I lost my virginity at 19 to a boy I barely knew. He was blond and golden, had soft lips and a beard that tickled my face. I knew him about a month before we drank smuggled wine in my bedroom and I let him go down on me. His mouth was warm and soft and his tongue was perfect. It was the first time I’d ever allowed a boy to do that to me.
When he climbed on top of me and tried to shove himself in me he had no idea I was a virgin. It hurt for all of 3 seconds and was over in 4 and I laid there wondering what the fuck had just happened. This was nothing like what I’d read about in the romance novels I devoured.
That fateful night 20 years ago marked the beginning of my lifelong pursuit of sex. I have never stopped looking for it, needing it or wanting it. As a young, single woman I averaged sex about once every two months. This was pre-internet and trolling bars and parties was the quickest way to Point B. Then the internet entered my home and it altered my universe in a molecular way.
No longer was my quest for attention and sex limited to in-person interactions, but now it was virtual and could happen round the clock. I web-cammed with men while they jerked off in their offices, I came on screen while 4 men watched, beating themselves to climax into hands and tissues and towels. I had phone sex with men in NY City while he lay on silk sheets and with men who lived in Salt Lake City who shyly told me their fantasies.
And then I got a smart phone. And then divorced.
The pull for constant contact and reaffirmation was all consuming and I was sucked into a cycle of men that for a year consumed my life. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner I had men in my head, possibly my body, in my phone, my computer, my space. They littered my emotional landscape like garbage.
The Neighbor cleared them away with his massive cock and persistent attendance, but I never resolved the crisis within me, that feeling that if I’m not hunting I am nothing. That if I am sexless, I am losing something.
Couple that with the fact that I believe The Neighbor is out trolling for sex [with women better than me] and I am experiencing a kind of split rejection, an internal tension that has stretched me taut and spread me thin and in order to mitigate the existential pain of his rejection and subsequent satisfaction with someone else I have to find someone, the voice hisses.
The past two weeks since I’ve been home have been a maelstrom of men. Tinder, OK Cupid, that eHarmony guy, my old lovers. None have ended in any kind of consummation, but I’ve orgasmed a few times, squirted, have some beautiful bruises, and seen a cock or two (none of which have come even close to measuring up to what I want).
I’ve switched gears and put my efforts into Adult Friend Finder because at least there no one bitches me out for being a size queen and I figure I’m a decent human being on an adult website, so I’m sure there are male equivalents. On Tinder I allude to gold wrappers and hope for the best.
So not only do I crave sex, but now I have the added misfortune of wanting it attached to a huge cock and a kind man who actually wants to be with me.
My struggle today, this moment, is to chill the fuck out, remind myself to remember all the kindnesses The Neighbor gave me, believe every word he ever told me, let him go, and to move on. I won’t do anything I don’t want to do and will be patient. My life doesn’t actually revolve around sex, despite what I might think or how it feels.
I have a child, a career, friends, my health, this blog, my writing. What I have to offer a man is top shelf, a high commodity. If I rush into the arms of every horny man who thinks I’m hot I’d never get a moment’s rest. Apparently, men like me. A lot.
What I have always done wrong when I’ve dated is I have approached it desperately, with a churning, oily need inside of me. Almost a sickness, my need to be desired has pulsed throughout my life and it distracted me from so many things that mattered more. I won’t do it again.
This time around I am clamoring for balance, for that belief that what I have to offer is worth some fucking effort. I am catnip, yes, but substantial, too. I’m a fucking person, goddamnit.
How on earth does a woman who loves sex, big cocks, kinky sex, and general debauchery obtain it when she’s sensitive, intuitive, and sweet? When she’s horny as fuck all the goddamned time? When she yearns for love and commitment? I’m a walking contradiction and my own bear trap.
It may be small-minded of me, but I only wish that The Neighbor is at least half as miserable as I am.