilt isn’t really something I feel when no one else seems to care where I am.

Double Standards

We have been trading innuendo and flirtatious comments for months. So when he kept suggesting drinks at his apartment instead of the bar multiple times, I had finally decided to take him up on it to see what would happen. It is intoxicating to flirt with wrong. To see if something will or won’t happen the way you predict. The evening started innocently enough. No body contact, light conversation, joking. I had mixed some vodka in one of his plastic cups with some juice and sipped on it. Smiling over the rim at something he said. I hadn’t eaten much that day, and I could feel the effects fairly quickly. The conversation turned risqué and he started pouring more vodka into my glass to be funny. I didn’t add more juice, I just kept drinking. I think at that point the scales had tipped from maybe this could happen to this is definitely happening. Little did he know I’d have done it sober, but vodka helps in all situations. So I let him jokingly pour more into my cup while I worked on getting shitfaced and care even less than I would have normally. Within 10 mins he had my top off. Then my bra followed. Standing against the kitchen counter, my back to a sink full of dirty dishes, he kissed me lightly. Gauging my reaction and when I leaned into him and silently asked for more, he gave it.

The type of girl that always has an escape plan and 4 or 5 exits mapped out. Someone who blurs the line of fidelity to suit a double standard that she can’t hold herself to. This is how I find myself at 4AM in the wrong bed feeling the wrong hand stroking my thigh and the wrong lips landing softly, sweetly on my shoulder. A pretense of caring because how else is the hapless fool supposed to behave after I passed out drunkenly in his bed? He doesn’t know if I’m going to freak out, regretfully sobbing that this shouldn’t have happened and it’s his fault. If only I cared even THAT much…I chuckle to myself and turn, knowing he doesn’t have a choice but to wait until I am ready to leave. After all, he’s been conditioned against insensitivity in these situations. I use that conditioning to my advantage as I trace my lips down his chest, to his waiting cock. Six or seven inches of smooth circumcised phallic deliciousness strains up toward my mouth. He knows…ohh yes he does. This wordless sexual response is what I’ve needed. What I’ve been lacking in my current relationship. The never rejected offer of sexual pleasure. Sex is wanted/desired/sought.. hourly..not just needed after a few days.  This…yes this is what I live for as I swallow his cock down my throat, closing my eyes at his breathy moan. The lines blur again as I stroke with my tongue, while simultaneously sucking the length of his shaft. He’s just another faceless body, pretty to look at, and just as wrong and committed as I am to another. I know him, yes, I don’t do random men from bars. That would be gross. He stops me to ask if I want to be pleased at the same time. I decline and continue working his cock into and out of my wet mouth, sucking just the tip in and rolling my tongue over it and down so that he jumps a little. He asks if I’m expecting him to cum with this and I just smile, his cock filling my mouth, and keep going. He requests that I stop, flips me over and in 2 thrusts has cum. Apparently, I have done what I set out to do. Of course I am unsatisfied, but this wasn’t about my satisfaction, it was about making him remember me. Someone will fantasize about me, even if it isn’t the one I want.

The pain of that thought is swiftly pushed aside while I utilize my lover’s bathroom to clean myself up. I carelessly mention my car, waiting at a distant location, and search for my clothing throughout this apartment. Hmm, top is on the futon, shoes in the middle of the room, jeans in the kitchen…this is what happens with me on vodka and feeling dangerous. I think he was actually supposed to be meeting up with someone else that night, I’m pretty sure he’d mentioned it, so that makes these events even sweeter. I won that contest. At 5am he is driving me back, making small talk that I’d rather do without, honestly. I say goodbye as I’m hopping out of his truck. We don’t need to hug…definitely not kiss..let’s not drag this out.