Wanting Isn't Having, Needing Isn't Getting

Me: I feel fat today.

Mr. S: You have pretty eyes.

* * * * * *

Mr. S: How are you today?

Me: Depressed, but slogging through.

Mr. S: Why?

Me: Death by a thousand nibbles.

Mr. S: *nibble*

* * * * * *

I wonder if it's time to step away a bit from this blog. My original intent was to chronicle my pathetic attempts at connection with the world . . . lately, though, my posting has become more and more sporadic because there simply isn't anything to post.

I have no energy for reaching out. There are no more Mr. Marines, or Lawboys, or anyone else waiting in the wings. Just getting through the day takes what little give-a-shit I have, and then carves off a sliver of my soul for additional satisfaction. I am consumed by daydreams of love and tenderness, someone to caress my cheek or stroke my hair. Someone with a little give-a-shit to spare in my direction. Behind every business call, every conversation, every moment, I am just inches from crying. Hysterical, soul-wracking tears.

Tears for what never was, what never will be.

Somehow through this emotional (and financial) maelstrom I am supposed to reach out? To "date"? To "enjoy" myself? Relief these days consists of laying very still in a dark room. Realistically, what do I have to gain by putting myself through the dating wringer? I am a deeply broken woman. Wanting isn't having, needing isn't getting. Persistence, in this case, is unlikely to payoff.

My angst has been said, phrased and rephrased over the months with all it's pseudo-teenaged unoriginality. It can't be fixed, this angst of mine. The perfect Catch-22: a little love, a little give-a-shit is the salve I need, and yet so long as I need it as badly as I do none will deem me worthy to receive it.

Time to immerse myself in blackness.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...

There are moments when I consider caving to the Big Pharma dream of medico-happiness. But then I pause and wonder, If it's this bad then what's the point?

Lately I have become more and more aware of the utter futility of everything that I do. Save the planet by driving less? I don't think so. Even wrapping leftovers with tin foil leaves me in a funk. Not that my angst is environmentally derived. It's just easier to focus on the abstractly hopeless rather than the immediately hopeless.

I have recently acquired guardianship of my teenaged brother, who brings with him all of the typical joys of having a teenager around. The eye rolling, the sarcasm, the theatrics over the simplest requests. He is the best part of my life and I would do anything for him.

And yet it hits me that I really have no hope of connecting with other human beings anytime soon. Not only do I have nothing to offer a relationship, I am in an area that apparently has no single people of any age; nor could anyone possibly be interested in the hassles of trying to date or hookup around a teenager.

Lots of always/nevers there, but the fact remains that I can't expect others to do for me what I would not do for them. Including settle for mediocrity.

Devil With A Black Kilt On

Mr S. is absolutely adorable. For my recent birthday (or as I call it: the anniversary of my eviction) our dear Mr. S baked us a chai flavored cheesecake.

Operation Fatten-Up is underway.

Dear Body

There has been a lot of "Dear Body, I love you" letters floating around lately. I have no problem with people appreciating their own bodies, so long as they look like Scarlett Johansson. For the rest of us, this is how you do a proper Dear Body letter:

Dear Body,

You alone are by far the worst aspect of my life. If I could live disembodied -- in the air, in a jar, whatever it takes -- I would do it to get away from you. In case you are confused as to why this might be, I will explain.

Starting at the bottom, I hate your feet. Your toes are hairy and your ankles are fat. If you watch TV too long, your feet swell and it makes putting on shoes again to take the dog out uncomfortable. Not to mention they are large for a woman, so even when shoes fit they don't look right.

Your legs are an abomination. Not only are your ankles fat, but so are your calves. You might as well be one tube of flesh between the knee and ankle, forget any Homeric epithets about well-turned ankles. And your veins! You're so young and already you're starting to get spider veins. It doesn't help that your skin there refuses to tan. At all. You might as well go audition for Powder: The Sibling.

Wait, we're not done with the legs. We haven't even seen the half of it. Those knees you've got are a joke. Not only do they manage to have their own rolls of fat, they are useless at the job of Knee. Forever breaking down, too sore to do this or that. It's obnoxious is what it is. Going up the leg is no better, because the nickname ThunderThighs was invented for you. Shorts are revolting on you, and impossible to fit anyway because of that weird flare you do right before the crotch.

Before we list all the fuck-ups of your snatch (get it? get it? haha), your ass is gonna some. What a pathetic excuse for a body part. Not even when you were young was this an attractive ass. It is both repulsively large and flat as a board, with a texture like cottage cheese. Nobody wants to touch that. Just seeing it nekkid has caused more than one man to soften immediately.

Now that we have that out of the way, about this snatch of yours. It's hairy. Yeah, I know no one naturally porn-star smooth, but you aren't supposed to be hairy *inside* the lips. It's freakish and impossible to shave without the risk of cutting your clit right off. And speaking of the clit, why do you have to be so damned difficult to get off? Men get bored with your "Let's savor the moment" excuses as to why it's taking so long. And speaking of taking so long, there's got to be something wrong with your scent or taste, because no one seems to want to go down on you very often. I can't tell, because your nose is also worthless (don't worry, we'll get back to that one). Before I let you off the hook, you also have to know that your tempermental nature regarding infection is a royal pain. No sugar binges or fruit juice, or you'll tip towards a yeast infection. It is the rare man who doesn't give you a bladder infection from oral sex, and god help us both if he had wine with dinner or else you'll have both a bladder infection *and* a yeast infection. Ugh.

Oh, and one other thing. I know you like sex; we both do... but just because a guy is finger-banging you doesn't mean you need to turn into Niagra Falls. Seriously, a guy once asked if we had just peed on him because you got so wet. It's gross. Stop it.

Ok, now onwards and upwards. Your whole pelvic area is a pain in the ass to clothe. Nothing fits as it should: either your ass is too big, or your hips too wide, or your belly too poochy. The beer-gut looking fat that hangs over your pants is *not* attractive. You're not a guy, you don't get a Buddha-belly. And while we're on it, the inside doesn't function too well either. Milk, vegetables, cheese, tomatoes, peanut butter, chocolate ... the list goes on and on of foods you won't digest properly. If you sit still after eating, forget about pants fitting for the rest of the day too.

Your ribcage isn't quite as revolting as the rest of you, even if it is swaddled in fat and even underneath it all still too big for a woman.

Your breasts are just kind of . . . sad. Men get excited when they hear your bra size, but it's all downhill from there. Disappointment is inevitable when they see your sagginess and stretch marks. When we're not quite so fat, it's no better because then the breasts just look deflated. I wouldn't want to play with those, and neither would anyone else. Even if they did, it wouldn't do much good -- the skin there is practically numb to normal touch.

Your shoulders, like your ankles, fail in the dainty department. They are large and round, and mostly just evince an aura of "workhorse".

Your arms are an annoyance all their own. Your under-arm chicken wings are unattractive in the extreme, and people comment on those gooseflesh-like bumps on the skin in your tricep area. Your elbows have their own repugnance, with their little rolls of fat and perpetually dry skin. I think it's bizarre the only skin that tans is your forearms; that wouldn't be so bad except it looks ridiculous against the rest of your skin. Your hands are abnormally large for a woman's, and if glove-makers are any indication they are also oddly proportioned. They are work hands, with thick fingers, undainty nails, and thick skin.

Back up to your neck, or where it ought to be. Yours is short and fat, and partially obscured by a roll of chin fat. It doesn't help that after you got sick that one time, your nodes never really deflated -- you could die of anorexia and still have a large throat.

From here on up is the worst of it. Really. Your skin is horrible, breaking out at the slightlest provocation. It also manages to be both dry *and* oily in the same places at the same time. Makeup is a pipedream, so you look perpetually unprofessional. Your ears don't have earlobes like a normal person, they connect to the jawline like an elf; it would be cute if you were 5 feet nothing and 100 lbs, but you're not so it's not. It just looks like a deformity.

Your mouth is ugly: you have almost no upper lip, your lower lip is pouty, your teeth are crooked and too yellow, you mumble when you talk. You also get cold sores, which some people humiliate us by calling a STD. It's not though. I can't take you to restaurants, because you're likely to break out if the silverware and dishes aren't perfectly clean. Drinking out of pop cans and sharing drinks is off-limits, as is touching anywhere near the lips while out and about in the world before your hands are washed thoroughly. Dating is impossible: kiss a guy and he thinks I don't like him because you can't see him for two weeks after due to the resulting outbreak.

Your nose is too big, and it's only function appears to be torturing me with it's largeness as only the most pungent smells permeate into the brain. Your eyes get the occasional compliment, but that's because it's really, really difficult to have ugly eyes. I am sure, though, that you'll succeed someday. Anyway, the eyes don't get any points because you make me blind as a bat without contacts or glasses. Your eyebrows make Brooke Shields' unibrow look over-groomed, and your forehead is too big.

Your scalp is it's own nightmare, being permantly afflicted with dandruff. And the hair! Oh god, the hair. It is thick, thick, thick, and there is a lot of it. I don't just mean length, I mean strands-per-inch. This sounds like a hairdresser's dream, except the hair is also dry as straw. I have plied you with creams and oils and conditioners galore, and it makes not a whit of difference. This is particularly ironic because, like your face, your hair is also oily. Oily and desert-dry at the same time. If it wouldn't make us even uglier, I'd shave it all off.

What's inside the skull isn't any improvement either. It's my responsibility, but ultimately it's your fault because you have the neurons and cells that make me Me. I am depressive and boring and of only mediocre intelligence, and I'm not surprised that even in this world of "what's inside is what counts" that I can't be loved.

Body, I am sorry if this letter has gone on and on. Your faults are many, and I just thought you should have a comprehensive list. You really are an albatross around my neck, and when we die I will be glad to be rid of you.

Forever loathing you,
Your Mind

Oral

Is it just me or is it at least a little bit cruel to tell a woman you fuck regularly but won't go down on that you "always" go down on "all" your sex partners for hours at a time?

*sigh*

I am willing to indulge the common female fear that my snatch doesn't smell/taste right or whatever (even though it seems fine to me), but does he have to gloat about it?

"Superb!"

"May I give you a blowjob?"

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps?"

"Perhaps."

"Are my blowjobs so mediocre that the best you can muster is 'perhaps'?"

"Your blowjobs are superb."

Stolen

This tickled me, so I did what any good web citizen would do and pilfered it:

Some material on these pages is intended for a mature audience, and may irritate parents of children under the age of sixteen. Keep in mind, however, that:
(a) if they don't understand it, it's not really much of a problem
(b) if they do understand it, they almost certainly did not learn it here.

And I Don't Love You, Either

*sigh*

I was just beginning to get comfortable with some unfortunate warm-and-fuzzy feelings towards Mr. S, when of course he through a wrench in the works.

I have seen a fair amount of him recently, and it's been nice. He has been more affectionate of late, and the sex is fun despite being uneven. I never did say anything to him about the not-really-a-girlfriend thing and it has faded nicely away; he even introduced me to someone as his girlfriend.

I knew the rules when we started this: fuck buddies, friends with benefits, no strings, no drama.

The tricky bastards, they let you tie the rope you're hanged with.

And then came spring and camping season. Some chick from "too far away for a quickie" caught Mr. S's eye at a camp-out. *sigh* I have no claim on him, I know. I have no say in who he fucks. Nowhere, though, did I agree to have to like it. I find myself turning into Cool Girl again, as he regales me with the details of their intimacy and how she's sexually high-maintenance (can't touch her here, or there, or can't do this, or do that . . . I am baffled as to what he enjoys about that) and how many times he got her off. Of course, I can't say anything about how knowing all this turns me into a Psycho Hose Beast on the inside -- that would be too High Drama because . . . wait for it . . . I knew the rules when I got into this.

The last time he even *tried* to get me off more than once in a night was months ago. Why don't I rate that kind of effort?

I want to be enough for someone. Am I really so horrible that that's too much to ask?

Spinsterhood

I'm not dead. Life sucks, my writing sucks, and I haven't been up to completing a post. Many unfinished blog posts later, I am going to just throw something out to you.

I came upon this by way of Figleaf and it really struck me. The author says this about a Spinster she meets:

" . . . I wonder if she actually wants to be loved by someone who can say it and mean it, and if it’s just as selfish to want that as to buy yourself a pet that has no choice."

The same site also has this post by someone who questions whether anybody wants The Single Life, citing the example of a formerly proud Singleton who grabbed on to a relationship as soon as one came along.

I think what both these authors miss is that Spinsterhood or the more-temporary Singleton is not at all about the rejection of relationships, but about the rejection of individual prospects which leads to a continued lack of relationship.

Being lonely doesn't mean you have to lose your self-respect in choosing a partner.

Secondhand Jane

Sorry for the silence. Feel free to blame that thing called Real Life.

I have seen Mr. S a few times, I am sure there were a few things I wanted to post about each time but they are long gone from my head now. What brings me back to you is something that happened last night.

We've gone out a couple of times recently to a 24-hour diner for a post-coital meal and were served by the same waitress each time. The first time, he joked with her enough to be a memorable customer. The second time, it really was quite cute when she did a double-take at seeing him again. The third time, well . . .

She really is quite cute in a quirky and unconventional way, and I don't begrudge her that at all. Nor do I begrudge being co-opted into acting as Mr. S's wingwoman. Well, not really. And I was actually a little amused by the mind games being played out in front of me when Mr. S mentioned Mrs. S several times to her and she kept checking me out for a wedding band.

What If

What if you can't stand the only person who can stand you?

Two or three times a year, Number One crawls out of the woodwork to touch base.

Hey, Hey, You, You!

Maybe I don't wanna be your girlfriend.

This weekend I got to see Mr. S again because the Missus went off to see her boytoy. Woo! I was happy to see him, and I always enjoy his company. But I don't like being taken for granted. See, he waited until late Saturday afternoon to suggest that we get together, evidently assuming that I had no plans for the evening. Grr!

He also brought up the girlfriend thing. Again. WTF? I don't see why he keeps doing this. He's never once asked my opinion or what I wanted out of things; we don't discuss or settle anything. He generally just makes a bunch of declarative statements "we are this" and "we're not that" and then on to the next topic. My ego would like to think that he's trying to convince himself as much as me that there's nothing emotional, but knowing men and their ability to compartmentalize I doubt it is the case.

This session included a slight deviation from the script, in that 1) he called me his best (female) friend and 2) he said he was attracted to me. His actual words were "you're pretty fuckin' hot too". Although definitely SQUEE!-worthy on its own, I find it somewhat bittersweet when the last compliment he gave me was Pretty Eyes. Last August.

Emotional Lottery on Mr. S: "Too bad you can't just have a legitimate normal relationship."

Heaven forfend.

Trying As Best I Can . . .

I have this theory about my life. I stole it from Newton, really, but that doesn't make it false. The theory goes like this: For every good thing that happens (to me), there is an equally worse bad thing about to happen (to me).

People sometimes call it paranoid, but it's never failed me yet.

In the back of my brain I've been percolating the idea of Chelsea Girl's SlutFest for a good long while now. Not so much the SexxySexx but the explicit self-permission to take what she needed. That is something that I have long struggled with: virtue, in my mind, is the absolute denial of what I want. Diets? Virtuous. Celibacy? Virtuous. Frugality? Virtuous. Frigidity? Virtuous. Because this pursuit of virtue is the textbook definition of neurotic (as well as completely unsuccessful) I decided to try indulgence for a while.

Cue good things.

+ I used Teh Intarwebs to find myself a cock to play with last week, attached to a guy I can more than tolerate. Although he is too much of a gentleman to say it outright (or perhaps just scared I will hurt him), I am 95% sure that his interest in me goes no farther than, "Pussy? Ok!" And although it is the exact opposite of the relationship that I want, it is better than Mr. S's mind games.

+ Speaking of which, I got to see him too. We had ourselves a nice little scene involving his belt (oh how I love that strip of leather!), restraint, and my face against the tread of the stairs. Hot stuff, I tell you.

+ Oh, and two days later I got to play with that cock guy again. Time to buy more condoms!

And the result:

* The Nexus of Evil reminds me painfully of its presence.

* My truck broke down. In the middle of the night. An hour from home. Tow cost? $250.

* My business was dealt two very nasty blows this week with the potential to sink me.

I am a simple creature, and Pavlov's behavior modification works well. I go out into the world, bad things happen; I keep to myself, nothing outright bad happens.

Now how am I supposed to go out again?

The Spinster Life

Argh! It is difficult to post anything when you can barely manage to get out of bed each morning. I had a hot little rendezvous with Mr. S almost two weeks ago now . . . That depression clamped down on me with a python's steady patience ever since has nothing to do with that. No, Siree.

I've been doing some high-quality rumination lately on what, exactly, I'm doing wrong in this life. While on one hand I am happy to take the righteous path and proclaim that I *do* like who I am and a pox on the people who don't . . . righteousness can't wrap its arms around me in the middle of the night and whisper that everything's going to be ok.

I am 28 years old and I have never had a boyfriend. Forget the pining and palpatations of True Love . . . Never have I known one of my sexual partners to even so much as look forward to my company. Yes, I am well aware of how sad that statement is.

Recently I stumbled across two articles that definitely have not helped my frame of mind. No, no, no.

In an article at The Root about dating, Kim McLarin says:

"I have yet to meet a man . . . over the age of forty who has never been married who is not broken in some serious and probably unfixable way . . . I don't mean damaged; we're all damaged: scratched up here, dented there, lumpy where the patch was made. No, I mean broken – or possibly just mal-manufactured on the assembly line."

Now, I'm a good ways from 40 yet. And I'm not a man. But I do think it's a fundamental truth that those of us who can't seem to have relationships *are* broken. I could be the poster child for mal-manufacture!

The other piece that makes me want to take a gun and shoot myself is this article on settling. Is that the only relationship I have to look forward to? No heart swells, no giddiness, no passionate sex . . . just someone who doesn't loathe me enough to kick me out of bed in the morning? I worry that she will be me in 15 years, although she suffers from Grass Is Always Greener more than I ever do. And despite recent cultural shifts, I think in the trenches there is still a special distaste (among men, in our culture, on this planet, take your pick) for women over 40 and having a child neither improves nor worsens the situation.

So I am reading this crap, and spelunking for my self-esteem ("in the toilet" would be a vast improvement ... I think it's sunk somewhere below the Earth's crust), and dealing with the No Emotions Zones (TM The Pervocracy) erected by the various men in my life, and . . .

And no wonder all I want to do is go back to bed.

There Once Was A Girl . . .

Who thought she would grow up to be pretty.

Who thought boyfriends would be a fact of life.

Who thought she was special.

Who thought love was inevitable.

Who thought "abandoned" only happened to puppies and babies.

There once was a girl . . . but she doesn't think anymore.

She's a woman now.

Spiteful Loner

I stumbled onto this test over on Tom Allen's LJ page. I only answered the questions honestly! I promise!

Your Score: Spiteful Loner

You are 85% Rational, 14% Extroverted, 57% Brutal, and 28% Arrogant.

You are the Spiteful Loner, the personality type that is most likely to go on a shooting rampage. In high school, you were probably that kid who wore all black and who sat alone in a corner of the lunch room, drawing pictures of dead babies. You are a rational person and tend to hold emotions in very low-esteem; not only that, but you are also rather introverted, meaning you probably bury any emotions you feel deep inside yourself, like all of the bodies in your backyard. Combine these traits with your dislike of others and your brutality, and it seems that you would be quite likely to shoot innocent people in a rampage. Most likely, you also have low self-esteem. Hell, I get low self-esteem just looking at you. This is only yet one more incentive to go on a shooting rampage, because you wouldn't care if you died as a result. Granted, you probably haven't gone on a shooting rampage and probably never will, but all the motivations are there. All you need is for someone to push you over the edge, calling you names and belittling you. Like me. But don't shoot me. I have a 101 mile-long knife, you know. In conclusion, your personality is defective because you are too introverted, brutal, insecure, and rather unemotional. No wonder no one hangs around you, you morbid, cold-hearted freak!

To put it less negatively:

1. You are more RATIONAL than intuitive.

2. You are more INTROVERTED than extroverted.

3. You are more BRUTAL than gentle.

4. You are more HUMBLE than arrogant.

Compatibility:

Your exact opposite is the Televangelist. Other personalities you would probably get along with are the Capitalist Pig, the Smartass, and the Sociopath.

The other personality types:

The Emo Kid: Intuitive, Introverted, Gentle, Humble.

The Starving Artist: Intuitive, Introverted, Gentle, Arrogant.

The Bitch-Slap: Intuitive, Introverted, Brutal, Humble.

The Brute: Intuitive, Introverted, Brutal, Arrogant.

The Hippie: Intuitive, Extroverted, Gentle, Humble.

The Televangelist: Intuitive, Extroverted, Gentle, Arrogant.

The Schoolyard Bully: Intuitive, Extroverted, Brutal, Humble.

The Class Clown: Intuitive, Extroverted, Brutal, Arrogant.

The Robot: Rational, Introverted, Gentle, Humble.

The Haughty Intellectual: Rational, Introverted, Gentle, Arrogant.

The Spiteful Loner: Rational, Introverted, Brutal, Humble.

The Sociopath: Rational, Introverted, Brutal, Arrogant.

The Hand-Raiser: Rational, Extroverted, Gentle, Humble.

The Braggart: Rational, Extroverted, Gentle, Arrogant.

The Capitalist Pig: Rational, Extroverted, Brutal, Humble.

The Smartass: Rational, Extroverted, Brutal, Arrogant.

About Saint_Gasoline

I am a self-proclaimed pseudo-intellectual who loves dashes. I enjoy science, philosophy, and fart jokes and water balloons, not necessarily in that order. I spend 95% of my time online, and the other 5% of my time in the bathroom, longing to get back on the computer. If, God forbid, you somehow find me amusing instead of crass and annoying, be sure to check out my blog and my webcomic at SaintGasoline.com.

Link: The Personality Defect Test written by saint_gasoline on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test View My Profile(saint_gasoline)

Hisssssssssssss . . .

That sound? The sound of my ego deflating.

So, the being stressed out and miserable and overwhelmed creature that I am, I decided to advertise on Craiglist for a houseboy. My life simply requires a second person in order to operate smoothly. So I posted about my situation, making sure to point out that this would be a No Sex position. While - between you, me, and the lamppost - I might be interested in sex with a houseboy after I got to know him and like him, I am not looking for sex with strangers. I have been down that road, and it does not interest me.

The responses that I got to the post range from "who the fuck do you think you are?" to earnest naivety. There was one, however, that stood out for both its literacy and it's attention to the details of my post. He was a 21 year old college student; younger than I was looking for, but cute. So we emailed back and forth, and seemed to be on the same page about our expectations.
I agreed to meet him in a coffeeshop. We chatted for a few and things seemed to be ok, so I agreed to take him home and show him around the house. At one point I turned my back for a moment to get something, and when I turned around he was naked. Oh, boy.

Somehow, he had convinced himself I didn't really mean it when I said No Sex. Just for the cock he had, I *might* have amended the deal to eventually include sex if he had shown himself to be a Nice Guy.

When I declined to give him a blowjob then and there, he said that if I didn't guarantee him sex in exchange for work, with a "test drive" right now, he wasn't interested in the deal. At all. I pointed out that his proposal was the equivalent of asking me to prostitute myself for the cost of hiring Molly Maid. I pointed out just how insulting that dollar value was. And I pointed out that I am not interested in sex with a stranger.

Ultimately, he left. No sex for him, no laundry for me. And now I'm hurt because some twit kid doesn't think I'm worth a couple of hours of labor.

Battlestar Firescapery

I have this thing for women with guns.



On this planet, my favorite by far is Angelina Jolie in her Lara Croft and Mrs. Smith incarnations. Even the Sarah Connor of T2 doesn't hold a candle to her.


But I prefer the girls who are out of this world.

Aeryn Sun. Aeryn Sun. Aeryn Sun.

The sounds of this glorious woman's name roll off the tongue like a goddess's
invocation. She was the first of my space-faring crushes. I had little use for the stars until I was wooed by her sharp tongue and gun-wielding ways.

Her affair with John Crichton - which could have been played badly - only enhanced my interest. Who wouldn't want a little of both of them? Yum!


My desire then turned to Zoe Washburne. Battle-hardened galactic mercenary with a heart as black as my own. The deeply loyal family ties on Serenity are something I envy greatly. Zoe doesn't take shit from anyone, and backs it up with a gun. I only wish I could do that.


However! Lest you think I do the wet and slippery only for the dark-haired beauties, I will show you my current flame: Kara Thrace of Battlestar Galactica. Her insouciant rebellion and troubled heart make her a compelling character. Her rough-and-tumble play with the boys just makes her HOT!


And there you have it. . . The secret to my science fiction.

Whiplash

Last night I got to see Mr. S when his wife went somewhat unexpectedly to see her boytoy.

After stewing in my alien-ness for the last week, it was intoxicating to be with someone who takes it as an *absolute given* that I'm a completely normal human being. All of my issues of isolation and invisibility are completely off his radar, because in his world it's entirely natural for everyone to be warm, caring, and connected. Sometimes I wonder which of us lives in reality.

Our sex this time was mostly vanilla, except his brilliant attempt to use a needle-point pattern tracer on me. I am so NOT a pain slut, especially with the stingy. He was momentarily a bit petulant about it, pointing out that several other gals he knows just love it. Bully for him and them, I say, if that's what he wants he is welcome to go do it with them. And that was the end of that topic. :-P

On further consideration as I write this all out, the pattern tracer is probably the result of some miscommunication between us. We had a conversation earlier this week in which I mentioned I'd like to explore what marks he could leave on my body without my going into fight-or-flight. I was thinking nail scratches and bruising. Apparently he was thinking perforation. *sigh* I still think it would be neat to be able to go around for a day or two after fucking him and being able to say to myself, "Mr. S was here. This mark is proof."

In the end there was lots of snuggles before we put our clothes back on and went out to dinner. At the restaurant waitress was making googly-eyes at him. I said he should ask her out, he said his girlfriend probably wouldn't appreciate it. It was a cute moment.

Later though, on our way somewhere else, he pulled the No-Girlfriend thing again. I really want to say something to him about it, but how do you tell your friend that every time he merely points out the truth it rips you to shreds inside because all you hear is that you're not worth his love, that you're unlovable?

A Day Late & A Dollar Short

Switch said about Valentine's Day: "I used to wear all black on this day, every year for ages. In relationships and out. Because the cruelty of this holiday for those of us who don't have relationships is not lessened by the fact that I happen to have one."

The cruelty of this holiday. Yep, that about hits the nail on the head there. For me, the day has always been one of explicit mourning. Kind of like the Mexican Day of the Dead, only personal and less cheerful. A time for me to commune with all the relationships that I don't (or never did) have in my life.

Although this year's V-Day itself was less painful due to the exquisite distraction provided by Mr. S, I find myself -- despite the delay -- going through the same mourning. All sorts of ugly thoughts are bubbling up.

According to Aristotle, man is a social creature.

According to Donne, no man is an island.

According to me, it is possible after all to live in a vacuum.

For all my self-pity, the vacuum I live in is rather like space: there's a lot of nothing interrupted by a few little somethings. People see me, people recognize me, a few people have history with me. But nobody knows me. Were I to die tomorrow, no single person would be able to piece together an accurate narrative of Who I Am. Then again, I don't think that if every person I know pooled their knowledge about me could they even then piece together a picture of who I really am.

Nobody knows about The Lech. Nobody knows about the funny sounds I make at the dog. Nobody knows about my attraction to cosplay (not even Mr. S!). Nobody knows how much I love to dance. Nobody knows anything about any of the men that I have seen, except a few know about Number One. Nobody knows the last time I heard the words "I love you" from anyone, be they friend or family.

And yet . . . And yet when I get like this, all curled up tight and cramped inside myself, reaching out to other people is a physically painful thought. I don't want to get out and meet people and date and do all the things social non-islands are supposed to do. I hate that the options now are either lie outright about who I am and what my past is or else be labeled as aloof and a closed book because I don't talk about my non-existent social life.

On the other hand, Sartre says that Hell is other people.

Never Have I Ever . . .

Let's play a game, shall we?

10. Never have I ever . . . been to the prom.

*sigh*

9. Never have I ever . . . held hands in public.

*shrug*

8. Never have I ever . . . received a love letter.

*ponder*

7. Never have I ever . . . received a gift from a man.

*frown*

6. Never have I ever . . . been on a date to a place fancier than jeans.

*grumble*

5. Never have I ever . . . been asked to stay the night.

*puzzle*

4. Never have I ever . . . been pursued.

*shiver*

3. Never have I ever . . . been told I was beautiful - or even pretty - by someone who wanted to sleep with me.

*lament*

2. Never have I ever . . . been referred to as "my girlfriend".

*cry*

1. Never have I ever . . . heard the words, "I love you."

*dies a little*

Sturm Und Drang

Steff said, "It's amazing how much life can go off the rails when you spend a couple years just hanging on for all its worth, while everything else starts going off-kilter a little as a result of the lack of focus on basic maintenance."

The other day, I said, "I've run out of energy for anything beyond the most basic survival efforts." And my friend replied, "I think sex is a vital part of one's existence. "

* * *

I got to spend the last two weekends in a row with Mr. S. It was great, for what it was. But what was it? He has gone out of his way several times since the beginning of this sexual thing to point out that I am not his girlfriend. That this is not emotional for him. That I have no hold on him.

Each night, after fucking our brains out, he'd pull me close and wrap his big, strong arms around me. He held me until I slept . . . and he was still holding me when I awoke in the morning.

I am not satisfied to sleep in the arms of a man who loves another woman.

When, Lord, will I be the woman who is loved? I am impatient.

A married friend, on marriage: "The only thing separating us is a random coincidence."

Is that what relationships are? Winning the emotional lottery?

Rough Sex

After an altogether too long hiatus, Mr. S has returned. We still have not discussed his December abandonment, and at this point I am reluctant to bring it up at all... I am falling into the stereotypically female "forgive but not forget" position. While it doesn't make me happy, fighting with him about it would make me less happy. I think.

Besides, the sex is worth it. I got to see him Thursday night after an OMG-long-and-miserable day at work. Despite my being an unshowered and unshaven stresspot, he fucked my brains out in the most amazing way.

I've had passionate sex. And assertive sex. But this was Rough Sex in the most delighfully satisfying way. A clothes ripped off, cock shoved in mouth, fistful of hair kind of way. I am still sore from the things he did to my tender bits. *swoon*

The delicious thing about Mr. S's brand of rough sex is that it isn't about degradation. It's not a punishment and it's not about status. It's a full-on expression of masculine desire, aided and abetted by his size and strength. I am not a Rag Doll woman, but he pushed me around with no no visible effort. It was absolutely intoxicating.

Sometimes, it's like he reads my mind.

Ode To The Single Woman

The single woman is an unappreciated creature.

The single woman does everything you do.

She also does everything your spouse does for you.

She does everything your friends do for you.

Gyroscopic Spinsters

I am Teh Suck for not posting for so long.

I am Teh Dork for thinking about blogging while at work.

I am Teh Lay-zeeee for not actually writing thought-about posts.

So, in the interests of breaking my non-posting spree:

This woman sounds like a more extreme version of my own spinning-top moods.

Teh End

* * * * * *

Upcoming posts:
Requiem For A Friendship
Women In Space

Rag Doll

Jealousy. Is it possible to be jealous of an idea?

I am a man-sized woman. As tall as a man, as strong as a man, as hungry as a man, as heavy as a man. An Amazon for the romantic, Shrek's cousin to the rest. And yet I want to be treated "like a woman". Whatever that means. I am jealous of this woman. I am jealous that her belly can be covered by a man's hand.

When a man is larger than a woman, he is both potential threat and potential protector. I am so very tired of "average" sized men: men who are no more than overgrown women, men whom I can push around, men who cannot push me. Men who make me feel more like a body than a woman. Men who make me feel nothing at all.

I want a man strong enough to enforce his will. A man who can pick me up, hold me down, toss me around like a rag doll. A man whose strength confines me, and in that confinement protects me.

Babylon

How many miles to Babylon?
Three score miles and ten.
Can I get there by candlelight?
Yes, and back again.

The Writing On The Wall . . . Is {blank}

I had a long IM conversation tonight with Mr. S. I am both gratified and displeased at this.

As our bellydance classes have started again, Mrs. S took it upon herself to invite the two of them over to dinner at my house this past week. Yes, I had a choice to allow it to happen. Not allowing it, though, would have sent a too-clear signal to her about my true feelings. She is dense, but not too dense to miss that.

So they came, we cooked, we ate, it was a mostly pleasant evening. They were both all over me physically, which I didn't exactly appreciate: Mrs. S because of how I feel about her, and Mr. S because he and I have not had a real conversation since the Doorstep Incident.

So tonight Mr. S logs on because that's what he does when Mrs. S is not around to tell him what to do. It turns out the reason for his freedom is her off catting around. (It was my understanding that one of their Never-Broken Rules was "never leave one partner home alone" ... but I guess that only applies to Mr. S and myself *grumble*). I am pleased to have had one of our old style conversations: long and meandering, easy and without drama. He is simply comfortable to talk to, and I have missed that.

I am less pleased about it in other ways. 1) We still haven't talked about the fact he ditched me for over a month. As I am tired of fielding accusations from this pair of being high-maintenance and demanding, I am reluctant to bring it up. It hurt. It still hurts. I am not done processing it, so we shall see. 2) A good chunk of the conversation was spent plotting how to get him into some other girl's pants. What am I? Chopped liver? He did eventually flirt a bit with me, but only right before realizing the late hour and logging off.

Point number two is a leitmotif in my interactions with men, one that dismays me and I don't know how to escape. Meet Guy, like Guy, (sometimes fuck Guy), Guy starts to like Other Girl, be so cool and non-possessive as to give advice how to get Other Girl, Guy and Other Girl live happily ever after.

It would seem things start to break down at the non-possessive part, but possessiveness -- despite being my natural inclination -- does not work for me in practice. It doesn't seem to work for many women, I think. It only seems to work for the women I am competing against. *sigh*

Second Verse, Same As The First

I am overdue in posting because I have been trying to avoid a New Years post. So, all I shall say on that is: 2007 sucked. Not as bad as 2006, but still pretty bad. 2008 looks to be more of the same. Whoopee. Hence my taking four sleeping pills at 10 PM on the 31st. Unfortunately my Rip Van Winkle moment only lasted until the next morning. *sigh*

In other cheeriness, there was a spate of marriage proposals over the holidays in my circle of acquaintances. Not that I was expecting one of my own or anything, (cuz damn, I can't even get a date) but it sure was "nice to be reminded once again just how far outside the pale of human experience I am.