Issue #41 I Like You
Hello, my shiny friends!
This past Tuesday was my birthday and I turned the ripe old age of 46. Remember when 46 seemed so old with ladies wearing twin sets, bouffanted hairstyles, tits sagging to the floor, lipstick smeared, gin bottle in one hand and a cigarette with a mile long ash in the other? 46 seemed ancient and death was upon you. You raised your children and you found yourself adrift while your husband played footsie with his secretary. The house in the 'burbs would be an homage to last decade's kitsch and you'd wander from room to room, a ghost in polyester, fingering objets d'art you picked up on your travels that once had meaning and now mean nothing.
Or was it just me?
46 is the new 33 I declared on Facebook. No one believes my age anymore. Good genes and hairy dye to cover my grey keeps me fresh. I guess. I cling! I am not afraid so much as getting older as I am in death. I run scenarios in my head that I've wasted 40 odd years on things and I have another 40 odd years left for other things TIME TO LIVE MY BEST LIFE while I make myself smaller in the space I occupy now to be passed over for something younger, newer, more exciting while I fight to stay relevant.
-----
Warning: Below contains graphic sexual language.
----- I am afraid my vagina is nothing but a dust bowl.
I went to a BFFs house this past weekend and she showed me dick pics of perfectly plumped up penises and I felt no stirring, no discussion between my mind and my loins. It wasn't quite clinical but it probably passed for something akin to using proper medical terms for the sex organ when that sex organ should be driving me crazy by looks alone. I stylize myself as bisexual and yet when I went to the strip club last month, tight and young breasts and asses in my face also did nothing to pique my interest. THO! I will say when I made one of my BFFs boyfriends tell me in explicit detail what he was doing to her as I sat there with a drink in my hand, inhaling his words like a forced vegetarian getting meat for the first time in months. THAT did something so I'm not completely dead. I am merely sleeping.
I've always been hypersexual. Was it because of the bipolar or my own interest and curiosity? Whose to say but I'm self-aware enough to know that I use sex as a weapon and as I said to the BFF this past weekend and TEH last night, there has not been one man in my storied history who has given damn about my pleasure. Oh, I'm a remembrance of desire because I always gave the fantasy while I apparently asked for nothing in return. You want your dick sucked, cum swallowed, or ass play? I'm your girl. Handjobs in cars while you were driving, me playing with myself and licking my own cum? Who has two hands and knows how to use them? Those actions and more brought the exes back over and over again. Their feebled "what do you like?" always seemed just that: feebled. It has always felt an exercise in futility and as time went on, I would often slap their hands away from my crotch because I could get me off in a matter of minutes for if I waited for their clumsy half-hearted attempts I would be there all night while they occasionally squeezed a boob while they tried to figure out my clit and cunt thinking this was all hot and sexy. I would give explicit instructions on my own desires: pull my hair, toss me around like a rag doll, smack my ass when you're getting me from behind. I was not asking for bizarre or out of the ordinary things but yet they almost never came to fruition.
Once TheBassist and I started having a conversation in the parking lot of Toy's R Us about my sexual desires and needs. This was a rehashed conversation that seemed to happen weekly. Spank me. Pull my hair. Maybe tease me a bit of anal. That night he laid me over his knees and spanked me and I remember getting really aroused and that was...it. No matter how much I asked for it, it never happened again. The man knows three positions: me on top, him from behind, and him on the side. There was no variation. There were no attempts at foreplay. I am so pissed all these years later, I hang on to grudges for some of the more interesting things, the man I played up to the public as a sex god was, in reality, nothing more than a teenager who learned his sexual congress from bad porn and he's two years older than me and should have known better.
Maybe he's only had bad fucks?
I am not here to project myself as a sex goddess and mistress of all things carnal, no, this conversation is born out of frustration that nothing is happening in the manner I believe it to be happening and this time the onus is on me.
When TheBassist and I were together, I began to see a therapist who said in one session I didn't have to have sex. I owed no one my body. This blew my mind. I knew this to be true but to hear it from someone else was a revelation. That night I stopped having sex with TheBassist. Up until then, we were fucking 2x a day and I decided enough was enough. WELL! You would have thought I had killed his beloved mother. After a few days of me not putting out, he went into a tizzy thinking our relationship was doomed and what was wrong and etc etc. I took agency over my body and he hated it. This added to a growing list of reasons how doomed this relationship was and it was a shame I was too crazy, then, to not see this for months.
TEH and I are not having sex right now and it is not because there is no desire on either party to have sex but we're both in a position where sex doesn't seem to be a high priority. He is building his trust back into me after all that I put him through, and I could not give a damn about not getting laid so the onus is on both of us. I told the BFF that this was not an avenue to pursue as a problem until I get some of me sorted out first. This was a stance I said to TEH last night that it was not reasonable, to me, to pursue him and work on our sex life until I wanted to have sex with myself. The lack of desire for myself has been growing heavily on my mind and simply fucking TEH won't fix it and in fact, may harm our future lovemaking.
TEH joked we sounded like virgins. He may not be that far from the truth.
In my head, I have pulled back the wool and I want to sexually start over. I know with TEH, sex would not be a power play but it would add another level of intimacy (we are definitely not lacking in snuggles, cuddles, and kissing) to our relationship so the need to perform is gone. It's a matter of what I want and what I need not what I could do for him.
I began my adventures into sexuality by reading soft porn romances in my early teenage years and learning how to masturbate. I have gone back to that method by ordering a copy of Penthouse Letters with the hopes it would start a small spark. Last night I read about a woman getting fucked by her yoga teacher and a guy fucking a girl in a crowded subway train. There was some spark within me so I am hopeful. I refuse to pay $25/month to penthouse.com to simply read the letters section but they still publish a print copy for $40/year which is much more doable. Imagination has always been my aphrodisiac other than just a dick or a pussy dangling in my face. I need more.
I deserve more.
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