Feeling rejection proof has served me well in my dating life, a world rife with fickleness, ghosting and boy-men who still haven’t figured out why their marriages failed. But there was a downside to always asking for what I wanted: a myopic view of the world through my own lenses without accounting for how my delightful assertiveness might be affecting the experience of another.
He had shown up in the crosshairs of what many attribute to the long-established, perhaps evolutionary predisposition for people to look for a mate to shag over the long, dark days of winter. A few thousand years ago it would have been called survival. Today, it’s called The Cuffing Season.
Perhaps our relative safety within organized society, and the fact that most of us aren’t constantly on guard for predators or foraging for enough food to survive, has resulted in prolonged and varied lovemaking not available to other species .
Could more than one partner provide the extra lovin’ I needed to feel more securely attached in love? Or were polyamorists already so damn secure they were naturally good at loving multiple people and I would fail miserably?
I want to be with a man who’s like an engaging book; a real page turner, one I can’t put down because he’s bringing up thoughts and ideas that challenge and delight me.
I waffle between a sense of admiration for a person who has discovered a kink which brings them joy, yet wonder what horrible event in early childhood caused their poor little neurons to equate pleasure with being cut or disgraced.
If we plot a relationship on the XY axis, you’ve very likely to see an inverse relationship between what initially feels great and what’s actually got long term potential. After suffering the sobering effects of a plunging plot line, I have decided to stay receptive to men who initially register quite low on my Y axis.
Only recently I was still slumped on the couch nursing a bottle of wine and a bowl of popcorn. No Prince Charming is going to be attracted to that mess no matter how sexy my bed head look. And even when I put on lipstick and a little black dress, my unprocessed grief surrounds me like a stinky pheromone cloud.
Self pleasure is one of life’s greatest gifts. It’s like having a never ending supply of peanut M&M’s in your pocket. How sad that people grow up thinking jacking off to be anything other than a magical moment of calorie-free joy.