I had too much wine on Saturday night, wrote this. Didn’t publish it for fear I might’ve said too much. In vino veritas and all. So here’s the version you see. :)
I’m being antisocial. Again. I’m at that point where people are draining me, so I know I need my time to myself.
Some guy’s aggressively pursuing me. I could be shagging this weekend, not lounging around in ugly clothes. The thought fills me with a little doubt as I look down at my yoga pants and my shitty concert t-shirt. God knows it’s been long enough. If landscapes were sex-life allusions, then mine would be the Sahara in a drought. I’m okay with this, though. Except, you know, at those moments when — SCHWING — I’m so not. Fortunately, self-inducing oblivion helps avoid those moments.
I’ve been rebuffing said attempts. Pretty sure he’s not really my type. It’d be just sex. Incredibly-hot-guy-with-no-mental-connection sex. If things were less complicated, maybe. Like I say: A dry season in the Sahara. The problem with hormones is, once you turn ‘em on, it’s like the switch gets broke. They get this mind of their own. I’d prefer not to fuck my mode and just avoid sex entirely unless it’s for the “oh, YOU might be a sidedish of WOW” kinda manly potential right now.
I’ve been insanely busy for a long time. I’m not sure I have a relationship in me. A lazy relationship. Heavy on the sex and the indoors thing, you know, preferably with a short-term agoraphobic who can afford to order us delivery, and has a good wine habit and stunning taste in film, with a potential Scrabble habit. But I’m just spit-balling here. Does seem a bit much to ask, I know, but I believe in dreams. And unicorns.
Or maybe I could just have sex. But therein lies the problem. With WHOM? That’s no easily-answered question; you’ll be requiring references and a skill-testing question. I’m so old-fashioned. I’m having a hard time going after the casual thing. I don’t trust others to play clean. I’m not into taking chances with my health when I’m completely STD-free, always have been, and there’s so many skanks in the world. That old commercial where you see two people shagging and there’s all these other people superimposed above, with something like “When you sleep with someone, you sleep with everyone who’s ever slept with everyone they’ve slept with.” If that makes any sense at all.
Naturally, being a chick with discerning tastes, and seeing the sometimes-craptastic women that even the GOOD guys I know have shagged, well. Yeah, I get hesitant. You hear about the one person who gets HIV because a condom tore one night, and they’ve always worn one, or the escort who gets pregnant despite never having unprotected sex, and you have to realize that .1% ineffectiveness has a human toll.
Let’s face it: I *am* statistics girl. As a superhero, my tights would be nothing but a chart of probability and statistics. “Why, I’ll show you a skyrocketing mortality rate!”
I’ve been thrown off a horse, fallen down a flight of stairs, blew my knee three times in a year, have had five car accidents, almost died in one, almost killed myself on my scooter the next year, and blew my back by standing up from a chair. In 15 years. Most of it in the last 7. And those are just the headlines.
Should *I* test fate more than necessary? You think?
The hedonist in me has definitely seized the odd moment that would’ve been criminal to let past, and that’s the way the casual cookie crumbles. Protection lowers the odds but never prevents it. Thank god my libido stays quiet when I want it to. Heh, yeah, you envy me. Like I’ve got a muzzle for the thing, I swear. It’s awesome. I couldn’t imagine being “on” when I’m in single patches. Whew. Innocents would die. I kid you not. Old people, toddlers; the casualties would be legion.
Regardless of all the above babble, I’ve resolved to plop myself back out there on the market PFQ. It is time. Like, two weeks from now when I’m done a bunch of stuff, that’s when it’s time. It’s time! My digs are too cool for me to stay single any longer, too. I need to share this bitchin’ pad with someone who can appreciate latenights with lazy mornings too.
Trouble is, I get into anything with anyone and I’m pretty sure the rest of my social life would go to the wayside, even if I only hooked up with said fella once a week or something, ‘cos time ain’t something I’ve got considering all I’m trying to accomplish these days. And I hate those choices. And who does “once a week”? Not people in MY circles, I tell you.
But there you have it, I overthink things. This is why I’m just saying fuck it, putting myself out there, and seeing what the world unfolds for me. There are times when thinking is good, and there are times when “Whatcha got?” works nicely too. I’ve been thinking too much for a while.
It’s whatchagot time. You, take the wheel.
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