2003-10-10 - 2:02 p.m.
My part of Californiaís been buffeted by winds the past two days. Between the trees dumping off leaves and the dust, my allergies are out of control. Iím trying very hard not to medicate, because the drugs make me sooo stupid. Allergy meds suck. You either 1) take them, because youíre tired of spending every afternoon mouth-breathing like a 15 year-old boy at a mud wrestling match, or you 2) donít take them, and end up trying to tear off your stupid nose because thereís a spot inside that itches so much youíve named it Muchitchistan (say it out loud, come on, Much-itch-i-stanÖgood job!). What options we have!
I blame J for my allergies. Swear to god, I never had them a day before he moved in. Iíd never had mold in the bathroom, either Ė and within weeks our shower ceiling was covered with these pinkish growths. Come to think of it, I also lay a couple of other things at his feet. And for once, Iím going to come right out and say them here. Hold on tight.
The reason that I cannot, will not, get into a relationship right now is because that fucker stripped every bit of self confidence that I had. How? By letting me spend two years on my knees trying to cure him of impotence. Would he talk about it? No. Would he go to a doctor? No. Did he have this problem when we started seeing each other? No. Did he have the problem when he was cheating on me? NO.
That son of a bitch convinced me to do things that Jenna Jameson would find obscene. And I never complained once. Women, you think you give long blowjobs? No, no, my sisters. Iíve been clocked at 60 minutes. Can you say numb lips? Can you say inventive? Iím not talking just stroking, just sucking, for an hour. Iím talking every technique youíve ever read about, ever heard about. Plus there were other, non-penis related acts. I based all my activities on the idea that men are visual creatures. There was dancing, stripping, lingerie, lack of clothing altogether. Toys. Sex outside; sex inside. Dangerous sex, plain-jane sex, exhibitionist sex. Him watching me. Me watching him. NONE of it worked. I think the last year we were together, he came maybe six times. Including twice in Paris, which was like a gift from the nookie gods.
To put all of this into perspective, before him Iíd had a decent number of partners, including another long-term relationship. None of them had ever had difficulty with me. Iíd never had difficulty with them. And that was another thing Ė I stopped orgasming, too. I was bored to tears. After an hour-long session with his winkie, heíd give me maybe five, six minutes. By then, I didnít even care. I just wanted him to get off me and shower so that I could finish myself off with the trusty g-spot vibe.
Why did I put up with this for so long? Well, first of all, I loved him more than I knew I could love another human being. The first year, maybe year and half we were together, I felt like weíd completed the mammalian imprinting. Thatís how intense the bond was. I just could not imagine life without him. As Iíve written before, when I realized he was cheating, I wanted to kill someone. Mostly myself, for being so stupid. Can you imagine the pain? He could orgasm with her, the slutty bitch whoíd cheated on him in their relationship, who treated him like shit at work every day Ė but not with me, the one he claimed to love, who fucking did Kegels for an hour each day in the office?
No, you canít imagine it, until youíve been hurt that badly. I loved him so much that the idea of him fucking her made me physically ill.
I havenít written about this part before because Iíve wanted to respect Jís privacy. We tried counseling once heíd stopped seeing her, because he wanted me back. I spent four or five months being numb. And one day, right before a counseling session, I went to Jís apartment and told him to never, ever call me again. It was over.
All of the energy I used to spend trying to make J happy has, instead, been spent cleaning up my life. Iím almost 60 pounds lighter. Iíve negotiated a new set of professional options. Iíve cemented friendships. Iíve taken risks Ė like encouraging an Internet friend to fly halfway across the country and meet in person. Iím dating two men Ė both of whom claim I give the best head of their lives. (Ironic, isnít it?) Iím flirting with more. Iím paying my bills, living my life, loving who I want to love.
Iíd like to say that none of the self-doubt J engendered in me remains. But last weekend, with Geologist, it came flooding back. We had sex once that night, twice the next morning. And damn it, he didnít orgasm. Best blowjobs of his life, he says, but no spill. I was willing to deal with it the first night. It was late, we were tired, we were new to each other. The second timeÖhe had me pretty distracted. But that third timeóno. There was no reason for him to hold back. Sure, there are men who need a specific set of sensations to finish. But sheesh, youíre 30. Itís not like youíve never had sex before. If you need something in particular to cum, Ďfess up! Say something! Donít make me guess!
Here is the equation to sum up Geologist:
Geeky + well-educated + good conversation = Yes
Inexperienced + recovering from ex + goofy = No
Sweet tempered + Portishead fan + gorgeous legs = Yes
Doesnít read + doesnít care about food + doesnít pay attention to the world = No, no
Cycles + has enthusiasm for his job + good kisser = Yes
Doesnít orgasm despite all my efforts = No, No, NO.
Maybe if I were five years younger, heíd be a project to work on. Maybe if I hadnít deal with J. But I donít want another project. I want someone who can tell me the truth. Iím giving him a gentle signoff tomorrow at lunch.
So you guys tell me: am I a bitch?
Comments: Speak your piece!
former / latter