Tag Archives: relationships

Being an adult sucks

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Warning: unfounded assumptions follow….

One of the benefits of getting older and wiser is knowing that sometimes, doing the right thing isn’t always the same as doing the thing I want to do.

Oh, am I learning that lesson the hard way this week.

Things have been fantastic with my Craigslist hookup guy. The sex, which started out great, keeps getting better. We are well-matched in libido and skill. I’ve never felt so sexually validated in my life. He “gets” me in bed. It’s such a gift to be an overweight, middle-aged woman and have your lover tell you he finds you incredibly sexy and beautiful, and to have him demonstrate it with his eyes, lips, tongue, fingers and cock. Not only do I not have to hide parts of my sexuality, he embraces them and says yes, give me more. Our erotic connection is powerful, and strong, playful and passionate. I know that when we first get together with someone, so much of what we see and feel is our own projections, but I don’t think this is all in my head; he too is drawn by the siren song our bodies make when they come together. I know he’s had a lot of sex with a lot of women in his life, but I also believe he got a bit more than what he bargained for when he answered my ad.

But while things are great in bed, out of bed there are cracks in the facade of his life, stuff that doesn’t add up. A few weeks ago, I discovered evidence that pointed to him being married, and confronted him about that. Now, like having the safe sex talk, it’s important for me to establish someone’s relationship status when I meet them. I didn’t do my due diligence in this regard with this guy – he had me too hot and bothered, I went too fast and forgot to ask questions first. Totally my fault. There are tons of guys out there who want to cheat for a variety of reasons, and I’m not down with it. I have a lot of compassion for them, as I was in a celibate marriage myself and know how much it sucks, but I don’t want to sleep with a cheater. My primary impetus comes from respect for the other woman; most women will be hurt if their husbands have sex with other women, even when it’s oftentimes their own actions that lead their husbands to seek sex outside the marriage. When a woman refuses to have sex with her husband, I don’t know what she expects. But I digress. (Cheating – it’s complicated.)

Dude, you are so busted.

Dude, you are so busted.

When I confronted him, he instantly told me that they were separated and in the process of getting divorced. After chatting with him a bit online, I was satisfied that he was telling me the truth about this relationship. His situation sounds eerily similar to the reasons I ultimately left my marriage: his wife wasn’t moving forward in her own life, and he has been enabling her in staying stuck. What I believe now, though, is that she is still living with him. And that is a bit too entangled for my tastes (not to mention the fact that she sounds crazy and I don’t want that crazy directed in my direction…or his).

It wasn’t too difficult to figure out. He is acting like a man who has something to hide. He has consistently flaked on me about coming over after work, and has always had a last-minute excuse for not getting together on the weekends. There are few things in the world that are more upsetting to me than falling asleep and waking up in the middle of the night, expecting someone to be in bed with me, and having them not be there.  I don’t like being lied to, and I don’t like him breaking promises to me. It’s rude and it’s disrespectful, and I’m not going to continue doing it.

And so I’m going to tell him goodbye. He needs to clean up his previous relationship and move on physically before I will consider being with him. I cannot and will not risk the safety of my body – or my heart – for sex, no matter how amazing it might be. He has started to get under my skin, and I want to be able to spend hours in bed with him, talking and kissing and touching. Pleasure is a powerful, addictive drug that can destroy me, but its influence is also positive. My friend Jeanne, who was also separating from her husband last year, says she can see how things have shifted for me since I got involved with this man. I’m more relaxed, flirtatious, soft and open. I tend to spend a lot of time obsessing about the evolution of the human race and feeling cynical about our prospects; these concerns are starting to recede in my mind. Everyone comments on how good I look. Apparently freshly fucked is a style that works well for me.

The unknown is always the killer. The idea that I may never again feel his lips on mine saddens and terrifies me. It would be so easy to continue to sneak around, keep our Tuesday night and Friday afternoon trysts, and hope that we fly under the radar. But his life is just too messy right now. I have worked too hard to achieve this much self-love and respect. I can’t allow myself to open myself up and make myself vulnerable to someone who lies to me. I don’t blame him a bit; it’s quite likely that if I had known what was really going on, I would have said no. But it can’t work this way.

Still, I’m so glad I have had this experience. Even while I feel my heart ripping apart, I am grateful for what we have shared. I feel more hopeful than I have in a very long time. I have hope that there can and will be more sublime sex out there, that connection and passion and pleasure is within the realm of possibility. Maybe I’ll spend the rest of my life looking for something as good again, forever comparing each new experience and having each one come up short, or maybe I’ll meet someone who rocks my world even harder. Maybe this will be the end, and I’ve had the joy of get to hear his beautiful, deep voice crying out as he climaxes for the last time. Or maybe he’ll free himself from his marriage and make his way back into my bed, without the subterfuge and lies.

(Postscript: she really wasn’t living with him. And we kept seeing each other. More to be revealed….)

Riding in cars with boys

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It’s Tuesday night around 9 and I’ve gotten lost four times in North Austin. As a general rule, I try not to go further north than MLK, but the new boy has gotten under my skin like a whole summer’s worth of chiggers, and I have to scratch that itch. Hell, I’d even drive to Georgetown to see him. Fortunately, his office is within city limits. Unfortunately, he works nights, so our time together is very limited. We’ve taken to meeting up on his lunch hour to hook up, and Tuesday is our night. I cannot seem to get enough of having him inside of me, and my inability to remember the way to his office is only adding to my anticipation and frustration.

I finally manage to locate the right street, and drive past deserted office buildings. When I pull in, I call to let him know I’m here. I go and stand against the back of his car, leaning back, smiling to myself, looking at the stars, lost in my fantasies about having his hands on me once again. It’s been four days since we’ve seen each other, and that’s about 3.5 days too long to be apart at this early stage in our courting.

He comes out with a glass of cold ice water for me; I know that I’ll be very thirsty by the time we’re done. He hugs me and gives me a kiss, and tells me the office cleaning people are gone, so if I’d like to come in and get bent over and fucked on the conference table, we could do that. I smile at the thought, look up at him and ask him what he wants. He opts for the car. I can’t blame him…it’s fun to act like teenagers. I climb into the front seat next to him, and we start driving. When he casually puts his hand on my knee, my body shudders a bit.

We drive behind the deserted warehouse that has become our spot, and check to see if there is anyone behind the next building over. We didn’t realize people were there last week; if they saw or heard us, they must have gotten quite a show to go along with their Lone Stars and bad Mexican schwag. Tonight, though, we’re all alone.

If this car's a-rockin', don't come a-knockin'.

If this car’s a-rockin’, don’t come a-knockin’.

We smoke a cigarette, and he leans over and starts kissing me. It’s a bit awkward with the console between the seats; heavy petting in cars must have been much easier when there were seats that went straight across. My knees flop open (ooops, forgot my aspirin tonight), and his hand travels down my back and around the curve of my hip to rest on my knee. He pushes my dress up my leg. I slouch down in the seat a bit and throw my right leg up on the dashboard. He pulls away, and looks at me. I’m wearing a black and white striped dress with cleavage for days, and a pair of gold cowboy boots with very pointed toes that showed up  earlier in the week in a big box full of shoes from a girlfriend in California. I love getting dressed up for him, and will do anything to turn him on and make him want me more.

“You have an amazing ass,” he says, as he continues to stroke my leg. “And beautiful breasts. And an incredible pussy.” With this, his fingers begin to caress my labia through my underwear. I begin wiggling, trying to get him to move his fingers so they are touching my skin. My panties are tight, though, and it’s impossible for him to push them aside, though he doesn’t seem in any hurry to do so. I marvel at his self-control; I have none. I feel like I’m going to explode if he doesn’t get down to business soon.

Normally when I meet him, I wear thong underwear, which he loves. I had been wearing a brand-new pair earlier in the day, but they proved to be too small, and I changed into a pair of little white boy shorts that ride up on my ass cheeks. I like the way they look on me, and hope he does too. I tell him what I’ve done.

“Perfect,” he says. “Bootie shorts are my second favorite after thongs.” He begins kissing me again, and I grab his hand and guide it under the top of my shorts. His fingers graze over my clitoris gently, and I push my pelvis up, trying to get him to stick his fingers inside of me. As usual, I’m drenched.

“Mmmm, you’re so wet,” he says. “I’m pretty sure that’s all your fault,” I tell him, gasping a bit. He laughs. “Okay, I’ll take the blame.” We continue this way for a few more minutes, our kisses becoming more frantic. Finally I tell him we need to climb in the back seat. We pull apart, and I walk around the corner to empty my bladder. My PC muscles are contracted tightly, and it takes a minute to relax my body enough to piss. On the way back to the car, I pull off my dress and throw it in the front seat. I walk around the side of the car wearing nothing but my gold boots and white underwear.

He’s finished moving the seats forward – we have quite a bit of room in the back of his small SUV – and he’s sitting in the back seat, taking off his shoes, socks and pants. I open the door, and turn around so he can get a better view of the little white shorts riding up into the crack of my ass.

“Goddamn,” he says. “Okay, those are a tie for first place with the thongs. But then again, I think your ass would look great in a potato sack.” My cellulite is quite appreciative of the compliment. I hop into the back seat with him, throw my arms around his neck and begin nibbling on his earlobe. His cock is starting to get erect, and I grab at it through his underwear. After a few strokes, he removes his underwear to give me better access. I kneel sideways on the seat, lean forward to take his cock into my mouth, and begin sucking. He starts moaning. A couple of days earlier, he has emailed me to tell me how good my blowjobs were, and I intend to do him proud. His cock is a bit smaller than what this size queen is used to, but it’s more than adequate, and I love that it’s easy for me to take the whole thing in my mouth. The more turned on he gets, the hornier I become. Finally, I stop, and look at him pleadingly.

“Will you please put on a condom and fuck me,” I beg. “I need it really bad.”

“I think we can arrange that,” he says, and reaches for the condom he has coveniently set on the console within easy reach. He puts it on, and sits back. I pull off my underwear, but leave the gold cowboy boots on, and ask him to move more toward the center of the car. Once he does, I straddle him, and lower myself onto his cock.

Because I’m so wet, no lube is necessary, and it’s easy for him to slide into me. As I start riding him, the energy in the car changes, it feels more solemn and raucous at the same time. It’s electric – he’s put the plug into my socket, and my nervous system lights up like a stadium. I can’t believe how good it feels to have him inside me, how responsive I am to his every thrust. I put my arms around his neck, and start bouncing and grinding on him. Within a minute, I feel the first of many orgasms begin – I can come practically the entire time he’s inside of me. I put my arms around his neck, and he buries his face in my breasts. I ask him to move forward a bit so I can get a better angle. Somehow, I can’t possibly be close enough, or have him deep enough. I kiss him over and over. His arms wrap around my waist to pull me toward him. Our moans fill the car, and float out of the open sunroof. The temperature begins to rise. At one point, he stops, and begins talking to me about a sexual fantasy he has, but he has yet to climax, so I kiss him to shut him up and start grinding again, moving my hips back and forth. Speed, friction, moans and urgency increase until he finally climaxes. As I hold him tightly, panting, I feel like I want to cry. I’m filled with peace, and my heart is expanding. The chatter in my brain has calmed, and is marinating in a lovely cocktail of dopamine, oxytocin and endorphins. Years ago I lost count of how many men I’ve slept with, but this is the good stuff, what people write songs and poems about. Breathlessly, he repeats, “oh my god” several times. I must agree; it’s pretty fucking divine. Not sure if it’s chemistry or skill, but damn, do we work well together.

He looks at me, and asks if I thought that was even better, more connected than the first time we had sex in the back seat of his car. I concur – the sex has improved every time we’ve fucked. I wonder what it might be like when we’ve been sleeping together for six months or a year, and know each other better. We talk about our plans for the weekend. I tell him I think I’m falling for him, hard, and he smiles and kisses me. I’m glad he approves; wild horses couldn’t peel me off his dick right now.

While I could have gone for rounds 2, 3, 4 and 5, his lunch hour is unfortunately over, and we get dressed for drive back to his office. I throw my panties in the front seat, knowing that sometime in the next couple of days, he will drape them over his cock and masturbte into them until every inch of them is coated in cum.

We arrive at his office, get out of the car, and he kisses me goodnight. I look at him, and realize he has put his shirt on inside out. I point it out, and start jumping up and down with my fists in the air. “Yes! I made you orgasm stupid!” I say triumphantly. He doesn’t seem overly concerned.

Reluctantly, I say good bye and let him go back into his building. I hop in my car to drive home. I’m sleepy and smiling, and this time I don’t get lost. And while I can’t prove it, I’m pretty sure that my gold cowboy boots are shining just a little bit brighter….

Pussy Power

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Sometimes, despite careful analysis, research and logic, the universe surprises the hell out of me. The year that has passed since my divorce has been eye-opening on the relationship front, in a very depressing way. As I had been hearing from the women around me, there is a definite dearth of decent men out there. Or maybe it’s just that men seem to want different things from relationships than women. Whatever the case may be, I was feeling like there was little hope, and that I had missed the window of opportunity that might have allowed me to have a happy sex life. While I rarely watch TV, I had, apparently, bought into the media’s idea that sex is something for the young and beautiful, and therefore not me.

Be careful what you ask for, because you just might get it, and it might come from an extremely unlikely place. I mean, usually when people place/answer an ad on Craigslist Casual Encounters, they are looking for sex, but what are the odds of actually meeting someone who interests me AND getting laid?

Not good…but every once in a while you hit the jackpot.

My past experiences with Casual Encounters had not been great (though I did have a somewhat successful hookup while I was still married to my ex-husband). This time, I wasn’t expecting much when I placed an ad. There were a couple of men in the stack who seemed willing to engage in a conversation with me. One in particular sounded really nice, and understood my desire to establish a rapport and meet in person before considering anything sexual. He followed my instructions to the letter, and provided me with exactly the information I asked for. We exchanged a few emails, and discovered that we had several things in common outside of the bedroom. I ended up chatting online with him the night I ran the ad, and we had a very pleasant conversation. He was smart and articulate and engaging. I hopped off the computer feeling like perhaps there was some hope.

The next night, I spent a bit more time chatting online with him. We had a more sexual conversation, and I liked the way he described himself and how he liked to have sex (a man who spends his 20s sleeping with women in their 50s gets major points in my book). He described himself as being an ass aficionado, and I sent him a nude picture of my back. His response, “I so want to fuck you,” was deadpan perfect and flattering. We finally agreed to meet for dinner on Saturday night. The next morning I got another email from him saying he had mixed up his days, and could we meet on Sunday night instead? I had made a coffee date with another fellow for Sunday afternoon, but figured I could do both.

Sunday afternoon I went to meet my coffee date. He was surprisingly handsome, with thick, blondish-brown bobbed hair, a yoga-toned body and incredible blue eyes. We chatted for a while about our lives, our kinks and what we were both looking for. We were close to my house, and decided to continue our conversation in a more private setting. Our afternoon ended with some hot mutual masturbation. I had decided that I wanted the guy I was having dinner with to be the one to break my long sexual dry spell – I don’t like to sleep with people I don’t know at all. I was happy and bouncy when I started getting ready for dinner.

Right before I left the house, I checked my email, and discovered that my dinner date didn’t know exactly where to meet (there are two restaurants in my neighborhood with similar names). As a result, he was extremely late. When he walked in, he didn’t look exactly like his photos, but I still recognized him. He was big and tall, with short-cropped reddish-brown hair and beard, and a sexy low voice. While I’ve slept with my share of men I’ve outweighed, he made me feel physically small, and those primal instincts that wire women to look for a protector kicked in. We ate, and talked about California and Texas and quantum physics, and I discovered we had even more in common than we originally thought. He was a good listener, and a fun dining companion. As I suspected, I was attracted to him. I told him that I had turned down an offer for sex earlier in the day because I wanted him to be the first guy I slept with post-divorce. We paid our bill, and he followed me back to my house.

We were talking, and I finally leaned forward and kissed him. His lips were soft and full, and he was a really good kisser. We began making out in earnest. I stood up, and he followed, put his arms around me and ran his hands down my back until they cupped my ass. He smiled when he felt my underwear (he had told me how much thong underwear turned him on, and I had no problem obliging his request). I pulled away from him again, and began undressing as he watched. When my skirt came off, I turned my back to him and walked toward the bed, smiling at him over my shoulder. I bent forward over the footboard, and stuck my ass in the air so he could have a better view. He inhaled sharply. “Wow. Your ass really is incredible.” He walked over to the bed and began running his hands over it, pushing his body against mine and pulling the thong up a bit to rub against my swollen labia. I spread my legs a bit, and asked him to push his fingers inside of me. He did not oblige. I began to push back against him more frantically, trying to reposition myself so he would touch me. Finally I reached behind me and grabbed for his cock, which was starting to get erect. He backed off to remove his pants. I spun back around to face him, and fell on my knees. I teased the head of his cock with my tongue and my lips, and finally took him into my mouth.

There are few things in the world I enjoy more than having a man’s cock in my mouth. I know a lot of women don’t like it, but it feels so natural to me. I’m not sure if it’s the trust implied in allowing me to put a man in such a vulnerable spot, or if it’s a replication of the sucking I did as a baby, but I take great pride in my work. Well, it could also be as simple as knowing that soon after said cock has been sucked, it will likely be in my vagina. “You are amazing,” he moaned. “You really like this, don’t you?” I looked up at him, and smiled. “Oh yes I do, very much,” I said, as I continued. After a few minutes, I was squirming, and wanting more. I stopped, climbed on the bed, spread my legs, and asked him to fuck me. Instead, he began going down on me.

Normally, having a man go down on me is pretty meh. I have a very small clitoris and a large g-spot, and most of the time oral sex is just too intense (such a huge concentration of nerve endings in such a small spot). But this man had a very talented tongue. I think I may be converted to the cult of cunnilingus yet. It didn’t get me off, but it was much more arousing than normal. If his goal was to rachet up the sexual tension, he was doing so quite successfully.

He finally capitulated to my begging, and started to fuck me. While I may come across as a man-hating bitch at times, I love having sex with men. This is how I crave to experience masculine energy: channeled into me through the end of their cocks. In the yin-yang symbol, the masculine and the feminine each have a piece of the other inside of them, and my pussy is definitely where that little part fits into me, physically and spiritually. Or maybe it’s just that I get off so well from penetration.

Whichever it was, the masculine energy coming at me from this man was strong, primal and wholly unapologetic. One of the  complaints more traditional men have about men who couple with feminists is that many modern men are emasculated. I think that men who are really kind and sensitive in this day and age are wary of traditional masculine traits or behaviors, because so many times over the ages they have been used to hurt, dominate and oppress women, and they don’t want to be that guy. This man had no issues about that whatsoever, and clearly enjoyed his sexuality. Or maybe he was just enjoying watching me have orgasm after orgasm. He had skill, size and stamina, and fucked me in a way I had fantasized about, and craved, for years. I’ve had some great sex in my lifetime, but wow.

I had waited a long, long time, to consecrate my temple, the space that had been created to facilitate sex and pleasure. The construction of the temple destroyed my love for my ex-husband, and ultimately it killed our marriage and the dreams I had of bringing my vision to life. I had fooled around in there before, had several self-administered orgasms, but I had yet to have sex with another person. It was definitely worth the wait to find the right time and the right person.

Why you so afraid of a little pussy?

Why you so afraid of a little pussy?

Somewhere in the middle of being fucked, I felt myself stepping into the archetype of the temple priestess, she who walks the universe to the intersection of sexuality and spirituality. I have spent many years thinking about her, talking about her, writing about her, studying her and – after my divorce – telling her I was finished with her. Apparently, she is not finished with me. I don’t know how I might manifest her in the future with others, but this Inanna has found her consort, her Dumuzi.

“Oh my god – where has this pussy been all my life?” he asked incredulously, as he was watching me sitting on him backwards, frantically reaching for another orgasm. About 20 minutes in, his thrusts became more insistent, and he came loudly and decisively. So many men are quiet (a friend theorizes this comes from boys furtively masturbating in their bedrooms as teenagers so their parents won’t hear). Afterwards, both of us lay on the bed, kissing and panting and smiling, asking ourselves what the hell had happened. Not sure, but I know I want more of that.

I. Am. So. Dick-whipped.

And he is so in trouble.

Women can always get laid

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Last week a friend and I went to see Shame, a new movie about a man who has lots of casual sex. The protagonist, Brandon, has almost no relationships, though he manages to have a lot of sex. He jerks off at work, tries to pick up women wherever and whenever he can, hires sex workers, watches tons of porn and generally avoids human contact that doesn’t involve fucking. His fortress of casual sex is compromised by his emotionally fragile sister, Sissy, who comes to stay with him. He becomes borderline violent when she tries to get close to him. His sexual adventures escalate as he tries to escape her neediness.

I had read a criticism of the movie saying that it was an inaccurate portrayal of casual sex, but it rang true with my own experiences of men trying to find a sex-only relationship. Perhaps it’s just that society has a default script for what a “normal” relationship looks like: a couple meets, dates, becomes exclusive, (maybe) lives together, gets married, buys a house, has kids, and grows old together. Though that script often breaks down somewhere after the “gets married” part, we don’t seem to know how to do it any other way. On the other end of the mating dance we have the porn model, where a woman will hop in bed with men with at a moment’s notice, and that is all of their relationship. It’s hard to find role models or good examples of what alternative relationships may look like. (The only other relationship that is well-scripted is the affair, which often ends in sadness for all involved parties.)

In my mind, having a relationship that’s based primarily on sex is still a relationship. But most men can’t deal when I try to establish the ground rules for that. I’m not a fan of one-night stands – I want to know the person I’m sleeping with, even if I don’t intend to have a full-blown, meet-the-parents kind of romantic relationship. I find it impossible to be erotic on that level with a total stranger. I am clear about what I am looking for, but they will always try to convince me that I want something that resembles their fantasies, not mine. While men often say they want women who are more sexually open and assertive, when they are faced with it, it scares the crap out of them. I suppose there is too much honest and intimacy for them in my model.

You can't have it both ways!

You can’t have it both ways!

It seemed to me that many of the men I have encountered are looking for something that resembles seeing a prostitute without having to pay for it. It has often been said that regardless of the form your relationship takes, be it seeing a sex provider or being married (or anything in between), the man has to pay. Well, duh. If he’s not paying money, at the very least he has to pay attention. And I think that’s hard for a lot of men. (Staring at my breasts doesn’t count.) After reading rants over the years from men who feel duped by dinner whores – women who go out on a date for a free meal – I decided to either always pay for my own meal or, even better, buy the guy dinner. If I go home with someone after a date, it’s because I want to sleep with him, not because I owe him. As is more often the case, I don’t have any interest in seeing him again, let alone sleeping with him, and I can walk away with a clear conscience that the guy invested nothing more than an hour of his time. I’m not fond of dinner whores myself, and am happy not to perpetuate the stereotype.

I related to Brandon’s cravings, even though I choose not to resolve these cravings with casual sex. I haven’t had sex in almost a year, and the last sex I had was of the lackluster variety with my ex-husband. It’s been six months since a man has kissed me (and that ended quickly and badly). I have spent most of my life being sex-starved and crave physical contact beyond the hugs I get from my friends or snuggling with my cat. I dated a little for a few months after I separated, but my heart still isn’t ready.

Woman + cats = lonely (or so they would have you believe)

Woman + cats = lonely (or so they would have you believe)

They say it’s easy for a woman to get laid if she wants to, but the options fucking suck. I could pick up the phone right now and call one of the emotional cripples or alcoholics who have made their intentions known, or track down a certain ex-lover, but I know that will be unsatisfying. Sometimes I peruse the casual encounters (the two men looking for threesome ads always get me…oh, how I crave getting fucked like that), or contemplate running an ad myself, but the thought of the sorting process just makes me tired. I have varied interests and fantasies, some of which might appear in porn scripts, but most of which don’t get revealed right away, and certainly not with someone who can’t even be bothered to have a cup of coffee  and some conversation with me before hopping into bed.

I am, sadly, not bisexual. If I was, I would have started dating women years ago. I am well aware that comes with its own set of problems (lesbian bed death, anyone?), but it would certainly give me more options.

I love Annie Sprinkle’s analogy of different sorts of sex being like categories of food: you have your nutritious sex, your gourmet meal sex, your junk food sex, your weeknight meal sex, your dessert sex. After years of tiny, monthly portions of something that resembled prison food, McDonald’s ain’t what I’m craving.

Would you like fries with that? (Not really, thanks.)

Would you like fries with that? (Not really, thanks.)

It may be years, if ever, before I meet a man whose values and interests match my own. Fortunately for me, I’m an expert at masturbating, and am capable of giving myself mind-blowing orgasms; unfortunately for me, my wrists are fried from too much typing. I will undoubtedly be investing in a Sybian sometime within the next year. It won’t do anything to provide emotional or spiritual intimacy, but it will scratch the itch for penetrative sex.

The first year is the hardest

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One year ago today, I told my husband that I wanted a divorce. I had countless people tell me how hard this first year would be, and they weren’t kidding. My heart has never hurt so much, and I think I could have raised the level of Lake Travis by a couple of inches with all the tears I have shed.

The tears just kept coming….

The tears just kept coming….

While I didn’t shy away from my pain and grief, I didn’t deliberately wallow in it either. There was just so, so much of it. I would cry when I woke up, run out of my office in the middle of the day to hug a giant oak tree behind my building and sob, curl up in bed with the cats and scream into my pillow, wake up in the middle of the night with tears rolling down my cheeks. I felt traumatized and vulnerable and withdrew from the world. After the first couple months, it let up a bit, but there were weeks when the tears and the sadness would return, and I would beat myself up all over again, wondering aloud to friends how I could have made such a poor decision, and trying to figure out why I waited so long to leave. Another friend who is splitting up with her husband calls these weeks contraction weeks, as the world shrinks into blackness and grief, but we are birthing new selves instead of babies.

My decision looked somewhat sudden, but I don’t think it was completely unexpected, though it seemed to take him off guard. (In retrospect, my timing could have been better, but I don’t think there’s ever a good time to break it off.) I had been unhappy with our marriage for quite a while. Things had come to a head when he had left town for a 2-month project the previous August, leaving me all the responsibilities of our shared life, an unfinished remodel and an extreme case of sexual frustration (he got distracted the night before he left and we didn’t have sex). We had been together for six years, married for four, and I was looking down the long road of together forever and wondering if the path was worth walking, or if I should take the off-ramp. He didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life, and was making no effort to figure it out. He didn’t want to work, go to school or start a business. He didn’t want to take care of himself, and requests for action were met with…nothing. I realized that I was exhausted from taking care of my boss and keeping his life organized all day long, and then coming home and doing the same for my husband.

(And then there was the whole non-monogamy monkey wrench, but that is a story for another day.)

It started to feel like I was trying to walk down the road and dragging his unconscious body behind me. As I  made an assessment of the issues that we had, I realized that a lot of the problems came from the fact that we wanted different things out of life, and that this was the source of many of our power struggles, or that the needs I felt were unfulfilled could not be met by him because of who he was at his core. Friends told me constantly that I couldn’t change him. I know that, I responded, and that’s not the problem. The problem is that he doesn’t want to change himself. He was stuck, unhappy with his own life, and this inertia was happening at my expense. In my mind, marriage is a partnership, and both people need to contribute to it. Without that, it becomes a gargantuan chore.

I'm not ready for my sex life to be over….

I’m not ready for my sex life to be over….

It’s entirely possible that I will be single for the rest of my life – there’s no shortage of single, independent middle-aged women out there that men seem to have no interest in. I am fortunate in that I had spent many years on my own, and enjoy my own company, so the shock of suddenly living alone wasn’t so shocking. (We had actually transitioned from living in separate houses to living together a couple of years before, and I was overjoyed to have my space back.) Saturday nights are the worst; I can usually find something to do during the week, but weekend nights, not so much. My world dwindled away to nothing but work and home, and it’s just now started to open up again. But being able to keep up with my busy life without having to take care of someone else is a godsend. I feel like I gave so much of myself away, and lost so much of myself in this relationship. It’s nice to be getting those parts of myself back, and regaining my energy, my center, my equilibrium and my essence.

I still see him or talk to him occasionally. He would like to remain friends, but I see little reason to keep him in my life. personal cloud . He moved in with his girlfriend before we were even divorced, and as near as I can tell, he has continued with the pattern of doing nothing. He would like me to keep him informed about the lives of people he knew through me, but it’s no longer my job to do so – if it’s important to him, he can keep up with them on his own. He has little to add to the conversation: no interests, no hobbies, no passions. What is there to talk about now that we don’t share a life? He’s a sweet man, with a huge heart, and I hope he finds his way in the world. But it’s no longer my job to help him do so, or to keep him entertained and amused while he sits around (they make TV’s for that).

Do I regret marrying? Some days, very much so. Like so many women, I wanted that walk down the aisle, and the beautiful dress and the big party. I had bought into the romantic fantasy of happily ever after. And so in the end, I just have to take the lessons I’ve learned, and write another fairy tale…one that doesn’t involve being rescued by a handsome prince.

How to fuck up date #3, thereby ensuring there will be no date #4

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This, sadly, is not a work of fiction. Guys, please learn from this dude’s mistakes….

  • Tell me you are bringing your dog over to my house (said house is home to cats), which is okay because your dog’s just a big homo. When the dog runs away because you left the door open, go out looking for him. Once the dog returns to the house, tell me repeatedly that if i weren’t here, you’d be beating him.
  • Smoke a ton of cigarettes and throw your butts all over my front yard.
  • Drink at least a 12-pack of Lone Star tall boys. When we go out to run an errand, and I tell you that I don’t want you drinking in my car, insist that you drive so you can keep drinking. Stop to get more beer on the way back. Get progressively drunker and sloppier as the evening continues.
  • Tell me you are thinking my guest house looks like a great place to live.
  • Aggressively pursue your kinks without asking me if I’m interested in them, or asking me what my own kinks might be.
Next time, try bringing flowers instead.

Next time, try bringing flowers instead.

  • Go on a drunken monologue about libertarianism. Throw in several racist comments about our current president. When I attempt to tell you about my own beliefs, interrupt me and dismiss my perspective.
  • Tell me earlier in the day that what I’m making for dinner sounds good, but don’t eat until 10 p.m., long after I’ve eaten by myself.
  • When I tell you that I have work to do, refuse to leave. Tell me you’re going to go and lay down and wait for me, and then complain because I’m working and not spending time with you.
  • Make several derisive, derogatory comments about intellectuals. Neglect to find out that my parents are college professors.
  • Take a shower, but somehow come out with your junk still smelling like stale sweat. Expect me to be happy about sucking on that foul-smelling thing.