My own stupidity and resistance to growth astounds me sometimes. I see the fork in the road, which side is the right thing to do, and yet I still choose the other.
Very basically it goes something like this: This guy really pisses me off. I should have nothing to do with him. But wow, he’s hot and I’m horny and it can’t be that bad, right?? Except it is always that bad. ALWAYS.
Thursday night was no different and I’m going to share something with you that I find nothing less than utterly humiliating. It’s embarrassing that as a 43-year-old woman I continue to engage in this behavior. I know better and yet… here I am.
And then the other side is I can’t flagellate myself too much because that’s giving in to some darker need of mine that may be the ultimate aim of my subconscious to begin with. I’m stuck in this odd purgatory of regret, remorse, and redemption.
Remember Sassypants? The so-called sub I was chatting with was a disaster on our first date. I even told Ann, my therapist, and various other friends leading up to our second date that I knew it was a bad idea, but that I was horny and – say it with me – how bad could it be??
Well, the answer is pretty fucking bad.
I’ll give you the Cliff Notes’s version: he doesn’t believe white privilege exists, argued with me about a tenant of my beliefs, said he was trying to “open my mind,” and that Asian and Indian men here in the States were the most privileged members of our society. I told him to leave twice, but he remained, and only laughed me off. I don’t think he knew I was serious and me being me I just drank the pain away and let him stay.
We ended up in a tangled, drunken mess on my couch and I angry-fucked him while roaring orgasms ripped through me. I cried and moaned my rage in puddles all over my bed.
Much later he thought I wanted to fuck some more so he managed to stuff it inside of me, but began smacking my thighs with his dick to get hard. I instantly felt small and invisible and remembered every lover who didn’t see me in that move. My distaste of him afforded me no insight beyond my own.
“Am I even a part of this??? I asked. “That doesn’t feel good,” I probably slurred.
He swore at me and ran out of the room. Confused I grabbed a robe and stumbled out into my livingroom where he was angrily snatching up his clothes and his giant box of beer. He flung open the front door as words were said, angry ones. It slammed shut with a blast of cold air and then all was quiet.
I’d text him later to say how awful that whole experience was for me. Brief and to the point. No name calling, just sharing my feelings. Even later I’d block him on both Fet and the phone, but he’d find a work around and text me from another number to insult me, my age, my communication skills, and basically laugh the whole night off as a colossal joke.
What it boils down to is that I was enraged at myself for allowing this idiot on my couch and feeling ultimately powerless to remove him. “What is the point of you saying these things to me?!” I asked. “Are you trying to prove to yourself that you can trick a feminist into fucking some right-wing nut job? Because none of what you’re saying is making me feel safe or close to you.”
He laughed and assured me I was just misunderstanding him, he was actually a great guy! Ask his friends!
Blame the booze, blame my deep, dark hard wiring to not believe my own intuition, blame whatever, but I let him stay and it all completely imploded. I lost myself utterly to my own upset and void of self. It’s taken me the entire weekend to piece myself back together, tenderly and with much forgiveness. I’m not wure all the parts are put back properly, to be honest.
The older I get the more tender to the world I become and the learning curve to remember this is steep. So steep. I’m never sure when to cut bait, though I am completely aware of the right time.
I’m still insisting on Dating Like It’s 1995 to ok results. I’m talking to 3 men, all “subs” and I get lots of long emails which I’m loving. One is one I might need to cut, the other is My Irishman and he is brilliant still and I have these incredible purple-hued pictures of his big, thick cock bound in a new boot lace just for me, and the third is a local 31 yo who’s way out of my league, but who is easy-going and eager and so, who knows?
There are no vanilla prospects and I am finding myself less and less interested in starting there.
Anyway, in case you thought you were ever supposed to have it all figured out by a certain age I’m here to prove to you that there’s no guarantee that will happen. You may be just as giant an asshole as you were at 23.
I have no stability in my life and it shows. I don’t do this kind of reckless, stupid shit when I have a steady force in my life. Even when I had Peter this didn’t happen. I need an anchor and I’ve yet to discover how to be my own.
I exhaust myself sometimes with my wild, silly decisions and wonder if I’ll ever outgrow them. God, I sure hope I do, though…