He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not

Some hours after my last post Mr. S picked up the phone to talk things over. He said that he loved me. He said that he had been holding back because he didn't know where things with Mrs. S were going. He said he thought I knew how he felt about me. I told him about Not Really My Girlfriend, and the "I love you, but just as a friend". He genuinely thinks he never said such things. I almost told him how much his Valentine's Day gift hurt, but I chickened out. I had enough vulnerability for one day. He said that he loved me.

Endings are Beginnings Too

Tonight I broke things off with Mr S.

I am sick at heart over it, but I think it had to be done. The topic of my last post just would not get out of my head. Normally I am all for communication, but how do you ask someone to feel something they obviously don't?

He wanted to talk, I made him do it over IM so I wouldn't be a blubbering mess. He said he loved me, he said he considered us more than FWB. But he didn't fight it. He didn't ask me to reconsider.

That hurts as much as anything.

I want so much to be loved. I want a man to hold my face in his hands and smile at me. I want to hear I make him happy. After two years with Mr. S I never experienced anything remotely close to it. I was just the toy he played with when the one(s) he wanted weren't available.

At the very real risk of sounding self-pitying, I don't think there are going to be any more relationships for me. Of course I am going to throw myself out there (I am already alone, so I have nothing to fear) but I don't expect anything to come of it. This failed one took 27 years to find. If it takes several tries to find a good one, at 27 years a pop, I am likely to be 81 at the youngest or maybe 108 before I have even a chance of love.

Booty Call

Mr S. has bit a rocky patch in his marriage (his woman be crazy) and there was some vague talk from him about his plans and the future. I have never once said or suggested that I want to date him full-time, nor have I ever asked for even so much as a definition of our current relationship. And yet he came out with these gems:

"As I said... I like our relationship now. Not sure where it's headed tho."

And shortly after:

"I don't think it would be fair to keep you on as part of a harem, and take on someone else as a primary either."

So what am I, chopped liver? I was noticing the other day, after he threw Pretty Eyes at me (again!), that he's really never given me any other kind of compliment. I am not fun, smart, insightful, a good friend, a good fuck, just plain pretty, or possessing of any positive qualities worth comment.

Even a one night stand gets more ego-stroking than this.

Fifth Wheel

Or: Standing On The Sidelines

I am watching the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. S slowly disintegrate, and it is a sad thing to see. Mrs. S has for some time now (counted in years) had the notion in her head that she wanted to go to Africa through the Peace Corps; she has also had the notion that she was waiting for Mr. S to finish his degree before going. After much fence-riding, Mr. S finally told the Mrs. that he really wasn't going to uproot his life to live in a grass hut for two years afterall. She did not take it well.

Badness

I have had a certain misandry percolating in my brain for several weeks now. I know there are good men out there -- Mr. S is one of them, and I have met others.

Men can be sexy. I think there is nothing hotter than a man at work. Especially if it's physical, but really it can be anything. Brain-work is sexy too. But all that work and motion and effect on the world? So rarely a good thing.

Because, really, men are evil. Men from the lowliest officeboy all the way up to the men on top, they all make decisions that affect people in negative ways. It is men who destroy -- forests, rivers, mountains, air, and water. It is men who start and fight wars. It is men who rape, steal, torture, and kill.

There was a story on NPR recently that talked about a (American) woman who had been sexually brutalized by some Blackwater men. Women don't do that sort of thing.

Women don't strip the earth of its resources.

Women don't make or drop atom bombs.

Women aren't 90% of the prison population.

Women aren't perfect, not by any means. Women can be subtle and vicious, and when pushed can be even more dangerous than men. But women don't make a practice of destruction.

And so I think about these things, and I begin to dread the men around me. I dread their destructive ways, their thieving ways, their pure self-centered to-hell-with-you ways. And I wonder, what was so sexy?

Beauty

I finally have proof that *all* men are liars.

Wait! Before I get flamed to a crisp for that, let me explain.

Not all men are liars all the time. Not all liars lie even some of the time. But eventually, all men utter at least one lie.

I know this because even Mr. S lies. He called me beautiful. Now most women take compliments like that (deserved or not) as a matter of course. Some women are pleasantly surprised by them from time to time. There are a few women, though, for whom the word just doesn't apply. I am one of them. Always have been.

I was expecting the Pretty Eyes chesnut, but then he threw that out there. What am I supposed to do with that? Pretend I don't notice that he couldn't be bothered to say it for the first two years he was fucking me?

Also, it's doubly unbelievable because right now I am literally as ugly as I've ever been. The Nexus of Evil endures and has wrought its toll on me, and everything has suffered. Skin, hair, weight, the works. So WTF is he doing saying that now?

Ghosts

I logged on to my IM client this afternoon, and who should I hear from but Mr. Marine?

The last I heard from him was his Great Flake-out a year and a half ago. Complete radio silence. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

He claims to have been doing two back-to-back tours (where, he didn't say and I didn't ask), which being a Marine and all means 14 months. So the math works. Except the internet is crawling with lonely and bored soldiers ... it doesn't strike me as beyond reason that he could have sent a message out. If not "Hey, I miss you" then at least, "Hey, I'm deploying, see you next year."

And, I'm still on his contact list after all this time.

So, wtf?

The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly (Or Weird)

The good: Mr. S found *two* new ways to make me happy. I have found that knives are not always stingy -- sometimes they give a burning sensation that is very, very happy. They also produce color-like sensations. Even though my eyes didn't see it, I *felt* the colors. My shoulders are pink, my ribcage is purple, my lower back is yellow then green, and my butt is blue. Go figure.

The bad: I think that for the first time ever there was bad sex. There was lots of good sex too, but the final time he just kind of did went at his own pace and that was that. He's never ignored me like that . . . I didn't want to call him on it because he seemed to be enjoying himself more than usual.

Then again, I've used his body for my pleasure more than once so maybe turnabout is fair play here. Especially since he gave me quite a bit of awesome attention before that.

The weird: Apparently my vagina was installed backwards. I do have a g-spot in the front that more or less works, but it's a very "sharp" sensation that I don't orgasm from. We found out tonight, though, that there's a spot on the back that is absolutely amazing! Even with just one finger, it provides a sensation I can only call "thick". Instead of being a handjob, it *feels* like fucking. The orgasms it produces, though, certainly are different. My clit orgasms are like a rollercoaster ride . . . a long uphill and then a big wheee!!! on the downhill. This, though, this was similar to (rare) intercourse orgasms: it's like a lightswitch flipping. There is no wheee!, only a smallish vaginal spasm, but all of a sudden the world is a better place.

It made me goofy, man.

Pretty Eyes: Redux

Mr. S keeps throwing the Pretty Eyes at me. Like, three of the last four times we've gotten together. Does he really think I'm not going to notice that he has *nothing* else positive to say about me?

I've considered bringing it up with him, but what am I going to say? "Hi, I noticed that you don't actually like anything about me, but I'd feel a whole lot better if you started lying about it."

Rake The Coals To Stoke The Fire

Or: It Burns Us, It Does!

Mr. S offered (apropos of nothing) to show me a Valentine's Day note he received from one of his other harem members. In a coup of personal brilliance, I allowed him to send the damn thing on.

Why, oh why, do I do this to myself?

It was *exactly* what I needed, reading about his emotional intimacy with another person. After a year and a half, I've still only got Pretty Eyes. I'm still Not Really A Girlfriend. She? She has "adoration", "fulfillment", "laughter and sharing", and (natch) "amazing sex".

It doesn't take a psych degree to see that I have my own baggage train of issues if I am sticking with a guy who isn't into me. In his defense, he did bring me a spiffy hand-made LED light-up V-Day card. However, I could have crawled under a rock and died when he casually asked me when the last time I received anything on V-Day was. I said, "It's been a while," and he asked "How long?" Ten years. I was 19 and a sophomore in college when Number One bought me two roses a week early because he "didn't believe in holidays." Ten fucking years. Ten years of fucking. And not one partner has thought to show me any generosity, on that day or any other.

I have always felt that it is better to be alone than in a bad relationship. But how do you call a relationship bad when it's the best you've ever had? For all his faults and failings (and there are many), no one in my life has been kinder to me than Mr. S. And yet ...

I don't think good things are supposed to feel like this.

Valentines for Spinsters

Yesterday, Mr. S brought me a pseudo-Valentine's Day card.

Smash

Tonight, I mushed my middle finger between the tailgate of my truck and the windy bit on the tongue of the trailer I was about to unhook. It is bruised under the nail and sore as hell all over.

This means two [three] things:

1) Typing is going to be one handed for a while.

2) As I am left handed in general, this also means masturbation is right out.

[3) I am going to be wearing nail polish and/or gloves for a long while, as this is going to get ugly. *sigh* ]

What. The. Fuck. ?!?!

So, my sex drive went AWOL sometime in August. I left messages, sent mail, went knocking on it's door ... all with no response. I still saw Mr. S regularly and enjoyed it, but it wasn't the same. Things were off.

And yet suddenly, when life is as bad as it's ever been, my sex drive has come back in full force. Shazam! I can't stop thinking about it, and all I want to do all day is masturbate. Or play with Mr. S. Or do both. Or even find another person I can play with.

It is a crying shame that with this insane asylum that is my life I don't have the privacy to really pursue any of those options. Not really. Not in the screaming, messy, orgasm in each room of the house sort of way that is truly satisfying.

Prayers

Sometimes, just sometimes, the universe answers your prayers.

It only took me a year and a half to notice I've gotten exactly what I wanted. Thank you, Mr. S!

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."