Tag Archives: rebound guy

Not Dead

I don’t go to bars much these days. It’s not that I don’t like them; I just don’t have the time. And, also, I don’t like the way I am when I’m drunk, or the hangovers that ruin the next day.

But I felt like going to my local bar after work today to have a nice cold Hefeweizen. I just wanted to see people. Relax for once. I never relax. I don’t know how.

This is the bar where I met Rebound Guy last year and where the debacle of my addiction to him reached its grisly finale. I’ve been back to that bar since we stopped seeing each other, but he wasn’t there, and since he was an alcoholic who practically lived there, I assumed this meant he was (a) dead (b) in rehab or (c) he had moved back to the state he’s from.

But, of course, no such luck! He was there today, and he came up to say hi. I wish he hadn’t. He’s looking much better, and says he only drinks “occasionally” now. Who knows whether that’s true. Like I said, he does look a lot better.

Just to find something to say, I made the mistake of asking him if he still sold weed. He said, yes, and that he now also grows mushrooms. I’ve only taken mushrooms a few times in my life, and I love them. They’re the only drug I’d be interested in taking again. I then made the second mistake of asking him for his number so I could buy mushrooms. He was, like, “um, I’ve got a girl”.

I can’t believe I put myself in a situation where the dude would think that I actually still want to fuck him! God, I am so dumb. Apparently his “girl” knows all about me because she was the one whom he picked up from the airport the morning after we spent all night fucking.

I don’t want Rebound Guy. In fact, I wish I had the presence of mind to tell him that the only reason I ever fucked him was because I was in pain, and needed the drug of sex to numb me.

But I can’t help but feel sad. I *am*, for some crazy reason, really attracted to him, and it was disturbing to be reminded what sexual desire feels like. Not the desire for him….just desire in general. I just remembered that I like sex, and miss sex….but, more than that, I miss feeling connected to another human being. I don’t like being forced to see how lonely I am.

It’s a beautiful day. Sunny, and not too hot yet. It’s the kind of day where it would be bliss to have someone to love…somebody to come home to and cuddle.

But instead (and this is almost hilarious because I am such a cliché!), I will be spending this evening trapping feral cats so I can take them to get spayed and neutered. :-/


My (Not So) Spotless Mind

It’s nearly 8:00 p.m. on a humid December evening, and I’m sipping a martini in an old, beautiful hotel down by the beach. Frank Sinatra apparently stayed here at one point, one of many luminaries who have. There’s Christmas music being piped into the cocktail bar here, and it might even be him singing. There are chandeliers, atmospheric lighting, poinsettias and a gorgeous Christmas tree. There are also a couple of overweight, fanny-pack wearing tourist-y types perched at the bar, but I’m trying to block out their image.

You’re probably thinking that I’ve been whisked away to this island paradise by some rich, debonair new beau. But, no, I have come here alone to celebrate my birthday. And I’m not staying in this hotel. It’s too expensive for the likes of me, alas. But I also can’t complain about the quaint, renovated 1920’s cottage I’m renting. It’s pretty cosy, and although it sleeps six, there’s just me, my pit bull and my chihuahua.

I should also point out that I drove 3.5 hours to get here. There was no flying. This is not the Caribbean. I haven’t even left the state. Despite this, I am quite impressed  by the island. I’m actually a little sad that it took me  more than eight years to pay this place a visit. I didn’t realize quite how striking the Victorian architecture was in the older parts of the town. The city where I live usually is so devoid of history, and there are so few old buildings.  I find this quite disturbing. I don’t like feeling disconnected from the past. What with the almost constant sunshine and high temperatures (this year worse than ever!), there are no seasons to mark the passing of time. No seasons. No old buildings. Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped in some kind of unchanging dream-like void.

But these old, Victorian, wedding-cake like buildings have posed a bit of a problem. As has the beach. I did not quite realize how romantic this place would be. It was perhaps not the smartest idea for a soon-to-be-divorced woman to visit a seaside town in the middle of winter. And not just any old seaside town. This is a seaside town that has been compared to Dickens’ Miss Haversham. All this faded glamour! All this potential that is now gone! God, this town is  a symbol for my fucking life.

I spent the first two days reading “Fevre Dream” by George R.R. Martin (I’m currently obsessed by Vampire novels), taking the dogs for walks on the beach, and sobbing because my marriage is soon to be over although I’m no longer sure I want it to be. I’ve been missing my ex-husband-to-be for a couple of weeks now. This was a bit of a surprise because, before this, I was relatively accepting about the whole situation. But then for one whole week, I kept on having these weird, intense dreams in which I would be reaching out for MM but I could no longer get to him. I trust my subconscious. I trust it far more than my poor, addled conscious mind, which doesn’t know whether it’s coming or going half the time. I trust it, and that’s precisely why I was disturbed. I didn’t really know what those dreams meant. All I know is that when I got in the car to drive here there is nobody I would rather have had with me than MM.

Before these dreams came along, my mind was almost “spotless” (in the sense of “Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind” in which the main characters erase their memories of their lovers after a painful break-up). I wouldn’t say I was happy exactly, but the Seroquel kept me very fucking level. I would have a sad thought, but instead of “disappearing down the rabbit hole” – as my therapist calls it – I was able to “check the facts” (more therapy speak) and see the pros and cons to every situation.

I haven’t, by the way, heard from, or wanted to hear from, RG since Hallowe’en when he texted me out of the blue to ask me to some stupid party. I was too busy changing my cats’ litter (seriously) to agree to go. I simply cannot believe that I would ever have been interested in such a turd let alone waste several blog posts writing about the wee fucker. RG is now just a distant bad memory. If I happened to find myself in an inebriated and horny state in a bar and came across him, I cannot guarantee that I wouldn’t shag him again, but if he texted me asking me to meet up, I would ignore the text. No desire to see him whatsoever. All he ever was, I suppose, was a distraction to keep my mind off my marriage breaking up.

UPDATE: 11:20 a.m. on Monday December 10th. I meant to write more last night, but this old Republican guy at the bar (with an absolutely monstrous-looking moustache that covered his entire mouth) kept on buying me martinis, which was nice of him given that I spent the entire time insulting his politics. I finally stumbled home, blind drunk, around midnight on the road beside the beach.

This is my last day here. I’ll be leaving in a few hours.


I’m probably not going to have much time to write in here for the next five weeks. Tomorrow I start an intensive outpatient Dialectical Behavior Therapy course. It’s every Monday through Thursday, from 6:00 p.m. until 9:00 p.m. Given that I start work at 8:00 a.m. and only finish at 5:00 pm., it’s going to be pretty exhausting. I have self-diagnosed as suffering from Borderline Personality Disorder, and DBT is supposed to be really effective for treating that. Even if I don’t have BPD, it would still be good to learn not to, um, smash shit, hit my loved ones and verbally abuse them when I’m stressed or angry. Both my therapist and my psychiatrist think it would be a good idea to do this course. I’m wondering if I’ve made a huge mistake, though, because I have a hard enough time as it is getting through the week without adding twelve-hours of intensive therapy into the mix. Also, I am feeling pretty fine at the moment. But that is always my pattern – I have one huge crisis, where my world feels like it’s ending, and then I coast along just fine until the next crisis. When I’m coasting I never feel like there’s anything wrong with me.

Intensive therapy aside what else have I been up to? Well, I had fun this week with my friends, seeing lots of music. I went out more times this week than I would do in a whole six month period while I was still living with MM. I’m completely sleep-deprived, but it was worth it. I also went out on a date with a cute Chilean-American journalist I met on OKCupid who is very interesting –  tall; handsome; creative; funny; educated; a runner; well-traveled; bi-cultural; bilingual etc etc. He is, in other words, the opposite of RG in most ways and yet…I still long for RG.

Speaking of RG, we have started shagging again. But don’t worry – it’s all good. I’m much calmer this time around. It turns out there actually was something he wanted to invite me to after all. We went to a barbecue last night together, and I was supposed to attend a fashion show he was doing the make-up for today but couldn’t because I had to work. I don’t know what these invitations mean. Honestly, I think I’m done analyzing the shit out of everything. I just don’t have the energy.

I started to look at our “relationship” in a whole new light earlier this week when he responded to one of my booty-call texts by saying “Im a mess dont know if i want you to see me this way”. It wasn’t like I didn’t know he was a raging alcoholic before this text. I knew rationally that he couldn’t be present for me because of his alcoholism but somehow that text brought it all home. I felt quite guilty, to be honest…like I’d been trying to take advantage of a sick person. Because, well, he is a sick person. We stayed up talking all night on Friday (didn’t even shag until much later!) and we didn’t start to go to bed until 8:00 a.m. He actually went off then to buy some cheap and nasty gas station wine so he could get to sleep. At 8:00 a.m! Jesus. What a way to start your day.

I don’t know how it is possible to care for somebody I have only known for a couple of months, but, well, care I do. Of course, there is still a huge part of me that wants him to want me/love me, but I can genuinely say now that I just want him to get better. Not for me, not because I have this fantasy that we’ll fall hopelessly in love if he gets better (although there is a wee bit of that) , but for himself. He’s talking about moving back to Colorado to live with a friend he can start a (legit, non-druggy) business with who’s also a teetotaller. I think this would be a great idea because I don’t know how on earth he can possibly hope to get sober while he sells weed and lives right around the corner from the local bar. When he talks about moving away, there is this little voice inside me that says “No! Don’t leave! No! Not yet!” but I know it’s what he needs to do, and I will encourage him. I just can’t stand to see another human being suffer in front of my eyes. He says he’s hardly ever had sober sex in his life! Wow! I can’t imagine being that cut off from my emotions. He is so broken. He needs to heal.

I feel that something changed in me this week as regards RG. I will continue to long for his attention, his affection, his love, but somehow my lust has changed into something sweeter and more tender…friendship, I guess. I’m not saying that I won’t ever shag him again (hell, I ain’t Jesus) but I just want to treat him well, and not make him the brunt of my love addicted obsession.

This might be weird given how much I’ve bitched about RG in this blog, but send a wee prayer out for him tonight, will you? He’s not an angel, but I hate to see him in this much pain.

Head Fuck

Well, what a surprise. RG actually called me tonight. I missed the call, and I had already deleted his number earlier this week, but I recognized the Colorado area code. Since I’m a fucking eejit, I texted him back. I know, I am incredibly, disgustingly weak.


Was that you who just called me, RG?


Ya. i was trying to ask if you were free on sunday


Tomorrow? I dunno. I am really depressed at the moment. Not terribly in the mood for shagging, if that’s what you were meaning.


next sunday. and i don’t care about shagging.


Sunday the 13th? That is what “next Sunday” means to me. or do you mean tomorrow? I dont understand the way Americans talk about future dates.


Next Sunday you european bitch


Cheeky! So, the 13th,then? Why, what is happening?


nevermind. I found another hot [insert  my nationality] bird to go with me


That i doubt. Most [insert my nationality] women are butt ugly.


Why are you so complicated?

What the fuck was that all about it?! For a split second I thought he was texting me because he missed me, and actually wanted to take me out on a date. But, no, I think he just wants to fuck with my head.  He probably just wants to make sure I’m still out there, and available to him.

The sad thing is that if he texts me again, I will soooo text back. I was going to say “God give me the strength to ignore this man” but, no. I prefer: “God, please make a piece of masonry fall on that motherfucker’s head so I never have to deal with him again”.

My Name Is Trouble

It hasn’t been a good week. You might remember that my car was towed two weeks ago after I  parked it in the wrong place outside RG‘s apartment complex (that’s what drunk, obsessive horniness does to a girl). This cost me $190. Another result of my obsession with RG was that I neglected to transfer money into my “bills” bank account that same week, so two direct debit bills overdrew my account – another $80 in overdraft fees. I therefore didn’t have enough money to pay my rent this month.

Of course, those of you who have been reading my two blogs faithfully since (when?) 2007 will know that, um, I am rather “handy” when it comes to scraping together some cash in a short space of time. For those of you who don’t know me this means that I moonlight as an erotic masseuse whenever necessary (in other words, I give handjobs to random dudes or, in some cases, regulars). Now that MM and I have broken up, “whenever necessary” pretty much means “all the fucking time” because I obviously have double the amount of bills to pay. Some women have made a career out of writing about their “sexploits” in the erotic massage/escort industry but this is not really my thing anymore although my last blog started off being about that. It’s just a job really.

Today I finally managed to get together all my rent money, which was actually pretty hard.  It is not easy for me to make money as an erotic masseuse because I refuse (absolutely refuse) to email potential clients pictures of myself, even if it’s just a shot of my naked torso. This is a curious thing given that I have shitty boundaries in all other areas of my life, but when it comes to erotic massage I’m boundaried up all the way to the hilt. I can’t stand the idea of emailing pictures of myself to some random dude who can then do with them what he will. Sometimes I think that I must have been a member of the Maasai tribe in a past life (they believe photographs steal the soul) because I am obsessed with having control of my image.  In this digital age, there are very few men out there willing to come see an erotic masseuse sight-unseen.  Although this makes it hard for me to make a living, it is also a good thing because those who do come (or, ahem, cum) are either regulars or those adventurous few souls who can tell from my ads/emails that I’m well-educated, funny, sane and über-discreet, and they appreciate these qualities in me. Very rarely do I meet an asshole. My clients are almost always well-educated, respectful, middle-class men.

However, I digress. I finally scraped together the rent money, a feat made all the harder by the fact that one of my tyres blew out on the way to work yesterday morning.  I was doing 65 (or, well, probably at least 70 since I’m nearly always late for work and end up speeding) and I had always been terrified of a tyre blowing out on the highway. It actually wasn’t all that bad. There was just a huge rumbling sound, which I attributed to a passing truck at first, but then my car lurched to one side, so I knew the tyre had blown out. Since I’m an idiot, it didn’t occur to me to put on my hazard lights, but I just got off at the next exit and turned into the first place I could where there just happened to be (hallefuckinglujah! Praise be to God!) an auto repair shop. Just as fucking well because I ain’t ever changed a tyre in my life and I sure as hell don’t intend to. One hour later, and $90 poorer, I drove off with the tyre replaced and my ego slightly inflated from the hardcore pick-up efforts of LeRon, the playa mechanic.

As if all my financial/blown tyre worries weren’t enough, last night I received an email from MM saying, among other things, that I have Borderline Personality Disorder (I agree – distinct possibility there) and  – this was a new one from him – Narcissistic Personality Disorder. This really cut to the bone because I have read the diagnostic criteria for NPD and I definitely recognize myself in some of them. I truly am very self-absorbed. I know it, and it is shameful. I am acutely aware that all I write about in this blog is myself/my problems/my pain. However, I do not agree that I lack empathy for other people at all…..or do I? I am genuinely terrified that I have NPD because I don’t want to be such a bad person! Please tell me I’m not such a bad person!

I guess  I really should tell you now how my relationship with MM ended. I’ve been putting it off for such a long time because it was just too painful to write about. It is a long, messy, nightmarish story but, in a nutshell, I ended up calling police on him one night. Early on that night we had had yet another huge argument and, amazingly for me, I actually managed to disengage from it by locking myself in the bathroom. MM was drunk, and I knew there was no point in actually having a discussion because it would get nowhere. He then kicked the door open, and continued to rant at me which led to me mocking him mercilessly (I probably said stuff like “you’re a pathetic loser” or “this is why I don’t want to fuck you”). MM had been physical with me before (usually when I was smashing stuff or when he was trying to restrain me) but I never thought he would ever intentionally hurt me. Things were getting out of control in our relationship, and I was scared that I was going to break a bone if he pushed me into or over something, but I never thought for a second that he would ever hit my face. And he didn’t. However, as I was mocking him, his fist came flying towards my face, and he only just stopped himself in the nick of time.

After this, MM went off to the local bar (yup, the same one where RG hangs out all the time) and got absolutely fucking plastered. When he came back lots of shit went down, and I can’t say I was entirely innocent. At one point, I ripped his iPhone out of his hand because I thought he was calling another woman (turned out he was just leaving a really drunk, incoherent voicemail for his best friend) but he was hardly an angel either. He grabbed me and shoved me around, trying to get the cell phone back; aimed a kick at me; followed me around ranting at me when we were back in the house; threw my dinner in my face when I finally sat down, trying to ignore him; grabbed my cell phone out of my hand when a friend called; smashed it on the floor several times…and God knows what else. I wanted him out of house and asked him to leave, but he wouldn’t. Eventually I just ended up calling the police, which ended up with my cell phone being smashed on the floor several more times until I could finally get through to the police. Well, the police came and tried to talk to MM, but he shut himself in a room and refused to come out. He talked to them through an open window, clearly totally wasted, and eventually the police got tired of that, and asked me to let them into the house. I did, and they knocked on the door of the room MM was in, but he still wouldn’t come out. The police eventually kicked the door down and, when MM still refused to cooperate, he got tasered twice. Yes, twice.

The result of all of this is that MM now has three criminal charges against him: interfering with someone making a 911 call; assault of a family member and resisting arrest.

I don’t feel guilty that MM was tasered (this was his own doing – he could have cooperated with the police) and the fact that he was actually was a solace to me in some weird way. I don’t mean that I wanted him to get tasered (of course I didn’t!) but the fact that he got himself in a situation where he was tasered showed me that I wasn’t the only crazy one in this relationship. MM made a point of telling me that I was the crazy one all the time.

However, I do feel guilty that MM is now facing a domestic violence charge. By all rights, both of us should have assault charges. There is a many a time that MM could easily have called the police on me for assaulting him. Maybe he should have. Maybe that would have been my rock bottom, and I would have been a better person for it. I feel immense guilt that MM’s life could be ruined because of me. I feel like no man should date me – that I’m mad, bad and dangerous to know. No wonder RG decided he didn’t want to see me anymore. I have crazy seeping out of every pore.

But, guilty as I feel, I believe that MM does not accept full responsibility for his actions. Any time he was physical with me, he justified it by saying I “provoked” him. I accepted this response because I thought “Well, it’s true. I am pretty crazy. The guy was probably driven to act that way”. But he’s a grown man! Nobody can make a full-grown adult do anything! Instead of blaming me for the mistakes he made in his life, I think it would suit him better to ask himself why he continued to stay in a relationship with me because I was (no doubt about it) totally abusive.

And, boy, do I feel guilty about that. I know for a fact that I ruined MM’s self-esteem. I don’t know why I was so verbally abusive but I was, and I sucked all the life out of him. The terrible thing is that he still loves me. Even today, he told me how much he loves me, and that he will always love me. Perhaps I feel the same way. I have no idea. I’m not sure my poor, fucked-up brain can actually process what feelings of love are.

I feel terrible that MM has to spend $10,000 on lawyer fees, attend court dates, stupid state-mandated therapy sessions and whatnot while there I was fucking RG without a care in the world. For one whole month, I barely gave MM a second thought because I was so wrapped up in RG. What kind of person am I? Could it be true that I have no empathy whatsoever?

MM loved me/still loves me, and I gave him nothing. And when I say “nothing”, I mean truly nothing. I had the time and energy to put into running after RG (a loser, alcoholic drug dealer) but I couldn’t even give a scrap of affection to MM who was my fucking husband.  I know how much he must be hurting because I have been there myself. I have been that person – the person who was mistreated by an emotionally unavailable partner who then spends months, if not years, wondering “what’s wrong with me?!”. I can’t believe I then turned the tables and did that to another person.

I can’t believe that, after everything I’ve done/ all the pain I’ve caused him, he still loves me. He is the first man in my entire life who has ever loved me. And I treated him like a piece of shit. Threw it all away.

Parce que je le vaux bien!

As you perhaps expected, my resolve in Friday’s post to never contact RG again faded by the end of Friday and into Saturday morning. I even drunk texted him again saying that if we were to see each other at some point again in the future he should come to my place since – in my poor deluded mind – I felt that this would give me more power. He replied saying he was OK with this, and that sparked off all these fantasies of him coming round, us drinking red wine, smoking some weed and having amazing sex. I even went so far as to look at duvet covers in the “Bed, Bath and Beyond” online store since I decided that my bed could definitely do with a little bit of sprucing up for RG (I bet he never even changed the sheets between fucking me and having his “friend” from Colorado over. Ha!).

I then started to obsess about how much time I should let elapse before contacting him again for sex. One week would obviously appear too keen, I told myself; hmmm, two weeks might be a bit too soon, also; what about three weeks, then? A month? I think I eventually settled on waiting until his birthday on November 20th.

I imagined RG sitting at home waiting for me to call, wondering why I hadn’t and realizing he had been a fool. I didn’t expect him to call me, of course, but obviously this would be because he’s a wounded little animal right now, terrified of commitment. Really he’s crazy about me, but just can’t admit it to himself.

How can it be that I continue to create these little fantasies about his supposed “feelings” for me?!. I’ve even written on here about how there was never anything between us, and that I had just created everything in my head. Why is it that I then can’t stop myself from creating more fantasies? Why can’t I remember the harm these fantasies cause? I need to fucking remember, goddammit!

Last night I went to get a Brazilian wax done, and thank God I did since my aesthetician is amazing. She actually managed to talk some sense into me. She’s this feisty Mexican-American with a trace of Spanish in her accent when she speaks English. I love her bawdy sense of humour and the way she cuts through your bullshit in a really warm, kind way.

It wasn’t that she told me anything new (um, that RG is a huge fucking loser and that I’m wasting my time) but I guess I was just finally ready to hear what people were telling me, and she was the perfect person to listen to.

You probably don’t believe me but I am soooooo ovaaaaaaah that motherfucker. True, I occasionally have wee pangs when I think about the sex we had, and if I saw him again in our local bar, I might have a “relapse”. This is why I am going to be staying away from that place for a couple of months. But, really, I can see him for what he is now. A fucked-up, alcoholic loser with no job who I let take advantage of me! I don’t know whether to be more disgusted with him or with myself. I can’t believe that I actually chased somebody like that.

I have chased men my entire fucking life. Now, don’t get me wrong. 99.99% of the time I am not desperate in the slightest. In fact, I am not romantically or sexually interested in the vast majority of men I meet. However, here is the lethal combination for me:

sexual attraction + emotional unavailability + emotional intensity + “little wounded animal” man

The problem with most men like this is that they they love sexual conquests, so they will do their everything to “hook” the woman. Their low self-esteem and fragile egos need to have as many attractive women as possible interested in them. To this end, there’s a fucking charm offensive. RG was like that, making me think that he was “sensitive”, that he “understood” me, that he, too, was “in pain” right now’. Everything was so fucking intoxicatingly intense. They know this is what women love to hear, and then you’re hooked! But the problem is that once you’re hooked, you want more of the same, but then men like RG freak the fuck out and back off; this makes you panic, so you chase, and they back off all the more.

I do think that RG liked me in the beginning but I think my “love me now!!!!” behaviour turned him the fuck off. Why wouldn’t it? And I made everything so fucking easy for him. Offering my fucking pussy up on a silver platter. Thinking that texting him saying “I’m soooo horny. Coming round to fuck you!” was the epitome of modern womanhood. It would be if I was in a committed relationship with somebody who actually respected me, but RG saw my high sexual drive and thought “Slut!”.

I have spent my entire fucking life refusing to believe that what I’ve got between my legs is some kind of relationship currency. I just could not accept that if I was 100% honest about my feelings for a man and slept with him “too soon” (in the eyes of society anyway) that men would not respect me. How naïve. Not just naïve about men, but about human nature in general. Nobody – man or woman – wants what they can have too easily. I have this guy friend in Brooklyn who’s interested in me, and who constantly calls/texts although I usually forget to respond/return his calls. Despite this, he still calls/texts me again. I hate to admit it, but there is a huge part of me that does not respect him for that.

I am sorely tempted to purchase “The Rules“. I’ve spent many years secretly wanting to read this book, but not allowing myself to do so because it has been considered “anti-feminist” and manipulative of men. But, honestly, I’m at the stage now where I need some fucking external rule system to teach me to respect myself, and how to deal with/approach the men in my life.  I haven’t read it yet but, honestly, from what I can gather it just teaches women to have their own busy, successful lives instead of obsessing over a man. Yes, there are some so-called “manipulative” strategies (rarely returning phone calls etc) but, when I think about it, there are so many manipulative things that I do already to make sure a man is interested in me/will spend time with me (e.g. getting involved with them sexually too soon). How is the fact that I’m currently unconsciously manipulating men any better than consciously manipulating them to make sure they know I’m a strong woman?

In an ideal world, neither conscious or unconscious manipulation would be advisable, but, fuck it. I’m tired of being played. I’m cynical and broken down. I’m sick of chasing men who don’t give a rat’s ass about me even though they’re the ones who are not my intellectual, spiritual and emotional equals. I am not going to manipulate men to screw them over (hell, I’m not a bitch) but men are as sure as hell going to chase me now. And why? Because in the words of that cheesy L’Oréal Ad:

“Parce que je le vaux bien”.


Well, you are not going to be happy. After having a wee glass of rum mixed with strawberry/banana soy smoothie (I tell myself that this mixer makes drinking healthy) I texted RG. Don’t worry – I didn’t declare my undying love for him, and beg him to come back. I said this:

“You know, its 4 the best that we don’t see each other. I realize this. Neither one of us is in a good place. But it kinda sucks that u couldnt just say that because i liked you quite a bit. Oh well. I hope you take good care of yourself.”

What I got back was this:

“If you need some hugs let me know. i just can’t commit to anything now”.

Oh, the euphemistic use of the word “hugs”! When we first started seeing each other, one of the ways he hooked me was by telling me that we didn’t need to have sex (I told him I wasn’t ready. Ha!) and that he could just give me some “hugs” instead.  I thought that he must be a really sensitive, sweet guy. I just didn’t realize that it would be my vagina getting all those “hugs”.

You will notice how my text message was sweet and sad. Once again, I put myself out there by telling him that I like/liked him, and yet I got nothing back except a cheap offer for sex . You’re probably now thinking that I must be on the edge of a nervous breakdown. But no! You are very wrong!

I am glad that I texted him because, well, it really was a bit sad to think that I might never hear from him again. I mean, God, we must have fucked like twenty times in the space of a month, and, whether you like it or not, some kind of bond, no matter how tenuous, is formed through that. I was actually kinda surprised that he even texted back and I wouldn’t have minded if he hadn’t because then I could have written him off as a complete douchebag. It’s always easier to get over somebody if you think they’re an idiot or if you’re angry at them.

I countered his desire for me to let him know when I want “hugs” by suggesting that he contact me if he wants to hang out. At first I kicked myself for doing this because I felt like I’d given away all my power by letting him suggest a meeting time, but now I realize that I did exactly the opposite. RG is so afraid of commitment that he doesn’t even want to be the one to suggest meeting up for casual sex. It was very convenient for him to have me be the one who suggested all the booty calls. Ever the Catholic school boy, I think he feels guilty deep-down for having casual sex so, oh how convenient, when the woman is the one who suggests it. That way he can’t be blamed when the woman’s feelings get hurt because she knew what the “score” was.

You probably don’t believe me, but I will not be contacting RG again for a hook-up. I’ve not seen him for 6 days, and, during that time, most of the rush I get from the sex and just being around him, has worn off. Obviously I’ve also had time to reflect. I don’t want a relationship with him, and I never did; I was just lonely and horny. I did like him, though, so in my loneliness and horniness, I got all confused. The boundaries were so blurred. I could just be flattering myself, but I think he might have been confused, too.

But I have decided: if we’re going to be fuck buddies, he’s going to be dancing to my tune this time. He can contact me if he wants to meet up, with advance notice! And he will be coming round to my place. I had never considered how vulnerable I was making myself by always going over to his place, and seeing his brother, his friends…his life. If we are going to fuck, I don’t need to see how he lives his life, and with whom he spends his time. I will have the upper hand if he comes to my house.

The sad thing is that I don’t think that he ever will contact me. I sense that he has made a decision that whatever we had going on was “too complicated” (he said as much). Even if on some level he does like me, he’s an alcoholic and is really good at shutting parts of himself off. I imagine that it will be much easier for him just to find some random girls to fuck instead. Much less “complicated”. It’s also sad because I long for his body, for his smell. It makes no rational sense whatsoever, but I just do. As wrong as he is for me, he did something to me, and, oh how I wish that he would do it again and again and again.

Despite my sadness at the thought of never having his large, perfectly formed cock inside me again, I am at peace for the first time all week. Now I know that this situation had nothing to do with me; it’s all about him and where he is at in his life. I don’t feel rejected anymore. I am ready to move on (although if I’m totally honest I do live in hope that RG will contact me again one day….a hope that will surely diminish with time).

Meanwhile, there are other sexual opportunities on the horizon! Given that I am going to attend a Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meeting tomorrow morning, it is perhaps not good at all for me to be getting involved with other men. But, you know what, I don’t fucking care. I am so tired of analyzing everything I do and think. I have just rediscovered my libido, and I will be damned if I become a cloistered nun. There have been far too many periods of my life when I didn’t have sex for ages. I’m not doing that again. I’m going to enjoy being a single woman.

Last night I went to my friend’s girlfriend’s dinner party, and there was this guy there whom I will refer to as the Naïve Libertarian. He was this adorable 25-year-old Hispanic guy who was obviously very smart and intellectual (but he’s not quite as smart and as intellectual as he thinks he is). We got into this huge political discussion because I hate libertarians and always want to prove to them that Socialism is the only true way. His opinions were quite ridiculous but also extremely charming as only the opinions of a 25-year-old boy could be. I made fun of him, and I thought it was just delicious when he became all petulant and outraged, and refused to let anyone else speak until he had defended himself. Oh, the ardour of the young!

Anyway, the Naive Libertarian walked me to my car, still passionately spouting all his libertarian opinions. I was growing tired of him , so I grabbed him and said “Oh for God’s sake, shut the fuck up!” and then I kissed him. He resisted for maybe half a minute – “No, but… but let me finish!”, but quickly succumbed to my kiss a few moments later.

I can’t say that I was incredibly attracted to the Naive Libertarian, but I do think that there’s a lot of fun to be had with a 25-year-old boy. I definitely see myself in a sort of Blanche Dubois/Mrs. Robinson role. There is so much that I could teach him! I gave him my number, so let’s see if he calls…