So this is what it’s like to be on the other side. I remember sleepless nights and miserable mornings filled with obsessive thoughts about whoever I was emotionally invested in at the time who was not, in turn, emotionally invested in me. I imagine CK didn’t sleep last night nor the night before. I was right when I figured I’d have a sad email sitting in my box when I woke up. He called me selfish and said I put too much pressure on an orgasm. I said I needed intercourse. Inter. I’m not arguing with the legitimacy of his feelings; they are valid as are mine. Every one of his love letters over the last couple of months is a thinly-veiled guilt trip. I don’t think it’s intentional and he says that’s just my interpretation. That may or may not be true. It doesn’t matter either way. I’m good at relationships but not this one because I’m dissatisfied and have given up. He says he doesn’t feel like a priority. I think we don’t have enough in common and that we are both resentful and bored each time we get dragged along to something we have no interest in but feel obligated to attend. He’s a museum and movie kind of guy. I’m a mountain climbing, dance dance dancing machine. And I may die alone on a mountain but I’d like to get laid before that happens. I told him I hope someday we will be friends. And he meets someone who appreciates his tongue, movies and nights at home doing nothing. We share similar personality, values and humor but lack those common Interests that wouldn’t be so important after a screaming creaming orgasm. I did admit that I found his insecurity unattractive as I do in most men. But that’s my prejudice. I want a sensitive romantic supportive man just like CK but wrapped up in a a confident, dominant personality with a hard cock. And so I’ll die alone on a mountain, trying to prove to myself that my body and faith haven’t failed…
Bored of the sex blogs; the crudest, most poetic descriptions of fucking. I’m critical of the Selfish Suicidal even as I daydream, “hypothetically” blowing my brains out while doing dishes. I wonder if my military career is really over, like falling just short of reaching the summit of Mt. NORQUAY so I don’t buy the t-shirt. No retirement, no celebratory t-shirt. But if you’re “out-out” you can apply for medical marijuana and live pain free, I tell myself. And sleep without pills and booze. I hate every picture of me. I’ve hated every picture of me for years but now I REALLY hate them. And video is worse. I entered an impromptu swing dance competition at a rockabilly party last weekend and lost. I didnt expect to win (maybe I expected to place) but the assurances of “Oh it was close! We loved your attitude”. Yeah, I got the ‘tude going for me. Miss Congeniality. I dcowled watching the videos afterwards – my terrible posture, hunched shoulders, jutting chin…FAT. off balance too. Couldn’t even get a basic tandem Charleston right, so out of practice. If I ever said I could dance, watching the videos, I take that back. And I untagged myself.
But I got the tattoo for my deceased dance partner, “DOMB” last Friday night. He wasnt selfish. He was in pain, losing a battle and decided to end it on his terms. I blamed my temporary departure from dance on grad school, then the after-work-job-hunting then the yo-yo’ing health but fact is, I lost my enthusiasm for it when DOMB died. Corny as it is, that Wham song plays in my head when I think of him. CK has zero interest in dancing and I won’t force him. “You’re not Alice anymore. You’ve lost your muchness”. I know that movie got terrible reviews but I rather liked it. First one anyway. Well, this is a fizzle drizzle end but I’ve got nuthin…
Men always check out the results after they take a shit. I look in the toilet at that suspicious jelly-red spot and think “Well, there goes another egg”.
My killer kitten Magic dragged another squealing rat through the doggie door in the middle of the night. I was running down the hallway, naked, bumping into walls, doped up on Ambien, screaming at her to drop it. It dragged itself into a room. I fumbled to set a no-kill trap and thinking “A real man would come over and take care of this for me”. Almost as if reading my mind, CK messages me and asks “Would you like me to come over?” Actually, I want you to take the initiative and just come over without asking. “Look, I’m too drugged to deal with this right now”. That was a hint and a test. He’s got a key to my house, he doesn’t have to be at work until almost noon the following day…YES! Come over and try to help me out! Every offer he makes to help feels like lip service. And sure enough, I woke up to the message “Oh I probably wouldn’t be able to catch it anyway”. Then he sends me another text this morning asking “Did you catch the rat?” No? Do you want me to come over and try to help you catch it after work? No. I want you to fuck off at this point. I’ll handle it myself like I handle everything myself most of my life. Times like this, I envy married couples with a MAN who does “manly” duties like rodent catching. I’d say this does nothing to stimulate my desire for this man except that I’m already not getting laid from him.
People forget where they Park all the time. Difference with me as I will walk around the parking lot for 10 minutes looking for the car that I got rid of two years ago while walking past my current car three times. I am embarrassingly forgetful. My brain farts have become so pronounced over the last few years that I will stop mid-conversation and struggle like English is my second language.
The doctor called and said my labs are off. Are you sure you’re taking your medication as prescribed? Yes. Okay well then we need to rerun labs and if you would ditional tests and an MRI in 3 weeks. Okay. It’s easy enough for me to say oh that explains it, the uptick in depression, sleeplessness, fatigue and weight gain once again…or does it? I can’t use that as an excuse, or at least I shouldn’t. But I just want to go to bed right after work every night.
I still haven’t told you about my birthday hiking trip to Canada. Plenty of notes in my phone but lack of time is turning into lack of inspiration. Maybe I’ll get around to it. Maybe I’ll die first.
That title is a lie. These days, I do. Everyone except the one I’m with.
Surrounded by people in the office and feel like typing helps…sane as long as I’m typing, like a shark that can’t stop swimming lest they die.
Havent slept in two nights, I was late to work both days, took sick leave to cover my butt but I still burn all my leave as fast as I earn it for bullshit like that. I’ll never get more than an extended weekend at this rate. In 10 months of employment here, I still can’t bring myself to the commitment that a signature block signifies but perhaps something along the lines of “Over-educated, executive-level-manager-turned-desk-monkey”. Today, one of the letters from another department gets kicked back for bad grammar and punctuation. I fixed it -simple-and sent it back but the response was “The Director’s office will wait for review by the Coaches”. Right. Because correcting grammatical errors in reports is above my pay grade these days.
I was happily hacking down trees on my mom’s property in the woods two weekends ago. Too bad park rangers make $26-28k annually. Loves the woods! Handy with a chainsaw! PR experience a plus! Cant live off that check though.
Had a meeting with my Army career manager yesterday. First face to face in a year and admit that I was sucking in HARD (#gradschoolgut). I agreed to consider deploying again with SOCOM and fought back a cold sweat. I swear, if the Air Force would take me back, I’d celebrate. Did I ever tell you about that rainbow I saw on the flight line at Patrick AFB when I went out there three years ago to interview with the C-130 CSAR unit? Oh man, I was CONVINCED that was a sign! I KNEW in my heart that I would retire there, back in a blue uniform (or green flight suit). What the fck happened to that? Nothing good has come from my Army experience.
Cant talk to CK right now either. Eleven months now without orgasm. Frustration elevated back to DEFCON 10. He was crying about how while doing his Jane Fonda stretches this morning, he lost his balance and bumped his shoulder. I found his weakness unattractive. And hate myself for feeling that way. And for fantasizing about the guy at work that “offered” me his fully functioning c*ck (and no, I didnt take him up on it).
How ‘bout this for a signature block?
“Bitch, BA, MBA, Executive-level-manager-turned-minimum-wage-desk-monkey”
My work day is a steady stream of curses under my breath. And sometimes not under my breath.
Ck the One and I broke up a week ago. It wasn’t so much ripping the Band-Aid off as peeling it painful hair by hair until we opened our eyes, looked down at the wreckage and wondered, “Fuck. Now what?” We kept talking though. I asked if he’d at least finish the Xiaflex treatments and he snapped “Why bother?” I ignored that, expecting it. An emotionally mature man, he apologized quickly. I reminded him that every step of his various ED treatments, I felt blamed. Like, plenty of women were happy with cunnalingus and a limp dick. Hell, there might even be a kink community dedicated to it.
He asked again if I would reconsider a strap on and I nearly told him to fuck off. But now it was my turn to compose myself and reminded him that my first marriage, which I regretfully saved my virginity for, involved years of sexual abuse including sodomy. Not aince then would I agree to anything but a live man’s dick or a tampon up my vagina.
But then I agreed to research options, now that school is over and my waking non-working time is free again. Blogs and articles from men dealing with ED in their marriages were the most insightful and encouraging. I eventually came across a product that resembled a clear “cast” that an erect or flaccid penis could fit inside. A hollow dildo but not some ridiculous color or size. And with a single belt that appeared less intimidating than the usual strap-ons. He ordered it. I expect it will be here by this weekend. At least for now, I dont have the usual anxiety thinking ahead to attempted intimacy with this man. Because in the week that we were “sorta broken up”, I didnt feel relief like I expected. I was just sad. And I prayed for guidance and Im pretty sure my mom prayed too…and a peace came to me “I love this man”. I had spent months trying to emotionally disconnect myself in preparation for a break up, finding every little nitpicky thing I could to be annoyed about. And those irritants are still there as they will be in any relationship but I had watered and fertilized those weeds and encouraged their growth, choking out my heart. And then we broke up. Sort of. And suddenly my rampant sexual fantasies disappeared in my sadness. Now that I was (sorta) free to accept a date or even scratch the itch, my feelings for CK were a bucket of water on that fire.
So we’re going to try the… I can’t call it a strap-on or a dildo let’s call it the Kingdom of the Crystal Dick or the Extra Starched Cock Sock (okay I’ll work on that). Really I just need something to take the psychological piss out of it.
But I hope this works. Because Im a spaceship and he’s a NASA-loving nerd with a solar system tattoo. It doesn’t get more well-matched than this.
Peyronie’s disease. Why is this the first time I’m hearing about it? Two days shy of our 6 month anniversary? If you look it up, prognosis isn’t good. It’s like a cross between atrophy and severe arthritis. In your dick. When we first began dating I thought “It’s just E.D. E.D. is treatable”. But it’s not “just” E.D. He’s got E.D. on top of extreme curvature and shrinkage. It’s three inches of gnarled, flaccid dick that is never ever going to be able to physically “get in there”.
If you ask me if knowing this 6 months ago would have changed my mind about pursing the relationship, damn right it would. So now what? For couples too emotionally invested to cut it off, what happens? Do they become swingers? Does he just look the other way while I go scratch an itch for a vigorous deep fuck every few months? I told him if he was with a woman who only cared about cunnilingus, he’d be set. As I said before, it’s a nice appetizer but that’s not a satisfying meal. Neither is a vibrator. And after the trauma of sodomy in my early twenties, ain’t nothing going up there that isn’t a real cock.
His tag line in most of his messages to me is “I’m not giving up on us” and I’m ashamed to admit I’ve begun to resent that. Because this isnt working for me. Yes, I love him and if we could have sex, I might have even seen myself spending the rest of my life with him. But I told him when we first began dating that sex could be a deal-breaker. Like an asshole, I’ve had to remind him over the months whenever he got silent on the subject. Typical ostrich of a man: stick your head in the sand and pretend everything is great. We can just spend the rest of our lives in a sexless, cuddly marriage.
My trusted agent (who fucks around about once or twice a year because he’s desperate and married to a woman who wont have sex with him) says, “You’re not a bad (horny) person. You don’t break up with someone for frivolous reasons. This reason is not frivolous.”
What would you do? I’m tempted to open up the comments on this to get a stranger’s advice because I’m lost. Youre young. At your sexual peak. Sex still vacillates between the number one and number two position in importance in a relationship. And the person who has been better to you than anyone ever has been cannot give you sex. What do you do? Cheat? Break up? Live out the rest of your life in stoic celibacy?
If you chose the latter then clearly sex is not that important to you.
He seems to think that we can work around it. With toys. He says “We can work on us” and I resent that statement to. There’s nothing to “Work on”! Your dick is broken! This might work for you but it doesn’t work for ME! I’ve been masterbating through most of our 6 month relationship to men other than him because what is the point in fantasizing about being fcked hard by someone incapable of it? Again, I’m ashamed to admit (and I’d never admit it to him) that I’m not even sexually attracted to him anymore.
Do I sound like an asshole because I feel like one. A selfish asshole.
I recall a guy I dated briefly a few years back. We had sex once and he was so small he couldn’t get inside me. I joked later that it was a brief lesbian relationship. Because while I debated whether or not his lack-of-dick was a deal-breaker, he decided he was too afraid of me and my “job”, so he disappeared and I was let off the hook.
Another guy a few years before that, we started out dating and within the first two attempts of having sex I thought “No, no no this is not going to work”. But every time I tried having that conversation, he flipped out and threatened to kill himself. Bipolar, raging alcoholic and pathological liar but other than that he’s a great guy! And I cared about him enough that I didn’t want to risk him doing anything stupid. So I stayed with him, celibate for. almost three years until HE was ready to move on. Now he’s married with two kids and we’re still friends. But I wasted years of my life doing what I thought was the right thing. For someone else.
I don’t have years. I don’t want to be in a celibate relationship. I don’t want to be in a lesbian relationship. I don’t want to be in an unsatisfying sexual relationship.
This isn’t working for ME.
I feel every bit of my ill-fitting, worn out clothes today. Dangling threads, scuffed heels and hair as overgrown and unkempt as my yard. I’m dressed in insignificance with all the authority and value of a temp receptionist. But my new coworkers have learned to come to me for IT-related problems because it’s usually a simple fix and I’m much faster than waiting on a national-level “trouble ticket” to process. So today I once again found myself crawling on the floor under desks in a skirt, fiddling with…cables and computer equipment (you filthy bastards). And it was the only part of the day I didnt mind. The only part I felt “useful”.
I returned to prison after 4 days on parole, hiking in the woods with my dog and my struggling, unhappy boyfriend, CK. We think alike (I mean, CK and I. Although yes, perhaps my dog and I as well). And we are both martyrs for love. Judgmental and brooding, probably better off alone. I decided to burn what little vacation time I had accrued from this miserable job and disappear into the Quad State area (NC, TN, GA, SC borders). CK wanted to come so I sent him my proposed hiking list, based on limited time and weather conditions. He was an excited, “thumbs up!” But buying hiking shoes does not make you a hiker. Day one, we were only 6 miles into a walk in the woods when he began to fade, legs cramped, dizziness set in…I took his pack from him and force fed him protein bars, bananas, water and candy. I found him a walking stick but it was serious enough that I ran ahead to find a signal and called the nearest ranger station. I told them I just wanted to make sure I had a good number in case he couldn’t make it out on his own as we were still miles from the car. “Just keep puttin one foot in front of the other, he’ll make it out” the kindly ranger drawled. As CK leaned against a tree I told him, “Your lungs might give out, your heart might give out, but your legs will not give out. Keep moving”.
Days later, both his feet were taped and I announced I was going on a trail that he could not follow. Hell, he could barely walk. And I needed one day unencumbered. I climbed over rocks and fallen trees up a steeper incline to enjoy views unobstructed by tourists. Alone on a hilltop: me, my dog, and the wind.
I thought, “This isn’t working out”. I admitted on the drive home, I don’t want him tagging along to dances or hikes or shows out of obligation. Seeing the boredom and disappointment on his face kills my own joy. If he’d rather be at a movie then go to a movie! I don’t need company. I’ve been doing this living thing alone for years.
“I don’t need the added stress of a relationship!” I thought resentfully.
When you’re drowning, you cut loose of whatever weight you can forfeit: the job and school are not optional. Everything else – dancing, friends, family, boyfriends – those I can turn loose, at least until I finish school.
And I wish sex was off the table. I wish we’d never gone there; I wish we had just agreed to friendship. The pressure, the disappointment. I wish I could escape it.
“You’re tighter than a new buttonhole” he complains. I put on my best Gandalf impression and declare “You shall not pass!” Or perhaps he can throw incantations at it, “speak friend and enter” my near-virginal vaginal gates.
He’s only had two rounds of GainWave and no change yet. His stem is still as broken as ever. I admitted to him, under these circumstances, sex means more work for me, and requires more time that I don’t have right now. So either I can slap on lube, get on my knees and give him a warm hole or he goes to bed hungry. And I’m starving but I’m a sexual camel and used to long stretches of abstinence. But I don’t ever want to fake it again. If only one of us is getting off, so be it.
At least for now.
But I’ve been saying that for months.
File this under Insensitive Things My Boyfriend Says: when he remarks about being “jealous” that I sleep more than him even after being reminded that wasting half my life in bed from chronic fatigue is nothing to be envious of. Its like telling the guy who got his legs blasted off that you’re envious of his sweet wheels.
I called in sick this morning but not after a sincere attempt to get going. I got uo with the alarm, fed the fur, shot a 5 hour energy, felt sick to my stomach and dizzy so i sat down and immediately fell back asleep. Spent most of the day in bed amd every time my conscious surfaced, I told myself “get up, work on your resume, work on homework, take a shower, you need to go buy dog fiod…” but the current was too strong and sleep would suck me under again.
The night before I missed Cabaret rehearsal because I was upset from yet another shitty day in a shitty job so I poured a drink, then another until i was too buzzed to drive. I tearfully told my boyfriend that I appreciated him and sorry I didnt say it or show it enough. Then he pissed me off by saying something about getting hard. Erection jokes from someone with ED so severe, he doesnt come close to getting inside me arent funny. In fact last week, during another awkward attempt, he began shaking and crying with frustration. My heart broke and I told him, “Its okay, you can get me off some other way”. And I did something Ive never done with anyone before: faked an orgasm.
He’s on his second treatment of Gainwave therapy. I don’t know how many treatments are required to see results but of course insurance doesn’t pay for it. It will be worth it if it works. I disregarded all the hype and advertisements and went straight for the peer-reviewed medical studies. Those indicate about a 70% success rate. It’s significant enough that it’s being offered as a non-invasive alternative to heart surgery to clear blockages. That leads me to think it’s not complete bullshit.
And now halfway though our 5th month together, Im faking orgasms and wonfering if we should “take a break”. But that will just depress him and he will stop treatments. I want to give this a chance. Because there’s nothing “wrong” with this relationship other than the sex and my waning interest.
One of the women I currently work with reminds me of my mother, if my mother were Arabic. She likes to play matchmaker, coming over when a man is taking to me to say “Isn’t she pretty?” (To him. To me she says) “He’s such a nice guy and he’s single, are you single?” I reply “not by by 4 months”. Umi then shakes her head “Well, I hope hes a nice guy. You deserve a nice guy and THIS one is nice”. I look back at the guy, didn’t know a Latin complexion could get that red, and wonder if his dick works. Because I already have a nice guy.
I remember as far back as 4 or 5, in preschool, where we were forced to take mid-day naps. Of course now as a chronically sleep deprived adult, I’d kill for a nap on a slab of bricks. But as a child, I lay there on a pillowless cot surrounded by softly snoring children, wondering if I was the only one among them faking it? I got the “best rester” stickers but never once that I recall, actually resting. Last night, with CK beside me, I pulled out the old trick of pretending to fall asleep fast because I wanted to fall asleep. I didn’t want to mess around. I say mess around instead of “have sex” because we haven’t exactly had sex in my opinion. Going on three months. I just wasn’t in the mood, maybe from lack of sleep and that increasing anxiety that the E.D. is going to be a deal-breaker for us. I wasn’t in the mood to spend an hour working and being worked over with tongues and fingers. I know I’m not going to get mine. I know he will, although it takes a while. And I wasn’t in the mood to have my head petted or feel his fingers twitching against my face. Rest them there, grab me there, but don’t twitch indecisively, nervously. At least that’s the impression I get from it. When I’m irritable, which is often when I’m tired. And I’m always tired.
And I still don’t particularly care for the way he kisses when he’s trying to be passionate. I could try to describe what doesn’t “work” for me but what’s the use? Am I going start coaching him? Because all men love that. A little firmer please…no, too much…and can you do something with your hand, the twitching is starting to annoy…
I realize I’m nitpicking because I’m frustrated.
I love him. I even find him attractive. And the idea of breaking up with him feels very wrong. He’s a unicorn. A broken horn but still a unicorn and he’s mine. But I never want to be a married roommate. And speaking of…
What made it worse was popping awake a bit later to the sound of a small dog whining two rooms away. Except we don’t have a small dog. It was the girl my roommate was fucking vigorously. I could tell she was trying to muffle the moans but I lie there hoping CK was not lying awake listening to this too. He is wonderful and he deserves to get laid. I cooked dinner, I shaved my legs, but on this most important duty to my man, I opted out.
Because I’m tired? Absolutely.
But also because even when I’m aroused, I no longer think about CK because he’s never going to fuck me deep and hard up against a wall. Or in the back of a volkswagon or anywhere else for that matter. I’m convinced no pill will fix the twitching hand, tepid kisses or the limp dick.
And I don’t know what to do.
I think I met the love of my life when I was 41. Well, actually I was 24 but at that time, we were passing acquaintances and I couldn’t get past his prematurely silver and unfortunately long ponytail.
Now here we are, making out like teenagers on the couch and I whispered in his ear “You are going to be such a good dancer” which got a good laugh out of him.
He calls me “Hon”and “gorgeous” but I’mpet names. More or less 14 years of singledom left me out of practice in terms of endearment. I’ve called some exes “hotness” and or “pookie” (jokingly, obviously). But CK doesn’t have a fake tan (or a real one for that matter) no a douchey frat boy haircut, although he did cut off the unfortunately long ponytail years ago. So “hotness” doesn’t fit.
I could see myself marrying him but it would probably go down something like this: I email him a link to some ring with skulls on it and ask “So are we going to do this shit or what?”
I write that even as it still feels premature to say “I love you”. Although he has said it in letters and my inner dialogue says “I love this man”. Also I’m afraid if I break that “I love you” seal then it will turn into that habitual, afterthought, obligatory “I love you” and not as meaningful.
I may be paraphrasing or outright plagiarizing another writer (Fitzgerald or his wife?) when I say I’ve met the one with whom my heart and soul is at rest. Like a shot of bourbon on an empty stomach, he blooms in my Heart.
Sometimes he still asks “Why are you with me?” Because he leaves love letters in my underwear drawer and draws hearts on the windshield of my filthy car. And I save them in a shoebox or tuck them into a Bible that I no longer read.