The Poly Blog

By: Stygean Hugh

The realization that my lack of clarification of my sexuality has come to me three times in recent days, over drinks with friends through open and honest conversations. However the lack of clarity is an issue that falls to rest in my lap, and as I had once pondered over on bad acid trip, I have a clear understanding that my idea of clarity or straightforwardness may not be aligned with others.

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By: Stygean Hugh

I woke up this morning with him on my mind. It wasn’t the first time and it certainly won’t be the last. I think I was fourteen or fifteen when I eagerly lost my virginity to him, thought I haven’t given it that much thought – a testament to my devotion to our overall friendship. Even at that ripe young age, I didn’t let immaturity get the best of me. Continue reading

By: Stygean Hugh

Dear Main Chick,
I don’t have to slip on your shoes to know that this life hasn’t been a parade for you. In reality, in the beginning I was quite aloof about the reason you couldn’t come to my house yourself and handle your issues. I never understood why ya’ll even bought that shit from us, its garbage and I had guilt about selling. But the more you sent him around the more comfortable I became. Until the day you admitted to me why you wouldn’t handle your own business yourself. No sooner than that, did he tell me you made snide remarks about his trips over here, to procure for you.
I cannot even begin to explain my relationship with him to you. At this point I could drop the class act, and I could drag to light some ugly gruesome facts that, personally, should be left in the grave. Part of me wants to recklessly abandon the last of my moral grandeur and give you all the salacious details, but I can’t. I can’t do that to you because that would be a lie. I have no reason to lie to you. There are some ugly truths out there between the two of you that have nothing to do with me. I’m sorry, but that much is true. You had problems before me, and now, my friendship with him has evolved and I am being used by both of you as an excuse. I’m not ashamed. Nor am I pointing the finger. The lack and dissatisfaction with your life and relationship has nothing to do with me. I can remove myself, but you know, as well as he and I, that it isn’t the root of the problem, just an off shoot of the situation.
We have moments of pragmatic darkness between us, when, whether in a drunken stupor or totally sober, we lie in each other’s arms and just talk. Sometimes he kisses my neck and runs a hand through my hair, and he holds my hand. His kisses are gentle, sweet, and make me fall to pieces on the inside. I often visualize myself crumpled and weeping at his feet for the intensity of my feelings is so hard to live with.
During this last incarceration, you and I had a conversation, which until now stayed between us. It was an echo of the conversations I have had with him about you, and you told me many things. As a woman I tried tirelessly to see your side, to even side with you, but I have read that conversation so many times that it just turns my logical thinking to mush. I start to think, this is how those people on Maury feel.
You told me that you loved him, he was your best friend, but you couldn’t handle him on your own all the time. You told me he had threatened you harm, as well as the kids. I swallow that with a table spoon of salt. I empathize with your plight. It is not easing being a single mom, busting her ass to feed 5 mouths and countless addictions. You told me how he doesn’t help you, he just lays in bed and won’t do anything without Dope being a motivation. I can relate. I both have been there and had a man in that position as well. Little do you know, but he tells me these things. I hear you both echo the same conundrum. The same dissatisfaction. I see two people who tried to help each other out but in the end, the feelings just don’t add up.
For months he has come to me with suspicions about your fidelity. Wearing the socks of another man, he admitted to me that he had come down with something, he wasn’t sure where he got it, and he feared I would think ill of him or not want him. He came to me broken and in despair because nobility runs in his blood, and to abandon you is not like him. He found another man’s clothes, he said, in his closet. Taking the investigative rout, days later he told me he found messages, pictures, and a vast array of “hurtful” communication between you and other men. It was I who comforted him in the heart break.
Last week I got a taste of your irrational mind state (twice!) once when you called him from work. It seemed like you just couldn’t take the hint. He didn’t want to go with you, and he told you that, and in response, you flipped out. You told him it was over, especially when you found out he was with me at the moment. Later he told me his bags were packed and he was going to Hayward. That night he stayed with me, in my bed, because you didn’t come home either.
The next time, well. I’m sure its resonated with you for as long is has with me.
You told me you loved him, but you lie to his face and to mine. If you loved him, if he was your best friend, you would help him and honor him, instead of berate and chastise him for not being whom or what you want. I love him. I love his crazy, and I love his bad ideas. I don’t want to change him, I just want him to be happy. But he won’t leave you, so I watch him, from a distance, as he drowns. I can’t watch him throw away his life for you. You made your choices. It’s not his job to clean up your mess nor is it your job to clean up his. If you loved him, you would recognize his hurt, his depression, and his anger. You would nurture him, love him, help heal. You just let him flail helplessly of life’s shore, hoping he will just sink, or swim.

My aim is not to destroy families, especially yours. I was at one point, prior to all of this mess, eager to make friends. I don’t want to fight about this. My empathy runs deep. Whether you were aware or not, I have kept you in my thoughts all the time. Using you as a guide to keep me from going too far. And maybe the text message was too far. I get it. I hesitated writing this because I so easily step outside of myself and in to the paths of others, I know that if it were me… If I were you, I would knock the teeth out of the back of my head. I would have a long time ago. I wouldn’t want to hear anything that I have to say, and there for, I, as myself, I become defenseless. I get what I deserve. The reality of this painful and dark situation is that we, he and I, have never had sex. Ever, despite ample opportunity and desire. You can’t hate on him for that. That’s life. You’re not dead and I know you have wantonly desired the flesh of another. Its human, its life.

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I don’t know what he wants, and I wonder what he tells you vs what he tells me. I only listen when he speaks in fragmented sentences to me, and it doesn’t take a psychic to know he doesn’t know what he wants. I know what I want, and that’s to not be in the middle of the shit storm. I also know that from here on out, you will always have someone to blame. You can always point the finger at me, because it’s easier to blame the result of the situation than take that long look in the mirror that leads to the root of the situation. I will always be a whore to you, but I will sleep at night because I know I’m not a whore to him. I pray for him, every night and every morning that he gets his head and heart straight. And I will continue to do so.

Signed,
Every one’s favorite home wrecker

By: Stygean Hugh

I lay in bed at night tortured and crippled by the terror of loneliness, with anxiousness force feeding me lines and lies, ; filling me with fear and dread. It’s this fear that drives me, I’m sure, to surround myself with the company of men. Dissatisfaction leaves my doors open to any possibility. Ten years ago I’d have laughed in the face of anyone who’d have balls enough to tell me that I would be so presently loose with my attention. And though mostly celibate, I can only imagine what the neighbors think. Alas, the transgressions of others matters not, as I must stay true to myself. 

Each of them is different, each brings a different dish to the table. I cherish each of them for their unique talents and variety. While scrolling my social media archives I found a post in reference to a dream I had about Joe back in December of ‘14. I knew then he would become one of my many supporters, my fans, loves. 

Amongst my stronger instincts I embody is seeing the future, yet I see Joe only in the now, not in the later. Not like Landon, and certainly not like Ricky. I can see them so far in to the forever, I think I’ve seen them in the before; before this life and well in to the next, in to the always. With both of them I knew so instinctively that they were lost loves from another time, another life, I have never been able to escape that nexus- Not then with Landon, and certainly not now with Ricky. I will never let them go, the laws of love and the universe won’t allow me. 

I miss drugs, mostly Blow, especially when I am suffering from melancholia, and often imagine a stiff drink and a straight line would heal my wounded soul. This last year I have put some things to rest, leaving the past in the grave, but other things linger; haunting the ethereal of my heart, and with these ghosts bring the memories of undead moments, still existing somewhere. Moments I could dull or numb with a smoke and a snoot. I pleasantly recall Lady Morphine, both friend and foe, but still yet just a passing lover. When Lucy came in to my life it was at a time I needed her most, though then I didn’t know it. However, I am glad she came along to reveal the true colors of the world when she did. 

However, it has always been Ms. Lady Jayne, she whose warm embrace has stood the test of time. No man- no arms- no romps in satin sheets- will know the love I know only with her- Sweet and sticky to my senses, , a love so divine words simply lack to give her any literary value. My love. My greatest love. 

I know that which in my heart and mind to be true, that my mind is deteriorating rapidly, my thoughts uncontrollable at times manifesting themselves wildly in to reality. I fear this, and sheer loneliness itself. 

Suicide seems logical at time; beautiful, poetic and horrifying- but logical. My brain longs for stimuli, while nimble, practiced fingers reject the convenience of the keyboard. I long to sit in the sun, to write of the men I love and who love me, the drugs that sustain me, yet I cannot bear the light of day. I linger through sunny hours in wait of darkness, my old friend and comfort. 

It is in this darkness and from my window I expect to find Ricky perched in the stark, feigning to walk the dog as he noticeably notices me. The red candle sits in the sill, a beacon in the night to indicate the door is unlocked for him, unburned. In his unexpected absence, I long for his arms, smooth skin, and wet kisses. A comfort only he can give, yet he comes to me in dreams still- so still I wait- as I always tell him, right where he left me, unmoved, unwavering. 

I am lost in my own heart and mind, a shattered, empty shell of me, never at peace. So glad to be away, so angrily forgotten.