Home Is An Undisclosed Location, Even To Me Sometimes

'Cause they're calling, calling, calling me home
Calling, calling, calling home
You show the lights that stop me turn to stone
You shine it when I'm alone
Noises I play within my head
Touch my own skin and hope that I'm still breathing

~ Lights, Ellie Goulding, Richard Stannard and Ash Howes

When I read his greeting, I had the strangest feeling.   I'd seen the little green light next to his name and I wanted to say hello, so I did.  When I began chatting with men online two years ago, I almost always waited for them to initiate, adhering to my mother's long-ago admonition that nice girls did not call boys.  But somewhere along the line, corresponding with fellows about ******** and queening, about buttplugs and nipple clamps, receiving cyber kisses that were better than those I've had in my marriage in many a year, I snapped.  I decided being a nice girl was not all it'd been cracked up to be, and I started making the first move now and again.  Not all the time.  But when the spirit moved me.

When I got up in the morning, I'd chatted with him for a brief time, allowing him to initiate the contact.  He was watching NFL football, lazing about on a Sunday, and I think he may have thought that I'd be around much of the day as well, available to chat.  I disabused him of the notion in the nicest possible way, letting him know that I was off to the playhouse for a matinee.  He asked what I was going to be seeing, a question I ignored, as I am sometimes wont to do when I don't want someone to know my precise whereabouts. 

I bid him adieu and went off to lose myself in a fine production of -- oho!  Oh, no, you don't.  You're not getting that out of me.  I've protected my secret identity too long to give it away now.  Let us merely agree it was a Shakespearean play, one in which several of my chums were performing.  Brilliantly, I might add.  It was a wonderful afternoon's entertainment.  I'll tell you about it sometime, not specifying when I saw it so that you can't figure out which city I was in because after all, Shakespeare is performed all over the world all the time.  I just don't want to give too many details so you can't pin me down.  I don't want to be pinned down anymore, you see.  I console myself with the thought that it won't be that many more years before I'll be able to fly off just like my chicks are about to do.

When I returned to Chez Nips, I logged back on, eager to see if he was there.  He was.  I couldn't resist initiating.  He responded promptly.

me:  Good evening, J
him:  hello M....welcome home

I responded instinctively, like a wild animal who's been cornered.  It felt like he was trying to insinuate himself into my life, into my house, into my head as part of the mindfuck that happens when cyber lovers pretend they're actually part of someone's 3D existence.  God knows I've done it myself often enough, inviting a cyber lover to put his head in my lap while he's relaxing on the sofa in his den.

The problem is that I don't want to go there again.  I don't want a man to get under my skin, to allow him to make me feel that comfortable with him, I do not want to fall in love any more.  At least not until I'm free from my current entanglements.  I want to play and I want to write and I want to have *******.  Lots and lots of them.  But I don't want anyone to become too close to me.  I did that once or twice and proved to be a very idiotic thing. 

So I lied.  I don't usually do that.  I prefer to just not answer, to change the subject, to redirect.  One time last summer I was uncomfortable not providing full disclosure on something, but I didn't want a gentleman to be completely in the dark, so I chose to provide a little forewarning of what I was planning to do, and that turned out to be a fiasco.  It's best to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me God.  But a woman has to protect herself. So I answered him thusly:

me:  about that...
I'm not at home
but thank you for the welcome
him:  oh
me:  so how was your afternoon?

We continued chatting.  To his credit, he did not press me for my location.  I was sort of impressed by that.  He lets me reveal what I wish to, and if he senses me getting edgy, he backs off.  As I thought about it, I realized I'd not really lied to him.

I'm not home, you see.  I'm not really sure where home is anymore.  I love my children, and I know they say home is where the heart is, so since my heart is with them, I must be home when I'm in this house with them.  But I used to define home as being wherever my husband was.  That was the piece of my heart, the piece he held, that determined the location of my so-called home.  It didn't really matter where I lived, as long as I was with him.  That held true for the first 9 or so years of our marriage until things began to go a bit sour.  After that, it was harder for me to identify home the same way. 

Don Draper, in his presentation on the carousel slide projector, referred to "a place where we ache to go again."  My gentleman friend unwittingly tapped into that, I think.   He's got that rare gift, a gift I have as well, to pick up on the desires of someone and provide them almost unthinkingly. 

I want to be welcomed home.  But I'm goddamned if I know where it is.

milkynips milkynips
46-50, F
3 Responses Dec 10, 2012

I have actually felt...
feelings from childhood..
of being homesick....
now i understand why...
i, too, feel as though
i am rootless...
no place to call "home"...
so instead of missing a home i can identify...
i feel as tho i have
this too shall pass...
joyinthejourney, clg

It will, yes. I think Bon is right. We make our home, you know. Let's do that, clg. :-)

Sometimes I feel as though your obsession with hyper secrecy borders paranoia. It's certainly not going to assist you in finding both Mr. Right and a love for your heart. We just can't get anywhere in life if we don't place our trust in others and reveal things about ourselves. Unfortunately, love is a trial and error process. We have to take chances, give some to get some.

"I want to be welcomed home. But I'm goddamned if I know where it is."<br />
<br />
You and me both, Dear. May you find that which you seek in this life. As I write this, my glass is raised to you. <br />
<br />
Well, technically speaking, it's a coffee mug, but you know what they say, "it's the thought that counts, right"?