Being prey.

So much has changed for me since my inaugural post nearly ten years ago.  Back then I was a fresh and perky 36 yo who had just left her husband and had a small, preschool-aged child to care for.  That woman was desperate for attention, love, affection, and sex.  She was also a shriveled, sad, lonely thing with a heart filled with hope and confidence that she would have a better life away from her husband and her stifling marriage.

She was only half right.

In the 10 years since I struck out on my own I have run the race like a sprint.  I went all out for miles and miles and miles, seemingly with infinite energy and optimism.  I surprised myself with my own resilience to withstand the abuses men handed out like Halloween candy and I so willingly slipped into my pillowcase sack, grateful for the revolting candy corn of attention because at least it was candy.

My tolerances have shifted so dramatically over the last 2+ years that I cannot bear to read my older posts here.  I am filled with sorrow for the woman who thought she empowered herself through the whims of men, when really she was trying to surf an avalanche.  There are no winners in that scenario I now know.

My history with men and sex began with sexual assault and as recently as two lovers ago ended in sexual assault.  Fifteen to 45, 30 years of abuse that I couldn’t bring to name as such.  But yes, the first time a boy touched my naked body was an assault and the last time a man came in me without my permission or knowledge was an assault.  And I am done.

So done.  So sad.  So angry.  So confused.  So helpless.

I can’t go back and do it all over again and I am trapped in this airless bubble that has stripped me of my curiosity and hunger.  It’s not a challenge to find a man and get him into bed – it never really was.  The real challenge was always how do I get him not to hurt me? 

To not ghost me, stealth me, scare me, hurt me, to cum in me and leave 10 minutes later?  To otherwise not treat me like a piece of trash?  That was always the real goal, but I had it twisted.  I thought it was the hunt, but really, I was being hunted while I was searching for the soul of a man.

The soul of a man who would be kind to me, tender, appreciative and brave.  That’s what I was hungry for, the humanity I’d read about in articles and seen in movies, but had never actually witnessed myself.

I am now left with the brittle dried pieces of a story burned down to its spine  The pages black and one iron grip away from dust.  This mythical man does not exist to me; he is nothing more than a romantic tale to keep women on dating apps and forever searching for a human connection on the other end of a courtship.  If women really understood that we were the prey animals of the human world, we wouldn’t be so quick to say Yes to the dinner or the nightcap or the walk along the river.

How can I open up when I am being hunted?

I’ve been thinking a lot about a couple of men whose time with me were both important and devastating.  The Neighbor, Peter, The Vet, Francois, and The Golfer are the most prominent in my mind.  Each wore me down in their own ways, past my boundaries where I allowed all sorts of mayhem and chaotic hope to rule my actions rather than calculated data: none of them had ever earned my time let alone my body.

I made excuses, simpered, intellectualized, and defeated my own inner voice and kept putting my hand in the flames.  Off-blog:

  • Peter sent me a scathing “cease and desist” text because he was happy in his new relationship, this after he’d pursued me again and had actively been trying to see me the previous weekend.
  • Francois made plans to come see me for Fourth of July weekend and texted with me incessantly for weeks about his excitement and anticiaption only to ghost me the morning he was set to drive out.  Then he blocked me.
  • The Neighbor, the best sex of my life and a man whose shady ways gaslit my heart.  He ultimately walked out of my life unexpectedly one day.
  • The Vet’s friendship is contingent on me staying in my lane and not pushing too many of his toxic male buttons and I’m often left thinking back on how I was his canary in the coal mine to figure out that he wasn’t ready to be in a relationship yet.
  • The Golfer, the last muse of this blog, managed be all of the others all at once: the best sex of my life, cruelly disconnected and uncaring he sent me a video of another woman giving him a blowjob when I reached out earlier this year,  Invested in me only for himself he was ultimately a troubled, drunken soul I should have left well enough alone, but alas…

I don’t want to feel this angry and scared, but maybe it’ll be the next 10 years of my life.  I’ll have saggy tits and jowls to learn to love by then.  Maybe, I’ll find a kind and gentle man who’d like to join me, but if not, I’m perfectly fine being safe alone.  Fuck the hunt.


I haven’t written in 72 days.

That’s 10 weeks and two days or two-and-a-half-months.  That’s nearly as long as the last blogging break I took way back when before I birthed A Dissolute Life Means… when I was between blogs.

Honestly, Boobday was dragging on me.  Memes are fun and all and then suddenly they’re not.  I’m not the orderly sort, though I am highly organized; I tend to do things in bursts and clusters, not on a schedule.  Meme-ing, therefore, is a mild form of torture for me and since I couldn’t figure out how to manage it I just stopped completely and abruptly.  I need to think about it some more, but I think I’m going to move it to once a month.  I’ll work out the details later and keep y’all posted.

And while I haven’t been writing here I’ve still been around.  I occasionally pop back on to IG and write painful things to go along with my sexy ass – as I tend to do – and I’m still on Twitter tweeting my little tweets here and there.  I even recorded a podcast with Molly – which was an absolute highlight of September – and have made it to the final round in the Smut Marathon!  What???

I’ve also been continuing with my therapy and my gentle exploration of myself – if “gentle” is a cold-gloved cavity search.  It’s been so hard this year.  I’ve been cracked wide open to all the trauma I’ve suffered, the sexual assaults, the abandonment, the lifelong pursuit for a real father’s love and affection.  I’m exhausted.

Almost two weeks ago Ann St. Vincent came to visit and it was wonderful.  She was as sweet and supportive and open and inquisitive as ever and my friends from another city drove in to see me and meet her and we all spent a decadent day together getting meat sweats and napping and eating pasta under an warm fall night sky.

And when everyone left the next day – after an afternoon of cheering on Pey doing all the athletic things – I fell to pieces, kicked off by Netflix’s Unbelievable.  For the third time in my life, I cut myself.  I sobbed and wept and tore at the tender skin beneath my breasts wailing for the girl who could never find safety, though she tried so hard.  The people she turned to again and again failing her in every way.

I’m talking about me, not the protagonist.

I didn’t know it was going to happen like that – I watch SVU all the time and various other heinous crimes-against-women type shows – but this one was different.  This one was so fucking real to me.  There she sat, this little thing in a stark room with two white men in power.  Their privilege and antipathy literally oozing off of them and she was there to do the right thing and share her pain and trauma and instead of opening their arms to her to soothe her and right the wrongs they shut her down.  They denied her.  They denied her existence.  They denied her visibility.

It knocked the breath from me as it thundered through me that that was me, I was her.  I was that girl looking for safety from my father, my boyfriend, men who were otherwise supposed to be safe.

I should be able to stand on a subway platform and trust that no one will hurdle me onto the tracks, but that is not how life is for me – for women.  I cannot stand too close lest someone shove me right off.  The tears were for this desperate realization that I want so badly to stand on the edge with no fear, but the reality is that I cannot and for all the times I’d been pushed.  A yin and yang of sorrow.

I woke up on Monday with an emotional hangover the size of the Empire State Building and lost all desire to drink.  All of it.  The ragged marks beneath my breasts meant I couldn’t wear a bra and the occasional sting I felt reminded me of the pain I had been denying I carried.  I was finally confronted with the truth of things: I hurt.

And I felt awake for the first time in years.  The kind of awake that makes you see each little brush stroke of fur on a cat’s nose like a masterpiece painting.  I could not unsee this part of me.

This might not be a surprise to some of you more critical readers – this entire blog is a diary of my flight from my pain and trauma via finding that one safe man – nor is it a surprise to me.  I know what I’ve been doing and why, I just never really understood the depths of what it was I was running from.  How dark and oozing it was, how cloying.  Now, I do.

I’m kinda sorta finding my footing.  I’m grateful for this mid-life awakening.

And then, this weekend was the last in my little apartment with my little offspring.  We watched movies, I hosted a kid sleepover, ran around, saw a movie, watched another sporting event from the bleachers.  I did very little in the way of packing, but I did a lot in the way of packing up emotionally.

I cried thinking this was my last Sunday on my tiny sunny balcony, the last Sunday sunrise with a kitty in the window.  The last Sunday my baby and I would fight over the bathroom sink.  It’s time to move on from my little haven and move us closer to my ex’s house and into the right school district, same bus, a bike ride apart from mom and dad’s.

I also cried thinking how alone I am in all of this.  Packing an entire house and moving all by myself while keeping it together for a watchful child.  It’s a lot.  I have to find ladders to reach all the high spots because I literally have no one who can help me.  I asked The Vet, but he has to work.  Peter says he’ll come and help, but he’s all wrapped up with his new girlfriend, so we’ll see if that actually comes to fruition.  (Yes, Peter and I are talking again.)

So, yeah.  I’ve been busy, just not writing.  Growing.  I’ve been growing.  I also had a week of really fun sex with a beautiful young man 18 years my junior.  Built like a little rugby player replete with a gorgeously furry chest and perfectly curved cock. We spent 3 nights together with one of them being a full 24 hours of fucking, smoking cigarettes, drinking, watching movies, eating, and fucking all over again.  Of course he then drew distant and announced he’s moving away for work.  Such is life.

This felt good, though, this writing thing.  Maybe I’ll do it some more.


[Ed. Note: I wrote this on my balcony on Sunday, but couldn’t get back to it until Monday am.  It feels good to hit “publish” again.]