Love and Other DrugsPosted: October 9, 2014
Note: I wrote this on Tuesday but didn’t get a chance to post til today. More updates coming.
I am feeling better.
Every once in awhile, The Husband and I have a big fight that results in us venting our feelings and renews our intimacy. Maybe not the healthiest modus operandi, but it usually doesn’t happen more than once or twice a year, so I’ll take it. We’ve had sex three times since our big fight, and I’m hoping we’ll have more. I know it is not all his fault. I don’t initiate sex with him either, and when I’m out all the time, I don’t really leave us much chance to be intimate.
I miss him right now. I’ve been missing him the past couple of days, which is a good thing. I usually don’t miss him much when I’m at work, but lately I want to be near him.
I have also somehow managed to overbook myself this week. Last night I saw Sugar Daddy (more on that later), tonight I’m seeing The Sadist, tomorrow night I have a date with The Gentleman Friend, Thursday night The Hubby and I are getting ready for my daughter’s birthday party, Friday we’ll have her party, and I have been invited to spend Saturday night with Gentleman Friend and Wifey, though I’m not sure I will.
I need to make some cuts. I know I do, but I am resistant to it. As it stands, I have several text messages from former dates just piling up in my inbox. I started off making excuses, and now I’m just ignoring them and hoping they go away. I have too much stress in my life, I can’t deal with being angrily attacked or ardently pursued (especially when its clear all they want is my pussy).
For some reason I made a date with a new guy for early next week. Not sure why I did that, except that he is cute, and I felt like I needed a no-drama fucktoy. Now, of course, I am questioning whether that’s true. My entire life can’t be built around sex, and I only have so much free time. My obsession with getting laid is robbing me of the time I need to pursue other, more important, more productive goals and a more well-rounded enjoyment of life.
I have been saying this since before my first date with him, haha, but pretty sure I need to find the strength to cut Sugar Daddy loose. He is no good for me. Last night he was trying to be all romantic. He kept kissing me and I kept pulling away after a few seconds. He lay on top of me and stroked my hair, and I ruined that moment too. He kept telling me how beautiful I am and how much he likes me. It was kind of ridiculous and I wanted it to stop.
He wasn’t fucking with me. I mean, that may have been his goal, but it didn’t work. I don’t care. He can feel any way he wants about me, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s a douche bag. I’m not sure why I can’t just stop seeing him. Part of it is sheer weariness. He does not take well to being rejected or rebuffed, and I frankly don’t feel like arguing with him about it. I also enjoy fucking him, I just wish we could agree not to speak while that’s happening!
Last night, though, I didn’t enjoy myself that much. I just didn’t get off on it. I had a handful of orgasms, but really, it was nothing earth shattering. I didn’t leave my body. I didn’t feel the world disappear. It was just sex. It was fine.
And the sex with my husband was the same.
As was Friday night’s romp with Gentleman Friend.
This is a disturbing trend.
Is sex losing is efficacy as my drug? I have to say, if this were the case, it would be kind of exciting. Not crawling out of my goddamn skin until I can go get fucked and get high? It sounds lovely. Of course, I’m not sure what I would do instead. Do I need to do anything instead? Maybe I don’t. Maybe I’m okay. Maybe it was never the sex. Maybe it was the newness of exploring this previously forbidden part of me, and like anything else, it loses its magic and intensity over time.
Even if this is the case, it’s not like I’ll never get high off sex again. I’m certain I will. I’m sure the first time I go skinny dipping I’ll get a thrill. I’m sure if I ever end up fulfilling my fantasy of having sex pressed up against the window of a hotel room, or attending a true orgy, I’ll get off on that too. But things like that–extreme sex–are novelties. They aren’t part of the every day, and I don’t know that I want them to be.
So what do I want to be part of my every day? Ideally, things that I enjoy, but that also enhance my life in some way, in not just in that particular moment. I want experiences that feel good, and are good for me. Novel, huh?
It’s hard to break the cycle, though. Part of the problem is that it’s just so easy to just keep doing what I’ve been doing. But I am starting to acutely miss the things that have languished while my life has been a revolving door of sexual experiences. I miss, for instance, going home at the end of the night and curling up with my husband and talking. Maybe it’s the fact that the days are getting shorter–it is now already starting to get dark by the time I get off work–but at the end of most days, I just want to be in a comfortable place with people I care about. Maybe having sex, maybe not.
I miss my book. I miss being creative and crafting with words. I miss my characters, and their plot line. Their little drama, the tiny universe where there are just hanging in limbo, begging “write us!” “Finish our freaking story, you slacker!”
I miss spending the day at home with my kids and knowing I have nowhere to be that night, and I can just put on my PJs and eat popcorn and drink wine or take a bath.
And when I think about Gentleman Friend, I think about his eyes. I think about his hands. I miss walking through the streets with his arm around my waist. I miss talking about things we are both impassioned about, and getting all excited or righteously indignant. Yeah, I miss his body. I want to curl against him while he rocks me into ecstasy, I’m not going to lie. But. . .I think I was thrown off, because this is the first relationship I’ve had since I started this entire thing, that isn’t based on sex. It isn’t built around it. We aren’t two people who started fucking, and–surprise!–discovered we actually like each other in the process. We already liked each other. We already wanted to be around each other. This is a good thing, and it’s what I wanted, but I didn’t know how to handle it.
Wanting sex from me, isn’t the same as wanting me. Wanting me, isn’t the same as wanting my body. This is elementary. It is embarrassingly elementary, but it comes as kind of an epiphany. I am having a “duh” moment. Of course, he does want my body. He is extremely into it, and has a whole list of naughty things he wants to do to me. But he wants my body because I’m the one inside it. Crazy, huh?
In other news, it’s quite possible I have bi-polar, the way I swing back and forth like this. No, I’m not joking about mental illness, my mom legitimately has it and I hear these things are hereditary.
I’m going to take my possibly bi-polar ass over to The Sadist’s condo, then I’m on my way home to contemplate my life and the changes I should make wherein.