Tears On My Tuxedo

By the time I finish writing this post, it will officially be my birthday. I was born at 6 a.m. on March 16. I was never looking forward to this one. It’s one of those “milestone” birthdays that basically says, “Yay! I’ve raised a family, my kids are all (or almost) gone, the husband/wife/partner and I can just kick it!” If only that were true for me. I am single and have been for far too long. I’m not really all that upset about it, but it would feel so good to lay wrapped in someone’s arms right now as I try to make sense of a new life.

My mother died February 27, 2012. We lived together and helped each other since I have disabilities and she was getting older. Then, one day, she collapsed on my bed and was gone. Oh, she stayed conscious long enough to reach the hospital, but crashed three times shortly thereafter, with the doctors and nurses bringing her back twice. Had I gone with her in the ambulance, I would possibly have had a few more minutes with her. However,  I was in a vehicle that had to obey all the traffic rules and in my heart, I knew she’d either be gone by the time I got there or shortly thereafter. It was the latter. I’ve known since the beginning of the year that some catastrophe was going to happen to her and I’d lose her. I just didn’t think it would be this early in the year. I thought I’d have more time to say those things we needed to say to each other. I, especially, needed to tell her something so that she could rest in peace. Hence, this birthday and all those to come, will carry with them a sense of sorrow because I may be alive but my mother isn’t.

Robin Thicke-Love After War Cover

I have this “thing” where I try to dress better when I feel like shit. Today was one of those days. I wasn’t in my usual jeans and polo, but jeans and sky blue twin set with a little lipstick. I had a horrid day that saw me begin with one bank my mother used telling me that I can’t have access to my mother’s records without a court order even though I’m the executrix of her estate as well as the sole beneficiary. I had my lawyer offer help while the other just did not get it. This was my mother and some dick of a branch manager was working under an incorrect interpretation of the law. I don’t even want whatever money might be in the account. I need to find out who she was paying so that I can begin to fight an insurance company that doesn’t want to pay, telling me that the policy lapsed three years ago. Knowing my mother, that didn’t happen. Now, the only thing left to do is go through her check copies which will probably tell me less than nothing because I’m fairly sure this was a direct withdrawal from her retirement payments.

I wrote that I really don’t mind being single. Actually, I do. My problem is that there was/is only one man I could consider spending my life with and we were over a very long time ago. I haven’t met the right woman yet and I have this penchant for younger men. Let’s face it: men in my age group are prone to erectile dysfunction and rely on those little blue pills or something similar. I don’t need or want that. “What does that have to do with that Robin Thicke image just above?” you ask. It’s simple and complicated. In essence, I’d fuck Robin Thicke in a heartbeat if given the opportunity and permission from his wife. More germane to this post, there’s something about his music that makes me feel really sexy and totally wanton. (There’s also a song on the CD called “Tears On My Tuxedo.”) It’s a feeling I love, but there’s no one to satisfy the hunger. Yes, “hunger.” I am so used to suppressing my sexuality because I could do nothing about it. I still can’t, but for different reasons. I was suppressing it because I was too ill to acquire a lover. I had nothing to offer. Now, I may have my disabilities, and there’s one very pesky problem I’m dealing with, but I’m pretty much as well as I’ve been in a decade. It’s OK to feel sexy, sensuous and ravenous. To put it plainly: I need to get my freak on. Sometimes I want a man and sometimes I want a woman. However, the word “bisexual” doesn’t really apply. The energy has to be right for me to pay attention to a man OR I have to be horny as all hell and not care who slays that beast.

My sexuality totally confuses most people. I avoid putting a label on it because that confuses the issue even more. Men, as lovers, can be good. Men as partners are just not going to do it for me. I’m working on someone male right now. I don’t know if it will go anywhere, but he reminds me of someone I once had as a lover ages ago. His hair is a darker red, but when I see that curly red mop, I smile. I saw him Thursday for a few. He was as sick as the proverbial dog. I’m trying to figure out if bringing him a fifth of bourbon tomorrow for a hot toddy would be too much. There’s a part of me that thinks it would seem as though I’m trying too hard. There’s the nurturing part of me that says he needs it.

The new reality of my life is that I can have a lover in my home now. I couldn’t before. That, too, was an impediment. Unfortunately, that son of a bastard child at the bank is making it impossible to determine whether the house is automatically paid off when I tell whatever insurance company holds the policy that my mother is deceased. (God, I still can’t wrap my brain around that.)  Nevertheless, the reality is that I can have whoever I want in this house wherever I want them. I have two drawers full of fabulous underwear to perk me up, a closet and other drawers with clothing that makes me look better than I feel and I can paste a smile on my face to show the rest of the world I’m good until I actually feel it. And yet, the tears fall.

Advertisements

Comments are closed.