It’s motherfucking Valentine’s Day today. Ugh. What a load of shit.
My energy for dating has been exceptionally low over the last 9 months or so. Mourning, processing, working, mothering. There’s barely been any time for fucking.
It also doesn’t help that out of every 50 guys I match with, 35 of them keep asking me how my day is/was, 5 completely ignore me and another 9 send me an unsolicited dick pic or expect me to invite them to my house so I can spread my legs for them.
If you were doing the math, that means only about 1 men out of 50 behave relaxed and non-threatening, show intelligence and interest, and maintain a line of contact that is both intriguing and comfortable. And are fucking hot, of course. Mama has standards, y’all.
And to be perfectly honest I’d say that number is probably closer to 0 – .5 per 50, but there’s no such thing as “half a man,” so we’ll just have to go with the whole guy for every 100.
It sounds exhausting, but really it’s not! Though there’s a lot of initial up front work planting seeds in the row, within hours I can see what’s going to grow. The little shoots that will turn into eggplants show themselves almost immediately.
BAM! Mother fucking eggplant.
The guys who like to make sure your day is going well every morning, noon, and night reveal themselves next. They grow paltry little leaves and have a fallow, weak color to them. like a houseplant starved for sunlight.
Gotta just let those die on the vine.
Obviously the men who never connect never break the soil’s surface and I forget they were even there.
And when that one little glorious seedling pushes through the dirt and uncoils steady and bright towards the sun, oh that is the best feeling.
It’s a little miracle watching it unfold and grow tall, sprout leaves and strengthen. It excites me to see how it just seems to know what to do with little help from me, yet it flourishes with a little water and all that delicious sun.
Holy shit! This one’s palatable!
These are the special seedling men, like Francois, who make all the work seem worthwhile. I’m not trying to feed a village, after all, just me. One little woman, one little soul, one little hungry body and they’re easy, beautiful, warm, and bright. Perfect examples of the intangible “chemistry” we all seek.
And, my friends, my latest planting has some promise: I have found a new seedling worth waiting for.
Between there and there it all begins. The dip and the curve, the swell and the swerve.
It enchants us all with its mystique, it’s from whence we came and where we peak.
We seek its source throughout our life and return back through the afterlife.
It’s everything and everyone, my greatest power and my biggest gun.
Like when you become a cat for just one magical moment.
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A lot. All the time. Barring my small herd of animals that depend on me for all their worldly needs. And my child.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever have a partner again. It seems virtually impossible; I feel like I’m so – I don’t know – far away. Like on another planet.
I won’t go into it now, I’m still chewing on it.
It just does.
The Vet really is my best friend here these days. I’m gonna miss him when he’s gone.
Over dinner tonight he told me of his plans. It almost felt like he was searching my face, hoping I’d respond, but I didn’t.
Now we’re at a new bar by his house talking and laughing as usual. He’s on call so he’s behaving himself; I am too.
It’s gonna be sad when when he’s gone.
Men.
Oh, men.
Last week The Vet(erinarian) and I met up at a fancy restaurant by his place for a drink. We sat at the bar – not far from where we sat on our second date – and laughed and talked and ate. Our glasses kept full by an attentive bartender.
Plates of decadent food later and with a deep, warm buzz we looked at one another when she asked if we wanted more.
“I’m down to go for it,” I said. “Is it ok if I crash on your couch?”
“Yeah! Of course!”
So off we went deep into our cups, jokes, and disagreements about the intimacy of “ripping a huge, juicy fart” in front of your partner. I didn’t feign my disgust even as I laughed uncontrollably.
Tipsy past the point of what could be called responsible, he paid our enormous bill and we left.
Back at his place, on his giant leather couch, I would eventually and quietly lean over away from him, close my eyes, and sleep. Alone.
As the sun rose in the east and painted the sky with pastels he padded out into the living room in his underpants and a t-shirt. “You could’ve slept in my bed,” he said. I told him I was cool where I was.
We talked for a while and then I walked the long halls and rode down 10 levels to the garage. The truth was, I’d made a promise to myself that if I were to fuck him ever again, it was going to happen sober, and had I gone in that room with him I don’t know what would’ve happened.
As close to him as I felt, as safe and appreciated, it didn’t come close to feeling actually wanted by him in a deliberate and mindful way, and these days – when it comes to him, anyway – I want to be a choice, and not a happy accident [for his dick].
I want more than that. Dicks are a dime a dozen and I’m a precious mother fucking gift.