Tag Archives: sex

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. :-/

Can A Sex Worker Be A Buddhist?


sacred prostituteSince the age of nineteen, I have been in and out of the sex industry in one capacity or another in four different countries – escort; prostitute (for lack of a better word) in two German brothels; erotic masseuse and “hostess” in a French “bar américain”. This last one translates as “American bar” but I’m not sure why the French called it that, as there were never any Americans to be seen. It’s basically a place where men have to buy ridiculously overpriced bottles of champagne to have the honour of your company. In other words, it’s just a front for prostitution, except nobody ever mentions that word.

I could no doubt write countless blog posts analyzing why I decided to take such a path in life at such a tender age, but this is not the time and the place. And, quite frankly, I’m not all that interested in delving into my past. It is what it is. And I honestly don’t regret any of it. I have experienced human nature in a way that only very few other people have. True, I might not always have experienced human nature at its best, but experience is experience, and I relish it all.

I have been attending mediation classes at the local Zen center, and, although I would not be presumptuous enough to call myself a Buddhist at this early stage, I cannot help but wonder whether there is a place for a sex worker – currently I’m a part-time erotic masseuse – in Buddhism. After all, the Noble Eightfold Path clearly stipulates that Buddhists should have “Right Livelihood” i.e. that they should not engage in trades or occupations that harm other people.

I tried googling “Buddhist Sex Worker” and “Buddhist Prostitute” but didn’t find anything particularly interesting. Brad Warner apparently knows one Buddhist sex worker, but he didn’t mention whether she has an online presence.

Does sex work harm other people? Does it harm sex workers themselves? There is no simple to answer way to this. I’m no Andrea Dworkin but I’m also very far from being a gushy sex-positive feminist who believes that every consensual sexual experience a woman has is empowering. All I know is that, at this point in my life, I have very little interest in sleeping with men for money. There was a time as a really young woman when that turned me on, but it no longer does. I would be miserable if I tried that again.

On the other hand, I don’t have any issues whatsoever with being an erotic masseuse. True, there is usually a handjob involved, but, meh, so what? The dude is lying flat on his back at that point, and I’m 100% in control. Sometimes they try to sit back up, but I won’t stand for it. I gently push them back down. The massage and the handjob always go the way I want it to. I can assert with 100% confidence that I do not feel exploited or belittled in any way. I have been doing this for so long that I know exactly what I’m doing. I also screen potential clients very carefully, and this helps weed out any undesirables.

So, I’m not being emotionally or physically hurt by my involvement in the sex industry, but is it hurting me in other ways? I don’t have an extravagant lifestyle by any stretch of the imagination, but being a sex worker has encouraged me to be more materialistic perhaps. I don’t make that much money as an erotic masseuse since it’s a part-time gig for me these days, but nonetheless, it’s the kind of industry where you always can make more money, or at least fantasize that you can.  I find it very hard to make a budget and stick to it because, well, why do I have to? For example, if I have $100 left in my bank account that really needs to be spent on food, but I see a dress I want, I can tell myself “Oh, I’ll just get that dress now, and do two handjobs later to afford food”. A “normal” woman could not do this. She would just have to go without the dress. This is not a very sensible way of living, and I don’t like having such a materialistic mentality.

What about the men who are my clients? Am I harming them in some way? The men who come to see me are not sleazebags – not at all, in fact. They are just normal, hard-working, middle-class, middle-aged, (usually) white men. The vast majority of them are married, and – if I can believe what they tell me – they are just not getting very much sex at home. One could argue that I am providing a valuable service for these men; that I am helping couples stay married. I wouldn’t go that far, but, well, yes, I clearly have something to offer these men. But wouldn’t it be better for my clients to find out why their wives don’t want to fuck them, and to work on their marriage instead of coming to see me? Aren’t I stopping them from working on their relationships, and growing in them? Aren’t I helping men lie to their wives and partners?

Sometimes I wonder, too, if I am stopping men from finding love altogether. Last week I had a visit from a surprisingly charming guy who works in the game industry. He wasn’t my type physically although he had a great body (nerdy white guys don’t do it for me usually) but I was bowled over by his intelligence and wit, and so I found him very attractive. But I couldn’t work out why somebody like him was single. He’s forty-seven, and had been married in his late twenties/early thirties, but has been single ever since. He blamed his crazy work schedule (fifteen-hour days apparently) but I can smell someone with a severe case of commitment phobia a mile away. Couldn’t it be argued that women like me allow men like him to continue living an emotionally, physically and spiritually impoverished existence? If I didn’t provide an easy sexual release, and the illusion of intimacy, they would have to get over their fear of commitment sooner rather than later.

It works both ways, too. Aren’t I stopping myself from having any kind of meaningful, loving relationship by being a sex worker? I’m not ready to date anybody right now, but what happens when I am? What man is going to want to get involved with a woman who has her hands on hundreds of other men’s penises every year?

It doesn’t really matter what the answer to any of the above questions is because, for the time being, I have no intention of giving up sex work. That might mean that I’ve “failed” at Buddhism before I even started, but, well, there you go. That’s just the way it has to be for now. Sex work allows me a degree of financial stability I could only dream of otherwise. I can save for the future; afford college courses; travel somewhere occasionally and, hell, sometimes buy myself things that make me feel beautiful and special. I will give it up at some point, but just not yet.

Broken


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.

Closure


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…

He’s Just Not That Into Me


Yup, more than 72 hours have now passed without receiving a text from RG. However, to frame this in an entirely more positive light – it’s also been more than 72 hours since I last contacted that no-good, lying, cheating, man-whoring, head fucking, immature, drunken bastard!

I can’t say I haven’t been tempted, though. I spent most of the day feeling really upbeat but then, on the drive home from my therapist’s appointment, I became melancholy all of a sudden. I started to feel very sorry for RG. I do genuinely think that he is, behind his cocky attitude, kinda sensitive and suffering from low self-esteem. He once told me that he cries every single night, and my heart melted. Honestly, I do think that this guy has a lot of pain. I wanted to send him a wee text, saying “I know things are over, but I wish you all the best”. But, you know what? Fuck that shit! What about my pain? I bet he’s not sitting at home blogging about me and feeling bad about my pain. Nah, he’s probably sitting in the local bar right this very moment without a care in the world. Pffft.

I don’t get it. What is it that I see in these damaged men? Why does their pain melt my heart and make me think I’m in love with them? Why?! Why?! Why?! I can’t fix them. What a fucking colossal waste of time!

While I was still in my “ooh-we’re- connected-cosmically-because-we-share-the-same-pain” mode, I googled RG and discovered that – in a past life – he was into gardening (he had actually mentioned this to me before) and that he had once been a boy scout. My mind started conjuring up all kinds of possibilities about the future RG. Let me tell you about them:

Fantasy: RG will go into rehab, get himself all fixed out, and then we’ll have this great relationship. We’ll grow all kinds of beautiful flowers, vegetables and fruit in our garden. Each night as the sun sets we will wander through our garden, hand-in-hand, looking at what we have grown together. It will be a fucking bucolic paradise, symbolic of the deep and pure love we have for each other!

Reality: All the vegetables in the garden will rot because RG will be too wasted to tend to them thus turning the garden into a stinking, pestilent morass. Instead of fertilizer in the flower beds, there would be vomit from yet another one of his drinking binges.

Fantasy: I will give birth to RG’s children, and our son will be a boy scout, too. Off he will go on his camping trips, with the scoutmaster smiling benignly in the background, to learn leadership skills and develop a strong character. He will be a fine, upstanding citizen our boy!

Reality: RG will be arrested for a DUI on his way to the Cub Scout Den to pick up our male progeny. The poor wee soul will be left standing there for hours and will consequently be molested by the scoutmaster, an event that will cause him to have a drug and alcohol-fueld psychotic breakdown fifteen years later.

But enough about RG…I am so confused about men. I find myself googling stuff like “When is the right time to sleep with a man?”. There is a lot of really fucking confusing stuff out there, but the most useful tip I read was “whenever you are sure he is actually interested in you, and doesn’t just want to get into your knickers”. I like this advice, but it’s a bitter pill to swallow because I’m not in the business of just using people and taking from them to gratify my own ego. It kinda sucks that I have to think that some men think this way. My own mother once told me: “Men don’t respect women who sleep with them too quickly”. My mother was a prudish old cow, so the sixteen-year-old feminist me thought “Fuck that shit! I will do what I want whenever I want”. I hate to admit that she was fucking right. It’s the fucking 21st century, though! Why do I have to worry about men thinking of penetrative sex as some kind of conquest?! Shouldn’t we be beyond that by now? Ugh!

I mentioned to my therapist that I am going to attend the one and only women-only Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meeting there is in this city. I’ve been to mixed-gender meetings before and it was kinda icky to hear men talk all about their porn addiction or whatever. I mean, it’s great they’re trying to work through their issues, but I just don’t need to be in a room with male sex addicts. No thanks!

I also mentioned to my therapist that I would like to try online dating and start another blog all about that. She was, like, “Noooooo! Not a good idea! You need to focus on yourself and your interests”. This is perhaps the only time she has ever come out and said I shouldn’t do something. Part of me thinks “Hmmmm, she might be right”. As a potential sex and love addict, could I just be trying to create a new way for me to get my fix from men and romantic intrigue by spinning this whole tale of needing material for a new blog?

I know I’m not ready for a relationship but, at the same time, my libido was reawakened by RG (one of the few positive things to come out of our “relationship”) and I find the idea of abstaining from sex completely depressing (is this something you even need to do when you attend SLAA meetings?!). I feel like I would like to date a few men casually just to learn how to take things slowly, and to have the means of comparing men. For example, when I went out with Mr. Ford Galaxie 500 last Friday, he took me to a fancy French restaurant and bought all the food and drinks. I’m not suggesting that I’m a spoiled princess who wants to be pampered by men but, well, MM was always too much of a skinflint starving artist to go to restaurants with me and RG never took me on a proper date (although he did ask me at one point and I freaked out about it, and told him I wasn’t ready). It is just nice to have a man wine and dine you on occasion, and when you have one man do that for you, it’s easier to see that the one who is too lazy/disrespectful or broke to do so should be kicked to the curb. All my life I’ve either been single or I’ve shone my love headlights obsessively on only one man at a time.  Quite frankly, it would be nice just to date casually and see what’s out there, instead of meeting one guy who pushes all my buttons and focusing my everything on him.

Finally, dating would be something to do one night a week. I know that’s a terrible way of looking at it but, well, my friends always want to go to the same places/do the same things, and it does get a tad boring. It seems kinda fun to meet a brand new person each week, and to go to different restaurants or places with them.

Honestly, I really am quite taken by the idea of blogging about my dating adventures. Not in a manipulative way, but more along the lines of “well, I’ve chosen really bad men before, so let me try something new”.

Then again, maybe it’s completely unhealthy to see men/dating as an exciting thing to do at the weekend. Maybe I should be creating my own excitement. Am I just looking for more sexual and romantic intrigue?

What do you think? To date casually or to not date casually?

The bottle


You didn’t need your drug. You could take it or leave it.

At first you only half noticed the way the light reflected in crystalline prisms in your glass, and the warm, comforting, back-in-your-mama’s-womb feeling as the liquid worked its way down.

You didn’t need your drug.

It was just something that happened to be there. What was the harm? It made your anxiety disappear for a few hours; you could talk to girls and make them laugh; you could take one home and fuck her, not thinking about anything other than the pleasure of grinding into her. When you woke up the next morning, the sheets stained with cum and sweat, she’d be gone. Or maybe she wouldn’t, and you’d spend the next week ignoring her calls.

You didn’t need your drug. The bottle stood on the countertop, blinking back at you knowingly as your eyes caressed its smooth, perfect sides.

And then you did need your drug… And then it was too late.

Everybody has a drug. You are mine.

A healthy woman would run a mile. I keep coming back for more. I can’t stay away. I step over the piles of unwashed clothes littered across your room, and make my way to your unmade bed with its filthy, crumpled sheets. I can’t wait until your cock is inside me.

The sex is amazing,  but it always leaves me feeling sad and hopeless. You look into my eyes as we fuck, and I stare back, but all I see is emptiness. I don’t know where you are, but you’re not with me. As soon as we’re done, you grab yourself another beer and smoke a cigarette. You always pull on a pair of shorts after we’ve finished fucking. You never let me see you naked.

I tell myself this is just a sex thing. I tell myself that I’m only into you because you’re emotionally unavailable. I stay away for a whole week, while you’re fucking some other girl, and I even go out on a date with another dude who picks me up in his 1964 Ford Galaxie, and who wines and dines me in a fancy French restaurant. I’m wearing my new 26-inch waist skinny Diesel jeans, and heels, and I look hot as hell. Every single man in the place wants me. But I don’t want them. I want you.

During dessert, I slip off to the bathroom to text you, wanting to meet up afterwards. I lie to myself that it’s only a booty call, and just to save face, just so I can feel that you don’t matter, I make out with Mr. Ford Galaxie on the trunk of the car. I hate it. His kisses are sloppy, and he tells me that we’re in “different places in our life” , and that I’m “wild” and “untamable”.

I’m so horny and desperate to see you that I park my car in the wrong spot, and it gets towed. We spend all night and all morning fucking so I don’t hear the tow truck.

My house keys, wallet and phone are in the car. I’m screwed and you make some mean comment about how I should get Mr. Ford Galaxie to help. I think you’re going to throw me out into the street with no money, no car, no keys, no phone. I’m bare footed because I can’t wear my too-new shoes that have blistered my feet. I can’t see because I threw away my contacts. I want to slit my fucking wrists.

But you do help me.

You’re such a mess that you still haven’t fixed your car’s flat, so you  call a friend to drive me to the towing company. You’re exhausted from fucking me all night, but you still come with me. This might mean you care. Or it could just be your Catholic guilt.

Your friend loves me. He keeps saying “Why don’t you like this girl?! Why don’t you like this girl?”. Your uncle I met the week before loved me. The locals in our bar say we’d be a “cute couple”. You don’t say anything.

You still don’t say anything when I tell you all about Mr. Ford Galaxie…the fancy meal, the drinks, his car, his kisses. You don’t need to say anything. You know I want you.

I go to a party, pick up some dude and bring him to the bar where he’s kissing me when you walk in. I hadn’t expected you to be be there – thought you were sleeping off another hangover – but I’m pleased you see. Your expression doesn’t change at all. I want to slap your fucking poker face. I tell you I could leave with this dude, or stay with you. I want you to fight for me, but the only thing you say is “I hope it doesn’t work out”. “Is that the best you’ve got”, I ask? “Yup, that’s the best I’ve got”. I storm out, but you know I’ll be back.

All my friends tell me to stay away from you. But I can’t. Your smell makes me melt. I breathe it in, and think that I want to have your babies. I love your cockiness and the little flashes of vulnerability that appear behind it. I love your bottle-top glasses and the way that your right eye can’t focus properly. I love the way your eyelids droop. I love – and hate – the way you deflect all attempts at serious conversation with a stupid joke.

I’m half in love with you. Or maybe I just think I’m half in love with you. Either way, it still feels the same.

You are my drug. And I will crawl over burning coals on my hands and knees to get to you. I don’t care how much I humiliate and degrade myself. You are my drug.

I need you.

I am not ready to give you up.

You Do It To Yourself


Way back in 2007, I had this disastrous long distance “fling” (if you can call it that) with this Dutch guy I met in an Irish bar in town. I was drunk, and we went back to his hotel and I fucked him – again without a condom. He had just broken up with a long-term girlfriend, so he was certainly not looking for anything serious. If this wasn’t ridiculous enough, the guy lived in fucking Oman. Yes, Oman. In the Middle East. I do not live in the Middle East. I live in the US of A.

After our one-night stand, he went back to Oman, but we had hours and hours and hours of intense, soul-bearing phone conversations. For a couple of months my body was physically in the US, but my head and my heart were far away on a sandy beach on the Arabian Sea. He was involved in some capacity in the oil business, so he had shit loads of money. He was tall, handsome, blond, rich and charming – with the emotional maturity of a fifteen-year-old boy. He dazzled me by taking me skiing in the Swiss Alps for five days, and I was supposed to be going to see him in Oman.

I never did get to visit him in the Middle East. Before I could, some young Dutch girl he had fucked a few months earlier at a wedding came to visit him instead. The trip was planned before he met me, so it would have been rude of him to cancel. Plus, I had no right to ask him not to fuck her (hell, we lived in different countries…thousands of miles apart…he wasn’t my boyfriend). But, oh….those intense, deeply romantic long-distance conversations…He promised not to fuck her, but, well…all of a sudden his phone was switched off for days. No way to contact him. You can guess what he was doing. When he finally was contactable, I did my usual verbally abusive thing, and I cut off all contact with him. I googled him once. I think he’s living in Jordan now.

With the benefit of hindsight, I can of course now say to myself, “What the hell was I doing getting involved with a guy in Oman?!”, especially one who was emotionally unavailable. I went through a very dark period after I cut off all contact with him. It was clear to me that I was very, very unhealthy, and had incredibly poor boundaries. I pulled out my old books on Sex and Love Addiction, and I might even have attended some Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous meetings.

I never wanted to go through the same thing again with a man but….slowly and surely, after the initial pain had worn off, the impetus to change and get better disappeared. I didn’t have any man in my life for a while, and  I wasn’t “acting out”, so I thought I was cured.

And, then…a year later, I met MM and he actually liked me. We had sex on our first date (um, again, without a condom…are you seeing a pattern here?) but he didn’t judge me. He liked me. He actually fucking liked me. And then he loved me. And I tried to love him back, but somehow I couldn’t. I’m so commitment phobic and afraid of real, genuine intimacy that I didn’t know how. And I treated him like fucking shit, verbally abused him, ruined his self-esteem, and just generally crushed him.

And now? I was supposed to see RG last night but, curiously, he said I couldn’t stay over. I smelled a rat, as he usually couldn’t wait to have me stay over and have sex. His uncle who has mild Asperger’s was visiting, so I thought at first that he was perhaps uncomfortable with having a girl there while a family member was present. But when I asked why I couldn’t stay over, he said he had to get up early in the morning to pick up a “friend” from the airport. I was now smelling an even bigger, practically man-sized rat. I let it go, thought I was just being paranoid, but, well, the above “Dutch Man in Oman” experience taught me that  the “friend” at the airport usually has a vagina. Sure enough, I was right. RG fessed up when I confronted him with my suspicions.

How fucking stupid am I? I knew that he wasn’t available for a relationship but he seemed so nice. He was tender and sweet. I knew he would probably fuck other girls (a thought I tried to keep at the back of mind) but I told myself I didn’t care. Hell, I was just out of a relationship myself, so I imagined us having this wild and free, and terribly, terribly modern open relationship or some such bullshit. I convinced myself that he just needed to fuck around for a few months “to get it out of his system”, but I was sure that, after that, we would both fall hopelessly in love. He would soon realize that I was the one and only! Oh yes! And he would go into rehab for his massive alcohol problem! Oh yes! And we would be so happy together! Oh yes!

The reality is that he wanted to bang me on Thursday night, and then spend the next three nights fucking his “friend”. I’m not quite sure how he thought he was going to get away with that one. I mean, we’ve seen each other quite a bit since we met, and so he actually thought I wouldn’t notice that he was AWOL all weekend? I suspect that “thinking” is not something his booze-addled brain does much of. I suspect that he wanted to have his cake and eat it, too. He wanted me to be a quasi-girlfriend who came round a few nights a week for sex, but he didn’t want all the inconvenient parts that come with having a real girlfriend…like actually giving a shit about the person, going on dates with them, making them part of his life.

This was a dude I fucked every single time without a condom. This was a dude I let come in my mouth twice. And I swallow, baby. I don’t spit. I feel cheap. I feel dirty. I feel used. I feel absolutely fucking disgusted with myself.

After the “friend at the airport” revelation, I managed to hold onto my dignity and tell him that we shouldn’t see each other again. Then a guy friend of mine, who knew what had just happened and wanted to cheer me up, called me and we went out for a drink at the local bar where I had met RG a couple of months ago. I couldn’t let go. I hoped to see him there. He wasn’t there, but he texted me, asking if I wanted to talk about it. I ended up going round to his place after the the bar shut. I walked in, and the motherfucker had this big fucking smile on his drunk face which clearly said “Yup, I own that bitch”. When I expressed my disappointment about his having lied to me about Ms. Airport Girl he told me had always been honest with me, and had treated me well. He had clearly missed the memo which stated that withholding information which lets other people see the full picture more clearly is tantamount to lying. Of course, a normal healthy woman would have seen the full picture without having Ms. Airport Girl thrown in her face, but well…

I only had about three shreds of self-respect left after going round to RG’s house last night even though I knew about Ms. Airport Girl.  I couldn’t have sent out a bigger message saying “I have absolutely no self-respect”. I don’t know why I went …I guess to convince myself that I hadn’t just been played, that he did maybe have some real feelings for me after all.

I was determined not to fuck him, and I didn’t all night long, but after spending the whole night desperately trying to get some admission out of him that he cared for me on some level (hellllloooooooo?! Girl, you’d known him for two weeks. Two weeks!) I felt hopeless and desperate, so I shagged him anyway. RG was relatively sober at that point, and I noticed – as I’d noticed before – that sobriety made him completely emotionally distant. There was a brick wall between us. I tried to tell him that he had hurt me (helllllloooo again! You’d only known him for two weeks) but he did his usual act of responding to all uncomfortable situations with a joke.

I met RG the week before MM and I broke up. I was wasted in the local bar, and we had been flirting all the time. I was wearing a skirt, and eventually I moved his hand between my legs, under my knickers…and, well,you can imagine what we did. Right in the bar. It was incredibly arousing, and I actually went home and had sex with MM for the first time in ages (that’s how I justified what I’d just done. I thought “Well, it improved my sex life with my husband!”). The next morning, though, I woke up with an awful hangover and had a “What the fuck did I just do” moment. The Sex and Love Addict books got cracked open again for a couple of hours. But eventually I told myself that, well, I’m just a modern woman who should be able to get her rocks off whenever and with whomever she wants.

Through my drunken haze, I somehow realized, though, that to RG I was just some slut who lets random guys finger her in a bar. When I told him last night that I was upset, he made some disparaging comment about how I couldn’t really expect anything after the way our “relationship” had started.

I think that, deep down, I’m a beautiful person.My heart and soul are filled with so much love. I have so much love to give, and I need to receive a lot, too. And, yet, time and time again, I cast my pearls before swine. And these men…they have no fucking idea what they do to women like me. It’s all fun and games. In our text message exchange last night, after I found out about Ms. Airport Girl, RG actually thanked me for the two weeks of “fun” we had. Fun. Really? Fun?

Why do I do this to myself? For most people, this would be their rock bottom. When I was asking RG about his alcoholism last night, I told him that he didn’t seem willing to enter rehab because he obviously hadn’t reached rockbottom. He then asked me what my rockbottom was. As I lay there, naked, beside him, I thought to myself “Oh my God. It’s this. It’s fucking this. I have reached the point of no return. I have let myself be used and abused so many times, and I can’t take it anymore”.

But the sad thing is that it’s not my rockbottom. Sometimes I wonder if I have some kind of PTSD because I forget about the pain and shit that happens to me. I’ve read that people with PTSD have trouble with their memory, probably because they want to block out the trauma they experienced. When I was with MM, he actually punched me in the head once, and I forgot about it completely until he somehow mentioned it years later. How can you forget somebody punching you in the head? We would have these huge physical arguments, and afterwards all the details were hazy. I couldn’t remember and, then, I would just bury whatever I could remember and go about my day like nothing had ever happened.

Right now, I feel so fucking slutty, and so fucking disrespected. I want to get help. In fact, I’m about to leave for therapy, but how soon before I forget all this pain? How soon before I find myself fucking some asshole guy who doesn’t give a fuck about me. All these precious things inside of me, and they never notice.

Even worse, I told RG that I have a blog, and that I’d written about him. This blog is anonymous but I realized that if he’s curious enough he could very easily find it by doing a google search with some of the info I mentioned.  I did this, and this blog popped up straight away. I was horrified. I thought about making the blog private but, well, he’s already had my body; he might as well have my mind, too. Take it. Do what you want with it.

If you’re reading this, RG, I want you to know that I did this to my fucking self. I know it. I chose you when I should have known better. But please tell me one thing… How can you go through life hurting women and just taking what you can get? Do you ever stop to think that women are human beings? Do you ever feel bad, even if just for a moment? If you sobered up for just one second, maybe you would realize the harm you do. All those girls you fucked in college, the ones you told me you never called back…don’t you think you hurt them? Don’t you think that what you did chips away at a woman’s trust in men ? I’ve been that girl. I still am. And I can tell you that it does hurt. You can tell yourself that we’re just sluts who deserved what we got…but I still don’t get it. How can you set out to use a person out of pure selfishness and self-interest?

I do it to myself. Will I ever learn to stop? What will it take to make me? Will I just get to a point where I fucking kill myself because I can’t take anymore of this pain?