Oh Lonesome Me
I disabled my OkCupid account about a month ago. It just became unmanageable. One more thing to stress about. At the time I thought, well, I’ve met some really interesting people and gotten a lot out of it so I’m done. Now I’m mulling over the possibility of resurrecting my profile.
And I’m dreading it, frankly.
I really don’t want to wade through all that bullshit just to find one or two decent people that I might, maybe, possibly want to spend the time and energy to meet. I don’t have it in me right now. But what does that leave me with? Either way I have to suck it up—lonely nights or potentially wasted effort.
Forgive me for not feeling all that optimistic right now. I appear to be stalled in this early-autumn melancholy, which can be deceptively soothing and comfy so I really don’t mind it at all. It’s a fertile state of mind, actually. As long as I don’t become too pathetic, I can use it.
So I’ll don my black raincoat, wander lonely paths with a book of poetry under my arm and contemplate the falling leaves.
In black and white.
It will be like the best Smiths video ever.
At Night, Alone, I Marry the Bed¹
I’m fighting the temptation to send The Blur an email or a text, “I need you tonight. Come over.”
I won’t. Because he won’t answer. And I’m not setting myself up for that disappointment.
Besides, the temptation is not about him this time. Not really. As I was explaining to B–– last night, I’m a woman who is very in tune with her cycle. I’ve got two weeks of prime sexy time. Then maybe one week of eh, I could take or leave it. Then there’s about one week of OH HELL NO MOTHERFUCKER.
I look forward to the sexy time. I’m electric, flowing, centered, positive. But to boil it down to pure, biological fact: I’m 35 and this is the last gasp of my fertility. The sudden interest in my own appearance? The effortless weight-loss? Not just by-products of my newly-single life. I’m perfecting my plumage, consciously and unconciously. I’m attracting a mate. Even though my mind knows I have no desire (or, perhaps even the ability) to get pregnant, my body is telling me to do everything in my power to JUST FERTILIZE THOSE LAST REMAINING VIABLE EGGS ALREADY. And at this very moment in my cycle, I could come if you just looked at me the right way. Hell, I might get pregnant if you breathed on me. It’s that bad.
“So it’s all about the dick right now, huh?” Yes, B––, it’s all about the dick right now.
So what do I do when there’s no dick to be found? I get sad, and naturally very frustrated. Seems like a waste of my fabulous vagina. I don’t know how long this phase of my life is going to be. Certainly not forever. I can’t help but feel like I’m running out of time. Since I chose the life of an Ethical Slut, I actually haven’t had that much sex. But it’s on my mind constantly. I just might be hornier than a teenage boy.
So there’s a lot of self-pleasuring going on. I try to make it fun, but most of the time, it’s just maintenance work. Like filing my nails. Definitely not as satisfying as the real thing.
One lover will be on the other side of the planet. The other…might as well be. Factor in my divorce and health issues. Do I put some work in, take a risk and try to find someone new to fill in a few weeknights? Or do I “recline in the bower”² and revel in some self-love for a time?
But oh…there’s something about a warm body. Warm breath. Warm tongue. Lips. Arms that can wrap around me…
Excuse me. I, um, need to go, uh, file my nails.
welcome to the new normal 