Category Archives: crush

The eternal quandary

I qualify everything I’m about to type with the fact that I am sick. Therefore, if a sentence doesn’t make sense or there’s an obviously misspelled word, please forgive me. I’ll probably catch it later, but it has flown through the holes in my brain for the moment.

What to do? What to do? I am so confused. I think I’m in a phase where I actually have an attraction to men. I don’t mean a specific man, but men in general. That scares the daylights out of me! I have no idea what to do. I am not straight. I haven’t been straight since I was about four years old. I admit that most of my intimate emotional and physical relationships have been with males, but that general attraction pretty much stopped in my late 20s. It was then that I came out as bisexual, but I wasn’t a “true” bisexual. I didn’t like men and women equally. I definitely preferred women even though I was involved with a man at the time who was the lover of the woman who became my first female lover. If there was a box I could check that said “It’s complicated,” that would be the one I’d mark.

I think there are two factors at work. The first is that Prof. B brought up the issue of me sleeping with men and having to become monogamous AND completely lesbian. I can understand both desires. If there were a woman who connected with me intellectually, emotionally, socially and sexually, and I with her, and; who didn’t think that developmentally disabled children were things, not people and certainly not “its,” I would be happily monogamous in a lesbian relationship for as long as we both shall live, as it were. I so want that! It physically hurts at times that I don’t have a mate. The yearning is so strong that it threatens to tear me in two. I’ve been alone most of my life. Yet, I am not someone who is emotionally equipped to be alone. I need that person I can trust to have my back. I need that person I can turn to when there is no one else who will listen, even if that person doesn’t have answers for me. I need someone who values me as a person and as a bright, loving person who has a great deal to give to someone else and to the world. I need to know that I really do matter to another person. If I could build that person, she would be a woman with a penis. Really! Thank the good Lord that penises can be ordered online!

The second factor is that I’ve been spending time at the gym, although I haven’t been in over a week because my body feels like crap due to a fibro flare I thought I could exercise through, but couldn’t. While I haven’t really spoken to a lot of men, I do have an opportunity to see more of them up close and personal. They don’t stink the way they used to. Did my sense of smell change? I also saw a couple who fit my two, very different, physical profiles of attractive men. The first profile is what gay boyz call a “bear.” That means big, probably bearded, strong, very masculine. The second is one I didn’t realize I had until men kept physically reminding me of the-ex-who-shall-not-be-named (TEWSNBN, maybe I’ll pronounce that “twos’ nibin”). That type would be a bit on the short side, no taller than about 5’9″; canine teeth that are noticeably sharper, and; arms that are slightly long for his height. As TEWSNBN once said, he looks a bit simian. At the time, I tried to deny it, but he was right. Like it or not, black men with that look immediately grab my attention.

There are a couple of each kind at the gym. I’ve said a few words to one of each type. Nothing I actually thought about, but things that came out of my mouth organically. For instance, there was this machine where I couldn’t lock in the weight and I asked this big, handsome bear of a man if he could help. He was a doll, as “bears” frequently are. He not only showed me how to do it, but explained a couple of the other machines too. The more “simian” guy just happened to catch my eye in the mirror as I saw him leg press an incredible amount of weight and I said, “Wow!” as my eyes grew big. He smiled back and I asked him how long it took him to be able to do that. He said that he’d been at it for years. I couldn’t help but notice how cute he was. Eh, I’m human.

I know that sexuality can go back and forth like a pendulum with some people, me included (I suppose). It’s as though there’s this smorgasbord out there and I want to taste it all. In many respects, I’ve had the sexual adventures of two or three people’s lifetimes. I just haven’t found the right person for me and s/he has yet to find me either. I’m not the kind of person who likes sitting around and waiting for things to happen to her. I like going out there and making things happen for myself. However, I think this is the most difficult task I’ve ever faced. I don’t know how to find the right person or how to be found by the right person. I feel as though I’m alone in a fatally opaque bubble where I shall remain until my dying day. I, like the rest of humanity, do not want to die alone. I have too much love to give and I know that I’ve got one hell of a hot-danged love affair in me full of intense passion, great sex, opening of windows to allow fresh air in and peace. I need to share it with someone who will appreciate it. I think my problem now is accepting that it is possible that person could be male. I’d have to do a huge mental make-over, but if that’s what it takes, then that’s what it takes.

It has occurred to me that maybe my mate could be a male amputee. We could understand each other on a level no one else can. The idea only came to me a few hours ago as I was watching Thursday’s network evening news about vets coming back from Iraq and Afghanistan missing limbs. That led me to think about the photos I should have already taken and have been stressing about because I have zero energy, but they must be done because I’m utterly broke. I don’t do “poor” well because, frankly, I’ve only been poor once in my life and I could have hauled my butt back home, which is what I subsequently did. At any rate, it is my hope that my very tastefully suggestive photos reach a good man among some of the . . . shall we say . . . less than desirables. I know that I have to treat each with respect and I will. However, that doesn’t mean some won’t earn a greater respect than others. There are days and nights when it sucks to be me. I am, however, trying to make the best of it.

Lonely on the Great Lakes

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God, PLEASE Let This Day End

I’m sitting at my living room table typing this post on my laptop. That has never happened before. In fact, there are very few computer-related things that take place downstairs even though I’ve got a 700 MHz eMac here that I somehow made run Leopard with a software patch and a bit o’ tinkering. If I only had myself to worry about, I’d still be in bed, probably in tears, feeling empty and wishing I’d followed my gut and bought another fifth of Jim Beam. Empty because this is the first major holiday without my mother and I feel empty except the enormous well of pain and loss that could easily drown me. Hence, the Jim Beam. There’s a somewhat amusing story that goes with the JB that I’ll indulge myself by telling.

The very first time I got rip-roaring drunk was when I was 17-years-old and everyone on my floor at Oberlin was going home for the summer. Oberlin was and is a dry town, but getting liquor wasn’t hard as much as it was inconvenient. That was also the last time I got rip-roaring drunk and whiskey, specifically bourbon, were largely the reason. I have to laugh as I think about it now because my mother came to collect me and I vaguely remember her shaking her head and cutting me a whole lot of slack. I don’t think either of us ever mentioned it. That’s not to say that I haven’t felt impaired in some fashion by alcohol, but I rarely drink, (even though all three of my dogs are lushes). I take too many drugs that would not mix well with alcohol of any kind were I to imbibe. That’s why it’s taken me over a month to go through the fifth of JB Red Stag I’m just finishing. I wouldn’t even know about that had the guy from whom I bought my guitar and I not gotten into a conversation one day about hot toddies because he was sick and didn’t have anyone to take care of him. There is some mixture of maternal and sexual instinct going on inside me where he’s concerned that I am damn sure ain’t right, but I’m equally sure would feel oh so good if I could just get myself and my life together. Because I can’t, I’ve stopped going to the store and hanging out. It’s too hard. And so, we come back to the raîson d’etre of this post.

So much has happened since I last wrote I don’t even know where to begin. There is a very large part of me that has absolutely no idea how to cope. I can list the things that need to be done, but that doesn’t mean I can do them. On top of that, I was using my mother’s lawyer, a cousin-in-law who either bought or inherited one of my great-uncles’ law firms. That bastard got pissed off at me because I dared to call him on a Saturday at 6 p.m. because I got a call from an antiques dealer who was coming by the next day, a Sunday, and I needed to know what I could and could not do legally. It was on from there. I should have cursed his ass out then and there, but I didn’t. In fact, I basically hung up on him when he started whining like a little human bitch about interrupting his freaking Saturday. I wish I’d had the presence of mind to tell him that when the probate judge asks me why I did such and such, I’d tell her that my lawyer didn’t want to work on Saturday. Instead, we got into a shouting match that Monday and I had him send me the paperwork to open my mother’s estate. This is now the third time I’ve had to run behind him cleaning up his messes. [ETA: Actually, the fourth time because his paperwork was supposed to conform to my mother’s will and it didn’t. I cleaned up what would have been a big and very ugly mess that would have created a rift I don’t know would heal at all among her brothers. In addition, the probate clerk caught another error that I didn’t.] I’ve made more appearances before judges on family matters than he has and I’m not licensed to practice law. What does that say about him? Yet, this is the man my mother trusted with her will and there was nothing I could do to shake her into making a proper trust for our circumstances. She’d always say that we’d do it after whateverthefuckwasgoingon was over. It never happened and I’m supposed to take this manure and turn it into a watermelon patch.

I didn’t realize it, but I’d gotten to a place where I just couldn’t function. That was in large part due to one of my mother’s creditors. As far as I am concerned, most of them can go pound salt. However, technically, the minivan that allows me to be mobile and have a life is in my mother’s name for a number of reasons, most having to do with an unsteady stream of income. At any rate, the lender’s probate department was relentless. I could count on at least two calls a day even though I couldn’t tell them any more than I had the previous day. I’m going to run into trouble with them again and it will be my own fault, but I’m jumping ahead of myself. I could see my life slowly ebbing away thanks to them. It wasn’t as though I had nothing to sell that would get them off my back for a minute, because I did, Mom’s truck. The problem was that it would cost me more money to get it repaired than it would to sell it outright. However, selling it outright wouldn’t even come close to what it was really worth, but it would take care of the money the lender informed me she was in arrears. I think that’s when something inside of me broke. Everyone has certain buttons that if pushed will cause all sorts of generally negative reactions. I knew two of mine already. I learned a third.

The one time I broke and didn’t attempt suicide, the local shrink police had me committed because someone in my family, and I’m beginning to figure out who, got scared. It didn’t help that I publicly upbraided the cousin-in-law for being a jerk and said that my uncle most assuredly did not allow him into his practice to ignore his family. That sure as hell went for ignoring my mother and me where both of my great-uncles were concerned. They raised her!

The thing about any psych floor is that the patients have to figure out what it is the doctors want and give it to them. It’s the same game with everything. I’ve been through this too many times, so I knew what to say and what not to say. It helped that my lawyer is my former Mistress and now friend. She said that she was actually glad someone from the family did it because she’s been quite worried. Yeah, well, so have I, but I couldn’t say it. My actual psychologist was on frakking jury duty! What idiot of a judge puts a practicing shrink on jury duty knowing that there are people depending on her? Had I known, I could have gotten her out of it, but I didn’t know until my last appointment with her. By then, it was too late to have someone intercede on her behalf. But when I find out what judge this was, I’ll make a contribution to his/her opponent along with a note. In the meantime, there was no one I could turn to. I was more or less alone. I say “more or less” because I had my mother’s youngest brother, the only two cousins I have in my age range and my great aunt. I couldn’t and wouldn’t trouble my aunt because she’s got health issues of her own and I didn’t really want to lean on anyone. My mother’s brother has what is both a passive attitude and a vengeful one. He’s sure God will take care of those who don’t make amends for the dirt they’ve done. Me? I’m more active. You fuck me and I’ll fuck you harder. That’s the phrase that kinda had the ex a bit worried. She hadn’t seen the side of me that’s basically Rahm Emmanuel in a darker color and a sex change. It wasn’t necessary when she knew me. It became necessary over time.

To close this out, Lady A is singing Dancin’ Away With My Heart and I’m thinking of someone I shouldn’t. (For the uninitiated, that would be Glenn D. T-something-or-another. *smirk*) Something occurred to me today for reasons I honestly don’t understand. I would have made that person I shouldn’t be thinking of an excellent wife. I hope he got what he wanted when he chose someone else.

Another thing occurred to me as I reach the end of this entry that has nothing to do with the above. I’ll always have a weakness for red-headed rockers/roadies, beards, badboys, and; women who love fast cars–both of which make me drool–like the cutie one who picked me up yesterday to take me to Goodyear to get my minivan which, if I didn’t say so, I did save, but only for a little while. If that chica weren’t engaged, we’d both have gotten ourselves into some well-deserved trouble. I even let her get lost so we’d have a few extra minutes. She may not have been from the area, but no one is that directionally challenged. *laugh*

It just occurred to me that there’s another reason I want this day to be over. If I plan to survive, and I’ve never had a really strong survival instinct, I absolutely must put the insurance paperwork in the mail that I’ve carried with me for months. No one seems to understand that by doing so, I’m admitting that the person closest to me in the world, who was also a stranger in other ways, really isn’t coming back no matter how many dreams I have or call out for her. She’s gone. She stupidly trusted me to survive. If it were just me, I wouldn’t care if I ever drew another breath. However, I have three furbabies who depend on me and I will not allow “the system” to have them. They are the only reason I didn’t take my life a few weeks ago. I found a way to do it almost perfectly, but I refused to take them with me and I could only find a destination for two of them. I don’t think God would forgive me for making the third come with me and, frankly, I don’t think I could have forgiven myself in whatever afterlife there may be. We’ve been together 12 years. With some luck, there’s no reason she can’t stay another two or three years. Little dogs tend to live longer and she’s small. She’s the one who sees my soul, although I think the youngest is here for a reason, too, and it frightens me. I think she’s here to develop the same empathy that the eldest has. I see it happening more and more as she’s gotten older in the nearly one year we’ve had her. Thank you doG for sending someone to watch over me and giving me a reason to be here.

What Is It With Men?

Let me start by saying that I am depressed. I was already depressed before my mother died (I can’t believe I used the word), but it’s been so much worse since. I’ve been in something of a fog for over a month. Most days, I don’t want to get out of bed. The only reason I do is the girls, my blessed furbabies. I remember that I am all they have and I love them so much. Without them, I probably would have said “Screw this! I want to get out of this soul-sucking life.” It’s as if the pain has no end and I don’t want to stay in the dark anymore. I am so, so tired, even though I can sleep 13 hours at a time. Part of that is the fibromyalgia, but most of it is stress and depression. I probably need to increase the dosage of Elavil I’m on to 75mg/day. I only dropped down to 50mg/day because my mother hated it when I slept all day, even though it was temporary until my body got used to the increase. Now, she’s gone. As long as the girls are cared for, I can sleep. But after seeing their little faces, I can’t leave them in crates all day while I sleep. If Micki would just not counter-surf on my dresser or go into my laundry to find whatever treasures it may contain, I could just let them out. Snippet would get on the bed, Micki would counter- and laundry-surf before getting on the bed and all would be well. The only problem would be that both Mick’s and Snippet’s claws are in dire need of trimming. I can see them tearing up my sheets.

I’m not sure what I want. It seems that there are men out there who want to fuck me. I wrote about the neighbor last night. He’s married and there’s no way I’m going to be with him–ever. He’s not my type at all. He’s not bad to look at, but I don’t like the way he wants money for everything. He doesn’t do anything without expecting money in return. That’s not to say he doesn’t care, because he does. He just also cares about how much he can get for things a good neighbor would do because he’s a good neighbor. Plus, I honestly like his wife. I don’t want to hurt her. I also don’t want to be in a situation where I have to shut this guy down. That would create a serious PTSD attack. I’m freaked just thinking about it. What if what I say doesn’t matter? I know he’s got a record, but I’ve never plunked down the bucks to find out what he was in prison for. Maybe it’s time I did. For all I know, he could be a sex offender. God, I don’t think I could go through with that again. I’d be trapped, though. I have to survive because of the girls.

I went to my favorite music store to see my favorite, totally too-cute-for-words musician/salesman, Corey. Now him, I’d like to more than fuck. He reminds me of someone I saw while at Kent named Morgan. For some reason, I can’t remember Morgan’s last name. Oh well. What I do remember is his wild, flaming red hair. My musician/salesman has a darker shade of red hair, but it is most definitely red. I am such a sucker for wild, red-headed music types. Where Morgan was a roadie and general all-around stage hand. Corey is a real musician who, from what I’ve gathered from others, has serious guitar chops. He’s less than half my age and I don’t even care.

Anyway, I went into the store and tried to find a book that would help me with scales and chords because that’s the best way to train my ear so that I don’t need a keyboard in order to bang out a melody. I waited and waited, learned that he was on a conference call; waited some more while he went to lunch with no idea that I was even there. I waited for an hour, not realizing he’d come back until I heard him paged, finally caught his eye and finding the kind of book I needed, sauntered over to see him and wait until he finished with a customer, then waited some more after he was paged again and just gave up. I asked the sole woman who seemed to work there to ring me out, handed her a business card and asked that she pass it to Corey and I left. I’d been there about two hours. That just looked bad for both me and for him. I think I did the right thing. It wasn’t his fault that I waited so long. He would have talked to me but I told him that money always came before socializing. *shrug* That’s just the way it is. I didn’t want him to lose money because of me. So, I left. I called the store later, but he’d left for the day.

I went from the music store to Burger King. The only reason I did was because I had to use the restroom. I also needed to eat something because I felt too dizzy to stand up. I got my food and sat down to eat, something I almost never do in fast food restaurants. There was a not-too-bad looking older man there with a thick accent. He asked what happened to my leg. I gave him the short version, no pun intended. I told him that I was born with something wrong with my leg. I didn’t feel like going into the entire story because, in fact, it was none of his business. But, since he was clearly an elderly gentleman, I cut him some slack. Somehow, we started up a conversation. I think he was talking about the weather and Mother Nature. As I listened to him, I realized that he was a very interesting man. He’d almost be the kind of man Mommy wanted for me: self-sufficient; totally into me, and; basically gave me whatever I wanted. I could see myself as his lover. He made it very clear that he wanted to be, but that he thought I should lose weight. *sigh* If it’s not one thing it’s another. Why won’t someone just care for me as I am? For Glenn, it was my disability. For God only knows how many others, it’s my weight. If they only knew how little I truly do eat, they’d be astonished. Maybe weight loss isn’t as simple as 1, 2, 3. My weight didn’t stop him from feeling me up which, probably because I felt so much like crap, I took some satisfaction in knowing at least someone appreciated my boobs. A good bra is priceless. One of these days, I’ll wear my white shell over one of the good bras and show some cleavage if Corey doesn’t get it yet.

I’m going to sleep. I still feel like crap, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I don’t think time will heal these wounds. There’s too much loss, too much grief and too much loneliness. I’d say that I feel pathetic, but that would BE pathetic.

Something Strange Happened Yesterday

Well, I finally did it. I drove to the Flats and handed over Poppy for euthanasia. On the way I said a lot of prayers and tried to convince Mom that this was the right thing to do for everyone, including Poppy. I felt so badly for her. She was drooling, forgot that she had food in her dish, didn’t bother with any of the cat boxes, which were spotless, btw, and kept getting harassed by Snippet. At 20 years old, she did not need a young whipper snapper of a small dog thinking of her as just another toy. I could look at Poppy and know that she wasn’t thinking straight. On top of it, she was skin and bones. No matter how much she ate–and we gave her two cans a day–we couldn’t put any weight on her. Peeing in Micki’s downstairs crate sealed her fate. It was just time.

The drive to the Animal Protective League (APL) was uneventful until I got off the highway. That was when I realized the APL was in the Flats. For all you non-Northern Ohioans, the Flats is an area that runs along the Cuyahoga River and has a lot of businesses, factories and tony restaurants and clubs. It was the first part of Cleveland that was settled in the late 1700s. It is very easy to get lost there because the streets wind around the river bank and there are hills that bring people up and down from other parts of the city and back home again. In addition, it’s one of the few places that still has swing bridges. They are so cool! I’d kind of hoped I’m see a ship navigating the water as I drove through the maze. Alas, no ships, but for once my GPS got a Flats district address right, even though I didn’t do exactly what it said.

I got there and told the clerk that I wanted Poppy euthanized. I told them that she was 20 years old, she was drooling, had some sort of infection in her guns, had licked her fur into giant mats that she wouldn’t allow anyone to comb, etc. They said, “Euthanasia. That will be $35.” My eyes bugged out. When I phoned them–twice, no less–there was no mention of a fee for euthanasia. I thought they’d do it for nothing since I didn’t want cremains. Would they rather I let her lose in the area so that she can get killed by a car? I’m on frickin’ MEDICAID, for Christ’s sake! My mother just died and her retirement checks haven’t started coming to me yet. I said, I’ll give you $20, but that’s all. Thanks, Poppy. I won’t be eating anything soon. I had to split the $20 between cash and an almost maxed out credit card. Just peachy.

I went to see my shrink before the trek to the APL. I was 20 minutes late because I’m still learning how long it takes to take the girls out, get them watered and fed, sit with them while they eat and then take Micki out again to poop. I still have to wait for her to poop since she’ll look around and see what else is going on before she feels like going. *sigh* That’s about 10 minutes spent waiting for her.

Finally, Micki does her duty and I can hurry up and get dressed. I’m really glad I took a shower the previous night because that saved around another 20 minutes. I knew that I’d see the shrink, but I also wanted to stop where I get my music supplies and show my lyrics to the sales guy who’s quite knowledgeable about things musical except music theory. Now I’m wondering if I showed him the right one. I went through my WordPress app as opposed to the browser. The WordPress app is annoying in that it doesn’t show the finished post. It shows the HTML of the post you were editing until you hit Preview and then it will show not the final product, but the edited product. Oh well. I’ll show him again later. It will give me an excuse to go back.

Like I said in another post, there’s someone I’m working on and that would be him. I don’t know what I’d do if someone called me a Cougar. I think I’d probably say, “Oh well. Just because he’s half my age doesn’t mean a very nice man should be ignored. There aren’t many left in the world and he’s single. There are even fewer of them. I told him on a previous visit that he’s been messing around with girls. It’s time you got yourself a woman. I wore a nice, little dark pink camisole top, blue jeans, sunglasses, dark reddish-purple lipstick sand black sandals. Under the cami, I had on a pink bra that, because I’ve lost weight, doesn’t quite do what it’s supposed go do. Therefore, I have to work on it a bit to get it right. Regardless, I made sure that I was noticeable. He liked the lyric that I had on my iPhone. When I left, he said, “It’s always nice to see you.” I smiled because that made me feel better and that also means that he’s getting to know me. I think he’s got an old soul. Then again, he’s also a musician and I’m used to that. Slower wins the race, in this case.

So, after I leave the music store, I drive to the Shoreway. It’s the beginning of rush hour, but traffic is moving east and not west until the split that goes to the West Side and the other to downtown and the airport. Now that was backed up. Still, we made it there by a little before 6p.

I really didn’t want to put Poppy down. She was such a spirited little devil! Even as an older cat, she was spirited, but in a gruffer way. For some reason, she looked as though she was in a permanent scowl and would accost anyone who’d dare mess with her. It was just a front, though. She was as gentle as ever. But picking her up made my skin crawl because she was all skin and bones. No animal should ever be that thin. I’m sure there was something very wrong with her that we didn’t take her to the vet to get straightened out. Most of the reason is that we thought the other cats were eating her portion. Then, when all the other cats died, Poppy really upped her intake. Still, she was skin and bones. Even the bones felt like they’d break under too much pressure.

Even after putting down my last $20, I wasn’t allowed to be with Poppy when she made her transition. That hurt. I really wanted to be there with her and not all alone with people she didn’t know. I’d been talking to her a lot on the drive there and talked to her some more when she was on the desk, knowing I’d never see her again. I told her that it would all be over after a few minutes. Then, she could run, jump, chase mice and butterflies all she wanted. Best of all, she’d be with Mommy and that would make both of them happy.

So, I said in the title that something strange happened to me today. I got off the highway and made it into my garage. I shut off the engine, but after that, I have no idea what happened. I fell asleep right in the Puppy Van with the garage door open. I don’t even remember closing my eyes. I didn’t wake up until about 11p and realized what happened. It scared me a little, especially since I don’t even remember closing my eyes. I’m not on any meds during the day that I haven’t been on already for ages. Falling asleep in the car while in the driver’s seat is something very new and potentially dangerous. OnX, get thee to the Sleep Disorders Clinic pronto!

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.

Crushed!

Something odd is happening with me that is at once disconcerting and exciting. For the first time in a very long time, I feel a deep desire to share a romantic and sexual relationship with someone(s). There are several reasons these feelings are unfamiliar to me. The primary reason is that I’ve had to suppress them to concentrate on my health. It was not always so, but has been the case for nearly seven years now. I’ve made half-hearted attempts, but I always felt that there was something missing within me that kept me from getting serious about anyone or even finding a suitable person about whom I could get serious.

Another reason I find this reawakening of my romantic self odd is that, for the first time, I am making a conscious decision about what character traits I want my partner(s) to have. I don’t know if straight males ever sit and consider exactly what kind of mate they want, but girls usually do this in their teens. Being a teenager is, for me, a distant memory that involved so much emotional chaos that I wasn’t able to think about such things. In fact, I didn’t know that I even had a right to my own desires and needs, much less the right to actually have them met. That is what was missing in my earlier half-hearted attempts at companionship over the last seven years: a feeling that I deserved to have needs and desires; have those needs and desires met, and; most importantly, be treated with respect.

If anyone had asked me if I believed I was deserving, I would have answered affirmatively because I didn’t acknowledge to anyone, including myself, the extent of my low self-esteem. I had to learn to like myself, love myself and respect myself because no one ever taught me. For a girl, especially a disabled girl, that’s a set-up for disaster. We all know that disabled females are far more likely to be sexually assaulted than our able-bodied counterparts because we are more vulnerable. If we are not taught that we have a right to object, we can be utterly destroyed psychologically and not get the help needed to recover. Unfortunately, too many parents of disabled girls don’t consider the danger in which they place their daughters by not teaching us we deserve to have romantic and sexual needs and that we have an absolute right to decide who touches us. These are things I work on every day in some manner.

Trying to explain my sexual orientation to most people is a lesson in frustration for me. Most people view orientation as binary: heterosexual and homosexual. A few enlightened people understand that there is a great deal in between the two extremes. If I am particularly lucky, they understand that there is often some fluidity within that spectrum. I went from pretending to be straight to coming out as bisexual to coming out as lesbian to, only recently, carefully acknowledging that, every once in a while, I might find a male pleasurable.

Cover from the Robin Thicke CD Sex Therapy

Singer/songwriter/producer Robin Thicke shares love and sensuality

I usually describe myself as “mostly-lesbian” because, in a nutshell, that about covers it. I identify as lesbian in my heart and soul and, frankly, that’s all that really matters. Someone else’s perception of me has far more to do with them than it does with me.

Keeping my self-described orientation in mind, I am in the midst of a mad boy-crush on singer/songwriter/producer Robin Thicke right now. I discovered him fairly late on, of all things, the soap opera General Hospital. The executive producer of the ABC flagship soap began her career as the show’s music director many years ago and, consequently, consistently makes exceptional use of music. In this instance, it was Thicke’s delicate ballad “Angels” from The Evolution of Robin Thicke CD that was used for the reunion of über couple Luke and Laura after nearly a decade of separation. Evolution also included the mega-hit “Lost Without U,” a song I strongly suspect he’ll be performing when he’s 90 years old. That CD was followed by Something Else, which also did well, and; now, we have the red hot CD Sex Therapy. In between his own work, he’s produced for Lil Wayne and others, winning a couple of Grammys along the way.

Thicke is married to his childhood sweetheart, actress Paula Patton who graces the cover of the May 2010 issue of Ebony magazine while about seven or eight months pregnant with their first child. I can honestly say that I have never seen a more beautiful woman. Some may remember the Vanity Fair cover with a very pregnant and very nude Demi Moore many years ago. Uh uh. Demi’s star pales in comparison not only to the cover shot in which Patton is fully and beautifully clothed, but the inside two-page spread that shows a very suggestively comfortable and nearly-semi-nude Patton that will take the readers’ breath away in its artistically exquisite daring.

Actress Paula Patton on the cover of Ebony magazine

Actress Paula Patton as the sexy madonna

My only criticism of the article is that, while dense, it is too short. Someone with her intelligence has a whole lot more to say that’s worth quoting than the, perhaps, 1200 words used for the article–and I’m probably being generous in the word count. There is also a Q&A with hubby Robin that is equally far too short. However, an argument can be made that the article is about Paula and not Robin. The “problem” is that it ends just as he begins to speak in-depth about his thoughts on becoming a father for the first time. Personally, I would very much like to know his thoughts on raising a child that may look more black than white. I should mention that Paula is biracial, so this is not completely unexplored territory for her.

My crush on Thicke isn’t based on looks, though he’s got an adorable baby face. It is based on the emotional and spiritual content of his music. He admits to writing extensively about his own life, both ups and downs. One thing that is abundantly clear from his three latest endeavors is that he utterly and completely adores his wife. Now that is something I find super sexy and something I want for myself. Thicke’s unabashed sensuality, romanticism, respect and love of his partner are traits I want in my own partner. Add to that the fact that he’s very much aware of the emotional, spiritual and intellectual consequences and complexities of racism in the U.S., which indicates he’s got a brain that functions in a way that is all too rare, and there is about 95% of the reasoning behind my hard crush. Brains coupled with sensitivity are the ultimate aphrodisiac!

Did I mention that Sex Therapy is smokin’ hot? There are going to be a whole lot of babies conceived to that CD. Be that as it may, my specific attraction to it and the principal songwriter who wrote it is that it fits my sexual proclivities, be they with men or a women. It may be difficult to believe, but I was talking to one of my priests about my re-awakened sexual self yesterday afternoon in great detail. One of the things I said was that I was very sexually active and adventurous from my late teens until my early- to mid-30s. As a result, sex doesn’t hold any great mystery for me. I know what I like, what I don’t like, what I might be willing to try, what I need and how to be careful. I have zero interest in fucking the first Johnny or Mary who comes along even if they come along at a certain time of the month and I’m as horny as a rabbit in heat. What I want is a connection. Here is where things get tricky.

I am not looking for a man with whom to settle down. I am open to finding someone I genuinely like, and who genuinely likes me, who will share with me those times when only a flesh-and-blood man will do. It would definitely help if he’s a Dominant male, but that’s another post. After that itch is scratched, I’d like him to back off until one of us needs that physical intimacy again and be a real and true friend in the interim. In short, I am open to having a boy toy. It is very unlikely that I’d see myself making a life with this guy or asking for a monogamous relationship. I remain a lesbian in spite of that occasional craving and strict monogamy would not fulfill my needs sexually or emotionally regardless of the sex of my partner.

I’ve written about the extraordinary metamorphosis I am experiencing, but only in part. To write of it fully, even to the limits of my partial understanding, would be to serve a rich dessert during every course of a five-course meal. Digesting it all would be difficult, if not impossible. It would also require a great deal of intellectual exercise for me to continue at this moment. It is enough that I have simply begun.