Follow my adventures in dating as a 30-something, sex-positive divorcee who likes rough sex.
On Finding Comfort In Surprising Ways and Times
March 12th, 2021
I wrote this love letter of sorts almost exactly one month ago, shortly after meeting–and fucking–someone with whom I had been chatting for nearly two months. The significant and sudden entrance of someone into my life, especially during this pandemic, could not have been more surprising. Perhaps more surprising still was the surprising amount of comfort I felt, not just with someone new but with the first person since my diagnosis and removal of abnormal cervical cells, which left me feeling a deep sense of betrayal from my body.
A week ago, we were watching the sky brighten the cracks in my curtains, fingers interlaced and cuddled together. I was both shocked at how the hours had already passed but also impatiently waiting for you to kiss me. I thought about taking the leap of faith myself, but I couldn’t quite read you. In the end, you were right (again); I was more comfortable with you than I could have imagined, but I wasn’t bold enough to kiss you. (I might argue that you were wrong not to invade my space and press your body against mine immediately, however).
Perhaps it was a well-thought-out machination because I was certainly hungering for your lips by the time they pressed against mine. And there was no way I could (could you?) let any more time go to waste when we could be enjoying the very activities we had spent nearly two months talking, dreaming, and masturbating about.
As far as first times go? It’s hard to top that. I don’t usually let people stay in my home for over a day, let alone my bed. But it just came so easily once our limbs were finally entwined. I so quickly found myself experiencing not just pleasure but safety.
Even now, the sense of longing I feel to kiss you; to run my hand over your chest, and thighs, and cock; to hold your hand; to glance up at your (seriously attractive) lips before kissing you; to watch how the diffused light hits your cheekbones, it’s all so overwhelming. I have to pause in case I might shed a tear.
But if my mind can’t stop racing now, it was put at such ease then. It felt so natural to fall asleep in your arms or wake up and glance over at you or kiss your bare skin or move closer or arch my body to give your hands better access or spread my legs for you to enter me (an unfuckingbelievable source of ecstasy for me… And hopefully for you). There was a distinct lack of self-consciousness and judgment as I simply let myself… be. One of the few times in my life. Even eye contact became noticeably easier (and sexier?) from just a few hours before.
I do recall grateful thoughts for not having to compartmentalize sex the way some people do. It didn’t feel like we had to shrink ourselves in my bed. I could be whole, perhaps more than whole, with you next to, beneath, inside of me, and I felt so thankful for that.
There was one nagging thought at the back of my mind: would I cry? I’d made no efforts to hide the fact that I hadn’t had sex since having part of my cervix electrically cauterized, and while all went well, I still felt so betrayed by my body. It has taken months for me to touch myself again; I was briefly afraid that I wouldn’t be able to experience pleasure anymore. You can imagine my relief when it–and my sex drive–returned over the course of last year… And stayed once I started taking SSRIs. But I thought that whoever I slept with that would demarcate the “after” would need to be easy.. because what if I had to deal with pain or blood or tears from the trauma?
Except none of that came. Only I did–repeatedly and sometimes surprisingly–as the hours (and then a full day) passed, comfortably, enjoyably, sleepily. We filled the hours with sweet words and pillow talk, kisses and cuddles, and the type of ease that I rarely get to experience. The tears never arrived, and I was surprised when sleep finally did. I’ve struggled to sleep next to everyone I’ve ever shared a bed with, and while it wasn’t my best sleep ever, it was surprising nonetheless. To one of us, at least.
When you said it felt so right, I couldn’t have agreed more readily. I’d be lying if I understand how, but I feel it in my god damn core. Without having to convince myself. How can that be?
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When Good Guys Aren’t Good Enough
October 9th, 2018
Today’s post is about guilt and fear, two vulnerable subjects that I sometimes experience in a specific way as a single person.
I am sure we’re all familiar with the process of meeting a new person. If you’re open to new romantic or sexual partners like I am, you’ll ponder a person. Then, their availability, personality, and compatibility determine whether you might move forward or not.
This thought occurs to me whenever I meet a new, single guy, and occasionally with women. Sometimes the thought is more fleeting than others, but I would be lying if I said it’s not there.
More often than not, I am not physically attracted to a person. It’s a rarity in my hometown, where attractive ratings tend to skew low. Often, I find myself considering if the positive aspects of a person’s personality are enough for me to “settle” with someone if I am not really attracted to them. I have only once found this to be the case. Although, I have sometimes waffled because someone did possess some impressive personality traits. More often than not, these people are interesting and kind. I am more than happy to be their friends. If someone else was writing this, they might accuse me of putting them in the “friend zone.”
Truthfully, I find myself calling these people “good guys.” I say this because it typically occurs with men, but I would think of a woman much the same. I enjoy their presence in my life, but I just don’t feel like we’d achieve a level of compatibility — either sexually or romantically — that would make it worth trying. When describing these people, I’d laud their positive qualities. I have recently described a new friend as a “good guy” and one who “makes people feel good about themselves.”
But even though I know the friend zone is a bullshit concept and my hackles raise when any person treats me as a vending machine that should dispense sexual or romantic attraction when anyone drops a kindness coin into a slot, I still feel guilt. It’s not guilt caused by that person, at least, not directly. It’s just a general sort of guilt that there is a very good person who I have deemed not good enough to date or fool around or sleep with. And if I am so quick to point out their positives, why am I so reluctant to give them a shot?
It’s more than that, however. The guilt is tinged with fear, the fear that this might be the last “good guy” whom I ever meet. Or the fear that a “good” person who has expressed interest might be the last person who will be interested in me. Who knows when the next person will show up? Or if I will ever be interested in someone again.
And while I know that the reality is I will keep meeting people for the rest of my life and the people who are interested in me and the people in whom I am interested might overlap in a Venn diagram that leads to exploring our sexualities or emotions (or both) together, that fear creeps in on the coattails of consideration whenever someone pops up on my radar. It only makes me feel more guilty.
I am sure I am not alone just as I am sure that some people rarely give credence to such irrational fear and guilt. Still, it’s a mantle that weighs heavy and has been difficult to remove and one that has been ever-present in 2018, a year in which I have been in this precise situation several times. At the end of the day, the fears of settling for the wrong person, misery, and mediocrity are certainly stronger than any guilt I feel over not choosing someone who is good but perhaps not good for me. But wondering thoughts still make their presence from time to time.
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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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Why So Serious? On Laughter and Sex
January 30th, 2017
Today’s post was inspired by this tweet from Girly_Juice.
"I've never laughed this much during sex" is a thing that almost everyone I've ever banged has said to me. I don't know what to make of that
— Kate Sloan (she/her) (@Girly_Juice) December 27, 2015
It sounds like she’ll be talking about it in the upcoming episode of Dildorks, but I wanted to give you my own take on it. Plus, dear readers, it’s been a hell of a long time since I wrote anything, let alone anything about my personal sex life. So, down the rabbit hole we go.
I’ve had a lot of serious sex. My first sexual partner and ex-husband was pretty serious about it. We didn’t laugh during sex, even though we smiled and we loving. Laughter, it seemed, wasn’t something that *belonged* in sex. Sex was Serious Stuff (TM), and there was no room for laughter.
I felt that if we laughed, it took away from the moment. It meant we weren’t taking it seriously enough. As a result, any laughter was accidental and often uncomfortable. That’s a pretty association to have with something so awesome, don’t you think?
But it was all I knew.
It wasn’t the worst sex of my life by far. We were in love, after all. But it was limiting, and I couldn’t come to understand that until I had a few more notches on my bedpost. Although many men near my age seem to subscribe to that sort of serious sex-having, some don’t. The Bartender is a notable example. While I originally found him to be overly chatty, I eventually fell in line.
We talked and, yes, we laughed. Without all the limitations created by such serious sex, I found myself being more myself inside the bedroom. It helped me to de-compartmentalize, and it was a welcome change!
Apparently, the change became permanent. Even though it’s been years since I’ve slept with The Bartender, my last partner remarked how much I chatted. It was obvious that being chatty and even laughing at something he did that was funny took him directly out of his headspace. He couldn’t be interrupted in any way.
Neither of us left satisfied, I’m afraid. I’m not one to judge, but if you’re unable to have sex with someone who is talking to and laughing with you during sex, then you’re limiting yourself — just like I was limited with my ex.
And the realization dawned on me that this just wasn’t good for me. It left me feeling disconnected. So not only was I left out in the cold physically, but there wasn’t any sort of human connection, and I was stuck inside my head. That’s something I’ve battled with for years, and it’s not a place I like to be when I can help it.
Perhaps this beautiful and seemingly inexperienced man was just a bad match for me. But I bet a lot of people would enjoy themselves a hell of a lot more if they simply allowed themselves to be themselves during sex, chattiness and laughter included.
Sometimes you kick someone in the dick, you fart or positions just don’t work. Being able to laugh at those moments and with one another seems to be not just something that is desirable but might be necessary to enjoy sex without complete mortification.
I guess, what I’m saying is, I crossed that bridge laughing the whole way. And now I won’t go back.
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In Which There Is Confusion
September 8th, 2016
Adriana sees a guy who is completely gorgeous. She discovers he is also geeky. They hold conversations in public spaces. There is laughter.
Adriana hems and haws over asking for his number or sending a message. She eventually adds him to Facebook and sends a message. He responds that he was also of the mind they should talk outside of his work.
Adriana and this guy texted sporadically for some two months in an attempt to hook up. Attraction was there, but timing was not. The conversation was not fluid. The rapport was strained. She found herself losing interest.
Adriana sends a last-ditch message, to which he replies immediately. He contacts her as promised, but she is busy. Some more time passes. Adriana visits family out of town. He contacts her.
Adriana is bound and determined to fuck him after all this hassle. She is finally free when he messages at 4AM at a Saturday morning. She rushes through showering and shaving. She looks cute as fuck.
Adriana answers the door, and he is there, adorable but somewhat unsure. He greets her cats, makes himself comfortable on her couch — and on her body.
Adriana finds him adorable and funny but also pretentious and a little obnoxious. She likes how smart he is but wishes he was less arrogant about it. She finds him slightly less perfect. This reassures her.
Adriana has sex with him; it was going to happen, after all. It’s awkward and underwhelming. She doesn’t mind that he doesn’t finish but would prefer she someone got off.
Adriana wonders what any of this means as he hangs out in her bed for a while. She finds him adorable as he becomes sleepy.
Adriana says “Good bye.” She reflects that while she had fun, the sex was disappointing. She wonders if he can be trained or if she even cares to. She decides that she’s okay whether she sees him again — or not.
Then her fucking feelings decide they like him some 24 hours later. Now, Adriana wants him back in her living room and perhaps her vagina. But Adriana isn’t bold enough to be forthright.. yet. So she doesn’t know what he wants.. if she even knows what she wants.
Adriana is confused.
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I Don’t Want to Be Friends
September 3rd, 2016
There have been a few people with whom I flirted or had sex. There was excitement in the beginning because I suspected there was something, but I realized it was going nowhere and called it off. I would tell them I just wanted to be friends. Or sometimes they would say the same to me. Either way, it was a lie.
What I meant was that it’s easier to let someone down when you say you wanna be friends. But in my heart, I know I was only making room for these people if there sexual or romantic potential. I don’t need another friend.
Before I might have thought that line of thinking crude, but now I know it to be true.
And when someone says they want to be friends with someone who is rejecting them, they more often than not mean that they hope things will change if they stick around. I know that, too. I’ve been that person.
But there’s more. Saying you want to be friends makes it less awkward, even when breaking up from a long term relationship. Otherwise, it just feels like you’re just ignoring or denying the fact that someone’s existence has suddenly been revealed to you, perhaps along with their hopes, dreams and other intimate details. What do you do with that knowledge when it’s time to part ways?
At least if you’re friends, you don’t have a vault full of knowledge about a stranger. It doesn’t feel quite so wrong or dirty or whatever-it-is-that-rubs-me-so-wrong to know all those things. But sometimes we may need to forget those things about a person, and that means we can’t be friends.
Which is okay. I didn’t want to, anyway.
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The Last Person I Slept With Doesn’t Recognize Me In Public
July 18th, 2016
And this makes me chuckle.
I mean, we saw each other a total of four times, always at night, more than seven months ago. I usually have to do a double take to make sure it’s him, and I apparently don’t recall his voice anymore.
I wasn’t smitten and we certainly weren’t sexually compatible. I soon launched into a month-long flirtation with someone on Tinder. That’s since crashed and burned, and my spring-turned-summer has been busy as evidenced by the lack of posts on this blog. So it’s not like I even have a lot of time to think about it.
But my hometown isn’t so large, and this guy and I play the same games. We see one another here and there, albeit less than I would have expected.
Except.. I see him and he looks right through me. It’s a blessing in so many ways. Perhaps one day I will no longer recognize him!
