365 Days
Why self respect is more fun than sex
365 days. This is how long it’s been since I’ve had sex.
(I haven't even finished writing this post yet, and I can already feel you cringing.)
This is most certainly the longest amount of time in my life I’ve gone. While it is obviously very personal, I think it’s important for me to talk about why. It all started with last New Year’s Eve and how I decided to combine one of my least favorite holidays with some of the absolute worst sex I’ve ever had. Well, not exactly. It really started when I spent 20 years dating increasingly worse men, but 2021 just happened to be the culmination.
AGAIN, I somehow managed to find another 35 year old clown who lives with his parents.
I was dating, traveling, having fun, until it wasn’t fun anymore. I became involved with a good friend that I loved dearly, but somehow the power shifted, roles reversed, there was a disagreement of sorts and now we hate each other’s fucking guts. And if you read my post IDGAF, then you know that last year I was still being a miserable bitch. So, instead of crying and getting drunk and feeling sorry for myself, I did all three and managed to take some trash dick home with me as well. Cue confetti.
I’m not going to go into detail; it was lackluster at best, but most certainly it’s the way I felt after that remains in my mind. To be clear, he didn’t do anything wrong. I wasn’t accosted. He didn’t degrade me. Nothing disgusting happened, other than the act itself. It was more so that I really just don’t like the guy, and I haven’t for fucking years. I don’t particularly like his friends either, one of which is an ex. And the worst part was I didn’t like him the night I took him home. I remember thinking that exact thing while we were doing it, hoping he wouldn’t look up and see the surly expression my face makes when I’m fucking disgusted. I’m a big advocate of doing these kinds of lecherous acts at the other person’s house, so I can slip out undetected once they’re asleep. In fact, I’ve minted it the Midnight Irish Goodbye. But this wasn’t possible because, AGAIN, I somehow managed to find another 35 year old clown who lives with his parents. Either I’m picking dudes up from Opportunity Village or there’s becoming a hell of a lot more adult men not leaving home. Regardless, I had to take him to my place, and to my chagrin, he was still there when I woke up. In fact, I laid there for what seemed like forever hoping he’d be a gentleman, get his shit, and leave before I stirred. But that’s not what happened.
I laid there praying to whoever might be listening for this clown to silently leave.
I was lying there, head throbbing. My mouth was dry and thick since I was dangerously close to dying of dehydration. I was sweating out vodka through every pore in my body, sticking to my freshly laundered sheets. And while I laid there praying to whoever might be listening for this clown to silently leave, he instead rolls over and lays a hand on my titty. I knew in an instant he was trying to go again, so I jumped out of bed like it was Christmas fucking morning. I threw on whatever clothes were around, blurted out that I was sick, and beelined for the kitchen.
There I was mixing a Michelada in a Big Gulp cup when he walks out and proceeds to ask me to make him a beer as well while he stretches onto the couch. Oh my god, he’s not going to leave! I consider for a moment if I should stick a spoon down my throat and force myself to start vomiting to hasten his departure, but I didn’t feel strong enough. After ten minutes of reinforcing how ill I was, I finally just asked him to call an Uber and walk out to the gate and wait. The only highlight of the entire experience was that he didn’t try to kiss me goodbye, which some people deem necessary after they’ve engaged in coitus. I, however, believe a high five or a solid pat on the arm is sufficient.
I wasn’t keeping a fuck buddy around for good measure.
This horrific event coupled with my extremely broken heart led me to take a very real break from men in the most comprehensive way. I wasn’t just not dating. I wasn’t entertaining men at all. I wasn’t giving out my number and texting playfully. I wasn’t talking to my ex for attention. I wasn’t keeping a fuck buddy around for good measure. I would occasionally get drunk and play with the idea of trying to date but would quickly snap back to my resolution that I needed time and space to heal my very fucked up head and heart. I didn’t know at the time that it would take me a whole year, but I suspected it would be awhile.
After many, many months, one day I realized I had stopped “checking”. I don’t know if all people are like this, or just women, or maybe just me, but when I’m involved with someone, I’m always “checking”. Checking my phone mostly, but it can go as far as apps, social media, email. Fucking smoke signals. My phone dings: is that him? My phone hasn’t dinged: is the ringer off? I have no missed messages: why hasn’t he called me? Bad relationships breed this anxiety, stress and insecurity. And bad men feed on it. This is the power exchange, and it’s like a sinking ship. Once it starts to tilt, there’s no recovering it. The worst part of this learned behavior is that it sticks around into your next healthy relationship until you’ve exorcised that demon or chased that dude off. I had finally gotten out of the habit of “checking” to see if someone was going to treat me like a human being that day; if someone was going to acknowledge my presence or continue to ignore me for weeks on end. I had stopped “checking” because I had finally stopped worrying about being available to someone else and had become the most important person in my own life.
Bad relationships breed anxiety, stress and insecurity.
I’m going to start dating again. Eventually. But the difference this time is that I won’t allow someone to ignore me, make me feel stupid, belittle me, treat me like an option, disregard my feelings, or upset the peace it took so long to achieve. The only “checking” I’m doing from this day on is checking in for my flights.