Well. Actually, I do have feelings. Mostly they’re apathy, numbness, confusion, sadness. Yeah, you get the idea.
Not to say I’m depressed. I’m actually not. I’m just mourning, which is something entirely different.
And I’ve been mourning like a horny 15 year-old boy watching cheerleading practice for over a year. It’s kept me preoccupied and busy and it’s served its purpose swimmingly, but now I’m onto a new phase of this mourning business. If the past year has been numbness, then what I’m experiencing now might be called “warming up.”
Ever since my “snapshot” in September I have slowed way down. Like WAAAAAY down. I don’t fuck 4 men in one week anymore. I don’t meet anyone I’m not genuinely excited to meet just because he has a penis. My standards for sex are as high as ever and I’ve switched from, “Wow, that really sucked, I hope we try it again,” to “Wow, that really sucked and he’ll never get a chance to do that again [because I deserve better than what he gave].” (There’s more to that last sentence than what I’ve written here, but suffice to say it’s a positive shift in me wherein I’m not chasing a lousy lover, but believing I deserve more, and letting it go.)
There’s Jason, Phillip, and The Neighbor in my bed these days. I tumbled with one other man recently, Casio, but he was more of a one-off. I was horny, he was extremely hot, and I couldn’t think of a good reason not to sleep with him. Too bad he was obnoxiously bad in bed, lost his erection, didn’t make up for it in the morning, and waved goodbye to me from my doorway. (At least I got a snazzy Casio watch out of the deal.)
My therapist wants me to cut men out of my life altogether, but I don’t see the point. Since shifting my attitude about sex and my body I still get a lot out of the experiences. I feel more when I’m naked and being pounded than when I’m clothed and childless.
Here’s my life in a nutshell:
- One week I have my kid and I’m plugged into The Universe, myself, my heart, my baby, my future, my everything.
- The next week I’m childless and plugging into my body, my passion, my sex, men and their cocks, their bodies, their drives and thereby the other side of The Universe.
And prior to September, I was rabid on my childless weeks and occasionally during my custodial ones. I increased my number of sexual partners by more than 50% in the last year, grazing through the field of ripe men at my fingertips like a starving person.
I don’t have a problem getting men into my bed. But letting them into my heart is a different matter. Jason, Phillip and The Neighbor all inhabit very small slivers — more than anyone else has in the past year — and it feels… I dunno. Ok, I guess. I’m not loving it, but I feel it’s a big improvement over, say, this summer when I was discarding men like gum wrappers.
I read something today that really resonated with me over at Pervocracy. She was writing about the difference between slutty and horny and how female horniness makes people nervous and it’s easier to just call her slutty. I can easily fill the definition of both by anyone’s standards, the difference is I don’t give a fuck. Call me a slut, call me horny. I’ve always had a sexual energy about me that makes even a potato sack look sexy if I dared to wear one. It’s just how I do. I can’t help it. But it’s reassuring to know that other people out there are contemplating this difference when I’m trying to actively go from “slutty” to “horny” in my sex life. To be deliberate and choosy and thoughtful in my sexuality and sex, i.e, HORNY.
Maybe feelings are more connected to horny… I dunno. In any case, I’m glad they’ve re-emerged and I’m glad to be as horny as ever.