I’m weird, one of my best times for getting inspired to write is during housecleaning. I think it’s a procrastination thing. I wasn’t planning on posting, but I checked my comments and one made me think. Then I started doing the dishes, and snap, crackle, pop, a memory kicked in, and next thing you know, I sat on down and got crackin’.
It’s not until you’re single and you’re all right with it that you finally realize just how much of society is centered around fitting in and joining the club — getting married, getting laid, getting validated. Society pats us on the back when we find ‘someone’ and if we’re single, we’re told to look at ourselves and find what’s wrong with us, not what’s wrong with them.
Maybe, just maybe, we’re fine. Maybe, just maybe, they’re not good enough for us. Maybe, just maybe, we’re holding out for something better.
I’ve come to learn the hard way that being comfortable with being single is one of the biggest challenges we can face. It’s so easy to run into the arms of someone “who’ll do” instead of toughing it out alone. It’s so easy to stay the course of least resistance in a relationship that doesn’t deserve your commitment. Getting laid is a breeze, if you set your sights low enough.
We’re scared of being alone. I remember my mother breaking down in tears several months before her death, before she even got sick, when she accidentally got stinking drunk (the first time I’d ever seen her drink more than a glass or two of wine) on my birthday and was throwing up and was horribly hung over the next day. I took care of her, cleaned up after her, washed her vomit-stained comforter, and anything that needed doing. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “I’m not scared anymore… I’ve been so scared that no one would look after me when I got old and sick, and now I know I don’t need to worry about that.”
I think we all ultimately know that fear. God knows I’ve been intimate with it.
We’re a tribal society, despite how uncivil we can sometimes be to each other. It’s our heritage, our legacy. We’re in it together… so being alone is something seemingly incongruous to human nature. But we need to know we’re able to handle it, and so few of us ever really try to learn if we can.
We sometimes fail to see how much society conditions us to need the approval of others – from report cards as kids, job reviews as adults, and every fucking time we use our debit cards, it’s all about getting approval. When you’re single and alone, who’s there to give it to you? Who’s there to tell you in the night that everything’s going to be all right?
You. Just you. Me. We’re self-contained, but everything about our society tells us we’re not. It’s a struggle. It’s hard. Never underestimate the difficulty of going it alone, but also, never ever underestimate the wonder of making it work. There is nothing more rewarding than that night when you realize there’s no one in the world that could make you feel better than you feel right then, right there.
Loneliness will always find you, though, but it will always leave you, too. It’s like a tide. It ebbs, it flows, and you just need to find the rhythm.
Category Archives: Being single
Stuck In Single: The Weekend Blues?
I’m a sucker for makeover shows. I’m addicted to TLC’s What Not To Wear. In fact, I’d say it’s played a major part in why I’ve lost 30 lbs, and why I will continue to take another 35 or so off. It’s why I wear makeup religiously again, something I got out of the habit of when life turned to shit at age 25. It’s why I’ve gotten hip and cute and usually find myself winking or smiling at myself when I pass a mirror (a conscious thing).
Self-esteem was something I just never had. I never really liked myself and always considered myself an ugly duckling and uncool. I played the role of cool chick with cool attitude when I was out of high school and in early college, and always hung with the older, cooler crowd, but deep down inside, I felt I was a poseur.
There are days, still, when I’m left feeling like a poseur. I’m genuinely shocked when I get emails and comments from people praising my writing, for example. I can’t fathom what folks see in it – some days. And other days, I feel like I’m really all that. It’s a constant struggle, loving oneself, but it’s a fight worth fighting.
I get asked from time to time how one copes with being single. I’ll tell you, I’ve got experience in that. When my life went to hell in a handbasket at age 25, with the demise of a longtime relationship, the death of my mother, and other fun events, the last thing I was interested in was my image. The next last thing I cared about was a relationship. I knew myself well enough to know that getting into a relationship would be a death knell for me. It would, inevitably, go bad. (I mean, let’s face it – the average relationship is 90% likely to die within four years, and we all know relationships seldom go gently into thy good night.) And when it went bad, I would blame myself, hate myself, and go into a blind rage at He Who Caused It – and I knew it’d all be displaced anger I felt over all the other shit that was going on, and I knew it’d mean I wasn’t dealing with what needed to be dealt with.
So, I stayed single. For five years. I won’t even tell you what happened with sex – the occasional fling, which didn’t do much to help the self-esteem issue and instead left me hating myself even more. I learned that having sex for fun is one thing, but having sex to fill emotional needs that aren’t really being met, that’s just destructive. So I stopped getting laid, too, and got my shit together first.
I had a serious car accident and was lucky – the insurance company paid for me to have a personal trainer. Her name was Christine and wherever she is now, she played a major role in teaching me to learn to love myself and appreciate my health. I was fat, I was depressed, I was angry, and I had little to be thankful for, I thought, but I pushed myself despite the world of physical pain I was living in. She was incredible, she encouraged me so much and told me I was kicking ASS on her healthy, normal clients. And I remembered something about myself – I was a determined, strong person. I can do this, I thought.
And I did. I lost about 50 lbs over the next year or so, and have sort of stagnated for awhile, but never really gained anything back. Now, I’m losing weight again and plan to drop more – without depriving myself of those things I love, like red wine and chocolate and all those delectable good things that add richness to my life. I’d rather bust my ass physically than lose the good things, y’know? (Remember, I’m a big proponent of the all-sex diet. I’m not adverse to a good workout, and hey… I’m determined. 😉
But it wasn’t just the working out that helped me change. It was realizing that I would eventually spend the rest of my life with someone, but here, now, I was alone, and the more I talked to those who were “spending their life” with the person they loved, the more I heard “I wish I could be single again, just for awhile. I’d do it differently…”
And I vowed to live my single life better. I could dine out alone with a good book and love the experience. I’d occasionally hop on my bike, kill myself for a hardcore ride around the city, stop at a seaside café, and enjoy the moment. On Saturday nights stuck home alone, I’d have a long, lingering, oily bath and some nice red wine and make myself an incredible grilled steak meal with all the fixings. I’d enjoy the silence. And sometimes I’d write about myself and all the things from my past and present that limited my enjoyment of life until then, and the dreams I had for my future.
Slowly, surely – and this process is ongoing, so don’t kid yourself about it being an overnight process because it takes years – I have come to love myself. Most of the time. Like I say, there are times I don’t feel right. Times I feel like a poseur with writing. Times I feel out of my league. But I plow through. I try to find something positive to hang onto on those days and that’s all I know I can do.
In the last couple years, I’ve had one “sort of” relationship that detonated because the guy had more baggage than a Samsonite shop, but I’ve been on an endless parade of dates with an endless assortment of men. And none of them have been worth my time beyond that first date. No matter what I’ve learned about what I want from love, I know I love myself too much to bother getting involved with someone who’s not going to be all the things I need him to be.
I’m having a rare, rare second date tomorrow night, and I’m optimistic, but I’ll keep my mouth shut about that beyond saying this, he’s a nice guy and he’s different from most of the guys I’ve been seeing ‘cos there’s an intellectual connection that just works. (So, possibly proof here that nice guys don’t always finish last. Take note.)
But if it doesn’t work out, you know what? Not the end of the world. That’s just the way life goes. In the end, I’ve got myself, and that’s a pretty good consolation prize.
So, here’s the deal. If you’re stuck at home alone, sans relationship, with that “Why can’t I find anyone?” woe-is-me mindset this weekend, stop it. Have a quality drink, a nice meal, wear whatever the hell you want, close the blinds, and have some nice time alone. Take a latenight walk with your iPOD, have a long hot bath, call someone you’ve not spoken to in ages, write a bit in your journal. But stop feeling sorry for yourself.
Being single is the freedom to be who you want to be, any time you want. And don’t forget it. Relationships, when they’re good, they’re great. When they’re not, well, honey, you don’t need that shit. You got you. Enjoy it.
I Done Sprung, Baby
I’m a sexually peaking 32-year-old woman who’s just been hit with her first full dose of spring fever. I need sex, and I want it now.
Tonight I hung out with my first sex blogger for some cool conversation, some Guinness, a stroll, and a bus ride. A nice night. I noticed then as we wandered to the waterfront that it was warmer than I’d have expected. Seasonal. Nice. A little damp, a little chilly, but there it was. Warmer than it oughta be, fresher than dawn on a mountain. A spring night. The first real one.
We hit the bus, he got off at his stop for the hotel, and I carried on my merry way. Two folks quickly sat down opposite me, in a portion of the bus where the aisle expanse is at its narrowest. They were inches from my knees and the sexual energy was just incredible. Wow. You could tell they were on the verge, and they’ve been lodged on that precipice for some time. They’ve clearly known each other for a little, and they’ve connected on a different level. Now, it’s averted gazes, bashful smiles, and too much self-touching.
(You know what I mean, you smooth out your jeans, adjust a pocket, straighten your sleeve – but it’s really just nervous tension, and you know it. These two were popping.)
She was this geeky-chic alt-edge white girlie with these naughty librarian specs, a beret, tapered velvet pants that snaked down her mile-high legs. She used to be a redhead, partially dyed black. In her lap, a wood-mounted freshly sculpted clay statuette (yet to be baked) of a nubile goddess. Her smile was that of a sexy affected intellectual.
Hell, I wanted her.
He was this sexy alternative Middle Eastern guy with chiseled features, smoky eyes, this birthmark on his forehead that looked like a smudge of ash, and this oh-so-perfect little soulpatch (mm) under his tender full lips. His jeans were loose in all the right places, but snug in the better ones. He had a nervous twitch in his left leg and kept bouncing his knee an inch or two up in a fidgety manner that said he really didn’t want to be looking at the floor as she spoke about whatever it was that was moving her then, but would rather be on the floor on top of her.
Hell, I wanted him.
Yet there was this great connection on the level of friends. These shy recognitions exchanged in glances, furtive moments of silence and awkward chuckles. So fucking sexy, so hot.
They each went home alone, to my surprise. He disembarked at my stop, and I hung back to watch those sweet half-moon cheeks swaggering up the drag. “Hate to see you leave, love to watch you go.”
And then I realized it. I’m just full of lust, morning, noon, and night these days. I find when I’m able to shut it off for a few hours for work or platonic socializing or whatever, whammo. Girl’s back to raging. God damned peaking.
The sexual peak is the age at which your frequency of sexual arousal reaches an all-time high. It has nothing to do with skill or frequency of being laid. It’s hormones ripening. Men, 16-18, women, 32-35. I’m 32. Wham. I’m on, 24-7. Bulges in jeans on the street are targeted in my sights from a two-block distance. I watch them approach. The shifting side-to-side. I watch asses, always. Shoulders, nice broad and strong ones. I feel dysfunctional. I’m a voyeur every waking moment. Raging. Sigh.
But it was also at that moment that it hit me: It’s spring.
I began to pass nearly sprung apple blossoms, exposed fluffy cherry blossoms. I smelled honeysuckle. I walked my 10 blocks home with my suede jacket dangling open and only my embroidered cotton shirt protecting me. Blissful. Stars glimmering overhead. That freshness that tells you winter’s on the outs. I breathed deeply. Stopped to stare at the stars, smell the air. Shuffled my feet in a lazy amble on home, savouring the walk as long as I could. I even paused to hang in the school playground. Leaning back on the swing, checking the stars.
God, I love the laziness of spring. The easy pace, the affable air. Mm. A very, very happy Steff.
And now, I want sex even more. Actually, no, you know what I want tonight? Intimacy.
The casual heat of just knowing someone well enough to toy endlessly with their bits and pieces as you lie stretched out, soaking in a classic movie or an intelligent foreign flick, sipping wine, candles flickering, naked, skin-on-skin, a blanket draped loosely over you both, a breast hanging out, toes protruding, legs interlocked, occasionally emitting single lines of commentary to each other, getting only a nibble or a bite in response. Just an easy night in.
That’s what I want. That says spring to me. Spring is seasonal foreplay. It’s suggestive of the heat to come. A delicate tease meant to stoke you and ready you for all to come. It’s so fitting, doing prolonged tease and toy sessions, just getting intimate with all they have to offer. Yep. Spring.
Then there’s outdoor sex, the sport of the season… fucking on the grass near the beach, but that’s another story for another time. Yes, do remind me to tackle the subject of public sex sometime. Ahh, how do I love it. Let me count the ways. Oh, my. Yes, that is also what this season says to me. “Get out and play.” Just dew it, baby.
So, my wish to you all: A fine and fair spring, with plenty of fun fucking and frolicking of all kinds. God knows I’ve got one on order. Let’s hope the season delivers.
The Delicate Art of… Face-Sitting?
David E. Kelly starts off with these brilliant shows that eventually get weird and schticky, but so far, Boston Legal is keeping consistently watchable and even loveable.
In a recent episode, William Shatner’s effervescent Alzheimer’s victim-warrior lawyer, Denny Crane, states that when his mind rots to the state of a two-year-old child’s, his bride-to-be has been instructed to euthanize him by way of face-sitting.
Yes, he wants to be killed by snatch.
I’ve written before that the whole face-sitting thing, I can go there, that’s part of the job, I guess, but it does little for me, really. I don’t dislike it, it’s just not a reason to cancel going to the movies, y’know?
That said, I would absolutely feel compelled to give a guy what he asks for from time to time, particularly knowing how wildly fetishistic this love of face can be for guys. If you’re a chick and you don’t get it, try to be a guy for a second:
You’re obsessed with pussy and tits. You have been for a really, really long time. Ass, it’s nice, too. Especially bouncy ass. Very nice, you think. You’ll take two, and don’t call in you in the morning.
Now, you’re a guy who’s in his favourite position – on his back – and not only has this woman come to you, but you don’t even need to sit up to see her. Nope. You’re reclining, life is good, and oh, my God – she’s sitting on you. That nice bouncy round ass is on top of your chest, her twat – that Mecca, that daily fantasy, that height of all things good in your life – is resting on your lowly lips. And, dear god, when she bounces this way or that, presto (or, the gods have smiled, and she’s leaning over and using the headboard for support, and there they are, front and centre – dangling, even). Looming overhead like giants in the Amazon, her breasts. Oh. Oh, ho, ho. Yes. That, there, don’t move – never, ever move – stay right THERE.
Welcome to Male Psychology 101.
Of course, they won’t tell you this. They’ll just say, “I like it. It feels good. You look good up there.” Articulate much, guys?
But maybe it’s hard to quantify. There’s this old Canadian rock song from the late ‘80s by The Northern Pikes, and the song lyrics go, “She ain’t pretty, she just looks that way.”
And it’s kinda how I feel about sex. You may have noticed, I’m an enthusiast. Been known to dabble a tad from time to time in the carnal arts.
But sex looks wack sometimes, man. Face-sitting’s just one of many somewhat amusing scenarios we find ourselves in. Blowjobs, they look kinda silly. Toe-sucking, yes, weird. (Feels great though. Really.) Bondage, well… S&M? Oh, my. It’s a regular freakshow, isn’t it?
Or is it? I mean, every now and then the writer me steps outside and becomes the comedian observer me. He’s doing what to me, where? With what? A kitchen utensil? Shit, that’s weird, I’d think.
But I probably enjoyed myself.
And that’s part of the thing about sex. You sometimes just need to suspend your judgment. Yes, weird things go down. Yes, you have preconceived notions. Yes, you’re a little mystified at how that could possibly be a good thing. But do it anyway.
It’s like sushi. Who knew?
A Shut-in Saturday Night
It’s a my-time-of-the-month movie night tonight. Legally Blonde is playing, followed by Miss Congeniality.
I so suck, I know. Normally, I’m a fan of those crazy things called Subtitles. I like artsy flicks and intellect and drama and suspense and sexiness (hence subtitles: bring on the Latin flicks). But when I’m feeling sorry for myself, I like the stupid shit.*
I screwed up my back again! JESUS CHRIST. What, is this the reality check of “Miss, you’re 32 years old now, you can’t DO that shit anymore”? Because, I tell you, I’m getting pretty choked.
You know what it is? When I’m exercising regularly, I’m fine. Right now, though, I’m trying to get back into exercising after having real life intrude with my willpower/etc. Ever since my bro’s accident, everything kind of just stopped. Workaholic, sick, obligations, all that stupid crap began to interfere, and I was WEAK. I was UNDISCIPLINED.
And I am PAYING for it now.
I’m lucky I’m normally able to feel as well as I am, when I keep active & exercise a lot. In the last decade of my life I have:
- Been thrown from a horse.
- Been in accidents where two cars were totaled (both other drivers running red lights and t-boning me.)
- Been rear-ended twice.
- Been in a scooter (ie: Vespa-type) accident where I was thrown off and landed on my back in an intersection.
- Been in two wipe-outs on the scoot.
In short, I’m a fucking catastrophe on legs. I’ve had bad luck in the past, and though that’s all behind me now and life is good, I need to be more vigilant with being regular on the exercise thing. I get really passionate and dedicated, but whenever life turns up the heat, it’s the first thing I drop when I start losing my grip on things, and it takes a long time to get it back. If there’s anything I hope to change about myself, that’s it. I enjoy being active, I push myself fairly hard when I get into it, but this copping out and rough-ride-back bullshit is making me a little too cognizant of being over 30 and what the consequences of neglect-meets-age might be.
But isn’t that the way it always is? We forget how good “normal” can be, we let things lapse, they fall apart quicker than we’d have fathomed, and getting it back to par is a hell of a chore. And sometimes, you can’t help but start thinking it’s unthinkable, or even, “is it worth this?”
And this is what I’ve done, I neglected myself. I started living a lifestyle I hate – one commanded by work and money, not time and passion. And I forgot the little things I need to do to keep myself in the zone of Steff that I love the best, the one where I feel good, up, happy, and like a player. I love the vibe I have when things are good – so why do I stop?
Once I get to this point, I smarten the hell up for a good long time. Invariably, once every year or so, though, this happens.
It brings on another realization, though. The difference between blaming others, and blaming yourself. You’ll notice, I’m not blaming life – I’m blaming my own inability to better manage my time. I know the fault lies on me, and that’s the thing I need to know, because then I know I can change. That’s the beauty of accepting responsibility for shit: You know you’re not a victim, you know you’re in power, you know you can be an agent of change.
So, here I sit, bitter and angry at this world of discomfort I’m in, but I know it’s my fault, and this time is the last time for a while. I am now a stretching fiend. Limber is my name. Heh. Right?
My den of slack and agent of change (aka: living room and remote of control) are beckoning me back to the realm of sloth. I hear my calling, and I choose to accept the task before me. Later, I will go for the loser-slouchy-sore-back-girl walk around the block where I feel like an alien creature has infiltrated my spine, causing me to walk as if I’m auditioning for George Romeros.
How I dream of muscle relaxers. Anybody? Anybody?
*You thought I had something bright to say? Something new, exciting? No, no. It’s just whining.
Christmas Night Musings of Aloneness, a la Bridget Jones
(Ed. Note: In my semi-drunken/contented state last evening, I wrote this and spontaneously published it without editing it. I awoke, and suddenly thought “what have I done?” and then saved as draft, suspecting I might’ve been too open. I’ve since received some very thoughtful, considerate emails, which leaves me thinking I should keep it up… although I’m not too comfortable with that, but it’s really great to get comments like those. Thanks. If you interpret this to think I’m really lonely, then don’t — I’m not. I’m just aware of my aloneness, and that’s an altogether different matter. Without further ado…)
Steff is drunk. Why, a Christmas tradition, no? GayBoy and I get together each Xmas eve to drink, and eat, and be merry, and to watch an “anti-Xmas Xmas movie.” What is that, you ask? A film that contains Christmas, but is not about it. For example, Gremlins, Die Hard, etc. This year? Bridget Jones’ Diary.
Some days, I feel like Bridget Jones. I belt out alongside classic “Ain’t you lovin’ me yet” type songs, just like Bridget. I flap my lips and say the most inappropriate things at the worst times, oh, so fucking often, really. “Flippant” is an adjective which often precedes my name. I have gotten into boatloads of trouble for saying what occurs to me in each and every job I’ve ever held. I watch cheesy films, drink a little (much), and sometimes wallow in my singleness. I often deliberate before a date about whether it will result in getting laid, and whether I should wear the sexy panties, or the “granny” panties that will hide my figure under my clothes, but be oh, so unattractive should said clothes be peeled off in a heavy makeout session on the floor.
BJD is one of those “time of the month” classics with obscene insights into the single girl. I remember working in the bookstore, and whenever someone was looking for a gift for a 25-40ish woman, I’d simply open the book to any random page, scan it, read a short snippet, and presto, sold. Why? Because it’s true. Because as many good things there are about being single, there’s ultimately something shitty about not having a warm body next to you in bed. That’s not pessimism or cynicism, it’s realism. There’s something blissful about having warm skin within reach when you’re under the covers, and we all know it. That smell, that feel, that knowledge… it’s all so very good.
And there’s no worse morning to wake alone than on Christmas, as Armistead Maupin wrote in his San Fran classics, Tales of the City. But you know what? 24 hours passes, and it’s Boxing Day. Presto, life goes on.
Although there’s nothing I want more than to not be single right now, I have to say, I’m all right with it. I’d love to wake up on Christmas with some 6’+ god of sinewy pleasure lying next to me, with an orgasm on order, but there’s something appealing about rolling out of bed on my own, to a hot bath and a pot of coffee, and not one iota of bullshit to deal with, lazy clothes at hand, and the ability to be my “worst” self on a day that really deserves laziness.
You all read this blog for whatever reason you’ve found to be here, and that’s great. Welcome to it. I write it for my own reasons. In a lot of ways, this is a journey to a new place for me, regardless of where I’ve been before. That place isn’t really something I’m comfortable sharing as of yet, and I’m proud that I know where to draw the line when it comes to divulging the secrets of Steff, despite my quest to become vulnerable at will during this past year.
I’m caught up in the spirit of what I consider to be this season, that of self-reflection, but also, that of willing change — what with New Years and its resolutions fast on our heels. While I’ve been reflecting plenty on here of late, there’s been far more screaming in my mind that I’ve kept to myself, and will continue to do so, for the short-term, at least.
Whatever the stressors, whatever the frustrations, there’s something unforgettable that I love about this season, single or not. I love the feeling of being conscious of my values, of knowing my wants, my needs. I love the spirit of giving that comes this time of year. I’d love to share that giving in every way with a man who deserves a little getting, but since I can’t, I’ll have a hot bath instead, and maybe indulge some dirty thoughts I’ve been nursing.
And y’know what? That’ll be just fine.
For the e-Dating Types: Six Tips
Note from Steff in 2010: It’s almost five years later, and every one of these still holds true. Please, for the love of God, people: Think about the kind of person you’ll attract through your profile, then plan accordingly. Here’s a few things not to do.
- Look, everyone on the e-dating systems is taking a chance by putting their faces/profiles out there. Stop being a bonehead and saying, “I can’t believe I’m doing this…” or “I don’t have a lot of faith in this…” If not, then don’t!
- We all find it a little weird, all right? In a perfect world, we’d walk into a bookstore, grin at a cutey, and have a date in five. Instead, we’re coming home after work, having a drink, and logging onto a dating service. Right. Yeah, that’s a little odd. Stop mentioning it. It’s kind of like going to a dinner party where the food’s shit: Everyone knows it, but you just nod and smile anyways.
- If you’re a guy or gal looking for a class act to hook up with, it’s probably not the brightest idea to get a photo where you’re holding a beer bottle. Let’s think about it, all right?
- Please, for the love of god, don’t make your profile read “If you want to know, ask.” The whole point of e-dating is the not-having-to-ask thing. Haven’t you noticed? But if you insist on staying single, have at ‘er.
- Yes, yes, yes, we can see you’re a romantic because your profile photo is a sunset, but really, can we get a little skin? Come on.
- And to the men out there, putting in your profile that she must be a little domesticated and know how to cook is so not gonna get you action. I just saw a guy’s profile where he demanded exactly that. And know what? He used that filthy word, too… “Laundry.”
It’s incredible the amount of oblivious folks out in the world. Sure keeps it entertaining for the rest of us, though, doesn’t it?
You are Who You Love (?)
When I was a precocious teen, I was a pretty big fan of Ayn Rand’s books. In reality, her writing’s pretty black-and-white and doesn’t have those subtle shades that a great author should have, but that’s not the point.
The love relationships in her novels (Fountainhead, Atlas Shrugged) had profoundly influenced my idea of what love should be, regardless of the author’s lack of subtlety. Everything about Dominique and Howard Roarke screamed passion to me, really.
I’m on the market again. I’d had a brief fling in October that I’d hoped might go somewhere, but it was too much, too soon, and that’s another topic for another time. I’m testing the waters, many different waters, and I’m realizing once again how damned perplexing dating can be sometimes, even when you understand why it’s that way.
I’d rather be alone, though, than with someone who doesn’t fit the rather refined expectations I have for anyone who might become my lover. I’ve been thinking about it this week. Is personality enough? Are brains adequate? Does there have to be “a whole package?”
There comes a time when you start wondering if being alone versus being together with someone who’s less that what you dream of is really a wise choice. It takes a strong person, I guess, to answer “yes” to that wondering, but I believe that’s my answer.
Ayn Rand always would assert that who you choose to love is a reflection of how worthy you believe yourself to be. When you settle, you’re telling yourself you’re simply not deserving of better.
But what constitutes “settling?” There’s a loaded question, huh? I suppose it depends on your standards. I’ve had the options of settling for guys who are on my intellectual level, with whom I could really talk, but the fact is, if chemistry’s missing, if that little sizzle-bang-bang is missing, then let’s face it, you’re with a friend, not a lover.
I don’t want a friend. Is that really so wrong? I want a lover. Someone who sets me afire. I don’t care to have yet another viable conversation partner who doesn’t stir me in ways that makes me squirm and cross my legs in public in order to quench my sudden lust. I want to have that inclination to think dirty thoughts in places I have no good reason to be thinking ‘em. And yes, I want to be able to roll over in bed, weary and satiated, and discuss a book that changed my life or laugh about a classic comedy, or whatever comes with, but that camaraderie needs to go hand-in-hand with the passion I desire.
There are those who feel it’s being too picky to simply want it all. Let’s face it. It’s a big goddamned world. With six million plus, there’s got to be a few fish out there that might wander into my net. It’s a matter of patience and faith. I don’t think there’s only “one” person for me, but there’s one type, and I’m on the hunt.
There was, however, a time when I didn’t feel I was as worthy of that level of love as I now do. There was a time when a guy being interested in me was a damned good start. There was a time when self-love wasn’t exactly tops on my to-do list. As I wrote elsewhere, learning to love myself has really been one of my greatest accomplishments. Holding out for he who is worthy of it all, it’s rough. It’s a challenge. But I suspect I’m up for it.
I do have to admit that chemistry was a hell of a lot easier to manage in high school science than it is in real life. What a mystery.
But I’m on the case, man. Just call me Sherlock. It’s time to solve the riddle.
The Joys of Masturbation
Without getting into it, “things” are confusing. The sex I thought would be regular thus far isn’t. Geography’s a bitch. So’s reality. It is what it is, baby. But that’s all right.
I can always count on myself.
So, without adieu, the reasons I love to masturbate — some of the many, many reasons:
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- I never have to schedule a visit. I always know when my hand is free.
- Rolling over and sleeping is exactly the right move, every time. Unless you’re surf’n’satisfyin’ on the tube/’net.
- No concern about who gets the wet spot. I do. (In theory.)
- Doing laundry isn’t an automatic repercussion of experiencing the Big O.
- I can always meet my own expectations.
- Enthusiasm is a given.
- I don’t have to dress up in order to get off.
- The ultimate quickie: Satisfaction with a minute or so of effort.
- It’s free.
- It’s portable.
- It’s fun.
- When I can’t afford to pay for a massage, I can masturbate. Often.
- Keeps me in touch with myself.
- Reminds me that Catholic Church, for me, is like home: I can never go back. Sin is simply too damned fun, and remembering them all for confession would be far too labourious.
- It’s a healthy outlet for all my repressed societal angst.
- Nostalgia: The many, many times I’ve revisited that very same Happy Place, and every time I smiled.
- It’s better than watching golf on a Sunday morning.
- Stress management. They claim one orgasm has the neurological benefits of 10 Valiums. And cheaper.
- Because my carpal tunnel syndrome hasn’t crippled me yet.
- Because I can.
- Because I get to play with toys.
- Because.
I’m sure there are more reasons, but that would involve investing more time, and I could be masturbating instead. Priorities, right?