Submission

mchot

One of the main tenets of conquering addiction is admitting that you are powerless over it. Submission offers the promise of relief from the suffering.

Except when it comes to Mr. McHotstuff.

I’m down with submitting but more along the lines of scratching this miserable itch than in hopes of getting him out of my system. Everywhere else I look, there’s a willing man smiling back at me…. all except the one I want so badly.

So I’ve given up. I’m not even trying to hate him anymore. It’s futile to try to ignore how beautiful he is. Something shifts when you don’t fight it anymore and I’m at least sleeping again. I’m searching for the silver lining but honestly I just want to sit down and cry.

I wish I could unknow this. I wish I could wash this need off. I catch myself wishing on flower petals and stars, sending my biggest wish up for help.

Because most of all, I wish he were mine.

Sigh.

I’ve distanced myself from my friends and haven’t talked to my family in a while. I’m trying to put myself back together again but it seems that I left a few pieces in his pockets.

I make a point to look on the bright side and this has taught me a lot about myself. I’m learning to be kinder to the parts of me I don’t like, and this incredible man has taught me to speak up a little and say the hard things out loud, right to his pretty face. Instead of crying about it and resenting him, I look him deadass in the eyes and say exactly what I want.

J- I love you, but stop being so pretty. You’re hurting me.

He blushes…. and I’m stuck in wet panties again. Good Lord.

I’m admitting that I’m powerless over this wretched situation and breathing through the frustration of it all, but my God… somebody help a girl out.

I’m ready to bribe his friends to help me, some of whom are reading this. You know who you are. Name your price. 🙂

I’ve sufficiently ghosted every last Tinderboy and hung up my heels. I’m not wasting anyone’s time until I’m coming from an available point of view, and I don’t know a time I was less available. I’m not about to spread my suffering around, so I’m getting the garden weeded and some booties knit, instead.

Dirt and yarn, y’all. There’s magic in both that can cure what ails you.

I hope.

Relapse.

treasure

He smells like my deepest fantasies dipped in napalm and set ablaze. I’m honestly dumbfounded when he smiles at me. It’s a gut punch that makes me smile reactively, no matter how mad I am at him for the knots he’s tied me into.

I want him so much I can’t sleep. There’s no way to sugar coat that devastating detail. I wake up to my silky soft thighs twisting into knots in my empty king sized bed, moaning his name in the last fleeting seconds of the dream that kept me breathless all night.

Aching to roll over and find him in the giant bed that torments me with it’s overwhelming lack of him, and exhausted from the agony of missing him for the past 6 months.

I’m drowning in lame stunt doubles that only annoy me by the complete lack of interest they inspire. It isn’t them, it’s me. It could be Channing Tatum and I’d be irritated at him for being the wrong guy, too.

Why is it that every other man you don’t want, shows up when you are most frustrated by the one who won’t?

Knock, knock, knock……… I was laying in bed with a book and not expecting company. I hate unexpected visitors, so I rolled over to ignore it.

Knock. Knock.

I peeked out the side window and saw the truck I’ve tried to manifest down my driveway for months. Oh. My. God. I’m in a tank top and panties. My only choices are to put my ugly old bathrobe on, or answer the door as-is.

I opened the door and there he was. So pretty he’s like the sun because it hurts to look at him. I wish I could say otherwise… but to know this exquisite example of manhood, redefines what it means to love men. I must have looked stunned because he grinned at me.

I- Do you always answer the door in your underwear?

J- If I’d known it was you, I’d left them in the drawer.

Grinning at me, he walked through the door and shut it behind him, pulling me in close against his chest. I bit my lip and held my breath to maintain some grip on my faculties as the delicious cloud of him settled around me. This man could sell a million candles if they made one that smelled like him. I’d buy anything labeled with his likeness and I’d wash every damn thing in my house with detergent that promised to remind me of the sheer intoxication of his skin and the way he smells. Take my money.

J- Hi.

He runs a finger under the edge of the black lace panties I have on. 

I- Hi…. Take these off. 

J- No. You take them off. I dare you….

He laughs and shoves me backwards onto the bed I’ve been hating, and I’m suddenly a huge fan again. Watching him take his clothes off makes my heart race and I feel light headed as his bare skin comes in contact with mine. I catch myself thanking a God I don’t believe in for making me a woman so that I could be satisfied by this spectacular man.

Ever felt whiskers on your ankles, knees, thighs…. or better? He’s a walking guide to the things I didn’t even know I wanted, and I don’t recognize my own voice as I start to plead with him.

J- Please…

I- Tell me what you want.

J- You.

Welcome to the understatement of a lifetime, as I’ve never wanted someone so badly.

The details of him are what kill me. His hands are beautiful and soft, yet strong and unyielding at the same time. His chest inspires so many thoughts simultaneously that I’m speechless and my hands are shaky. I’m torn by the desire he drowns me in because I want him constantly, everywhere around and inside me.

This man. This incredibly irresistable man burns me to the ground.

Now I know how drug addicts feel and I relate to anyone fighting addiction who’s fallen off the wagon. I want to overdose on him, hangover be damned.