I’m Not In Love And That’s Weird

March 22nd, 2017

I’m always in love, aren’t I?

I’m always falling or fallen and pained because of it. There’s always someone. A person. Him. Occasionally Her.

For over half my life. Nearly every day of every year.

I am good at being in love, even if I am not good at being in a relationship.

But I am not in love now.

I haven’t been, not for a year. Give or take (and it usually is take).

I am infatuated with dead celebrities. Attracted to assholes who are terrible in bed. Curious about new people. But I am not in love.

That is okay, of course. I don’t always have to be in love. Sometimes I don’t even want to be in love.

But you can become accustomed to things that you don’t want or need. We do it all the time, even when we shouldn’t. Especially when we shouldn’t.

So when I realized that I wasn’t in love and that this is the longest stretch in my entire adult life where I haven’t been in love, it gave me pause.

Still, it feels good. Somehow. I am not in love, but I know I will yet again fall in love. I can look forward to the good (and brace myself for the bad) of falling in love.

I am something of a fresh slate, ready to be written. Then crossed off and erased. Modified and corrected. Maybe it’ll even be a happy story for a time.

Either way, it’ll be fodder for this blog. For my writing.

I’m not in love now. That’s okay. I’ve got time.

It’ll happen sooner than we all think, anyway.

 

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She, Tigress

February 22nd, 2015

When my best friend talks about her marriage, it’s as though she’s describing life as a caged tiger in a zoo. But she wasn’t plucked from her homeland by hunters who wanted to make a quick buck and fast. Rather, she followed the metaphorical steak, so tantalizing that it usurped her entire field of vision, right into that cage. And she was the one who locked it tight after the door swung shut.

My best friend, the tiger, spends most of her time lamenting about unhappiness inside the cage. Yet, she sees no way to make her escape. Not only has she locked the door behind her, but the things that happen once one marries — financial burdens and children specifically — have piled up on the inside of that door, making it seem all bit impossible that she could even escape.

After some eight years of marriage, three children, moving across the world and back and no less than three Army bases, she has begun to lose some of her luster. Her hair is thinning. She looks more haggard than ever before. We play, but not as frequently as before and, perhaps more importantly, it lacks a certain sense of freedom that we once shared. This, I imagine, is similar to the tiger’s life in captivity. His stripes will be a little less intense. His fur will be less shiny. He might mope around, or he may do nothing at all.

My friend’s thoughts of liberation are confused at best. She fiercely wants to protect her cubs. From the cruel world outside. From her husband and their terrible never-ending fights and sometimes, I suspect, from her own self. It cannot be an easy slavery. She describes the lack of romance from her husband. Sex occurs rarely. I suspect he views physical coupling as a way for them to connect. She does not. He must coerce her. The times that their romps have been notable she can count on one hand. I cannot imagine a sex life so dismal.

And I would be remiss if I called her husband her captive. I think, if I am being honest, he is like another animal. I am not entirely sure that he is a tiger she like, and this might be where the problems arise. But he is also a caged beast, and like most beasts, he does not know how to communicate his thoughts or feelings. Instead, he emits a roar loud enough to get attention but perhaps too feeble to get anything done.

Thus, the pair of them, with their litters, lives in a cage from which they both would like freedom but neither of them are sure how to escape. Truth be told, they’re not entirely sure what freedom looks like anymore. and that scares them. They’ve been together for most of a decade, and the world outside their cage surely doesn’t resemble their lives before their mating in any way. Freedom is change, and change is terrifying.

Isn’t it unfortunate, then, that everyone on the outside of the cage feels so sorry for these two? My heart breaks for my best friend, but she is in part master of her own captivity. The boulders against the door are as much in her head and, from the outside, I can see that the key has never been removed from the lock. All she has to do is reach around to open the door.

Scary? Absolutely. I’ve been in a similar position, and looking forward was nigh impossible given how terrifying it was. Damning? Hardly. Here I stand, on the other side, ready to hold her hand and help her to take her first shaky steps on new legs. If only she would stand up first.

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My Sex Life Can Legally Vote

February 3rd, 2015

And marry. And it can drink in Japan.

That is, to say, I’ve been a consciously sexual being since I was around 8 years old. Give or take.

I don’t remember the first time I masturbated exactly. I remember simply grinding against balled up blankets — never pillows — until I became sweaty and hot and felt finished. In hindsight, that must have been an orgasm. But either I didn’t know the word or maybe it really wasn’t. Perhaps I felt some sort of other closure. And I would stop for the night.

Some twenty years later, I occasionally find myself getting off in the same way. I almost-but-not-quite wake up in the middle of the night, reach down for a corner of my blanket and grind against it for dear life. I’ve always been a fan of grinding.

Of course, it’s not the only routine in my repertoire now, but that’s how this all got started. I was still in the single digits, and I was humping blankets when I was supposed to be sleeping. I suppose I became bolder, sometimes doing it during the day time. I recall masturbating in my best friend’s bed one night while she talked in the other room. I couldn’t quite remember where her brother was. I was relieved to know he wasn’t in the room.

I remember, in high school, masturbating with the door to my room not quite closed. Could someone in the living room see the movement of my feet and legs and guess what was happening even though I wasn’t making a noise?

It wasn’t that I was a voyeur. I was just a horny teenager, and I couldn’t resist if the mood strike. And strike it did — hard and often.

During my teen years, I spent countless hours in chatrooms talking to boys, men, women. Cyber sex, they called it. Back then, it was simply erotic roleplaying. There were no photos and videos, not really. People would try to encourage them, but I wasn’t comfortable in my skin in any way shape or form. During those times, the blood would rush to my clit and my G-spot, making me feel like I had to pee. I read plenty of articles about G-spot stimulation, but it wasn’t that. It wasn’t impending orgasm. I just mistook the equivalent of blue balls as a different sort of bodily fluid.

I experimented with technique during these times. I once read that you could use the handle of a Venus razor as an impromptu dildo. I tried. It wasn’t necessarily pleasurable and I freaked out when I realized I was bleeding. I was never entirely sure if it was a cut from vigorous thrusting of a first-time penetrator or if that was my hymen. It didn’t hurt, and neither did sex for the first time. I didn’t give it much thought. I was happy to be masturbating and having sex.

I guess there must have been other household objects, but nothing stuck. It was that blanket or nothing. At some point, I added in fingers to rub my clit, which afforded me the opportunity to jack off wherever the hell I wanted. Eventually, the feeling-like-I-needed-to-pee sensation would fade away, and I’d forget about it.

It wasn’t until 10 years after I started masturbating that I bought my first sex toy, a purple jelly beast. In hindsight, it might have been a bit large. But I used it for a couple years, and it worked for several years after that without the purple glitter jelly leaking. I was surprised. I enjoyed this toy internally and externally, but it wasn’t doing me any favors. I can now recognize that my body just wasn’t used to masturbating in different ways.

I decided that I need clitoral stimulation, too, and plopped down money on another purple beast: the Rabbit Habit. In less than a month’s time, I had broken it because my tendency was to pull the base upward, forcing the shaft to bend. I bought another, not realizing the dubious construction or materials were something that should prevent me from doing so. I hadn’t ever thought about silicone, even though the original Form 6 had already been added to my wishlist.

The second rabbit eventually broke, too, but because loose beads are simply a terrible idea. But between the two bunnies, I had managed to have a toy-induced orgasm. Except, I had no fucking idea what it was. The quick contractions of my vagina felt like an alien, and that’s literally how I described it to a Livejournal group I was part of. Some women replied with “Yes! That’s an orgasm.” Others thought I should see a doctor.

I spend a lot of time researching whether or not a person, especially a woman, could have an orgasm and not realize it. Weren’t they all supposed to be toe-curling and earth-shattering? Mine surely weren’t. In fact, to this day, I’d still describe them as somewhat perfunctory. There have certainly been some pleasurable orgasms, but they’re notable, not frequent.

A few more shitty toys, including pocket rockets, would call my makeshift converted shoebox home before I would finally upgrade to something better, mostly thanks to this blog.  I still focus on clitoral stimulation, and I often use nothing more than my fingers despite my growing collection.

Rabbit after rabbit followed. An interesting night with k-balls and the Miracle Massager led to me squirting for the first time, awakening my G-spot. Or perhaps re-awakening it and reminding me of sensations I had experienced but learned to fight years before.

The years following would include more clitoral and G-spot vibrators, glass, wood, stainless steel and various ceramic toys. Several of those years were spent with my ex-husband.

5 years ago, my marriage started to crumble. Although masturbation was much the same, my sex life would change forever when the divroce was finalized a little over 4 years ago. For months, I would struggled to be aroused and masturbate without fantasizing about my ex, an issue I still face when dealing with heartbreak.

For three years, I would remain sexually celibate. It wasn’t necessarily on purpose, but I also didn’t want to deal with the hassle that came with romance and/or sex. I was sick of terrible first dates. And for nearly two of those years, the hot geek was unintentionally breaking my heart.

2 years ago, I finally left my celibacy behind. I was glad to have broken the fast, but it didn’t enhance my sex life. My drive might have been kicked alive once more, but the very act that was the catalyst for this change also opened my eyes to the fact that there would be no coming back for seconds with this person.

Just under 2 years ago, I would begin a haphazard romantic and sexual relationship with the bartender. There were as many highs as there were lows, but the sex was some of the best in my life. It brought out parts of me that I hadn’t understood or perhaps had even hidden from light for years. I felt whole and I finally understood that my sexuality can never be quite complete without a partner.

1 day, 1 week, 1 month from now, I don’t know how my sex life might look. I can imagine. I can hope that the next time I have sex, it will satiate me in every way. But if there’s anything that the past two decades have taught me, it’s that the life my sexuality takes on is bigger, bolder and better than I can imagine.

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Love, Yourself

November 19th, 2014

They say you have to love yourself before others can love you. Or maybe they say you need to love yourself first, before you can love another. And no doubt that a love shared between people who love and respect themselves with be a truer and more respectful love, but they don’t tell you how people will love you anyway. And you’ll love others, too. It will be messier because you’re so far from self-actualization, but this won’t make it any less powerful.

And you won’t be able to let people truly love you as long as you don’t believe you’re deserving of it. Sometimes, they’ll walk away. But some people, people like myself, with love you all the harder because of it, because of the potential we see in you, the light of hope in your eyes.

People will get hurt. It’s inevitable. Even people who know they’re hoping against hope in a reality that just can’t cater to them. Even when no one wants to get hurt. Even when, at the end of the day, there could be love between people. People get hurts.

I guess that’s life. I suppose it’s easier to sing along with that lesson as an Alanis song than to learn it yourself, especially when it takes so many times for that lesson to really sink it. i’m not entirely sure why that is. Perhaps it’s just hard to be a realistic when you have the heart of an optimist. Maybe I am doomed to always see the best in people even if, in reality, they’re more likely to hut me than to be their best.

How many more times do I ignore warning signs, I wonder, before I turn off this path?

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You First

November 21st, 2013

I never say “I love you” first. I always say it in reply to someone else. This is probably for a couple reasons.

I fight falling in love. I fall too quickly, so the logical part of my argues with myself. “This can’t be love.” Eventually, it tuns to “Well, it’s not going away. Maybe this is love.” Eventually I resign myself to the fact that I am in love. “Fuck. It’s love. Now what?”

There’s also a safety in being the second person to say those three “little” words. I’ll let you bare yourself first, thank-you-very-much. Because waiting for someone else gives me time to figure myself out. It also means I don’t have to be vulnerable first. While I want someone with whom I can be vulnerable, I’m ultimately more afraid of rejection. If I let you go first, it’s okay to say “I love you.”

This all ties into the fact that I come off as reserved when it comes to things that I love. Music, movies, TV, games.. it’s all the same. You wouldn’t know that I am OMG obsessed with something unless you know me really well. I keep my cool. I keep my cool because it helps me retain control or, perhaps, the illusion of control. Because I can’t control anything else, only the way that I react. So I’m not going to throw myself at someone. At least, I’m going to try my very best not to. And when I find that control slipping, I feel angry at myself. So if I’m going to lose control and have a frivolous, emotional outburst such as “I love you”.. it really has to be a safe place.

This is partly due to the fact that I have expressed love — of people and things and ideas — and I’ve been made of for it. I’ve received flack from people whom I loved, from the very people who I expected that I wouldn’t have to be reserved around. Nothing hurts quite like the hurt from the person to whom you said “I do.” And maybe it’s not necessarily healthy or helpful to keep my cool, to hide parts of me. When I say it like that, it’s obvious that it’s all some sort of defense mechanism.

Even now, I think I owe the bartender an announcement of “I love you,” but I can’t quite put my finger on “Why?” and I certainly haven’t figured out the “How?” It all seems so sudden, so abrasive when I have to say it first.

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State of the Union Address

June 9th, 2013

Amid my site going down for a little bit, I didn’t have much of a chance to talk about my short-live relationship, if we can even call it that. One late night, the bartender showed up. We cuddled, we talked, we had sex. It may be the best sex we’ve yet had because it felt the most intimate. During the course of the night, we talked circles around making us official, with neither one of us being bold enough to approach the topic.

So, as our bodies pressed close together and sex became imminent, I simply said that we were no longer going to be single. His acquiescence was something anyone could have seen coming. He agreed he was “mine and mine alone.” It’s a phrase he’s used several times, and it’s cute. In fact, the very verbalizing of this initiated both the strongest and most unexpected orgasm I’ve had with him. It came out of nowhere, and there wasn’t even any clitoral stimulation, so that was a pleasant surprise.

Sex progressed to the first time I was on top, and he held me so incredibly close as he came. It was physically and emotionally satisfying in a way that I haven’t experienced in years, and we cuddled for a bit before he had to leave.

Everything went downhill from there, however. I was happy for a few days, changed my relationship status and let people know about my recent status change. I didn’t hear from him for over a week then. Unfortunately, last week was my birthday, and I was looking forward to being able to celebrate with my boyfriend.

After a week of no communication and a couple nights of serious drinking, I finally called him drunk. Fortunately, he didn’t answer. Not so fortunately, I left a message. Twice. In the first, I accused him of being an asshole for not responding. In the second, I expressed remorse for our relationship being over because I thought I was in love with him.

I immediately regretted not only the calls but making them in front of everyone. As soon as I woke up the next day, I sent a text to apologize. He hadn’t yet heard the messages, so I told him to delete them. We discussed how it’s not cool that he disappears but that’s how he “deals.” I told him that, as his friend, he knows he can let me in. I wanted to help. We decided that he needs to get his shit straightened out before he can be in a relationship, and I don’t disagree. I just wish he was stable enough to be in one now, with me.

The conversation ended shortly after my promising that I would be his friend no matter what and with the suggestion that sex was still an option because we have such an enjoyable time together. It’s fun, comfortable and hot. I think of him every time I am horny. I just can’t help it.

We haven’t spoken much sense, but I feel a bit closer. I am glad that our friendship is in tact, as glad as I am sad that we’re only friends. However, I don’t necessarily feel that we can’t approach the topic again in the future.

Many people don’t understand why I am still his friend, let alone wanting more. They don’t know what I see in him, but I understand that he’s well intentioned but misguided. I can’t help but feel as though he’s so close to reaching out. We are friends, first and foremost, and I want to be there when he does. It’s no small sacrifice, but my will isn’t small.

So, now I am single but hopeful. I am experiencing less turmoil than I have for some time, but that’s for another post.

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The 5 Things

February 14th, 2013

Earlier, my good friend asked me what five things I require of someone to be in a relationship with them. You know, those five traits. I think I’ve really lowered my standards lately but not in a bad way. I’m being more fair and open minded. I don’t even think all five of these are necessary, but they’re all good. For example, physical attraction and sexual compatibility go a long way to overlooking personality flaws because, as I’ve discussed, I’m sort of a shallow.

Here’s my list:

  1. Has a sense of humor
  2. Allows me to express feelings
  3. Sexual compatibility
  4. Makes me feel a priority
  5. Sexual compatibility

The running  joke with another friend lately has been how I need someone who I can “tell my feelers to and fuck hard.” Ultimately, that’s about all I need, but I’m not going to be able to have satisfying sex with someone if I’m not attracted to that person. Emotional security won’t happen if I can’t express my feelings — and not just those about the relationship — to my partner.

After always feeling like I wasn’t part of my ex-husband’s life, I really need someone who makes me feel like a priority, both in his interactions with me and those with others that might concern me. Someone who can make me feel like the only person in the world, then, is definitely on the right track.

And there might be someone in my life who meets these criteria in a way that feels good enough for me. We shall see what happens.

 

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