The Ghost Who Ghosted Me

Eating ass, falling in love, and ghosting!

Vecteezy

Heauxclaimer: This piece is a messy work in progress. Names have been changed. 

I can’t believe there was ever a time in my life when I thought I didn’t want my ass eaten. For years I thought, “it just ain’t for me!” Turns out, the partners I had were eating it wrong! That is of course, until I met Tyler. 

Tyler first hit me up on one of the apps. Grindr, duh. He was persistent, but in truth, I barely ever met anyone off Grindr. Afraid of meeting up with someone with ill intentions. So even though I’d reply from time to time, I rarely ever followed through. 

About a year after his initial message to me, I ran into Tyler at a gay bar in West Hollywood. By “ran into” I mean, I walked by him, we briefly locked eyes and time slowed down enough for my brain to process, “this muthafucka is gorgeous!” You ever had that moment? Nipples harden, breath gets short, and your down south hole starts screaming at you through a cloud of moisture!  But I’ve always been bad at approaching guys. I can walk into any space and make friends, but to tell someone I want to choke on their throbbing cock? Well honey, I’m a little too classy for such forwardness. And, AND, ANNNNND….scared of rejection. So, what does one do when they're scared of rejection? They log onto Grindr, find the old message thread, and text… “hey”. To my surprise Tyler responded and our chat was rekindled. 

Here’s why I ultimately agreed to meet up with him. Tyler very clearly stated what he wanted to do to me (so hot!) one of those things being, eating my ass. That wasn’t the selling point for me, because up until now, someone eating my ass felt like a rabid frog on an episode of that show “Hot Ones” where celebrities gag on spicy wings. Let me be clear, I’m a Taurus, so I take care of my hole better than most people take care of their newborns. My hole is my pride and joy. Impeccable! But there are some tongues on the loose that need to be locked up! Anyways, back to Tyler. Tyler then expressed that he’s bottomed in the past, so he knows the work it takes to prep for and take dick. And then he said, “I’ll take care of you.” Those five words changed my sex life forever. No one had ever said that to me in the context of sex. Most times guys (specifically tops) just want to fuck. What I mean by that is our societal understanding of sex and sex education is that it is for the man’s pleasure. The penis’ pleasure. So those of us on the receiving end of dick rarely think about our own pleasure. Rarely think about what would take care of us. If you’re like me, you’re just grateful someone wants to fuck you! 

“I’ll take care of you.” Words born from empathy. Ugh, what a concept to bathe in. Sex requires empathy! 

So, I agreed to meet up with him. He didn’t live too far from me—like a five minute drive down the hill. The next evening, I went over. Immediately I was greeted by his 100lb German Shepherd that swore he weighed no more than a French bulldog. Being that I have a 60lb pit with the same complex, me and the Shepherd got along immediately. 

From the paused animated images on his TV, it was clear that Tyler was playing video games to pass the time. Once I was seated on his couch, he poured me a glass of water and grabbed himself a Gatorade, then asked if there was something I’d want to watch. I was used to guys wanting to get right to sex, but this chance to just chill was a welcomed foreplay.  I was on what was possibly my 5th rewatch of Scandal, so it’s what I suggested. I love Kerry Washington, and worship at the altar of Shonda Rhimes, but between the fast dialogue, and one of the characters torturing a corrupt DC official, the mood wasn’t exactly right for ass eating. Tyler smiled and said, “What the fuck we watching?” I love directness.  I retorted, “You better put some respect on Olivia Pope’s name.” He laughed. Our banter was good. Like really fucking good. I’d throw a little shade at him, and he’d throw it right back.

Finally, he lit a joint, inhaled, and blew out the smoke, then softly passed it to me. I did the same. “You talking a lotta shit, but let’s see what that mouth do” he said. So I showed him, leaning in for a kiss. Listen, I have bigger lips, and sometimes guys with smaller lips, don’t know what to do with them. Usually that’s okay, because not to toot my own horn, but I’ve been making out with people of all creeds since high school, so I know how to adjust so it’s pleasurable for both of us. But sometimes they overcompensate and try to swallow my mouth whole. I call those muthafuckers, SALMON—swallowing your mouth like a salmon swallowing water.  By the time they’re done, it looks like I was drinking from one of those old school water fountains–but it’s their saliva dribbling down my chin. I like being wet, honey, but not like that. Tyler’s kisses were perfect tho…And that tongue. He used his tongue like a world-renowned chef returning to his first kitchen---passionate, confident, effortless. After a few minutes, he asked if I wanted to move to the bedroom. I think my dick standing at attention answered before I could. He turned off Olivia Pope and led me to his room where a scented candle was burning, mood lighting in a soft blue washed over his bed, and a playlist of Doja Cat, Ari Lennox, Sza, and other R&B titans reverberated. Did I mention I’m a Taurus? It was like someone had sent him the codes to my holes. 

We took each other's clothes off as we continued to make out. Then it was time for him to… eat my ass. Something he was excited about, and though not my fave, I find myself turned on by my partner’s turn ons. I assumed the position-all fours on the bed, in front of a gigantic floor to ceiling mirror that took up the entire wall beside his bed. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of myself, and I gotta say bitch, I looked GOOOOOD! I was like, “Who’s she?!” As I was having my Snow White mirror moment, I could see Tyler behind me. And honey, he looked happy. Like front row tickets to Beyoncé happy. Yes babe, he looked at my hole the way I look at Beyoncé! Suddenly from the mirror I watched his face disappear in between my cheeks, and my eyes disappeared into the back of my head. HOLY FUCK! Nipples harden, breath short, hole wet with Tyler’s saliva and joy. Then came the moans. First from me--sounds I had never heard myself make. Then from him. It was like we were building a symphony together. A concerto that went on for thirtyish minutes, never the same note played twice. I became his instrument, my hole, his mouthpiece, but the sounds came out from everywhere. Not just my throat, but my limbs, my spine, my hair follicles. I felt him everywhere. Periodically he’d change my position; from all fours, to legs straight, to on my back, to draped over the bed. He did what he wanted, and I let him. Once he was satisfied, he came up for air. Though he was no longer touching me, my body was twitching like he was inside me. I certainly hadn’t orgasmed in the way I understood orgasms. For my male body, I was told that a cum shot signified orgasm. But this was more intense than any jizz I’d ever squirted. This was spiritual. Yes, having your ass eaten can be spiritual!  It was the first time I experienced a body orgasm.

What was supposed to be a hot one night stand, became a weekly (sometimes twice weekly) standing date. Every Friday and/or Saturday for almost a year, I’d take my ass down the hill and onto Tyler’s face. We never went on a formal date, never went out in public together, never met each other’s friends, never met his roommate (though I heard him in the kitchen once or twice), never had him over to my place, and yet somehow we…fell in love? 

Let’s talk about what “love” means. And what it means to “fall in”.

I think often “love” is seen as something we have plenty of for friends, and family, but can only have for one person romantically. Love has a pressure with it, of not only who you say it to, but when and how to say it. The stakes for love are some of the highest because on the other end of an “I love you” could be a transformative “I love you too”, or an earth shattering, “thank you.” No matter what, love tends to come with expectations. There’s an exchange for said love. Love may mean there's a label on our relationship now. Love may mean expectations of a “goodnight” text  before bed. Love may mean, expectations of being invited as a plus one to birthdays, weddings, and holiday parties. Love may mean we’re bound to each other forever. Love is complicated. At least from every movie I’ve watched, book I’ve read, friend I’ve spoken to. Yet the definition of love according to my girl Google is, “an intense feeling of deep affection”.  “To like or enjoy very much.”

I think love is actually simple. Very simple. It’s us who complicate it with our expectations and conditions. Which, by the way, ain’t nothing wrong with expectations and conditions. But, are there times, moments, people, that you can love without them? Do you need to have dinner dates or meet someone’s roommate, before you can love them? Before you can say, you love them? There was a time I would have said, “Absolutely, yes!” But ironically, the nature of Tyler and I meeting over Grindr, him aware I’m married and non-monogamous, both of us knowing there wasn’t a romantic relationship for us to have (Hubby and I weren’t polyamorous yet), but enjoying the connection very much, perhaps allowed for us to have our guards down. Distracted by the blue mood lighting and weed smoke, perhaps love was able to sneak into the room, and nuzzle itself between the lines of no expectations.  Perhaps, our bodies were saying “I love you” before our minds knew what was happening. And by the time we realized what was happening, we had already fallen. 

Truthfully, I don’t like the idea of falling. Not down a flight of steps, and not in love. Falling implies accidental. Implies that there’s no agency or choice. Google says it means, “to lose one’s balance and collapse.” To “move downward, typically rapidly and freely without control, from a higher to a lower level.” It would seem falling, just kinda happens, without warning. Without a heads-up. One minute you’re standing, and the next you’re not. And if we hold love–especially romantic love-in such high stakes, then the fact that you can just fall in it seems…dangerous? As Nikki Giovanni once said in an interview opposite James Baldwin, “love is a tremendous responsibility.” But falling is always the fantasy of love. The fairy tale of love. That you’re walking along a path and trip over a pebble that brings you to your knees, bowing at the majesty of love. Your brain and heart chemistries, simultaneously altered by the fumes of your new found love’s perfume, cologne, or musk.  I’ve wrestled a lot with balancing the fantasy of love and the reality of it. The pleasure of surprise that you’ve fallen, and the fear of the expectations now that you’ve hit the ground. 

So there I am, on the ground with Tyler. Both of us, bright-eyed and also concerned. Because what do we do with this? “This” being love. There was never a moment I thought about leaving my husband for Tyler. But also Tyler expressed his love was growing and he wanted to be with me, and he was monogamous. Even with our long term desires being at odds, we still weren’t ready to end things. So we sat in the mud pit of our truths, and agreed we should keep talking. Keep an eye on this. “This” being love. And we did. Still keeping our weekly dates. Our sex becoming more intense. Our bodies saying what we couldn’t. Then his birthday month arrived. July. 

Birthdays bring up a lot of reflection. Recalibration. Reevaluation. I know this from experience. Summer birthdays in particular, feel like they are required to be out in the light of the sun. After Tyler and I spent fall, winter, and spring inside together, intuitively I could feel a shift coming. A shift I felt ready to navigate with him. 

A week before his birthday, we had our usual Friday night date. But this was the first time in almost a year that our sex felt…off. Tyler was usually the most compassionate. In fact, I credit my heaux journey to him. From strangers to lovers, he always showed kindness. Was curious. Communicated. And was compassionate. He taught me and inspired me to intentionally be those things for other sexual partners. He taught me that my needs mattered. He expanded my pleasure toolbox. Though I never ate his ass, I certainly learned from him. Turning me into an ass eating Jedi. But on this day, a week before his birthday, he was…rude? Though our banter could be fun and shady at times, some of his remarks on this day felt…mean? Like a boy on a playground bullying the girl he has a crush on type energy. I clocked it, but also wrote it off as him having a “bad day”. I knew he was stressed with work, some life changes he was navigating, and also, this. “This” being love. His birthday was a Thursday, and we made plans to hang out the next evening. For his bday, I sent him a box of cookies, which he thanked me for and then said he had to reschedule our hang. I thought nothing of the rescheduling. But then our communication shifted. Usually if one of us texted, we’d respond within the day. Now he was responding two or three days later. Then four or five days later. Again, I thought, he’s busy with work, life changes, and maybe this. But then it was a month after his birthday and we still hadn’t been able to reschedule.

Writing about it now, I can so clearly see what’s written on the wall, but when you’re in it, you make excuses because sometimes reality is not ideal. I still wanted the fantasy. One month turned into almost two. Summer was nearing an end, and I was feeling ghosted, although he was still responding to me, and saying we’d hang. But I decided to write him one of those direct text messages. A clarifying message. One where I stated that perhaps I was being sensitive and reading into things, but I felt like our dynamic had shifted, and wanted to know if he felt the same. I said that I was happy to give space if it was just work stuff, but if it was about us, I’d like to know. He responded with an equally long text. It was about us. He still wanted me in a way he couldn’t have and didn’t know how to deal with that, and needed space. He promised he would come back to me in time and we could talk about it. I wasn’t expecting our relationship to be the same, but I imagined we’d at the very least see each other and have…closure?

Summer finished. Fall came and went. Winter was in full swing, and still no word from Tyler. By Christmas, I made peace with the fact that after almost a year of hanging out together, Tyler was really not gonna text me back. On New Year’s eve, in an Uber from a party in the valley to one downtown, with many tequila shots housed in my veins, I decided to write Tyler a message. One of gratitude. Gratitude for the relationship we had, the way he took care of me, and for the chance to love him. No blame. No anger. Just gratitude. I had no hope of rekindling, but perhaps hope that he’d express something back. Something that would give me that…closure. 

He never responded.

Because we live so close to each other, and Tyler takes his dog on the trail by my apartment, I assumed, surely we’d run into each other. I played the scenario out in my head. Ones where I confront him. Ones where I politely wave and keep walking. Ones where we stop and catch up, never addressing our ending. 

A few months after my New Year’s Eve text, it was Summer again, and on a Saturday night I found myself on the east side of town. I can’t express this enough, but I am NEVER on the east side of town. Not without two weeks notice, and a passport stamp. But one of the besties convinced me to join him at Akbar, a well known east side gay bar. It was fairly busy, but not crammed. Bestie and I stood at the edge of the bar ordering tequila sprites. As we waited, I turned around to scope the vibes. I scanned from the entrance, through the main bar, finally my gaze arriving towards the back near the bathrooms, where sitting on one of the couches, in a white shirt, baggy jeans, mid laughter was…Tyler. 

Fuck.

It was like seeing a ghost. The ghost who ghosted me. I spun around immediately and moved to the opposite side of the bar, hoping he didn’t see me. Or hoping he did? Either way, I wasn’t ready to talk to him, so I did my best to blend into the sea of East side gays.  A task made difficult by being one of the only handful of BIPOC patrons. My Bestie, confused, grabbed our drinks and followed me. He’s about to say something, but before he can, he sees me kind of looking in the distance, and with concern says, “what happened?” “Tyler’s here” I responded. Bestie locked eyeballs with me, we breathed, and he moved me to the dance floor. I’m trying to remember the rest of the evening, but honestly can’t. Just that I was rattled.

I haven’t seen Tyler since. I think shortly after the encounter I looked at his IG, but he was never really active there, and true to form his last post was from before we met. Recently, over pizza and cocktails, Bestie said Tyler’s name in reference to a conversation we were having about love, and I genuinely asked “who?”. There was a pause, and Bestie gave me a “girl, you know who I’m talking about” look, and then I did remember. Which made me laugh, cuz like, how could I forget? But suddenly, our relationship?...entanglement?…this was so present in my bones. Lightly wrapped in the breeze of him and the memories of us. Whatever “us” was. Gagged by how something so intense and special could vanish as if it never existed. Could be forgotten. Could also burst back into the psyche as if it was just waiting outside the door. And just as soon as I remembered him, we  were on to the next topic, and Tyler was forgotten again. 

Truthfully, he’s impossible to forget. Clearly, because I’m here writing about him.  To “forget” is just protection from the lingering sadness that will always be there. But even if my mind buries him, my bones still claim him. He’s now part of how I love, and informs the way I love. Which is, simply. Because love is simple; it’s everything that happens after, that makes it complicated. It’s the expectations, the conditions, AND the trying to avoid heartbreak that complicates it.  I can see now that ghosting me was a way for Tyler to avoid his own heartbreak. Me, not pushing for radically transparent conversations about this/us, was a way to avoid my own heartbreak. But as my therapist said to me once, “with love comes heartbreak.” It’s inevitable. Think about it, even if you’re with a person for the rest of your life, chances are y’all ain’t gon die at the same time. Which means there will be heartbreak! No amount of closure can help you avoid it. I don’t say that to be a downer, I say it so that maybe you love harder. Love deeper. Don’t be tentative or shy about your love. Love big. Love wide. Love in every breath. If you’re going to eventually have to experience heartbreak, then you might as well experience love. Choose to love. Heartbreak is just proof that you did, so wear it as a badge of honor. Because it is.

I get asked about ghosting all the time. About how to recover from it, especially when it happens with someone you’ve been hanging with for a few weeks, a few months, or even a few years! What I’ve learned is, being ghosted is not a reflection of you. It is not a reflection of your worth. It is not a reflection of how lovable you are. It’s not about having said the wrong thing, worn the wrong thing, or being the wrong thing. It has everything to do with them. That doesn't make it less painful or confusing. It doesn’t make it okay. BUT it’s important for your sanity to know, it is NOT about you.  No matter how many times you replay the relationship, picking apart every second, or studying the last time you saw them, it will never make sense, because it’s not about you. It’s about their shortcomings. Which is not a read or a judgment, just reality. They were unable to give you the love and respect of communication that you deserve. This is where empathy comes back into play. Empathy is necessary for sex, and the sweet parts of a relationship, but also for the “closure” of it. My mother always said to me growing up, “everyone is doing the best they can with what they know and have.” That said, sometimes people’s “best” fuckin sucks. But you don’t have to make that your problem. You don’t have to confuse their shortcomings as your own. Sprinkle in some empathy for wherever that ghost is on their journey. You don’t need to chase them or chastise them for closure. Instead, gently give it to yourself.  Remind yourself, “it’s not me, it’s them.” And then with time–however long it takes– find the lessons, cherish the love, learn from the experience, bathe in empathy, and move forward. 

To be continued or rewritten or left exactly as is. 

---

To send me questions, comments, or share a messy story please email TellMeSomethingMessy@gmail.com

Find me on Instagram or Threads

Find my book You Gotta Be You at local bookstore, Reparations Club

And in case you haven’t heard it yet today, you are so deeply loved. I love you.