I’ve been hanging out with a man from my past lately, Chase. He was one of the first men I went out with after The Neighbor dumped me in 2015 and also one of the few men who was able to weave affectionate play with hardcore fucking. After 2 or 3 hot, naked dates he faded away in a fog of love with another woman. Two months ago he reappeared and wanted to reconnect. He and the woman had just broken up.
I called Chase my sexual brother at the time because his attitude was so open, yet caring. He flung himself in bed with me as quickly as I did, but also maintained a thread of communication and friendship afterwards. We went to a movie, we smoked weed on his balcony, we cuddled. And we fucked.
Upside down and sideways, with spanks and splashes and lots of laughter. He didn’t judge me, just went along for the ride.
It was over quickly, but he left a good taste in my mouth for the existence of a man who could be like me: wanton, but sensitive.
This past Friday he told me how different I am today from 3 years ago. “You’re less… hungry,” he said.
And he’s right. I am far less hungry.
In fact, I border on the disinterested altogether. My sex drive is alive and well, but my hunger is gone. I have finally been beaten into submission: I am no longer so eager to spread my legs hoping that this man might be like me only to be cast aside the next day.
My good IG friend, Mrs. XO, said this when I told her his new take on me:
“… I’ve had men say the same thing to me as well. Like, what happened to that horny af milf? Ummm, idk. She was poisoned by your utter indifference and lack of human decency?”
I couldn’t have said it better.
I am talking to a handful of other old lovers, as well, ghosts from my past who for whatever reason are back knocking on my door with their hardons. A date here, a fuck there, a hug like old friends. I’m enjoying the process, my heart safely cordoned off. With each of them we’ve already left each other and we survived. I survived.
I had a reader once, a bright woman who spent much of her precious time reading me and writing to me, beg me to stop hurting myself via men. She wanted me to take responsibility for what was happening to me – all the hurt and rejection, she said, were my fault because I moved too fast with men and expected too much.
I didn’t agree and we locked horns. I insisted I wanted to be accepted for who I am. I wanted to do as I pleased and not be hurt. She maintained that wasn’t how the world works.
Finally, years after our long email debates part of what she said to me has soaked in: I cannot trust those who have not earned it. Merely existing in my world is not sufficient proof that you are trustworthy.
And so I am having very little sex.
Chase and I have spent 4 nights together and I have only recently touched his cock while my friend Jack blew him and Jack’s [new] fiancée fingerbanged me to climax. I could have fucked all three, but my heart wasn’t in it. Wednesday my date with Lance, a man I met 7 years ago, ended with a peck in his car despite past dates ending with a puddle beneath my bottom.
I wonder what it’d be like to meet someone and wait weeks before having sex, actually make it mean something as a pair with a serious relationship in mind. The last time I did that, however, I ended up married to the wrong man. All that “meaning” having clouded my better judgment. Surely I wouldn’t make the same mistake…
I’ve waited weeks before having sex several times this year, but a relationship was never the end goal, just a D/s dynamic. And while trust was integral I’ve realized yet again that promises are worthless and even agreed upon patience can’t protect me from abandonment. Nothing can protect me.
So if nothing can protect me then I need to walk into the flames and accept what comes with truly no regrets. I’ve said this so many times, each iteration closer to a mindfulness about people and myself.
I don’t regret anyone I’ve ever slept with – I was hopeful with each and every one of them and I was completely myself – but my hope was misguided. It was based in the belief that they were truthful and like myself – open and eager to connect. My reader-friend was desperate for me to realize that’s not how the world works, but I was stubborn.
Now I can still be myself, but accept more truly that people are not like me and that things have the high probability of going awry. Men have hangups and baggage and plans unknown to me. They have fears and hopes and shame. Perhaps the timing was colossally wrong, whatever. The end result to this realization has been this reticence to sex… and an incredible sense of calm.
I’m just chillin’ in my corner of the internet making ends meet, mothering, focusing on my health and fitness, listening to 90’s Hip Hop and rap like it’s my job. To borrow and tweak Linda Evangelista’s famous “I don’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day,” quote, I don’t get out of bed for less than being treated like a person.
Which means, not surprisingly, I go out a lot less often.