So what does one do when you can’t get a fix? You mourn, lament, tear your clothes, eat ashes and write. So here I am, evaluating the last two years of dating.
A few weeks ago I came across a guy on Tinder who was feeling me out a bit. (Not feeling me up.)
He asked me how long I had been on Tinder for. I said I had been on for a few years, but was still single. So he got real Frank, or Tim, or Tweedlefucktarded on me and said “So you’re picky then.”
I thought about my response, for like a whole millisecond. And this is how I responded:
“I AM NOT PICKY ITS JUST THAT THE MAJORITY OF THESE MEN HAVE ONLY WANTED SEX!”
…wait for it….
…Then he says, “I’m only in town for a few weeks, there’s nothing wrong with just having fun you know!?”
Case. In. Point.
I knew what he meant. And although every stage has its proclivities I don’t really feel like this is my stage any more. I seem to have graduated to picky amidst acknowledging my destructive gravitational pull towards unavailable men who actually want nothing more but a night o’flings.
The dissonance here between body and mind can be a bit frustrating. But the mind has been honing in on the damage of allowing myself to just be used as a breathing fuck doll. As opposed to the non-breathing kind marketed in Japan for a trillion dollars. *considers holding my breath for a trillion dollars*
In the last two months 4, yes 4 men from the last two years have resurfaced, all looking for one thing. Yup, you guessed it.
If you have read Pandora’s Box part 1-5 we can thank fucktard there for showing up a year later to ignorantly step into my present day. I invited it partially, but it didn’t take long after a few odd conversations that I didn’t want to do fuck doll all over again. I didn’t want to walk away in the dark (literally) tripping over clothes, randomly placed furniture and left out vacuums while trying to remember if we even finished the episode of Game of Thrones before other more pressing needs took over. But if I was very honest, I didn’t want to walk away wondering if I ever meant anything.
You see, I spend most of my time writing and contemplating meaning, and it guts me a bit, looking over some of the men I let into the private places of me and how I still don’t know if I meant anything besides being a good…. well never mind that.
I have a few good people in my life. Patient people. Loving people. People who remind me, I am worth more than some of these encounters have made me feel. (And some days I even believe them.)
I have stories that I can’t wait to tell my children, stories of military police deployment and asthmatic attacks. I have stories I cry over and stories I cry laughing over. I have stories I could not tell for months after because I was unsure how to process it all. And I have stories I have rawly told to you here in this Wattpad book.
And why did I do that do you ask?
I like pleasure, maybe even a little pain, but what I love is meaning and process. Discovery of self, discovery of personal truths. But unlike inventions that come with a lot of trial and error, and tossing out the dysfunctional inventions, discovery for me carries the dysfunctional moments with me; not to shame me, or to beat me down, but because in each one of these stories I find me. The vulnerable, strong, fragile, persevering, funny, perverted, broken human being I call me. And I don’t want to let go of me, not any part, I want to embrace all of me.
*For other facetious (and sometimes illuminating) pokes at dating midlife check out my A Date in the Life on Wattpad…just be careful if you have anything in your mouth at the time…lest you ruin your electronics.*
A Date in the Life