Broken

The other day I stumbled upon this blog and it made me very sad for myself. Occasionally that happens, when I come across somebody whose beauty of the soul is so much deeper and purer than mine could ever be.

Sexeteria had a post a good while back that was tangentially about bloggers and their sex lives. I read that and it, too, made me sad for myself because I don't have a sex life. Well, technically I have one, as I seem to manage to get laid once a year (sometimes even twice!). But if my sex life had a visual representation, it would be the despondent, blue-filtered, gothic of a Whistler painting. It certainly would not be the glorious uber-Technicolor of real life.

Where are the orgasms and the man who actually lusts over me? The man who doesn't stop precisely because I'm actually enjoying his ministrations. The man who treats me like a woman, instead of a body.

I think and I think and I think about all these things. I think about the great sex I've never had, and the all-too-mediocre sex I have had. I think of other people having healthy relationships, and the poison relationships that I know are out there, of the ups and the downs and all the things that make up life. Round and round in my head, I think about these things. And I think about myself and the complete absence of all those things, and all I can come up with is that I must be broken. Broken and nonfunctional, not to have experienced so much of what it's like to be human.

To make it through the day with all of its petty insults, I tell myself that I am better off with things how they are now. I will probably never know the bliss of having my affections reciprocated, but I will also never have the torture rack of not knowing where I stand. Sometimes, when I feel I actually could put forth the effort to change things, I don't even know where to begin. How do I explain my past so that it's not actively repulsive to a normally functioning person?

I have of late considered putting a request out on Craigslist, but that path could easily go so very, very, wrong. I do not need the off-hand rejection based on a photo. I do not need another sexual encounter that is little more than a man masturbating using my body instead of his hand. I do not need the rejection and humiliation of fucking a man and then being told it did nothing for him. I do not need to be as close to someone as two people can physically get and still feel completely alone.

And yet, what else can I do?

Ugly People

http://blog.newsweek.com/blogs/labnotes/archive/2007/06/27/why-doesn-t-evolution-get-rid-of-ugly-people.aspx

Captain Jack Sparrow's Philosophical Gems

The only rules that really matter are these: what a man can do and what a man can't do.

We must fight, to run away!

Why fight when you can negotiate?

If you were waiting for the opportune moment, that was it.

It's the honest ones you need to watch out for, because you never know when they're going to do something incredibly... stupid.

Rum is good.

They done what's right by them. Can't expect more than that.

Not all treasure is silver and gold, mate.

Drink up, me hearties, yo ho!

Close your eyes and pretend it's all a bad dream. That's how I get by.

Now... bring me that horizon.

Complications arose, ensued, were overcome.

Why is the rum gone?

Do you have the courage and fortitude to follow orders and stay true in the face of danger and almost certain death?

If we don't have the key, we can't open whatever we dont' have that it unlocks. So what purpose would be served in finding whatever need be unlocked, which we don't have, without first having found the key what unlocks it?

If you choose to lock your heart away you'll lose her for certain.

Cruel is a matter of perspective.

My first and only love is the sea.

The world's still the same - there's just less in it.

Savvy?

Take what you can, give nothing back.

Mr. Smoochy Part II

The remainder of my friendship with Mr. Smoochy has turned into something more prosaic.

Last fall Mrs. Smoochy and I had gone jogging near daily in the park until she abruptly quit, ostensibly due to the weather. Now, I love jogging. It's good exercise and it keeps me from slipping into clinical depression. This winter was total hell, what with not jogging and it being my first Christmas without my father. In the spring, I was desperate to start again and invited Mrs. Smoochy to come. She told me on no uncertain terms that she hated jogging and wasn't going to do it any more. So, I turned to Mr. Smoochy and he agreed to go.

At this point Mrs. Smoochy, a normally pleasant and easy-going woman, turned into a psycho hose beast on steroids. First we tried jogging in the morning before work -- no, that wouldn't do for her because mornings were her time to snuggle with her husband. Then we tried a few days jogging after work -- but, alas, that apparently cut into her quality time with her husband. We settled on jogging in the morning right after she had gone to work. She wasn't happy about it, but she couldn't immediately think of any way to object. However, object she did. Over a month long period I got reports from Mr. Smoochy about how she was increasingly moody and nasty to him, culminating in her apparently making a series of statements to him about how she couldn't trust him anymore, how she didn't know when he was telling the truth, how she felt he and I were too intimate of friends, and how she felt left out of her own marriage.

This, over jogging in a public park.

After a long angst-filled conversation, Mr. Smoochy and I decided that even though she was basically asking for his balls on a platter he would give up jogging with me in order to preserve his marriage.

As his friend, I completely support his decision. It's ridiculous to put another woman before your wife. On my own behalf, though, I am deeply angry. I am angry at Mrs. Smoochy for resenting my fleeting pleasure. I am angry that she would put her unfounded insecurities before the needs of her friend. I am angry that she would dare meddle with any of my friendships. And, irrational as it may be, there is also part of me that is hurt I wasn't picked.

I have barely spoken to either of them this month. I have precious little desire to maintain a friendship with Mrs. Smoochy, but giving her a piece of my mind is pretty much the permanent end of any hope of seeing Mr. Smoochy. And of course he himself has me so bollocksed up inside that I can't figure out what the hell I want.

Despite all this he is a dear friend and I miss him terribly. Yet any contact at all is simply another reminder of the friendship we can no longer have. What to do?

For now I shall stay my course and avoid contact until forced to do otherwise. But I will always keep in my heart his special touch, the touch that has moved me like no other.

Pirated Youth

I came home today and turned on the TV to keep my parrot company. What do you know was on, but Pirates of Penzance with Kevin Kline?

Whatever my other plans, they were immediately forgotten. I was three years old when this film was released, and it was literally the only VHS my parents ever bought. Having watched it easily a thousand times before the age of five it left an indelible mark upon my all-too-impressionable psyche.

Oh, where to begin? There is the obvious weakness for all things piratical. Pirate boots? Check. Billowy poet's shirts? Check. Men in tights? Check. Captain's coats? Check. There is also my weakness for groups of men singing together. Jodies? Yep. Gilbert & Sullivan choruses? Yep. Red Army Choir? Yep. Soccer chants? Yep.

But that is not all. No, no, no. Kevin Kline's Pirate King affected little me in ways that probably weren't legal. Remember what I said about Commander Riker? Um, yeah. That pales in comparison. Take any heart? Take mine! It is purely his fault that I have prediliction for sweater-chested men with intelligence and a taste for absurdity. And poofy guy-hair. To this day, the archetypal manly-man in my historically based masturbatory fantasies is the Pirate King.

There is the Pirate King kidnapper version, and I the fair maiden. Nevermind that I get seasick when faced with any body of water larger than a bathtub. There is the Pirate King and his woman equal, vanquishing foes together. There is the Pirate King and the bounty hunter who hunts him ruthlessly. (Perhaps I should write these out and make myself a career as a romance writer). And there is, naughty of naughties, the Pirate King and his female orphan ward. Stop! I think I see where we are getting confused. When you say "orphan", do you mean a person who has lost his parents, or "often" frequently? I am an orphan frequently. Yes, yes, I am.

Tellingly, I never identified with simpering Mabel but rather even at that young age with Louise Gold's brassy Edith. I think she may have been my first positive female role model. She was not pretty -- and she knew it -- but that didn't leave her so desperate that she'd take anyone's crap. Funny how I grew up to be just like her.

Now where's my Pirate King?

Come, friends, who plough the sea!
Truce to navigation
Take another station
Let's vary pirac-y
With a little burglar-y!

Mr. Smoochy Part II - Private

I tell myself that Mr. Smoochy loves his wife, that we would be fundamentally mismatched despite our friendship, that it wouldn't last. I can honestly say that I am not in love with Mr. Smoochy.

I am in love with his touch.

His kisses, his hands, his knowing touch. These are the reasons women crave men.

I have never known a touch like his. I may never know another.

__

The remainder of my friendship with Mr. Smoochy has turned into something more prosaic.

Mr. Smoochy Part I

I am not yet very good at this blogging thing. My voice here still resonates with Dear Diary when it should communicate a certain urbane angst at the state of my personal relations. Please bear with me, Gentle Reader, as I find myself in these pages.

Tonight I have some ranting to do over Mr. Smoochy.

Mr. Smoochy is a dear friend of mine, my confidante, my healer, a white knight who came riding out of the fog to rescue me after my father died. He lost his mother some years ago and was able to lead me, a Virgil to my Dante, through the mists of my grief. Our friendship goes well beyond the bonds of loss, although as between any two people sometimes there are chasms of separation as deep as the universe. As it happens this journey we started, he and I, began in the months leading up to his wedding to Mrs. Smoochy.

My relationship with her has been a fraught one, and although so far covering over half my life, it has been neither constant nor enjoyable. She, and with her, He, came whooshing into my life with the news of my father's death in order to Be There for me. Mrs. Smoochy fell down on that job so completely that it's not even funny. To this day she expects my gratitude for the hours she "didn't have to give" me.

Here are a few random glimpses into the personalities of Mr. and Mrs. Smoochy: they are into BDSM fairly heavily (he the D, she the s), she is an exhibitionist but hasn't fully actualized it, they have an open marriage (mostly so she can cat around), she is overweight and sometimes insecure, he is a tall and handsome ex-Marine, she prefers her friends both gregarious and effortless.

When Mr. Smoochy and I started our friendship, Mrs. Smoochy was happy as most women are that her friend and her husband-to-be got along well. At an inappropriately early juncture, however, she announced that the priviledges of their open relationship did not (and would not) include me. Fine. Both Mr. Smoochy and I were a little puzzled at this, but accepted it with grace. Since we were both online at work, we spent many hours chatting about this and that, much probably falling under the NSFW label. When Mrs. Smoochy went off to East Coast City to cat with another man, and again when she had a bona-fide business trip, or when she went hither and thither, Mr. Smoochy would come and spend movie-cuddle time with me on the couch. Those were some of the best hours of my life, just talking with him in the dark with his strong arms around me. For those all-too-brief moments the world was lifted from my shoulders.

One of Mr. Smoochy's favorite topics is sex. My initial laconism on the topic amused and goaded him further. Sometimes he would plumb the depths of my spinsterhood: Have you done This? Have you done That? Other times he would rush at me with hypotheticals: How would it feel if I touched you Here? Or There?

It wasn't long before he began to discover my weaknesses. My skin, so often untouched, is more sensitive than you can imagine. My neck, particularly below the ear, when plied with kisses and caresses can bring me to orgasm. My flirtation with breath play. My lust for the man strong enough to manhandle my indelicate self.

Mr. Smoochy found and exploited them all, sitting in the dark on the couch. Yet we held true to The Rules decreed in embarassing detail by Mrs. Smoochy. We did not kiss, he did not touch me anywhere he hadn't already in front of his wife, I did not touch him, and although I could not say No I did not say Yes.

Gentle Reader, I have lied to you. We did kiss. On two separate nights, drunk only on our own lust. We did know better. These kisses, they were electric, sizzling kisses.

Exactly the soul-scorching kisses Mrs. Smoochy feared we would have.

Old Age Is Coming For You

Today .... today I feel old.

Today I look old.

Almost two weeks ago, the morning Mr. Marine arrived for his visit, I woke up feeling pretty, thin, and if not young, at least not old. Today could not have been more different. From before I even got out of bed I felt ugly and out of shape. When I dragged myself into the bathroom, the mirror reflected a face back at me 10 years older than my own. I saw the jowls of mid-age, the sour expression of a woman who has not enjoyed life.

Today I saw the ugliness within.

Hell

I am surely going to hell for finding this photo to be hot, Hot, HOT.

Manifesto

Better than I could ever have written myself, the story of an Invisible Spinster.

Needs

Instruction Manual for Seducing The Spinster.

Steff is on to something great with the All Sex Diet.

The Spinster Gets Laid

The Invisible Spinster had a visitor this week.

A man I had been corresponding with online for a few months flew across the country to see me for a few days. A Marine stationed in California, he can satisfy the brain as well as the eyes. I was a little startled when he first suggested a visit soon, but when I consulted Mrs. Smoochy about the idea she said his type tended to favor Decisive Action and not to be surprised at his wanting to move things forward. So I allowed him to come.

Having spent the last few days with him, I am not quite sure what to make of things. By previous mutual agreement he slept in my room from the first night. Now, don't go getting the wrong idea about the Spinster because of that. Not every internet suitor is allowed that priviledge. But sometimes you just know there isn't going to be that awkwardness (and I was right, too). After cuddling amicably for much of the night it was not much of a surprise when things got amorous. Mr. Marine certainly had his talents and made much use of them over the next several days.

This sort of situation as a whole sends my feminism into paroxysms. In one corner is the Modern Woman; she works like a man, eats like a man, fucks with the same impunity as a man. Duking it out in the other corner is the Traditional Woman; she knows damn well true sexual parity is a chimera at best -- a woman can't "drop trou" with the same speed as a man and expect to be respected.

I think TW may win this particular fight. Modern Woman had an early lead because this visit was for a Limited Time Only, and being coy would have gotten us nowhere but sexually frustrated. Somehow that concession seems to have lost in the long run.

When I dropped Mr. Marine off at the airport, here is what I did not get: an embrace, a kiss, declarations of affection or at the very least a declaration of an enjoyable few days. What I did get: a quick one-armed 'side hug' and a mumble that I think translated to "I'll call you in a few days".

I am confused and saddened that he could go from being inside me and moaning my name in ecstasy to saying goodbye like that in a matter of hours. We shall see what becomes of him, but I will always be . . . .

The Invisible Spinster

Weltwendung

I am not generally one to throw around fancy (made-up!) German words, but English just can't describe this. Like an epiphany, only not really. But it changes your outlook nonetheless.

It should come as no surprise to you that I am deeply anti-social. I can be outgoing and sociable if I have to, but it actually leaves me as exhausted as running a marathon and in a deep funk for sometimes days afterwards. It is not so much misanthropy, but pure sensory overload.

I thought I was crazy for going through this. I thought I was alone in it.

Kink isn't really my thing, but it amuses me to skirt the edges of the community. In my skirting, I came across Mistress160's blog, which has what is for me the most amazing post. I know it sounds funny and rather pathetic, but "subdrop" describes exactly how I feel after being social. After an evening out, there is nothing I want more than a little cuddling and attention to settle me down gently. And of course I never get it. Cue funk.

It is such a relief to know I'm not the only one to have those feelings, even if I am freakier than freaky for feeling them after mere small talk with strangers.

Mr & Mrs Smoochy

Last night I went out with my friends Mr & Mrs Smoochy. They are good people and I generally enjoy spending time with them, despite some recent drama. But what I hate -- HATE! I tell you -- is their Public Displays of Affection. I am truly happy for them, but when it's the three of us (even in public!) is it really necessary for them to get practically one step from intercourse?

I will never understand people who get their rocks off with voyeurism. There is nothing in this world that makes me feel worse faster. Some people consider it like window shopping, but that is a flimsy analogy. If you're window shopping, you're there for fun. If you do find something you just can't live without, you can always find a way to buy it. But you can't buy people. (Well, sometimes you can, but that's just not right). So, watching other people get it on? That's less like window shopping and more like being starving and broke in a grocery store.