I opened my door with an easy swoosh, but my insides were flipping. What was a 22 yo doing on my doorstep?
We’d met a few days earlier on some app, he’d said all the right things, was bold and cheeky with a bunch of respectful thrown in. “Would you like a romance with a younger man?” he’d asked me via text. It didn’t make sense to say Yes to his requests to see me, but then again, What if this miraculously turned into something great??
“I’m open to absolutely anything,” was my answer. And that’s true. I don’t know the prescription for happiness.
He stepped inside and set down a tiny Tupperware container with rum and two blood red cans of Coke. “I don’t know what the open carry laws are here,” he explained when I laughed at his contraband.
We talked for hours. First outside in my papasans, then on my couch. He was long and lean, pale with soft, feathery dark brown hair that flopped over one of his blue eyes. He’s not your average young man. He’s lived a life of a 30 yo, to be sure. Wise, hurt, hungry.
Something was wrong with my clock because each time I looked up at it it was two hours later than the last time I looked. Well past midnight I made my move and put my feet on his lap. I had had enough wine to warm my veins and he’d tapped into my whiskey.
His warm hands held my feet and ankles and explored my bare calves. I hadn’t been touched in almost a year – was this real??
I leaned in and twisted a handful of his oversized t-shirt in my hand and pulled his sweet, pretty face to mine. Our lips touched and I breathed him in, pressed further and felt him melt against me.
I ran my fingers through his silky hair and moaned a little as his warm, wet tongue met mine. Holy shit, I thought, I’m alive. I’m real. I’m seen.
But it didn’t go further.
Despite asking if he could stay the night before he came over, he begged off. It was 2 am and he was tired, he said.
The morning after I felt light and heady, but drained. Covid, 22, ugh. But also: a year.
Sadly, he’s dropped the ball since. He’s said he wanted to see me twice since that night, but never selected a night. It’s a week from our date and he’s been quiet for the last 36+ hours.
Since Covid some things have become clear: I don’t make people do what I want. I wait and see what they do, then I make a decision. That goes for friends, too. With this kid it was a sweet, but singular night. PG. Not even -13. I’m not going to make it more than what it was.
Today is the 3rd of October. I think it was almost exactly a year ago that I met Francois and we had a beautiful, hedonistic week together. One whole year of not being touched, of not being interested in anyone, of not being thought of by someone.
Covid has been a time of reckoning for me, as it has been for so many others. As my country crumbles in the most disgusting, abysmal, terrifying way, so too have my self-annihilating ways. I have no stomach for mistreatment, no patience. I’m not betraying myself anymore. It’s scary to have no playbook.
I look back on my life and there’s all but one relationship that has no substance. The bulk of my life – my sex and love life – has zero substance. Dating and loving men who don’t love me back, who don’t care about me. I’ve slept with so many men, triple digits, and how many have loved me? Maybe two. How many have cared about me? Maybe none.
It’s a devastating realization.
I have lived a life. A big, loud, exciting and robust life. I have done whatever I wanted whenever I wanted. I have been fearless and charismatic, eaten up anyone in my path with a hunger that was bigger than me and now, in the quiet of a pandemic, I’m hogtied to isolation for survival. The quiet is deafening.
I planted no seeds to sow, my fields are fallow and I am alone. Naturally.
I have felt like writing many times over the last several months, but why and about what? My personal revolution? How boring – and selfish. Would you want to hear about me finding myself sometimes at the bottom of a bottle or at the bottom of a tea kettle? I can’t even be consistent in my vices – it’s either yoga or booze. Sometimes a combination. Ok, usually a combination.
Not only am I 1000x more boring than I was before, but my boringness means I’m focused on myself – not the dipshits I let in my life – and I’m a lot more private about my own shit than I realized. My traumas that were triggered in September of 2018 with the Kavanaugh hearings have rolled through and over me time and time again ever since. I can’t unsee my own pain and hurt, and most importantly, now that I am awake, I can’t abuse myself with men anymore, either.
It didn’t happen overnight, obviously, but I was already getting there before the Coronavirus hit us. I hadn’t had sex since October of 2019 and maybe only had one or two dates in December and January. I had put out my feelers for men in the London area for Eroticon 2020, but my heart was never really in it. And now here we are. October of 2020 and I have kissed exactly one human and hugged approximately 5 all year. It’s been brutal.
I fear for the safety of my parents and myself and some shitty dick isn’t worth the risk, so I don’t go out. The 22 yo was a total anomaly and seeing as I’m not interested in convincing anyone to be with me I will be alone for how ever many more months it will be until I have the energy and bravery to be with someone again.
I miss you all. I miss the way it was. It feels different now somehow. New guard and all that, totally normal. The old trees die and give way to and feed the new growth at its feet. I used to watch those time-lapse National Geographic videos of a forest that burned down and the green sprouts that would miraculously push up through the dark, rich soil. Unfurling like little dancers in the beams of sunlight that broke through the treetops. It was mesmerizing.
And now I am that little green sprout reaching for her sun, but I’m not sure I’m in the same forest.