It’s rainy and shitty and windy in Seattle this morning and after a night of snuggling and not much else, I immediately drifted back to the rough patch that was my romantic life six months ago. My then boyfriend and I were playing house like a married couple, complete with lack of sex life and annoyed tolerance of daily life together. Things were looking very dire and the idea of having to find someone new and find comfort in intimacy with that new someone brewed stronger every morning. My irritation was percolating at a higher rate than my pot could handle.
Even my own self evaluation deduced that I was a total nut case to prefer a shitty existence over a few awkward encounters with someone new. The idea of getting to know a new person intimately annoys the fuck out of me. It’s right up there with those fake eccentrics. Regular sex with someone I know: total winner. Sex with a new rando just reminds me of making guacamole with a pestle and mortar. Shit’s all falling out the sides and that grinding noise it makes… Jesus fucking Christ.
I still have not gotten over this. I haven’t been forced to get over this. The now ex and I are getting on famously. I have not been forced to deal with this fear on any below-the-pants level. I went on a few dates thanks to OkCupid and talked to a few guys on Tinder but I never really pulled the trigger. I was also way too lazy to buy condoms for any potential new encounters. An Uber ride home early is a lot cheaper than a trip to Planned Parenthood for STD testing because you were a drunk fucking idiot. (Sidenote: I am not advocating not having protection as a form of deterring yourself from sexual encounters. This is outrageously idiotic. But I am also known to be an idiot. So.)
Back to today and this weather that took me on a bumpy trip down Terror Lane. I was reading an article last night about a new cock ring that tracks performance. It’s still in the development stages but it reminded me of the box of sex toys in the ex’s closet.
In entirely unrelated news, here’s me taking a selfie in the men’s bathroom at Safeway in the same fucking dress I’ve been posting pictures of for a week now. I swear I own other clothes. And actually wear them. Moving on.
I left the house this morning with a purse full of dildos. And amazingly, unlike mine at home, they have batteries that aren’t dead. ‘See ya got a bag full of dildos there, eh?’
‘Yup. I’ll see you later. Well, I’ll text you later anyway.’
Now armed with an artillery hold of humming rubber guns, the plan is to face my fears head on. TIME ALONE. I’m hoping it’s just as productive to try and get to know myself intimately (now as a mildly mature, nearly 31 year old who is actually making the right choices to get where she wants to be this time next year) as it would be to get to know someone I swiped right on during my Tinder experiment.
By ‘intimately’ I am not implying the use of said dildos. I know myself very well in that realm. What I mean is:
I have a new music making app on my phone and I plan to spend some time trying to make music. (This involves pushing buttons which is much more my speed than say, strumming a guitar. I take pictures with guitars, don’t know shit about playing them.)
I finally picked up my holds at the library and Gellhorn and Hemingway have proven much more interesting company than Bob and Linda Belcher. (The kids on the other hand are always welcome. WHO DOESN’T LOVE GENE AND LOUISE? Seriously, I need to memorize their one-liners.)
And I have one huge canvas that has been waiting to be unwrapped for almost a year. I have an idea for it, I just need to figure out the medium because my pastels won’t cut it for this one.
That being said, I spent the majority of my day off yesterday deep into a Dawson’s Creek marathon. They changed the opening theme song because it was too expensive to pay for the rights. I actually Googled because I was so distraught; something felt ‘off’.
The self exploration is off to a start typical of my endeavors: main goal in mind, no fucking idea of how it will play out. Especially when all six seasons of Dawson’s is just sitting there, taunting me.
Maybe it’s just the weather but I feel like a little ‘me time’ is necessary to curb this fear of a relapse. Besides, I’m certainly prepared to weather the sexual deprivation storm.