|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
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.
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.
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.
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.