I’ve never been terribly good at dating. I excel at fucking, not so much at dating. I’ve only had two people who I think I was a ‘good girlfriend’ to and at the age of 40 that is not a great track record.
As a girl I was taught that I should want to grow up and be married, yet for me marriage was never a goal. I rejected the concept that my purpose in life was to be Mrs. ____ and dating was the path to becoming a Mrs. so I never invested a lot of time in dating.
I didn’t long for a spiritual connection the way I read about in the romance novels I picked up where there was nothing better to read handy. I was not the virtuous virgin waiting for the reformed bad boy to pillage my soul and settle into an awkward monogamy where apparently true love turned me into a nymphomaniac but only for my ‘one’. I didn’t fit the mold of any woman that I knew of, or knew to exist.
I kind of still don’t.
I find myself at the age of 40 after investing a fairly loooooong amount of time in a relationship that’s ended wondering … now what?
To tell the truth I am looking forward to sex again. The illness robbed me of that, and now that I am forced to end that chapter of my life, the idea that I can fuck again is a light at the end of the tunnel. Yet, I still can’t determine if it is sunlight or the swift approach of an oncoming train.
I’ve had a lot of sex over the years and a lot of it has been good. I can say without hesitation that the last few years before my drought though, that sex was the best. It goes beyond the fact that my partner was skilled in ways that should be illegal, and that I loved him with every molecule of my body.
It was the sex I’d been longing to have for some time in a world of a woman who’s had lots of great sex.
I was a teenager in a world that didn’t know HIV. I was a 20-something in a world where HIV was the gay disease. I am a 40 something who’s had a history of HPV, who is currently not active, looking at the ocean of pussy and penis out there and thinking … meh.
Being in a committed, fluid bonded relationship with a non judgmental SuperFreak, spoils you. You can kiss without worrying about herpes. You can fuck without worrying about HIV. You can do all of the filthy things you’ve craved over time but had to decline because well… I don’t know you like that.
It was sex without limits and boundaries, and god bless America it came attached to a man who was the sexiest thing to ever hit the earth, packing a long thick penis, and who’s mind was obsessed to seeing how many times he could make me pass out from orgasm.
The thought of leaving that behind and returning to a world of condoms and dental dams and no I am not saving this for marriage, but no you still can’t do that because you might have the cooties is wholly unattractive and a libido killer.
I told a friend I FINALLY had the sex I wanted and now its gone and now what?
The now what is I have to figure out how to traverse a sexual landscape that will get me off without killing me. Is there a wonder why the prospect makes me go … meh?
I’m headed out to Weekend Reunion in just a while. A 72 hour period that could resemble Caligula in Maryland and I stand here looking down the road at it like Lot’s soon to be pillar of salt wife instead of the leader of the pack.
This is a skin I am uncomfortable in yet cannot remove because you might have cooties.
Once upon a time I was comfortable in my skin.
So much for fairy tales.