“Now you’re treating me like I’m insane. You’re insane.” ~Selena Gomez

“Clearly he’s never had his dick in my mouth,” she announced loudly.


We were sitting at a crowded table in crowded restaurant within earshot of her mother and a 7-year-old sitting directly behind us. The proclamation came with a flurry of f-bombs from the mouth of The Birthday Girl, now 25-year-old middle school teacher, and member of my cabaret troupe. She fixed her glorious peridot eyes on mine and asked for my phone to show her mother a routine from our last performance. Her mother is only 2 years older than me and until she’s sitting at the same table, I never think of this young woman, my fabulous f-bomb dropping friend, as being someone young enough that I could have squeezed out of my womb.

My feelings for her certainly aren’t motherly. She is a bad bitch and a source of inspiration. I told her I wish I had half the confidence that she does. She’s gorgeous enough that she could be a train wreck and men would forgive her. But instead she’s gorgeous AND has her shit together. For the most part.

I haven’t heard from kinky guy since he went home. Shocking. Next.

My astrologer swing dancer friend posted my monthly horoscope and said I could start a new relationship this month. I commented back, “With a dog?” Because that happened. I adopted a German Shepherd rescue. Like I needed one more in the menagerie especially one with psychological baggage. But I have a soft spot for shepherds.

Today I got a text message from my Dom friend saying that things were not working out between him, his wife and their girlfriend. He and his wife were interested if I would reconsider a relationship with them. It’s not the first time they’ve asked and they know I’m not poly however, I do have a comfortable, non-sexual friendship with the both of them that includes rope play. Now, my recent rope play was brutally sexual and left me hungrier than I was before. Maybe that’s why they decided now was a good time to reapproach. I didn’t want to be rude and turn them down flat without hearing them out so I agreed we could have a conversation the next time we meet although I prefaced it with “I’m fairly certain we are looking for different things.” They want a relationship. I’m just looking for a play partner and preferably someone who is not already attached.

Speaking of unattached, I just realized it’s Tie Your Own Damned Self Tuesday but among my excuses not to: it’s already past my bedtime, I’m too bloated to touch my toes tonight, and my luck is I’d be hogtied just as the new dog decides to eat one of the cats. So maybe I skip this week’s self-care.

“Everything is a dream I forgot” Marian Hill

“We’ve got time” he said. That was days ago. My last message to him was “I still hope to see you again, when you have time.” And I’ve resigned myself not to hear from him again.

I purposely didn’t make firm plans for the weekend, thinking, hoping, assuming that I would spend much of it with him. I haven’t even heard from him. It’s like when he disappeared for super bowl weekend. Off the grid so he claimed. He’s not off the grid. He’s just a few miles away from me and has the weekend off. He just doesn’t want to see me.

The rejection Hit me harder than I could have expected. I got through a cabaret show. I swing danced my ass off at a live rockabilly classic car fest the following day. then went home and within half an hour, changed into black thigh highs to head to the local s&m club where I’m a member to see if a couple friend might introduce me to a local Dom. It was like every other gathering I’ve gone to: a house party with a bunch of leather clad nerds and a couple of people stripped naked and being whipped in the center of the room. Just another night at the BDSM club. I didn’t meet anyone to play with. I went home alone. Cried. Talked to my best friend “S”, felt better for a few minutes and then cried some more.

The next day was more of the same. Running myself ragged between rehearsals and dances. I was in an off mood, enough that people noted it. Got home, changed quickly and was back out the door. Met a coworker for dinner and drinks and he followed me to the local VFW for a weekly swing dance. He had never been. Didn’t even know there was a scene. He said it was a joy to watch. He used that word, joy. It’s accurate. God knows it’s the only time I’m truly happy, on the dance floor.

My coworker paid for dinner, it wasn’t cheap. I volunteered to get the next time. Danced my ass off. He watched while a couple of single dancer friends flirted with the new guy. I’ll answer questions about him later. I thanked him, sincerely, for stepping away from his PhD homework or whatever else he could have been doing with his time, to spend it with me. He and I both understand the value of time. And we ar en’t frivolous with it. He took Time out for me. It doesn’t entirely negate The bathos that was nearly 7 weeks in the making with the Sexual Tourist but long term, friendship is worth more.

Sexual Camel meets Sexual Tourist

He’s here. He’s real. We made it past coffee.
It went down every bit as hot and messy as I’d fantasized. We even accidentally drew blood and my wrists are delightfully sore for two days. But it’s been THREE days. But back to that in a minute…

That first night we met, really, was intended just for a drink and “nice to meet you” but it escalated quickly after a month of priming via text. I slept less than 6 hours that night and was mush at work the next day but I was smiling so no one questioned it. I wish we could have kept going and I told him afterwards that I hope to see him again while he’s here. In the heat of it, I THINK he enjoyed it but of course the days after, I question that as he does not seem as crazed for the next round as I am. Mixed and delayed messages in the following days has left me insecure and wondering what did I look like? Smell like? Taste like through his senses? If I only had one shot, what could I have done differently to have pleased him more? Did he come? I’m never sure when condoms are involved unless I ask, and I didn’t.

For all the intensity of my experience, and it was certainly intense, I did not come. Close many, many times but no cookie.  I rarely get off the first time I’m with someone but he still had me squirming and wet. I’m sure I’ll be more relaxed the next time. If there is a next time. That’s up to him. That’s not to say that I didn’t have release. In fact, it opened a floodgate. I havent experienced a total release of control like that in five years, since “C” was alive and my keeper for a brief time.

He bound my wrists, then my ankles, then my chest, eventually looping the rope to connect and further restrict the bound limbs. Once I was tied he paused to admire his work. Then started with his hand. Then slid off his pants and used his belt. He even had a thin paddle that snapped against me like a wooden ruler. Even without orgasm I was sopping, bound and gagging on him.

And I’ve thought about nothing else since.


That’s the problem with starving yourself: The moment someone gives you a bite, your body and psyche recalls how hungry it is. But now that he’s had me, does he want more? I felt so good that first night but it’s been three days since and I feel anxious, neglected, rejected. I look at the calendar. He has less than two weeks here. And as I leave work, I think he’s only 2 mi away. Two miles and 2 weeks and then it becomes a thousand miles and never again.


But that’s me. He is in a new city and it’s a buffet. Why would he eat at the same restaurant every night? Even if I’m the best thing on the menu, he is going to try other places. He’s a sexual tourist.

He might be a little lazy too after a long, hot day working in the sun but that doesnt make me feel better. Hmm, kinky playtime or Netflix? I suppose not everyone is as insatiable as I am or maybe this is what happens to a woman deprived for years.

He’s slow to respond too when I put myself out there. I told him last night that I really wanted him to spend the night Friday night after the show but didn’t require an immediate answer. So he didn’t give me one. Until the next morning witha lukewarm response that left me in a shitty mood all day, second-guessing whether he wanted to see me again. I’m so hungry…

I messaged “S” who confirmed “That sucks that he’s not into you”. Ouch. But that’s what real friends do right? Tell the truth. I asked my dom friend for a referral but he said he’s always on the lookout for me and he doesnt know anyone in this area, this region even, that’s not already attached (although if I was open to poly, which he knows I’m not, he and his wife and their gf would be thrilled to have me as an addition).

I mean, I would literally drive to your room, blow you and leave if you said the word. But you don’t. The crickets every time I offer myself to you is a kick in the gut. I expected to be this experience to boost my confidence but it has me at my wits end. Even my coworkers are asking what’s wrong. I’m not myself. 

Make excuses or tell me the truth but don’t leave me hanging. What I can’t figure is why you don’t just ghost me all together if you decided one round from me was all you wanted. Why do you keep messaging me at all?

I rearranged my underwear, all the best panties to the front, wear dresses and heels everyday just in case you call me over. You haven’t played that playlist you made for me yet. You haven’t fingered me in public yet. Are you done with me already?

What I really need is a Keeper.

Now I’ve experienced the loving, supportive, mature relationship of “CK” and the intensely kinky sexual dynamic that I crave. They seem as distant as the East from the West, never meeting, never embodying the same man.

But because of him I updated my dating profile to include, “brownie points for shibari”.

“Fucking around and falling in love” Angel Olsen

The duvet slips away from my shoulders, exposing breasts, nipples tighten under the cool air. I long for an extra pair of arms and lips at times like these, company in my bed.

My mother remarked on how handsome M is. She asked if he was single and I said “yes but he is emotionally unavailable” and I laughed. I don’t know if that’s even remotely true but it’s easier to say out loud than “I don’t believe he’s interested in me.”

Even as I had a successful date last week with an attractive, younger man. I say “successful” because he showed up. That is half the battle, isn’t it? Affectionate and attentive, I doubt we have enough in common to pursue anything but I enjoyed his company. But I haven’t reached out to him since. He’s not “the one” so I’m not motivated to make an effort.

And I stopped texting M. His disinterest depresses me.

I have an argument for leaving tags on bras. Women generally remove the tags from all our garments but considering how hard is otto find a good bra, I’d like to know what style, size and brand it is to replace it when it wears out.

A dancer friend of mine invited me to come out and see a jazz band. Assuming because he is a dancer friend that it was a jazz conducive of dancing. Instead it was the jazz I hate. That contemporary jazz that sounds like everyone is doing a solo. And I catch myself staring the entire time staring at the drummer’s fruit stripe .socks to avoid watching the musicians on stage make bedroom eyes at each other. Another thing that irks me about jazz, watching men circle jerk each other onstage with instruments. Happy to be thought of but that was 4 captive hours, $40 and 100 miles I’ll never get back.

I chuckle at the public service announcements around the building where I work. Warnings like “Spying doesn’t pay” and beware the disgruntled employee, they could be an insider threat. Hell, might as well report everyone in this line of work then.

App dating: If he writes nothing in his profile I automatically think he’s lazy and swipe left. If he writes “just ask” in his bio, he might as well have not written anything at all and I swipe left. Although I think guys are starting to get the hint about fish pictures. I haven’t seen as many shirtless shitter shots as in years past but they are still a thing. As I’m clicking through, an “Eeww!” escapes my lips every time a SSS pops up. Doesn’t emmatter if it’s a dude with 20 pack abs or Larry the Cable Guy in his third trimester of beer gut. Same reaction.

I catch up on blogger I’ve been following for 10 years. Has it really been 10 years? 10 years since I’ve been blogging too. He’s only gotten more vulgar, I think. Pushing the envelope until there’s nothing left to push it seems. But is he really getting more vulgar or a have I become my mother, growing increasingly conservative as I get older, my mind shrinking like my spine with age.

I was a little too content in my decision to drop all my cabaret girls from Facebook. Oh, we could still communicate on the private page and they might not even notice that I dropped them. I even hoped they would notice and ask so we could open the door to that conversation like a teenager wishing someone would find her diary and say “I’m sorry, I didn’t know”.

I would tell them: You judged me. You all did. And you attacked me when I was down. And I felt like an outsider in the group ever since. However, I have a lot of sequins so I have no intention of quitting. But I don’t need social media reminding me just how few real friends I have.

I was also too content to use the excuse that traffic delayed me getting home, making it so that I wouldn’t get to the last acrobatics class on time. So I poured a stale mug of wine purposely into my “Blessed.” mug and settled down to two heaping servings of leftover whole wheat pasta. Carbs and more carbs. Comforting. And inflammatory as well as constipating so dessert I figure should be a protein mug cake with an ex lax ganache.

Then I should take a selfie while surrounded by my pets with the caption “I’d love to but I’m busy”.

“Am I only dreaming? Or is this burning an Eternal Flame?” ~The Bangles

It’s already been a week since I returned home from my belated birthday hiking trip around Mt. Ranier and while the photos remind me of the inspiration of the Cascades, my words fail me. But if I don’t write about it now, I wont write about it at all, as I failed to write about last year’s bday hiking trip through Banff in Canada.

For weeks and days leading up to the rescheduled trip, I watched the weather reports and the hikers notes on All Trails. Sixties and seventies, they all reported. So I packed for 60’s and 70’s. Day one, it was 60’s and 70’s. Days two and three, it was in the 30’s and I had nothing but a windbreaker. No gloves, no hat. No thermals. But I came to hike so frostbite be damned. I managed to keep my digits and most of my dignity intact. The last two days of trudging were a bit like my military experiences: glorious and miserable. Learn to love the suck and feel pride that you endured when others would have said “hell, no.”

I had plenty of company on these hikes too for a change. I usually hike alone to avoid the pressure of keeping pace with someone else or the obligation of any schedule other than my own. But this time, I had friends and acquaintances coming out to meet me readily. My close Army friend, S, who’s sofa I crashed on, my long-time Marine friend “M”, both of who I’ve mentioned here previously. And an old radio acquaintance and true mountaineer who drove in from Yakima to accompany me on that final, snowy third day.

The first day was by far perfect in weather and scenery even if I was distracted by self-conscious feelings of inadequacy from the moment “M”, a stoic John Wayne type, stepped out of the car looking just as much a Marine as ever despite the face scruff and shaggy hair. “You look like a goddamned hippie” I said as I embraced him for the first time in a decade. We both had changed but time had softened and broken me whereas it further chiseled and hardened him. “S” in full wingman mode paved a baited path that went untouched and while I was touched by his matchmaking efforts, it made me hyper-aware of percieved rejection. Like a full plate of hot, salty fries neglected on the table. Who wastes it?

Many reasons why the opportunity may have gone ignored but of course I got hung up on the one: he’s not interested. Ten years ago, both in uniform, the timing was not in our favor when M admitted feelings for me. Now that the path is seemingly clear, he was no longer hungry. Maybe his dick doesn’t work, I inevitably wondered. Sad how that thought always crosses my mind now if a man catches my attention.

But otherwise, it was a long overdue trip that was better than I had expected, rejection and freezing rain aside. My rehabilitated foot held up over nearly 40 miles of rugged terrain while conversations bounced from serious debates to bowel movements to dating over the hill to Belinda Carlisle (which resulted in us =singing “Eternal Flame” up and down the mountain trails). And I reconnected in person with people that give a damn about me. There are still a few left. Even if the one I built up in my head didnt want me for dinner.

“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.

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.

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.

“My name is Might’ve Been” ~Hole

It’s the “here we go again” 70 page background check and polygraph prep: Recall my mailing address two decades ago in South Korea? Nope. My ex-husband’s social security number? Nope. His current mailing address? Definitely not. Have I ever allowed recreational marijuana use in my home? Define “allowed”. Have I ever worked at a job where alcohol consumption on duty was allowed? Yes, in fact, it was encouraged. It’s called “radio”. Ever blog about porn? Guilty! Oh wait, that’s not one of the questions. Wheew!

I’d rather be bedazzling on this Friday night. My grandmother was a costume designer in the golden age of Vaudeville in Miami and she made it look so easy, affixing rhinestones armed with nothing but a metal nail file and her own acrylic tipped fingernails.

I just returned from a few (too few) days in the woods with my dog. We were along the GA/SC border and it was cold! I’m part lizard so I’m always cold but even my wanna-be mountain dog didn’t want to get out of the car on Day 2 after traipsing (more like tripping) 8 miles through the hills the day prior in 30 degrees. Probably spent more time on the road than in the woods, I simply didn’t have much PTO to spare.

But road trips are a game of Name That Roadkill, of signs warning me that Judgement Day is coming, and old trucks on the side of the road that I salivate over the idea of buying and busting my knuckles on, , singing to my dog for 10 hours, choreographing dance and comedy routines in my head, wishing I’d thought to be a Park Ranger when I grew up, and overthinking in general.

Thinking about random shite. Like…

And so it begins again, New Year, New You. The usual suspects on my social media checking in to their gyms and taking pictures of their salads as if NOT doing this would negate any benefits of their temporary new routines and diets.

If I had a New Year’s resolution it might be to run (okay, slow jog, ie: “Slog”) every day (yes EVERY day) and replace wine with tea.

Then I think about these studies that say running is NOT the best form of exercise and I think “Those are conducted by people that sincerely hate running”. And I eat them up like gospel because I sincerely hate running. But the fact in my experience remains that I do not know a single sincere runner in bad shape. Even those like me with bad backs, knees, etc…their conditions improved with running (ie: losing weight). When I ruck 15 miles carrying an extra 50lbs, I hurt the next day. But I’m carrying an extra 50lbs all over my body EVERY day. So I hurt. Dur.

I still don’t want to run.

And I think I’ll stick to the state highways and off the interstate as much as possible in the future. On these now “back-roads”, there’s less traffic and I don’t have the peer pressure of keeping up with the speeding flow or avoiding leapfrogging semi-trucks or impatient assholes psychically nudging my bumper to force me to drive even faster than the 20 over I’m already traveling (by the way, Bitch, I can pit you. Back. Off.)

And I think about CK and his love of museums. I told him the only museums I enjoyed were the Smithsonian in DC and…I think I’ve been to the Louvre but that year was a blur for me. “Where is the Mona Lisa?” I asked. The Louvre, he answered. Then yes, I’ve been to the Louvre because I remember her. I don’t enjoy the Ringling museum but there are two pieces I like, the portrait of Salome and the three muses: spinning, measuring and cutting. I’m particularly drawn to the one that cuts.

But back to CK, the man who loves museums and spends Friday nights organizing his desk drawer and kitchen cupboards for the 5th time this year. I told him he is a prime candidate for the Dull Men’s Club and should apply. They’d send him a certificate that he can frame for his office and everything.