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."

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)