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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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*

Take another little piece of my heart . . .

This summer/fall/year is killing me. As each day passes I can feel a little bit of myself fall away and die.

It is not a painless process.

I don't know how to stop it.

Life has turned into a Merlin-esque rewind. At the tender age of 14, I was already in my prime -- brash, intelligent, fearless. Having lived that entire lifetime over again, I am now lazy, sullen, hemmed in by my own insecurities. Every day I shrink a little bit more.

Today another part of me died.

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?

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.