The Hole–part 1: Back In the Saddle Again

The hole

The first time I heard the song “Back on my feet again” by Michael Bolton, I was having my life uprooted in the late 90s when my grandfather, the family patriarch and breadwinner,was in the terminal stages of cancer and was no longer able to work. Since he had been renting my childhood home during my upbringing, the family (my grandfather, grandmother and I) had to move out when he stopped working and burnt through his savings for cancer treatments that kept him alive for 10 plus years.

Now almost 20 years later, I find myself listening to the same song through blurry tear filled eyes, only this time the situation was of my own doing. I was at the beginning phases of coping with a “breakup” that I initiated, from a woman with whom I had an intense 1 month “relationship” with. As I ducked down in the fetal position and balled my eyes out as if I was a kid who got kicked in the stomach by some schoolyard bully, the questions of “why me?” and the negative disparaging thoughts of me being some kind of worthless fuckup who wished his father would have fucking pulled out during his conception came to mind.

The “abridged” version of the story is that I met this cute Asian female of above average attractiveness who came into my life after enduring her own (according to her), intense emotional ordeal of a 12 year marriage that she began at the age of 19 to 21, where she was provided and cared for by a military guy who became an Iraq vet. That guy was her first and in short, she was an ex-army wife who enjoyed the benefits that Uncle Sam provided for the civilian families of military servants. She also had to endure the brunt of a shell-shocked PTSD hubby, who according to her was inconsolable after trying various methods of professional help—and after her witnessing that all of his peers were progressing but he was not (maybe never stopping to think if she played a role in that, but I digress)—came to wits end and decided to end the relationship and move to the east coast from the west. She had separated from her husband for two years and was now at the age of 33 to 35.

According to her, she had not dated (I consider “dating” the involvement in a physical intimate relationship, not just going on dates) anyone during the two year stint (making me her second guy) and after living with her sister for one year in the more southern states, moved up the the DC area to live with roommates. During this time, her roommates and “friends” urged her to get “out there” and “try” different guys, and go on Tinder etc.

I met this woman at a “childhood games” (like dodge-ball) meetup group that was centered around “happy hour”. I joined that group urged by another brotha who lived in my apartment complex and I was especially excited because I used to love these games when I was a kid and wanted to do something extra. Meeting women wasn’t in the forefront of my mind. So initially, when I had no “skin” in the game, I humored that I met her at this happy hour and her being a lightweight was drinking with the best and even urging people to take shots. And even later on when she would text message me drunk saying “whoa, I took way too many shots”. But she happened to always be around her roomates and close people she knew, so I thought that while that was somewhat reckless and her height of 5’3”, she was around people she knew and trusted. So to me, her motif was that she liked to go out and have a good time.

When we were feeling each other out we both talked about what we wanted to get out of the interaction. I told her since I was pretty busy in my life with working and writing, that I was not looking for anything long-term, but that I was not closed-minded to the idea of having a mid-term type of deal (i.e. someone I could bang and go travel with etc—something to last maybe a couple of seasons until life situations diverted the course). She disclosed to me this nugget (remember this for later): she was old-fashioned and did not like the idea of fucking with a bunch of different random guys, however, she also wanted the ability to have her freedom. This was the crux of our “situationship”. However, we discussed that for the best interests of our physical and mental health, that if either of us wanted to “hookup” with someone else (basically fuck somebody else), we would let the other know and give the opportunity for change of direction, decision making, etc. It was a cool deal for me, as we picked one day out of the week to see each other, and her apartment complex was about 1/3 mile from my own; so I would almost have “in house” pussy, but not pussy in house—it was more like pussy “on call” and everything was perfect in my mind—I was about to smash off on a shorty who only had one dude before me—and I didn’t have to answer to anybody and could still travel and do my own thing.

Her pussy was exquisite—she got super wet just by kissing—and she had one of those creamy pussies. I could literally see her cum on my condom—it was like a whipped cream glaze. Our rhythm in the bedroom was more sensual than animalistic. 80 to 90% of the time, the sex wasn’t “bang ‘em up” or “beat it up” sex; it was more of a “glide”. It was more or less lovemaking. She liked deep, long strokes and she liked to be face to face, regardless of who was on top. When she was on top, she rarely sat back and rode me. She liked to lean forward as if she were riding a Yamaha or Ninja—one of those racing motorcycles—like if she was playing “Raw Thrills MotoGP” arcade game. That’s actually how she got her nutt almost every time. Making her cum was super easy.

Things got even more intense she started taking birth control and we started going at it raw. I was a little apprehensive at first, and then she blurted out the line “do you trust me?” And at that moment, I did—well, it was a dual answer. Trust her with sex? Yes—but trust her with other things? Not so sure. First, I looked at my risk—I figured at her age and her being childless and east Asian that she, especially coming from an ex-military husband of 12 years, would have a low disease risk. Second, we ran in the same circles and it would be socially inept to be burning niggas. Third, I felt like she had more to lose than me at the time, in a proverbial sense, than I did. That was my first mistake, because I effectively putting her value above mine with that type of mentality. That’s a big no-no. But hey, I was getting great pussy, so fuck it, right?

The hot sex continued every week; and then it came. Not my dick, but her affections. Now I’m only about 5’8” and come from a world where 6’ plus men seemed to be worshiped. But shorty was 5’3” and she came up to my chest to neck height. So she made me feel tall—like more of a “man”. One night when we were making love to “Till the Cops Come Knockin’” by Maxwell, I had her wrapped up in my arms. She said “I feel so safe”. When she said that, my ego as a protector jumped. She negated all those times I didn’t feel good enough in life—where mostly black girls would jone on me, or make me feel smaller than life. She actually told me the following when I was wearing glasses: “I like you nerdy babe—rather than hood”.

I found myself hanging on to her every text, anticipating when she would text back after I texted her—looking for that blue flashing light on my Samsung Galaxy 3 (I’m outdated, lol). I found myself looking for those kissy-faced emojis that she used so often. I didn’t even realize how the “frame” of the relationship had changed. There were a couple times where when we talked about what it is we were doing, and she mentioned “I’ll just hang around until you’re tired of me”. But as time went on, that changed to comments she blurted out like “All I need is a nerdy guy with a hard dick and I can have fun.” Or “If we ended it, it might suck, just a little.” Her comments were stinging in a way, and while I answered with comments like “You gotta do what you gotta do.” Those comments stung me. I didn’t take it as a sign that she didn’t feel as deeply as I did.

One day when I went to meet her at the intersection between our two apartment complexes, to walk her to my place, we were both standing on opposite sides of the street looking at each other. When the “walk” sign illuminated, she ran across to my side and immediately hugged and kissed me. I found that refreshing. I let her control the PDA game, since I didn’t mind sporting her and I was digging her then. There were times when I was about to do some PDA with her, but I stopped myself short thinking this would “violate” the terms of our arrangement. She ask me “what’s wrong” as if I didn’t have to be bashful because we were at that level and felt the same way about each other. So with all of the aforementioned factors, I began to fall in love with her. Everything continued fine right up until the Friday and ultimately the Saturday before Halloween.

There were two parties that were going on that weekend. One she invited me to, and the other, which she was going to out of state (about 2 to 3 hours’ drive) to attend. The one out of state she was going with her roommates, and it was on the Friday before Halloween. The one that I was going to go with her to was on a Saturday.

On that Friday, she and I went out to dinner (she paid—we actually took turns paying and she was up) at a sushi/hibachi place and had a good time. I was cool with her going out of state because I knew she was with the roommates she had always hung with. I also understood that because she was going out of state, that she would likely be staying out overnight. While I was enamored by her, I never laid claim to her in exclusivity—I understood that anything could change. She urged me to go with her Halloween costume shopping after dinner with her and one of her roommates, and I obliged. As I went through picking out my costume, I could hear her calling me pet names through the store : “hey baby” this and “hey baby” that. I knew that she told people that we were dating, but I didn’t say anything to her roommates because I was going to leave that to her. But apparently, she wasn’t shy about hugging onto me or calling me pet names in front of them.

That night when she went out of state, we texted each other a couple of times:
Her (9:16 PM): Still on the road. Have a good night babe! [blows kiss]
Me (9:28 PM): Hey bae—what a journey. Have an awesome time [blow kiss back]
Her (1:31 AM): Hey babe! I’ve taken waaayyy too many shots! Can’t wait to party with you tomorrow! I really enjoyed our little dance.
Me (1:39 AM ): Haha funny thing is my phone was on silent, I just woke up because my stomach kinda got me (ate too much)—
Her (8:29 AM): Oh wow I didn’t even realize how late it was when I texted! I meant party with you tonight lol.
Me (8:53 AM): Still in Delaware?
Her (12:40 PM): Yep  my phone was dead for a while lol.
Me (3:29 PM): [sunglasses emoji] cool girl.
Her (5:12 PM): Babe, you wanna pregame with us? Come over around 8.
I included the time stamps to show you the radio silence between our interactions. And although I played it cool on text, I thought to myself that she probably blacked out, and who knows what she was up to. I must admit, my mind was getting the best of me. But how could I know for sure. Talking to her the next day confirmed what I initially had thought—that she had been drinking too much and passed out. She says that she passed out on the couch with her roommate—and I don’t think that was far-fetched. I also assumed that she was in and out of consciousness because of her broken string of texts in the early afternoon as her roommates were driving her back home. And while Donovan Sharpe would look at this situation and say “trust no one” which is true, I had no real reason to think she was lying, and no right to tell her how to get down—as long as she was straight up with me about whether or not she hooked up with someone was all I cared about. So after her last text, I wanted to find out. Here’s what happened.–

[to be continued]

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