Posts Tagged ‘sexual inventory’

Not Sure Where to Begin

April 30, 2019

But apparently I’m ready for dating.

I wasn’t expecting that when I told my therapist last Tuesday about some recent experiences doing inventory work.

Man.

I did some self-searching, some fearless and deep, and thoughtful, insightful thinking and writing.

I saw my patterns.

Especially my patterns around dating.

My ex fell into my patterns and completely obliterated them too.

He was much more than just another guy.

He broke the pattern.

He didn’t break me.

Although he did absolutely break my heart.

I seem, however, to be healing and the writing helps.

And the longer days of sunshine help and being busy as fuck wrapping up this semester of school certainly keeps my brain occupied.

My brain would like to create some trouble.

Like, Friday night coming home after work and seeing therapy clients it starts telling me this story about this place I used to go to on Friday nights.

Our Lady of Safeway.

This church on Church Street and Market.

I spent many, many, many Friday nights in that church.

It is in fact where I met my ex.

Oh how he used to shine at me.

Still makes me quiver thinking about that.

Sometimes the thoughts slip in and I don’t try too hard to keep them at bay.

Sometimes they are just sweet and sad and nostalgic, I find myself thinking about him as I fall asleep, the first time he said he loved me, the first time he brought me flowers after he had said he loved me, his face over the bouquet of flowers, so open and vulnerable and full of love, his eyes.

Oof.

Yeah, I might be getting through all of this but I’m still not over you lover.

And that’s ok.

I have given up on trying to be over you.

And as I mentioned, apparently I might be ready to date.

It just sort of popped out in my therapy session last week, all about seeing the patterns and seeing where I need to look at myself and what I want.

I have some very specific needs and wants and really being open and honest about them to myself.

As I expressed all of it my therapist stopped me and said, “wait, are you saying you’re ready to date?!”

“Yes!” I said without a pause and holy shit, I felt it, I am ready to date.

Oh.

I suppose.

A little weirded out by it too.

I basically haven’t dated in two years and over these last two years there were more than a few moments of me thinking, this is it he’s the love of my life, my soulmate, my best friend, he’s going to be the one, I don’t have to think about dating again or finding love.

I had found it.

But.

Well.

Though the love didn’t leave me, he did.

And that was his choice and I won’t disparage him for it.

So now I have to get the fuck on with my life.

To that end.

I wrote up my sexual ideal and really dug into it, basically coming up with a three page essay on what I am looking for in a partner, mate, boyfriend.

I really want a monogamous, committed, romantic, sober, non-smoking relationship.

And yeah, three other pages of things.

I read them out loud in my parked car on the corner of Cesar Chavez and Noe Street this past Saturday night to my person after we had done the deal up in Potrero Hill.

He then suggested I go home and read it out loud in first person.

See what I had to grow towards.

And the really awesome thing, I already have the majority of qualities I’m looking for in a partner.

I’m quite happy about that.

The surprise that came up for me is that I want to cohabitate with a partner.

I haven’t lived with a boyfriend in, wait for it, twenty years.

I’m ready to live with someone again.

Yeah.

I also had hopes that the person I was going to be living with was my ex, but that was just fantasy, wasn’t it.

Everything was just fantasy, beautiful, romantic, lovely, fantasy.

Exquisite in the night, sweeping, and intoxicating, but in reality, the light of day, it fell short and left me with such a hurting heart all the time.

I want reality now.

I am ready for that.

And I’m not expecting a Knight on a white horse, I’ve never needed a man to rescue me, but I do want a partner to compliment me.

Someone to travel with!

My person really made a point of that, “I see you going to Paris and staying in that gorgeous apartment in the Marais with a boyfriend,” he told me after I had finished reading out my ideal.

Me too!

I booked it thinking about how romantic it was and yeah, I certainly have some big high hopes that I will be traveling with a partner this Christmas.

My birthday and Christmas in the City of Lights with my boyfriend.

I know it’s a little early to ask for a Christmas present, but well, when you know you know.

I can’t quite envision it, but I can feel it.

And I have done so much work.

God, I have worked through so much grief over this break up, I could use a break.

So.

Yeah.

Hey God, it’s me.

I’m ready to date again.

Really.

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Welcome To The Club

October 31, 2014

She said.

The “smooshed boobs club.”

She giggled a little and gave me a pink ribbon pin on my way back out to the dressing room.

“Pretty.”

She also said.

I don’t believe she was responding to my sideways mashed breast, rather, the tattoo on my arm was drawing her attention.

“You’re doing really well, so much better than some, so good for your first time.”

“Hold still, hold your breath, ok, and……”

“Breathe.”

This conversation could have been much more uncomfortable, but I am just that, comfortable in my body.

I remember going into to the same room, the same dressing area, with the same grey back drop at Kaiser Geary years and years ago with a friend who needed moral support.

It wasn’t so bad.

I mean.

Her hands were not the hands that I wanted to be man handling my breasts, but at least it was not painful.  I rather thought that it might be.

Yes.

It was certainly uncomfortable to be half-naked in front of a stranger, but I have taken showers in the communal shower trailers (although not nearly as many as I thought I would this past burn) at Burning Man for the staff, that stripping down wasn’t such a difficult thing.

I did not feel vulnerable or scared or uncomfortable.

I felt all those things last night.

Counterpoint with the absolute thrill of being with a person I really like making out while the stars exploded over our heads.

“There’s the moon,” I said pointing it out in the sky, a bit facetiously, trying to make light conversation, trying to not wear my ragged little heart on my sleeve, trying to be funny in my own way.

Then the fireworks.

Literally.

Figuratively.

The Giants won the World Series last night.

Go Gigantes!

Ahem.

Not that I am really all that big a fan of the sportsball thing, in any of its various manifestations, I’m not even a fair weather friend.

I think I have been too traumatized by too many sports teams and the inevitable fall out of drunken revellers.

Whether I was drunk or not.

Most of the time when a large sporting event was happening that was a big deal, I was working.

I was working last night and then I went to do the deal.

“I don’t know why he cancelled,” the text read, “would you be able to fill in?”

Of course.

I wasn’t even thinking that it was game seven of the series.

I was just thinking, when you’re asked, you say yes.

So I did.

And I am grateful for it because it gave me something to fixate on rather than the text I received about being in my neighborhood and would it be alright to drop by and say hello.

“If sex is very troublesome, we throw ourselves the harder into helping others.”

Good Lord, let me help some others.

So I can stop thinking about what I am going to wear, do I have enough time to get home and shower and what am I going to wear, oh, did I already say that?

What the fuck am I going to wear?

I think I could have answered the door in a gunny sack, but I do believe that effort means something.

When a person is meaningful, I want to reflect that and show up for it.

I mean, I won’t lie, I debated taking the shower and getting back into regular civilian clothes, not that any of my clothes are all that civilian–tomorrow is Halloween and I didn’t go out and buy a costume, my costume is from my regular wardrobe, just slightly rearranged into a conceptualized idea.

Then I thought, that’s stupid, you’re just getting home from work, you’ve had an adrenaline inducing ride through the wilds of San Francisco and its drunken environs, put on your pajamas.

But I couldn’t bring myself to pull on my yoga pants and my Hello Kitty nightshirt.

I compromised, but on a dress that looks like a sexy night slip and slipped into a sweatshirt that is a tiny bit fancier than my Bicycle Coalition hoodie.

I didn’t wear makeup, but my color was so high from the ride home that I doubt it was necessary, and something about being freshly showered feels glowy and pretty.

And there were fireworks.

Of course they were commemorating the World Series win, but I could extrapolate that to my situation.

I felt like fireworks.

Clothed fireworks.

Let me reassure you.

Or me.

I suppose it’s me.

I so want to get carried away, swept away, take me away, ravish me, have me.

But.

Whoa.

Slow girl.

There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to rush to.

It’s been awhile since I have felt like going it slower.

This, this speed I am at, is still above average, I do have a lead foot, I do like exhilaration, I am not good at reigning in passion about anything, let alone being alone with a handsome and sexy and delicious man.

Sweet Jesus.

Gotta get right with God, and there is no judgement here, no trying to wrangle it or snag something, it’s a building up, is what it feels like.

A slow steady burn rather than a flash of light and heat and fire and the embers faint and fading as they fall into the sea.

The fireworks were dreamy and I felt my body shake today, flashes of color and heat on the inside of my eyes and I was swept back up in the feeling of passion that was there.

As well as the excitement of knowing I will get to see him again.

Soon.

Tomorrow.

It’s Halloween and I have a date to the dance.

I mean that literally.

I have a date to the dance.

It does feel like high school, I feel like high school, nervous, giggly, then ravaged with hormones (just because I was welcomed into the smooshed boobs club does not mean that I don’t still have a surfeit of hormones), giddy.

And I am going to run with that feeling as long as I can.

Unlike high school, though, or college or last year, I suppose, I haven’t capitulated on waiting a little, slowing it down, it could have happened the first night I met him.

That whoosh of feeling and magnetism.

I could have stripped down and done a little dance of lust in the basement.

There is something to that bonfire of passion, but I don’t want it to burn out.

I want to bank it and feed it and build it up.

I think it’s only going to get better.

And then.

Well.

Fireworks.

Hello Again

September 18, 2014

Old friend.

I was sitting in the sunshine, sipping a cup of herbal chai tea, relaxing with a book, flirting with a stranger on 7th and Irving, waiting for the clock to slowly tick its way to 6p.m.

I don’t know why I check my phone.

But some ties are timeless and sometimes you just know.

I didn’t know the number on the caller id.

I don’t know anyone who would be calling me from Minnesota.

I saw I had a voicemail.

I listened.

The call had come in two minutes prior.

Despite having the ring off and not having the vibrate on, something resonated in me and I had looked on the phone, looked to see the message, looked up to listen when the handsome man in his 40s sat down across from me at the cafe, regarding my bare toes with some amusement, I almost expected him to kick off his work shoes and join me in my feckless bare toe extravaganza.

I listened to the voicemail instead and called back the number.

My finger just hit it.

Sort of like a junkie plunging a needle or a rat tripping a lever on a maze.

I got my piece of cheese.

The man sat across from me, handsome, flirtatious, get off the phone I said to myself, too late, too captured already by old habits, old friends, old ideas, and old sentiments.

Pulled almost immediately back into the Midwest and school girl longings and old-fashioned, old-time, old worn out ideas of crushes and first loves.

Yeah.

That was the friend who called.

Two years and out of the blue.

A phone call.

And like it is with some friends, the immediacy of the friendship comes back and there is no pause, there is just the immediate plunge back into the friendship.

Like the panels of a cartoon the ellipses between two panels may denote seconds or days or weeks, perhaps months or years or decades, but the time is gone in a flash. the tether of the space between the two moments is tied and leapt over with nary a thought.

What took you so long to call?

I know why I did not.

I did not have his number.

I lost it right before I went to Paris.

I love my friend.

He is the oldest friend I have, the person who has known me the longest and seen me the most in the bottom of despair as I have ever gotten to, from the young age of fifteen to the not so advanced, but still starting to get up there in age, 41 years old.

Which means he has known me and I him for 26 years.

That’s no small time to sneeze at.

And we probably could regal each other easily with old bawdy tales of high school, or after high school hijinks.

Actually it was the after high school high jinks that probably connected us in a much tighter means than the actual school days.

I love my friend.

I repeat.

But I do not love where my head goes in connection to him.

And I do not love that I chose to return his call when there was a lovely man sitting across from me who wanted to engage, yet, I could not, I was pulled into the conversation.

Why had I picked up the phone?

Why had a returned the call?

And why do you call me to tell me you broke up with the woman you were in a relationship with for so long?

Why is not a spiritual question and I don’t ask it often.

But I did, in rapid succession, watching the man’s interest in me fade, he finished his coffee, raised an eyebrow, stood, smiled at me with a wry look, and sauntered off into the sunset.

Or at least the Inner Sunset.

But out of my line of sight and right on down the road.

I love my friend.

But I do not love the threadbare idea of waiting for him or even looking like I am or that we were ever, ever, ever meant to be anything more than friends.

Let me slay this idea now.

Which is part of why I have not gotten a hold of him.

I know his name, I know his family, I know where his parents are and I have their numbers, I could have called, but I wanted to leave him be.

I wanted to let me be with the history and leave it at that, history, a fond recollection of love and friendship, some longing, and hazy romantic fantasy regret that was already so long ago abandoned.

“Your only amends to him,” she said, leaning over the table in the cafe, “is to leave him alone.”

I was mad you see.

Though my friend was uncertain when we spoke tonight when the last time we had spoken was, I remembered.

I did not until he had mentioned it.

Then.

There.

Valentines Day.

Two years ago.

He called because he was thinking of me.

No fair.

Foul ball.

You don’t get to do that.

Not when you live thousands of miles away and you know our history, I cry, no fair.

No fair to say you were driving through the countryside and thinking of me; not on Valentine’s Day, nope.  I don’t think so.

So, you know, I did some inventory and I took the suggestion and I left it be, I left him be.

Oh.

Yeah.

He popped up.

Now and again, I would want to talk to him and tell him about my adventures.

But now I wonder.

If he’s a fantasy, if the story I told myself for so long was an idealized romantic story that was never going to pan out, no way to change that which is unchangeable, what if I was a fantasy for him too?

What did I bring to him?

Undying affection, adoration, some sort of ego balm?

Does it matter?

I don’t know.

I don’t know what the future will bring, we’ll be friends and maybe some day down the road we’ll hang out again and it will be exactly what it’s always been-a tale of two misfit friends that circumstance threw together.

And nothing more.

The love will always be there.

But the fantasy does not need to be.

I am done with that story.

I allow myself a new chapter.

A new tale.

A different future.

My future is mine.

Not his.

 


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