A Finger Food Or A Forever?

 My hair was pulled up into a messy bun of sorts, tucked away as neatly as possible into my hairnet. I bent over the fryer, filtering the dirty oil and replacing it with clean.

"Love monkey!" my cousin's voice was, as it is most of the time, pretty cheerful. Now, let me go ahead and point out that T is...well, she's like a sister to me. We were, quite literally, raised together. Her own parents kind of bailed when she was about five and she's lived with me, off and on, for the last fifteen or so years. But, she's pregnant, and I don't feel like she's ready. It terrifies me when I think of her, out on her own, with a bitty baby to tend. I've seen how she treats her dogs, and it just scares me to death. She tries, but she has no real role-model, and, God, I hate to watch her struggle. Usually, I try and fix whatever mess she's made. This isn't something I can do for her, becoming a mother. So, we've had more fights in the last several months than we have in the last several years....

And, yet, she knows me. I turned to face her. 

"Shit, you look rough. What's the matter?"

"Nothing big," I sighed. "Just, Steven hurt my feelings a little bit. We were supposed to spend time together--only like a half hour--before I came to work, but his friend came over and he bailed out. I think I'm probably just blowing it out of proportion. I didn't tell you, but he cheated not long ago, and I think I'm just still trying to work through it." 

"Oh, God! You found out?? That's fantastic! No offense, or anything, but I've had pictures of his profile on POF on my phone for AGES. I couldn't decide whether it was best to tell you, or just let you stay...you know...blissfully ignorant." My heart sunk and met my stomach somewhere down in the area of my toes. 

"POF? What's...I don't know what that is." And she told me--it was another dating site, "Plenty of Fish". And she showed me pictures. It was the correct age, it was from about two months ago. He listed under pets our dogs, and under marital status, it read single. He was looking for "A woman" for "Dating, but nothing serious." 

I felt the lump building in my throat, and fled to the bathroom after making some excuses to my co-workers. I called, and he said he didn't even remember making it. The account had already been deleted, (I checked before I called him), but just the knowledge that he was out on multiple sites looking for someone that was more than me...

I cried. For the whole rest of the shift and into today. I told him to pack his things, and to leave. Or to stay, but he could sleep on the futon, and that we weren't together. He told me not to talk like that, that we weren't broken up, that we couldn't be. 

I don't know what we are. I felt some better this morning, but this is like any other stage of grief: it comes in its waves. Sometimes, my heart feels so full I want to burst. I want to take that pain out somewhere, to pour it out into water and watch it rush away. I find that I want to hurt him back. I want him to feel what I'm feeling, to hurt like I'm hurting. 

I want to know how you can love someone, and still be looking, always looking. 

But, I know we don't do well separate. I'm not sure I'm strong enough to leave. I'm not sure I'm strong enough to stay. I just want to curl up into a ball someplace quiet and still and be left alone. 

As Steven pointed out, however, it showed no activity, and it had been deleted. He swore up and down that since I found out about fetlife, he'd been faithful, that it was only me, and it only ever would be me from here on out. He said if he'd remembered about POF, he'd have put it out on the table during the fetlife fiasco and gotten rid of it. 

I'm confused and hurting. I feel like I must just be THAT girl. The one that everyone knows isn't going to be worth it, the one that is someone to come home to, a safe, solid, easy choice. A she'll-never-bail-workaholic that is there for sex when they want it, there for affection if they get the urge, and gone often enough that they can have everyone else they want, too. I feel like a finger food--pawed, handled, passed over in favor of something sweeter. I don't want that: I don't want to be a finger food; I want to be a forever. 

I told him we could staying living together for a while, but he had to prove that he loved me. That he loved only me and would only love me. He assured me that he would do that and then some. I'm too terrified to even hope he's telling the truth. 

I Wrote

You know, they say if you do something for more than 21 days, it becomes an addiction.
This blog must be mine--because every day since that last post, every day since sharing mine and Steven's utter debacle, this blog has crossed my mind. I've considered posting on the days where I've been inconsolable and heart broken.

I've considered blogging on the days that we took a few careful steps in the right direction.

I nearly wrote the night I came home to find a room remodeled completely for me in silent apology.

My fingers were on the keyboard after the following conversation:

"I just don't feel like you can be snappy with me over this, Steven...I didn't do this. I'm not the one that cheated. I'm just hurting. Maybe, sometime down the line, when this is all said and done, and we've moved on, maybe on that day, you can. But, this is the day after. This should...oh, I don't know...be the day of hearts and chocolates and flowers and sorries down on your knees!"(As wrong as that sentence felt. I've been so used to him being the rock, the strong one, the support I hold on to.)

"I am sorry, baby--"

"Don't call me that! I don't feel like your baby!"

"But you *are*. And, like I was saying, I *am* sorry, but I'm not that KIND of sorry."

"Well, you need to find a different way to be sorry, or just leave. I'm not strong enough for this."

That night, I nearly wrote to say I was done.

And, I know that all of you would have continued to be so supportive. I so appreciated all of your comments before.

I wanted to have somewhere to say how I felt when I woke up in the middle of that first night, and I thought it was a nightmare I'd woken from...only to reach out and touch him just in time to remember it was true.

When I realized a good part of my struggle was not only losing that feeling of trust, but also, losing our whole dynamic--we've always been of a DD bent, he's always been the Boss--I wanted to spew my confusion onto someone.

Then, when we had sex for the first time again--Lord, I wanted to write then! But, I feared that you guys would tell me I was crazy. That I should have waited. That I should have left.

One of my managers in training asked me the other day, "If you couldn't keep his attention the first time, what makes you think you're going to cut it now?"
 
I had to pull off the side of the road after work because I couldn't see through the tears. And, confusingly enough--the person I chose to talk to about all of it?

Was Steven. He told me I should have told her to go pleasure herself. At my look of confusion, he grinned and explained, "You don't like me to say 'fuck'...I thought you might prefer 'pleasure'." I had to laugh.

It's been a very, very confusing journey, this last week or so. I let him spank me. It felt so normal and right. I don't know how to take that.

He apologized when we had sex again, for being dumb and for not giving me what I needed, and he promised to be there.

And, for all my lack of trust, for all that struggle...

I believe him.

So, I wrote.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O1-4u9W-bns

...The Shoe Fell...

Ok, guys. I'm just gonna be honest here. This is going to probably be my last post for a good little while. I'm hurting and confused and just not at all feeling inspired to write.

He cheated. Has been, the whole time we've been together. It's all been online, nothing in person. Just websites and role play and pretend, fantasy sex with other women. But, I've been ignorant of it the whole time. I feel very much like I've been caught with my pants down. And, even though he may not have ever touched another woman, that emotional and mental connection was there.

I'm not going to go into how I found out, or the long hours of tears and panic and that final, horrible confrontation.

The sinking feeling in my gut when I called and he asked what all I had seen.

We've decided to try and work it out; I don't feel strong enough for it, but I'd never forgive myself if I didn't try. I've invested too much to just walk out.

Needless to say, however, DD is out of the picture for the moment. Without that level of trust..I just don't feel it's appropriate. But, I think this can be dealt with. And, I think, if our relationship does survive this particular bitch of a storm, we'll go back to DD at some point.

Maybe that's when I'll write again.

But, for now, goodbye. It's been a pleasure hearing your comments and support and sympathy and even chastisement of sorts for some of my more outlandish stunts. Thank you all. I've so enjoyed your friendship.

--Grace

The Shoe Is Falling! The Shoe is Falling!

Maybe ya'll have heard the old saying, "Waiting for the other shoe to drop"...

(Please ignore any political connotations of this picture...I just feel like the squished people lol.)

I think I live my life that way: just waiting for that other shoe to drop. If we're out on the lake, I'm looking for the rain clouds. If I make fifty bucks, I'm immediately thinking about gas and groceries, and oh, my gosh, we're gonna go broke and whatever will we do?

And, when Steven and I are googly-eyed and happy and lovey-dovey and everything's going swell--I'm fully expecting him to turn to me and say he gives up, sorry, we were a good try...have a good life. (Reminds me of that song '"At A Red Light" by David Nail). And, I'd be left with the biggest ever hole, right where my heart and happiness used to be. I think, sometimes, it's almost worse when we're especially happy, because that's when I'd be the most miserable if he left.That means, after we've had a great little run, I usually start doing some pushing.

If he asks about my day, I give little more than a grunt or a, "It's fine."

If he spanks me, I fight tooth and nail. (Not that that ever helps or anything...just hurts...but, for some reason, I feel compelled to try it.)

When he helps out around the house, I just tell him I would have gotten around to it.


And, I wind up very sore, and with a very confused boyfriend. This past week has definitely been one of those weeks. I think I've been spanked at least once a day for the majority of it.

But, then, the other day, I was at work, musing over my barrage of sharp comments and snappy tones and my very sore bottom, when it struck me.

I was coping.

Ew.

Prepping myself for something that hadn't happened, and wasn't going to happen.

Sabotaging the good that we were having.

Ew.

So, I went home and told him about my little epiphany.

"So, that's why I do that!...I think."

"Mm. I'd noticed it was after a good streak."

"Yep." I'm sure I looked supremely smug with myself. Wonderful deducing skills in action, right here. :)

"Well, now we know, we can work on it." Cue face-fall here. I mean, I discovered the reason...shouldn't that make it fixed??

Nevertheless...

Steven's dictated a fix.

And, I don't want to hurt us, so I'm more than willing to go along.

"Dangerous" Doings Don't Pay

I think I've mentioned before that we live in a rather old house. It has an upstairs, a ground floor, and then an unfinished basement.

Now, as a general rule, we don't really go upstairs. Truthfully(embarrassingly), it kind of freaks me out, so I just leave it to itself. However, there's a large living room/dining room that we want to start utilizing. It has gorgeous woodwork and a stunning fireplace. Buuuutttt....

We've been using it for storage, and the carpet is currently puke-green. (I love my great-grandmother, but she did NOT have good taste). So the job becomes carrying allllll the stuff we've stuffed there upstairs and pulling up the carpet to reveal the hardwood beneath.

This morning, Steven was working on some things on the computer, but I was working on the room. I wanted him to hurry. I went and tried to tell him to hurry. He remained. (Granted, what he was doing was important but still! Patience is not my thing.)

So, I went back and started carrying things up the steps. A box. A box of books. A heater. A fake Christmas tree. (You can see the escalation here?)

Finally, a chair that had been bothering me---well, I tripped over it. In frustration, I hauled it up and started rolling.

I made it to the foot of the stairs and looked up. It was a lonnnnngggg way up. But, I'm a stubborn chick, so I rolled it up the first little bit. Paused to pant. Rolled it up the second little segment. Paused. Panted. Finally, made it to the top.

Unfortunately for me, Steven heard the repetitive thumping, and, when I turned to go back down the stairs, there he was, scowling up at me.

"You do know you're in trouble?"

"For working?" I plastered a quite appalled look on my face.

"For letting your impatience get the better of you, and causing you to do dangerous things." I begged and wheeled, and got off with a lecture. But, I guess he'd been stewing, because my next semi-heavy thing hauled up the steps....

And, I was right back to square one.

He spun me around, and, what can I say? Instinct is to cover and protect. So I did. Fighting any kind of discipline is kind of a no-no, so a few stand-up swats quickly became,

"Didn't we just have this fighting conversation? You can go wait for me in our bedroom."

And, I did.

And, ouch.

And, now, he's gone out to get breakfast. And he's left me some very strict instructions on what I can and cannot do in his absence. Since, apparently, I can't judge what's safe for me to finagle upstairs, rule number one:

Don't take anything upstairs.

I can pick up the trash.

I can do laundry.

Dishes.

Whatever.

Just not what I want to be accomplishing.

The Gas Rule Strikes Again

In my last post, I discussed a new rule that Steven had put into place: the "I can't go below a quarter tank" rule.

Three days ago, I broke it.

In horror, I watched as the little needle slipped further and further down, and finally, dipped below the quarter tank line. Since there is a stricter punishment for dropping below and not mentioning it, I drug myself inside to face the music.

"Babe...."

"Mm?"

"I...wellllll...."

"Gas? Already?"

And, I got spanked. I swore up and down, whilst facing the hardwood, that I'd get gas the next morning, the very first thing, if only he'd stop spanking me.

It took forever, and wasn't based at all on my pleadings, but he stopped.

We went on about our night. And, the next day--

I drove straight to work.

It wasn't until I pulled into our driveway that I noticed--not only had I forgotten to put the gas above a quarter tank, the gas light was actually on!

"Babe......."

"You forgot."

And, the spoon danced again on my backside. (This is getting a bit repetitive, I know...welcome to my butt's world.)

And, then, yesterday--

 I drove straight to work.

We ended up going to my ex-step-dad's, so we left my car at work.

There are no guarantees that when I turn the key, it'll even come on.

And, yep--

I met the spoon again.

Sigh.

SOOO not my favorite rule.

:(

Dah Dah Duuuuuuummm

We have a new rule.

It's a toughie.

And, ya'll may make fun of me for struggling with it.

But, the truth is--the rule was made two days ago, (the night Steven returned from Bristol), and I've already broken it once.

Now, I'm not malicious with the breaking of this rule. I don't MEAN to break it. I just...am not very good with it.

It's the GAS rule.

I can't go below a quarter tank. I know, I know, that sounds stupid.  But, I run out of gas(his definition of running out, not mine) ALL the time.

My definition: My car is stopped dead in the road and will not turn back on or move forward.

His definition: My car hiccups whilst the gauge points to E.

My car will die three times and continue--it's not til the fourth time that the engine cuts out for good.

You can see where we might have a butting of the heads at this.

But, I'm beginning to think he might be serious about it. My reasoning?

I'm serious about this, Grace! It's time you start listening to me about this! If your gas gauge drops below a quarter tank, you may as well stop the car, turn it off, and sit there, because you're in trouble. To you, that quarter marker is as good as dead stop empty. 

Ew.

What else is there to say about that?

Except maybe "ouch".