I sat in my living room, unmoving, for hours after feeding and watering the girls and taking some garbage out for pick-up Friday. I sat in what was my mother’s chair and didn’t even turn the television on. You see, I’d done something earlier in the day I didn’t plan, didn’t even think about, but ended up doing anyway.
I met a very nice, very intelligent man in his 70s or 80s some weeks ago. We talked for a while and enjoyed each other’s company. Thursday, I went back to the fast food restaurant looking for him. I only wanted someone to take my mind off of my own pain and try to help someone else with theirs. You see, he’d lost both is wife and then, late last year, his girlfriend. He and I understood each other’s pain and sorrow. He let me know the first time we met that he wanted me. I was flattered, but I wasn’t interested. Today, to my surprise, I did get interested. I needed to touch someone else’s soul and I most assuredly needed someone to touch mine. It was “shrink day,” and I didn’t feel all that much better after the session. In fact, I felt worse. It wasn’t the therapist’s fault. How can she understand in 50 minutes what has taken me someone else’s lifetime to understand about myself? That, and NO ONE will let me tell the whole story without interruption which leads to some tangent that’s important, but can wait until I finish my story. It’s involved, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense when heard in pieces and I ask myself so many “whys” all the time. In fact, that’s one of my biggest problems: “Why?” It’s always been that way with me and I honestly don’t know how to change that or even if I want to do so.
I feel shame. I feel so fucking alone (no pun intended). I’m worse than I was before. I just needed someone so very much and he was there and offering, so to speak. He’s also the kind of man Mom wanted me to have before she knew I was mostly lesbian. (Don’t try to figure my sexuality. You’ll get a headache. Really.) She wanted me to settle down with a very nice older man who adored me and would let me be all of who I am. That “all of who I am” became more meaningful after my unashamed and unabashed love of women was confirmed. Mom wasn’t as old fashioned as I’d believed in that regard. She wasn’t at all happy when I told her. In fact, she bordered on, I thought, being a little bit peeved that liked women more than men. Her words were, “Hmph. I’m going to have to get used to this,” in a very grumpy voice. By that time, Daddy had died and I was spared the tiny possibility that he’d be upset. If anything, he wouldn’t have cared at all as long as I was happy. Actually, Mom and I were just about on the same page. However, while she read right to left, I read left to right. My mother would have me with a husband as a primary partner while I’d have a woman. I have loved more than one person at the same time and been loved by more than one person at the same time. If I’m really lucky, I’ll have the opportunity to do so again. To be honest, it would be much easier for me to give up men than for me to give up women. I think the latter would require severing a major part of who I am as a person. I don’t think that giving men up would do that, but it also wouldn’t be painless.
I thought my days of one night stands were over. I haven’t had one in so long that I can’t remember back that far. The reason this will be a one night stand is two-fold: I didn’t know I was going to take my clothes off in front of another person today and forgot that I’d left the house without putting any lotion on and without shaving those areas women tend to shave, and; I think we’re hopelessly sexually incompatible. He’s very old school Italian and I’m not. Men of a certain age think that women should orgasm with the wiggle of their fingers in certain places. It’s our own fault because we’ve faked orgasm so many times horrible lovers think their wonderful lovers. While I wouldn’t put him in the “horrible” category, it’s pretty damn close. Any time I can’t even make myself orgasm while with someone, then something is wrong. Then again, it could be my meds. Naah, while the meds don’t make orgasms easy at all, they haven’t stopped me from getting myself off either.
It really doesn’t matter how good or bad a lover this man was. What matters is that I feel shame, regret and dirty (in a negative way) about what I did. I do want that one, last, epic love affair and I don’t particularly care about what sex my lover is, although I honestly believe it will be a woman and not a man. I don’t want to be treated like a $10 whore getting it on in the back of my van. Those days should have been over when I left my teens, but we each had obstacles at home, although all mine were either paper, dust or had four legs. He’s a neat freak and this house is anything but right now. I never, ever should have allowed my need for some kind of solace to overshadow everything else. I think I just want to forget. I think that’s the only way I won’t feel like a $10 whore. Just forget.
I forgot to mention that I’m really having trouble eating. I’ll order something and not want it when it gets here or I’ll make a sandwich and only eat half of it. Then, I get dizzy during the day and have to stop and eat just to go on, all the while hating that I’m eating. The question popped into my head while writing, “Do I cut or do I stop eating? That is the question.” Even I have to admit that things are not getting better, at least they weren’t today. Maybe something will make tomorrow bearable. A cousin I’ve never met but have spoken with dozens of times is in town for a convention. We’re going to compare family history notes and make a plan for ferreting out more information. I wish she were coming here in a month or two. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the day tomorrow and I have to drive 20+ miles each way to get scripts for my pain meds.Damn.