Maintaining a rather impressive balance for some time, it seems as if I can live on an amazingly low-calorie sex-diet, sex englobing not just the saucy, palpitating act itself but nearly anything having to do with the actual thrusting/ grinding/ screaming/ taking enormous pleasure in. I have already voiced my opinion here before on lovers, having one, wanting one, whatever, and I was quite certain that one unique person was not what I really needed. Nor an official title, like “lover.” In American erotic literary circles, people write about “fuck buddies,” and I was thinking that probably, that was exactly what I needed. I read a great post here by Kat at SnarkySnatch on the rules to abide by if one intends to keep getting laid and keep their emotions in line. Hopefully I will find the courage to make a link back to her and her awesome post. I really am intelligent despite my sorry-ass computer skills, which is probably why I like to learn lessons the hard way. Really I think that only idiots do exactly as they are told. Ambiguity in your sexual relationships, spending too much outside the boudoir time with someone, liking them too much…these factors will cause you to begin sobbing at dawn. You already knew it from the first ejaculation, and here you are anyway. Don’t forget your kleenex.
It’s three AM and my eyes are wide open, frightened deer eyes in your headlights, Dawn of the Dead. My heart immediately accelerates like a wild horse, my ideas and hopes and thoughts and emotions begin to scramble all over the place. Every aspect of my life (although I do realize that my life is not all that important in the whole scheme of things) every scrap of my life takes on a hideous tone. It is not impossible that my blood-alcohol level coming back to zero might have a lot to do with this emotional black hole. Which then leads me to question whether or not quitting drinking would be helpful in getting over this (fucking) hole in the road. I quickly brush that idea out of my consciousness as I have already done that before, quit drinking, quit smoking, quit having sex, quit having no sex, gained weight, lost weight, gotten a job, decided to give up on the idea of an exciting career …and all the while working out at least three days a week. (I do have priorities. Keeping my ass in form seems at least as important to me as my lungs/ liver/ brain. Probably more.)
When I was around 35, I quit smoking because I just woke up one day and thought to myself, “Dawn, if you keep on smoking at this late age, you’re gonna die of lung cancer before you have even found the real reason why you exist.” So I bought the Patch, stuck it on my aging body, cried a lot and quit. The whole experience was so frustrating to me that I began to drink like a junior-high school cheerleader that I never was, and after a while, I started blacking out almost every day, which was not even that important because what I have to do every day does not require all that much neuronal activity. So I went to treatment, I quit drinking, I started getting my physical needs met every now and then…I did not find out why I exist or what I should do with my life. My husband, even after I lost quite a lot of weight due to my no-booze diet, had no more desire for me than he did when I was a cleverly disguised drunk. With a fat ass. Yoga can only do so much.
Maybe I am just avoiding the sources of my inherent sadness like the plague but for today, I want my lover back. I feel almost certain that no one else will ever correspond more completely with me sexually and losing him feels like losing teeth. Losing everything. We live far apart so I guess his absence should not feel surprising because he was not present all that much but I think that even if he just sent me a smiley everyday for the rest of my life, I could find the courage to keep on living. This is what was helping me to maintain that fragile, hungry balance. Going through the motions more or less happily with the silent hope that we would be together again, which makes me seems like a pigeon living on crumbs. No more crumbs I guess. Pathetic, I know.
This post is going nowhere. I need a New Plan to be enthused about. I am too old now to dream of being hired for some exciting job, and I am not qualified for much of anything in the first place. On paper. I know that there are several things I could do on my own. I really love to write. Hopefully I will soon be published and famous but in the meantime, I would like a sexual partner who appreciates me, who rocks my existence on this beautiful planet and whom I appreciate as well. For the time being, most everything I have been doing to find that seems to leave me vaguely terrified, incredibly anxious, filled with self-hatred.
*Where “permafrost” fits in: My grandparents and my parents were from North Dakota, one of the colder states in America. I attended my grandfather’s funeral there and was surprised after the church service that the congregation didn’t go to the cemetery like they do here in France. My aunt explained to me that in North Dakota, it gets so cold in the winter that the ground becomes frozen solid. This phenomenon is called “permafrost” by geologists. It is impossible to bury anyone until spring when the upper part of the soil thaws. I feel like that is where I am now, wanting to climb in a hole and impatient for one to become available.