“Touch me again and I’ll drown you, you bastard” Mrs. Doubtfire

Got an email today from one of my cabaret ladies that upset me to the point of ruin. I think we managed to hash it out but it’s still clings to me. When did I become the bitch that nobody likes? Most of my life I was a people pleaser, how can I help? That burden looks heavy, here let me carry that for you… And then a few years ago I realized but the people I thought where my friends at the time absolutely drained me and couldn’t even remember my birthday even when we shared it. The birthday is not important but the fact that it was a one-sided relationship. I had a lot of friends but when I took inventory of who would step up in my time of need should I need anyone, my answer was crickets. So I began doing things by myself and for myself. Now I have a small cultivated, tolerant handful of friends. I’m not mean. I just put myself first more than I used to.

But this email made me realize that the alienation I’ve been feeling was not entirely in my head. People were put off by my sullen attitude but rather than asking what was wrong, and I may or may not have admitted to anything, they just kept letting it rub them the wrong way until I was alone in a corner at rehearsals and the last show. Again, I think with a bit of communication on all of our parts, we can get past this but it still ruined my day.

No, more than ruined my day. Left me sick to my stomach wondering if I should quit. Maybe they wanted me to. Maybe everyone would breathe a little easier if I tapped out. I was going down that rabbit hole. And of all people, Robin Williams popped into my head. Now aside from the clinical depression, I don’t for a minute draw a personal comparison to the humor and talent that man had but my point is, here is a man who is successful, and beloved by most of the world. And he killed himself. We assume often I think that someone kills themself because they are lonely. True, it’s difficult to connect. But I think there is an irrational voice that tries to convince us not only that we are not loved but worse, we are not LIKED.

It’s difficult when you feel like you have no one close enough to talk to, and if you did they wouldn’t understand, or there are certain aspects of your job and the day to day war that you can’t discuss. I met with my VA psychiatrist for a biannual follow up a couple of months ago right after C was killed and she asked if I needed to speak to someone and I combusted and nodded. She said she would put in a referral to the social worker. That was two months ago and I’ve heard nothing. But I even suspect the VA social worker is too burned out to give a damn about my problems. And I’m probably not high-risk enough to warrant a speedy appointment. But really, I don’t want to talk to someone that I feel can’t relate. Or worse, doesn’t LIKE me.

Back to war tomorrow. Next weekend I will be punishing my body in an attempt to heal my spirit hiking a few days around the Cascades. I’ll be with retired Army and retired Marines. And there probably won’t be a single war story between us. I’m looking forward to it.

Advertisements

“The older the fiddle, the finer the tune” ~ M

Awful nightmare during an attempted mid-afternoon nap yesterday. I don’t think I was truly asleep but I was trapped. My nightmare revolved around a thought that nags me when I’m awake: I’m single with no children. My mother is all I have left and when she’s gone, I’ll truly be alone. In my nightmare, my mother had passed and I felt so alone, I killed myself.


Burned sage around the bedroom and the house to try and shake off the funk. I remember something “L” told me: talk to your past, tell it you are breaking those contracts of regret and resentment and you want to clear your name with your enemies. Bring on the peace. Slept better last night but anxiety set in again as the next day wore on and my weekend ran out.

First weekend out of the boot and I put an insane amount of pressure on myself to get out and dance. Showed up to train for Diavolo on Saturday but they were working on another piece I wasn’t in so training canceled. And next weekend because of Labor day, they decided. Too many people out of town. I should have been one of them.

Sunday, I went to an Afro Cuban dance class but it was more Bomba than Afro. I couldn’t see the footwork under the skirts, understood only every fifth word, and felt like my soul never left the bed today. I used the foot to excuse myself 40 minutes into the class.

I called a friend and said last chance to dance this weekend, let’s hit Sunday Sabrosura! But that event is crazy crowded and if you don’t get there early to make friends and find a place to throw your purse, you’ll spend the entire time painting the wall with your backside. She wasn’t up for that.

So two middle-aged, divorced dancers headed to the waterfront to drink and poke fun of the men our aged, trying to pick up on the women half our age. But truth is, around here, a drink and a box of “touch of grey” beardcolor and they get those onesie-wearing 20 somethings. Can’t really blame them. I might have had a daddy complex at that age too. But now I’m 43 and my friend is turning 60. Good dancers, decent shape for our age, career women, low-maintenance…but men around here don’t go for “age appropriate”.


What helped was calling another friend, “S”.  Divorced and in dating-hell as well but on the opposite coast. I told him he’d have much more luck fishing here. We should trade. We chatted about my birthday hiking trip which got postponed when I broke my foot. He’ll be joining me in a few weeks on a fast, exhausting trip around Mt. Ranier. Somehow we got to chatting about another friend of mine who lives a few hours away near Portland. Well, that is, I consider him a friend. We all served in the same Battalion but different Companies. Plus, “M” and I went through AIT together so I knew “M” a bit better than “S” did. Still, “S” being a good wingman mentioned: “If you told him you were coming here, he would make the drive, I’m sure of it”.

“M” was one of those people you (Okay, I) meet and think, he’s a good person, we get on well, he’s into me and he’s not hard to look at… So what’s the problem? Chemistry.

Ten years ago, I cited lack of chemistry. He poured his heart out to me and I was flattered but also crushing on a former sniper turned philanthropist and a year later, a former Jesuit priest turned sniper. You might say I have a type. M particularly hated the Priest. M also never made a move on me so who’s to say a firm hand in my hair and mouth crushing kiss wouldn’t have gotten my attention?


I vaguely recall an article based on some supposed scientific study years ago about how we are instinctually attracted to people with symmetric features.  M is asymmetric in a John Wayne meets Daniel Craig sort of mash up. It’s been more than 10 years now since I’ve seen him in person but in a recent photo, on the day of his military retirement, he is reclining, foot propped on an ammo can, thumbs hooked in his belt loops and squinting into the sun. I think “Lookin good, old man” and I know he would reply “The older the fiddle, the finer the tune”. 

I usually hike solo but I’m staying with “S” and he’s taking time off to hike with me. Would S want to share our time together? I think not but again, I assume he’s just being a dutiful wingman suggesting I mention it to “M”. But it got me thinking.

So I text M. Said it was only three days, I was staying with S, understood it was a far drive…he text back immediately “Shoot, it’s only a three hour drive. I’m down for a hike and a drink.”

I panicked a little then and laid the groundwork of expectations: “I’m fat and slow now so don’t judge.”

He replied “I’ll leave it to the Christians to do the judging.”

I said “Great! Can’t wait to pee in the woods with you next month”.

“That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me” he text back.


Maybe he wont be able to make it, I think. Maybe I don’t want him to. I don’t have any mojo currently. Especially after Friday night’s costuming attempt at home that became a private humiliation, discovering I couldn’t squeeze into pre-laced corsets that I fit just two months ago. I was big then and I’m even bigger now.

So there I was: Prancing around feeling like I was caught in a giant Chinese finger trap, singing “Look ma! I’m a sausage!” and wondering if I was going to have to call for backup before I finally Hulked and ripped the zipper clean off. Fuck, that was my leather Gamora / BDSM corset too.

Meanwhile, M looks the same. And I’m obsessing “Maybe he wont come. Maybe he wont want me anymore. Maybe I wont want him. Maybe he will want me but still won’t make a move. Maybe his dick doesn’t work either, I mean, he is ten years older than me…maybe I should just stick to hiking alone. And don’t nap in the afternoon. And for g-d’s sake, don’t wear that tunic with those pants anymore…”

Another blogger I follow just posted this:

“Until the new moon in Virgo on Friday, we stand in the liminal darkness of the waning Moon, the dark of the Moon. Slowdown your pace, reflect, contemplate, clean, cleanse, purge, stretch, create space for the wisdom to enter, collect the strength from the Earth, lay low.”

But I’ve been “laying low” for 7 weeks while my foot healed. But if this weekend proves anything, it’s that Something or Someone is still holding my arms and trying to tell me “pace, reflect, cleanse”. Heal. Create space for wisdom to enter. These thoughts racing through my head this weekend do not come from a place of wisdom. Okay, okay…I’ll try to do better.

“My heart belongs to da da da da da da da…” Peggy Lee

I can go decades without watching television but while recovering from parathyroid surgery a few years ago, I steamrolled through all seasons of Downton Abbey. Now with a broken foot, I’m hooked on Derry Girls on Netflix. Not only do I love the nostalgic soundtrack of being a teenager in the 90s, it delivers one-liner after one liner without feeling forced. And Im sure I’ve already mentioned that I don’t think much is funny since John Candy passed. “Erin” has an elastic face that reminds me of Jim Carrey (who I also don’t think is funny but his face is impressive the way it pulls and peels from one ridiculous expression to another). Resting, “Erin” is an ordinary looking girl until her lips peel back, eyes bug, and nose turns up. And I’m cracking up while also thinking “Good God girl, put that thing away!”

Less than two weeks until our next cabaret show, the one Ive secretly dubbed the “Boring show”. So boring that I couldn’t even come up with a better nickname than “the boring show”. I’m already missing the Halloween show part of me I wondered if I should just miss this one too. Because of my foot, they’ve left me out of almost every number. I suppose I can’t fault them for that even though it would be relatively simple for them to put me back in if MRI results come back positive. But the set list is very tame. Almost strictly Broadway. The fantastic, complicated and inappropriate crowd pleasers are not in the set list.

So I’m agonizing even more so than usual over carefully selecting my solo singing numbers. I’ve decided to try my hand at channeling Grace Slick while our contortionist gets weird. But the other number, I have no one to assist. Considering the placement of it being the last number before intermission, “Why don’t you do right” aka the Jessica rabbit “Get me some money too” song seems perfect to one of the girls come out and dance around while passing the tip hat. I was told firmly that no one was available. So then I considered Peggy Lee “Fever”. I don’t particularly like it plus it’s more played out than Greenday on commercial radio but I also know for a fact that the girls love the song and would like to sooner rather than later work a routine around it. So maybe I just sing it and give them a taste of what it would sound like with me versus a canned track. But then Peggy Lee’s version of “My heart belongs to Daddy” played. The syncopation reminded me of Copacabana and I was instinctively choreographing it in my head. Yeah, I could nail this one without any backup.

So I asked a few friends who are coming to the show for their opinion. Out of the three songs, which did they prefer to hear? Unanimously, they all chose Greenday (I mean “Fever”). I wonder if this is what bands feel like every time someone in the audience yells out “Play Freebird!”

“In the Summertime, when it’s hot outside, and the streets are bare, there’s no one there” ~Black Keys

 I skipped sitting on the sidelines of Cabaret rehearsal to follow the
excited advice of a nurse: Go to the ER now! I napped on a hospital bed
while a retired Colonel ran tests on my heart. My ticker is great to my
relief. It’s something else. What that is, no one knows yet but it’s not my
heart so that’s all I needed to hear. 
. How many times did they ask me “Do you have anyone here with you? Do you want us to call someone?” Nope. And Nope. I know in a worst case scenario, CK would come swiflty. But I don’t want him. I note the absence of a ring on my doctor’s hand as we trade a couple of war stories. He’s too old for me, complete with wooden cane, but he’s funny and his cane adds to his austere image the way a pair of glasses makes people look “smart”. HOw did you break your foot, he asked? Living like I’m still 23 instead of 43. He laughed and said “right on”.
Cabaret presses on like I’m not there and not coming back. New choreography without me. New dancers. Even a new singer to create competition in the one market I had cornered. 
Three weeks until my podiatrist follow up and I still feel the break in my
foot. But three weeks more is all you get, I silently tell No One. Then I
need to dance. I need to train. I logged back into Crackbook briefly to view
dance events coming up at the end of the month, when I hopefully get the
green light from the doctor. Nothing looks particularly inspiring. Or maybe
that’s my state of mind grumbling. 
I’ve gone from panicked “WTF do I DO with myself?!?!?!” to “I don’t want to
do anything”. 

Feverish planets, climate crisis, and the now-public sweeping under the rug
of military sex-crimes have fired up the nightmare machine again. Plus I
still think of “C” unbidden. His name popped up in a spam email this week
and I wondered if he was reaching out to me from the grave or if it was
something more malevolent and real. Times like this, I do wish I wasn’t so
isolated. 

My breath catches and chest tightens but not like “false alarm” heart attack
of yesterday. No, this is just despair. My headphones are on at work but I’m
not listening to anything. I don’t know what is more distracting: the
converastions around me or the music that I’m not feeling.

And I could lie, say I like it like that, like it like that ~ Billie Eilish

One of my sisters recommended the Patti Smith autobiography “Just kids”. I put it off because we don’t have the same taste in a lot of things. But foot being in a cast and on crutches, my calendar is suddenly clear for the next 6 weeks or so. That means I have more time to catch up on reading. Time but not necessarily the attention span.

It was an insanely busy day at work for reasons I can’t say here but I was grateful for the distraction. Otherwise I would be mooning about not being on Mount Rainier right now.

I was impressed by the family and friends that remembered it was my birthday even without a Facebook prompt. CK rememberd and wished me a ‘happy birthday’ which I expected. Even as I mourn the death of C, I wish I could find words to tell CK how much I did and still do appreciate him for being better to me than anyone, but I don’t know how to say it without leading him on.

My mother called to wish me a ‘happy birthday’ as well but the phone kept disconnecting probably due to the weather. Neither my mother nor I enjoy talking on the phone much so she was probably relieved that it disconnected so soon into the conversation and I did her a favor and didn’t try to call back. We live 40 miles away and communicate mostly by email just as we did when we were continents away. Still, she’s my best friend and my last surviving life line. She’s not in good health either so I’ve spent the better part of the last 10 years in a mild panic over what I will do without her. I’ll have no one. It sucks when family that you love deeply passes away as everyone does, but the pain is usually more bearable when you have a partner to lean on.

Ihave no one. No one but my mother. She talked me down from the ledge when C died. She took me to the hospital years ago when I decided death was starting to look attractive.

A broken foot doesn’t make me suicidal. Just bummed out as fuck.

So I make the effort to do something for myself, whip up a homemade spicy pasta on which I overindulge and two glasses of red. I’ll need to head out in a few minutes to a cabaret rehearsal, just to show face. I will tap out when the girls start dancing without me. Or when I feel like I can no longer keep my attitude in check, whichever comes first.

“If you can’t hold on, hold on” ~The Killers

I told my family I loved and appreciated them. I don’t say it enough even
though they occupy the first row of my mind. I’m nearly 43 and my mother
still covers me with a blanket. I fear the day she’s no longer here. I’ll be
alone and that’s a fact.
Last night, I was dry-eyed as I moved a few pictures of “C” to a folder
where they would be out of sight but not deleted. Even the picture of the
apple and honey as he observed Yom Kippur with me long distance.
I’m compartmentalizing, I think.
Although as I nurse my forsaken body from a the most punishing training in
years, the grief creeps into the stillness. Of all feelings, there is an
intense loneliness that I havent felt in years. Back when I used to think I
would die alone and cry myself to sleep barricaded by pillows at night.
Well, I still believe I will die alone but I had reached a space where I was
okay with that. Now, I’m back to wishing I had someone that I could call
just to come over and “distract” me for an hour or two. Take the edge off.
Touch me. But it can’t be just anyone. Who do I even want? Who even wants
me? Both faces are necessary to make a coin so I’m flat broke as ever.
Thirteen days, I’ll be another year older and had plans to again, again, to summit
mountains. One of my few friends will be with me this time and as honest as
we have always been with each other, I’m afraid he will mistake my
loneliness as an invitation. I don’t know if I’m physically capable of doing
10+ miles a day on a mountain right now with my knees and feet swollen and
taped. I don’t know if I’m up for conversation either.
During a round of acupuncture at a community clinic, I watched him through
my eyelashes: former Cavalry, Afghanistan vet, a humanitarian, a healer,
married with two kids. Two fat tears leaked out and I was grateful for the
darkness. All the good ones are gone. Or their dick doesn’t work.
Or they didn’t pick me.
That’s something my mother gently reminded me of. Maybe that’s not THE point
she was trying to make as the only person I’ve discussed the death of “C”
with. But that was my take-away and maybe what helps me cope when the image
of him unstaring, with a bullet hole in his head comes unbidden to mind.
“You offered him a better life, and he didn’t take it,” she said. Reminding
me, he didn’t choose me. If I hadnt completely moved on, I must now. That
business will have to remain unfinished. It was finished to him. I thought I
could “save” him but he didn’t want to be saved. How often do we do that to
ourselves? Cling, thinking we will be the unshakeable force of change in
someone’s life?
And I’m back to wondering if G-d exists, if there is a “plan”, if I have a
“purpose”, if I will die alone…

Later. X-rays confirm one of my feet is broken. Mountaineering is off. Well, postponed until September. I ate the plane tickets. I’ll be at work on my birthday but the worst part is my coping mechanism, dancing, is off the table for six to eight weeks.

“C”

I didn’t hear it from a personal source. No, I learned about it at work, in
detail. More detail than his family will see or know.
Sure, he told me he and his wife were separated, that they were getting a
divorce, that she was already seeing other people…he used to show me her
insane emails and texts and photos of the bruises and scratches she would
leave on him…I got a firsthand taste of her crazy when she found out about
us. But it doesn’t matter if she was nuts or if he lied about the separation
or how many girlfriends he had during his three marriages…none of that
matters because I loved him and it’s hard for me to call it a mistake.
Although it was the first and last time I ever got involved with a married
man. Every day, I drive by a road that bears his name and my eyes are always drawn to it. 
And now he’s dead. Shot in the head by an enemy sniper on a night raid in Afghanistan.
Obviously, because of the circumstances of our relationship, I can’t show up
at the funeral. His kids never met me and his still-current wife
would very likely attack me. And I’ve disrespected her enough already for my part in the affair. So with exception of messaging my mom and my three closest friends who knew what he meant to me, I’ll bear this alone. I
read an article in which his second wife gave a beautiful testimony. I’ll
keep it. 
Unsure about the necklace though. The twisted pearl he gave me for Christmas four years ago. I often thought about dropping it into the ocean, but couldn’t ever bring myself to do it. Holding on, like a charm that might
bring him back to me. It didn’t and now it never will. 
He was my Lightning Strike.  He was everything I desired in a man. Perhaps I was blinded by the chemistry which was unlike anything I’ve ever felt with anyone else. The way he would look at me, unapologetic. We were confidants and compatriots in arms before we were ever lovers. Sitting outside in the darkness watching for incoming rockets like shooting stars. He set the bar by which every man after him failed to hurdle.

Even so, I found the strength to break it off, telling him I was not the
“mistress type” and sneaking around and never meeting his kids was a reminder that I was indeed, doing something “wrong”. I hoped he’d follow through with a divorce and reach back out to me eventually but he never did. Although “C” once told me I was better to and for him than anyone
in his life ever had been, in the years that followed, I thought of him often and never heard from him. So maybe I was the only one between us that cared beyond the moment.
Maybe now I should bury that necklace, the same as they bury him. 
I’m oscillating between dazed indifference and involuntary bursts of tears.
I think of him, naked and shining, climbing atop the furniture in his room,
catching ladybugs and releasing them outside…

Shove your “LOL”

A man that I have no interest in, an acquaintance of an acquaintance, asked me out. I said I was fresh out of a relationship and not interested in dating but he said we could just have a drink and get to know each other, no pressure. I softened and agreed…when I have time. A few weeks passed and he asked if I was available on a Friday night, I explained that I’m on night shift for six weeks, and working every night this week except for THursday which is Cabaret rehearsal. I know I dont need to give a reason, I could have left it at, “this week’s no good”. Still he replied with an LOL and “Are you trying to avoid me?” I bristled with the not-so-distant reminder of similar sentiments from CK. I made time for him but it was never “enough”. I dont miss that guilt trip.
I calmed down and told this fellow “Work is inescapable as is the need for sleep. The breaths of space in between that I set aside for rehearsal with my cabaret troupe is non-negotiable as well.” Of course he replied that he was only joking. Because that’s the disclaimer behind an ‘LOL’ Hurt feelings and thinly veiled truths and all manner of insults can be written off with an ‘LOL’. So ‘LOL’ makes everything okay, right?
He also launched into additional cliche sentiment about how he can’t be compared to my ex. I bristled again and bit back what I really wanted to say which is: You are nothing compared to him. You are nothing to me. He was something to me. You wish you were worthy of comparison to him.

Instead I said “My ex was a wonderful man. Supportive and devoted and I wish things had worked out differently for us.”


In my annoyance and defense of CK, I decided I had no interest in drinks or dinner or friendship or spending even an hour of my precious limited free time with this lesser man. Not whenfamiy and close friends are all standing in line for a turn.

“I’m the bad guy. Duh!” ~ Billie Eilish

Three Thursdays ago would’ve been our month-a-versary. Which I never remembered but he always did. He reached out, in pain, said he won’t pressure me, he respects my decision though he disagrees with it and believes that our story is not finished. I told him that while I am sticking to the decision, I miss him and think of him every day. That was three weeks ago and it wasn’t a lie. Then another week went by and I saw his name pop up on Facebook and suddenly wondered, when was the last time I thought of him? Was it a few days ago? Yes, it had been several days since he crossed my mind. Then another week. And another. And I’m ashamed to admit that I don’t miss him at all.

Why is it that all my unworthy exes who treated me poorly took me so much longer to get over? Even when I was the one who ended it, as I always did, eventually coming to my senses, I thanked G-d as the time between thinking of them gradually stretched out a little further. Still, in every case, it was months and months get to that point. And they were nothing to my heart compared to CK.

Or so I thought. I feel guilty as I wonder again, if I didn’t love him as much as I should have, or as much as I thought I did. He’s suffering and I am not. I am busy as always between a new job (that I DON’T hate), working out new dance routines with my cabaret troupe and reclaiming some sanity with “me time”. If you ask me when the last time I had a climax during penetrative sex was…frankly, it’s been 4 years (since “C”). So as frustrated and rarin’ to go as I am, I’m still not actively seeking to get laid.
The team I work with right now is full of the sort of vibrant, forceful personalities that I would fall in love with (if they weren’t already spoken for). The type of people I’m instinctively attracted to. And as clever as CK can be, he’s not particularly interesting to me. In fact, I used to joke with him he should apply to be a member and the Dull Men’s club. Which is a real, long-standing club by the way. Not everyone has to live an exciting life but by comparison, he and I have little common ground. He sincerely believes his job is interesting and important which always made me want to roll my eyes when he’d tell a work story. Then there’s me, with the job(s) that I couldnt talk about except in the most general terms. Sure, we aligned on the important things like core values but otherwise, we had nothing in common. I don’t believe I respected him enough and I think he kept me on a pedestal, a disastrous combination for the long-term.
Add in bad sex and it becomes the relationship that never should have left the friend zone. My opinion which he doesn’t share.

Or perhpas the nudge to move on came from G-d’s celestial creation as the Vernal Equinox and darkening moon in Aries pulled me away from that which no longer served me. Or so my horoscope said.

And yet CK was always the suffering face of servitude even as I recognized that face of martydom that I wore myself in all my prior relationships…and began to resent him for this unattractive role reversal.

Two months has passed and the only thing I really miss is having someone to talk to everyday. Someone to give a mutual damn about. But I don’t miss the guilt trips, intentional or otherwise. I don’t miss the attempted sex: his timidity in and out of the bedroom, his fumbling and insecurity which had, I came to believe, as much to do with ignorance in the bedroom as his malfunctioning cock. I realize that sounds harsh, even mean, but it was such a turn-off. And I don’t miss the floppy dick.

So yes, I’m alone again after 15 months of sincerely trying to be a good sport but I AM relieved.

“I think that God’s got a sick sense of humor” Depeche Mode

Here’s how my conversations with myself are playing out on my commute. It‘s probably a rehash of everything I’ve written over the course of the last year-and-a-half with CK but that’s what we do isn’t it? Second-guess ourselves ad nauseam? Like with any break up, my way to get over it is to get pissed off. With CK it’s a bit difficult to do because so much of this “fault” is my own. He’s still the best, healthiest relationship I’ve ever had. We didn’t really fight and he wasn’t particularly mean (passive aggressive snarky at worst). So instead I focus on all the reasons we weren’t going to work out. But if I’m being honest, all those reasons were not reasons to break up. Really, the sex was the only deal-breaker. Everything else just became a compounding annoyance that I would have likely overlooked had things been good in the bedroom. For instance, his dull job that he loved to talk about as if it was as stressful and paramount as a political ambassadorship. His wholehearted disinterest in ever learning to dance. His lack of initiative or opinion on everything from what we were going for date night to what we would have for dinner. His hollow reminders that he was ready to help to give me more breathing room to free up quality time for us. He didn’t present concrete solutions to problems which made his offers to help sound more and more like lip service. Folks, if your partner looks like they are drowning, don’t sit on the side of boat and say “I’m here if you need me”, jump the fuck in and help!

Everyone has habits and hobbies that annoy their partner but it’s usually not a reason to break up. Still, these reasons that I nitpick at until they bleed, I only do so because I’m sexually frustrated. Fifteen months without good sex is an eternity. When we first started out, I was consoling, encouraging, told him “it’s okay, we will work through this”. But things didn’t improve much as time went on. Some treatment helps, like the injections to correct the worst of his Peyronie’s curve. But then other treatments such as the bevy of erectile dysfunction pills only upset his sensitive stomach (another irritant) and that “GainWave” therapy which he paid entirely out of pocket for was as useful as snake oil.

 Fifteen months later, he still lacks the length or the firmness to get in there! We purchased a silicone extender which worked well to give him an added inch but then his dick still flopped around under the weight, even after the Trimix injections directly into his penis! So sex was still awkward, careful and unsatisfying. Also, after 15 months, I am convinced that he didn’t know how to fuck. Quite simply, quite sadly. At least he didn’t know how to fuck me. The last time we attempted sex, I spelled it out for him: before he came over, I said I was going to lie down for a nap and I wanted him to come in quietly, do what he had to do to prepare, and then fuck me awake. I was hopefully excited in anticipation. But when he came in to my room completely naked, he started kissing my face and then he asks me how did I sleep? My eyes snapped open wide and irritated I asked “You really want to have this conversation right now?” Even when I told him exactly how I wanted it, he shied away! I was sick of his excuses “I need more practice” . Do I really need to teach a 50 year old man how to fuck? He told me later he literally wept over his inability to please me. I know he did. I know he does. I never wanted to hurt this man. I do love him evern though I type this and feel like I don’t deserve a good man. CK was the whole package for me minus the sex. I did enjoy his company. I miss him when he’s not around but I don’t miss the pressure of the expectation of sex, or his increasing insecurity both in and out of the bedroom which was making him less attractive to me. And I was tired of my own mounting sense of guilt for the constant night dreams and daydreams about sex with other men. I think probably the only reason I didn’t cheat was because no one made a pass at me.He messaged me last night for the first time in 48 hours which is the longest we’ve gone without talking. He said he felt okay Friday and most of Saturday but then by Sunday he was ugly crying again. That breaks the heart of the woman in me. And it hardens the heart of the man in me.