+18 years


Suffocated, Photo by Hasan Almasi on Unsplash

It’s been a long time since I’ve posted a little blog entry. I’d like to tell you that it’s because everything has worked out with the woodcutter, and we’re living happily along the Canal de l’Ourcq… But you know me well enough to know that’s not the case.

Well, I haven’t posted anything, because I’ve been through a lot, and not all of it has been exciting, and now that summer’s coming to an end, I’m going to need several articles to tell you all about it…

The lumberjack returns

As I wrote my last article, oscillating between hatred and hope, I have entire notebook pages covered with “Connard” written angrily in black felt-tip pen. Like a scream, I went over the letters several times, engraving them on several pages.

Then he finally answered. And me, this story, so practical, with a neighbor, I wanted to believe it.

After a little exposure of each of us (literally and figuratively), we slowly resumed this relationship that had all the makings of a couple. In fact, it was he who ended up proposing that we get together after our respective weekends. And hope returned.

First I was proud, for the first time I’d put into words what I was waiting for, and he didn’t seem to be running away.

There were more than a few red flags. The messages were far too timid, the lack of initiative, the lack of space he gave me… but everyone has their own rhythm, and maybe that reassured me too. My freedom wasn’t tarnished.

We went out, we went to restaurants, we went to the movies, we watched series together, we talked, about anything and everything. Obviously, we weren’t sex friends, and I was fine with that.

Body complicity
On the other hand, if I’m really honest about it, it was the moments of tenderness and sensuality that I cherished most. I could have done without the restaurant, in fact I felt embarrassed most of the time. The spark just wasn’t there. It was flat, our conversations didn’t really connect.

But when our naked bodies touched, when my fingers stroked her skin, I suddenly felt complicity. Our bodies were complicit, but our minds had trouble finding that complicity.

I’ve always thought of myself as rather funny, but not necessarily very pretty. With him, it was just the opposite. In the hollow of his arms, in the depths of his pupils, I felt sexy, cute and even beautiful sometimes.

My neurons, on the other hand, felt sidelined. As if paralyzed, the jokes wouldn’t come, no topic of discussion was worth a little theatrical flourish, an improvised caricature, a well-thought-out pun. Nope.

Only tickling could free the laughter from our throats. Tickles and her angry beaver face.


For me, humor is THE quality I look for in a man. And he certainly had a sense of humor, but not the same as mine… probably.

Why did I bother? That’s a real question. Why did you do it?

Because the complicity of our bodies blinded me. As if drugged by tenderness, as if stung by sensuality, I always wanted more. So much for silent dinners, for conversations that fell flat.

I wanted that thrill, that boring midday meal that ended with a passionate kiss on her doorstep and then flared up even further.

Yes, I wanted our bodies intertwined in the shower, his arms holding me tightly after sex, our legs intertwined on the sofa, his hand on my thigh in the cinema, his lips on my neck…

In short, I fell into body dependency, plain and simple.

I could have predicted it wouldn’t go any further, but I still wanted to live in this bubble of tenderness, in this cocoon of bodies that understand and know each other better than our minds.


But that’s without taking into account the man’s ability to feel suffocated. We saw each other twice a week, I didn’t write him tons of messages, I didn’t call him, I generally adapted to his schedule, and to mine. But it was already too much for him.

After an evening of mixed emotions, our bodies were once again reconciled under the sheets. As I left the restaurant, I was thinking “There’s something wrong between us, something unnatural, an awkwardness, a lack of fluidity? After succumbing to his caresses, I could only think of one thing, the fear of not seeing him again before my vacation.

In 5 days, I’d be gone for two weeks, and in 5 days, our bodies would no longer be able to touch, brush against or taste each other… So, with my lips sealed, I asked him if we’d see each other again before I left.

After all, we live 3 minutes away on foot, 3 tiny minutes, so we could find an hour to see each other again.

But his answer was not at all to my liking. Too busy, “Happy vacations”. While my face betrayed my frustration, my fists clenched and my neurons imagined them crashing into his face, he smiled and changed the subject.


“But I don’t give a fooooouuus about your shitty amusement parks!!!! Oh oh! Don’t you want to see me before I leave? Don’t you want to hug me, bite me, kiss me, fuck me? Arrrrggghhhhh”. The words didn’t pass my lips, fortunately.

So it’s fair to say that when he left that evening, I was at the height of my frustration and disgust, and I was slowly beginning to mourn the loss of the whole thing.

As if on cue, just when I wanted nothing more to do with him, the next day I bumped into him on my way to the office. He greeted me with a big smile and was about to stop. I didn’t feel like it, just smiled briefly and went on my way.

What did I expect from all this? Maybe I wanted him to fight, to tell me he’d find some time. Then again, he would have had to write. Or maybe I just wanted our bodies to meet one last time.

Suffocated, but not a bad chap!

One day, two days, three days without news. Not a text, not a question about important deadlines I had at work. Nothing.

Ah well, it’s a good thing I’d let myself go into someone else’s arms last week… I write a first draft of a message, let the rage pass, rewrite a few passages, and send it.

The message is far too long, but I share with him my feelings, my desire for more, my frustration. Rarely have I laid myself so bare. I’m leaving my role as the girl who doesn’t give a damn, the girl who only wants sex. Yes, I’m leaving my role as the liberated girl who feels nothing but desire.

I’d expected a lot more from him before. After this message, I don’t expect anything from him, I imagine he’ll never reply.

However, in a last burst of respect, he replies with a message that is also full of honesty and kindness. He explains that he feels suffocated for not much, and that I’m already too much.

It’s the end, without debate. The crying is over. All that’s left is bitterness.

Bitterness and withdrawal. Like a drug addict who doesn’t get his fix, I’m more irascible, I get depressed, I shut down a little. And then I look for other ways to have fun…