I’m looking for something. I’m not sure if I am looking for sex or love, but I’m not looking for them both in the same person. Not today. When I’m horny I want to find a person to roll around with. Someone who is only in town for three months, who has time on their hands, speaks spanish, has no pressing hang-ups, is built like an athletic porn star, is kinky, has nothing on his mind but sex.
And yet I’m looking for more than that. I’m a terribly romantic person. I want to hold hands and have picnics and write poems. I want to skip in the rain, skip work, stay in bed for three weeks snuggling and laughing. I love to be in love.
For a number of years I was quite content to be single, I really like living alone, not having to save hot water for anyone else to bathe in, drinking all the juice, leaving my panties on the floor without someone bitching at me are all highlights of being single. I like having the time to spend hours in the bathtub with a good book and a pot of tea. I enjoy my own company and I cherish my privacy. But lately I am lonely. I’m a little tired of always picnicking alone. I really do like to share my toys, my books, my life with someone. I appreciate being able to come home and fall into someones arms, knowing that they are there for me and that they cherish the fact that I am there for them.
Now I’m sad. In fact I’m kind of depressed. It’s not the kind of depressed that requires medication. It is the kind of depressed that requires wine and girlfriends and inspires writing at 3am in combat boots and a bathrobe. It is the depression that kicks in after a breakup that you didn’t want. And I didn’t want to break up. We broke up because we had to. Because we were going to hurt each other physically. I guess that at some point all of the emotional abuse, the games, the lies, the passive aggressive ways in which we toy with each others hearts stopped being useful and we decided to hit each other.
Maybe it was a feeling of being trapped. Maybe it was a lack of common language. Maybe it was the age difference. Maybe it was the fact that we are both damaged people living in a damaged town full of damaged goods, dented cans, and three legged pets. I’m tired of asking why. It just is what it is.
But I’m sad. It’s not an unfamiliar feeling. I know I will live. I will be fine. But I miss the intimacy, the physical reality of snuggling up next to someone who knows how to hold me. I miss the touch and the kissing and the sex. I miss the hot passionate kinky sex. And I am aware enough to know that I’m not in any shape to date anyone right now. I’m a sad mess. I’m overwhelmed with thoughts about my ex and anyone I date is gonna have to deal with that pathetic baggage. So I need to get past it before I can even hold a decent conversation with anyone. Yet I need to fuck. Pretty badly.
I tried to get laid this week. I went drinking with a couple of boys in their 20s. We ended up at my house and the younger (and more conservative one) said that he had been working in his boots all day. I really wanted to sniff his filthy socks. I told him to take his boots off. He was embarrassed and said that his feet would stink my whole house up. I grabbed him by the sleeves of his shirt and shook him a little demanding that he take off the boots and present me with these olfactory treasures. I love stinky feet. Why was he teasing me?
He was probably too inexperienced to understand that I really do like stinky feet. I explained to him quite matter of factly that taking off his shoes would lead to a smutty night of hot three way sex. He got scared and wanted to go home.
I drunk dialed my ex. We were nice to each other. I imagine he is sad too.
Later in the week I went to meet a potential slave. I think I scared him off with my line of questions that were not intended to unearth a huge red flag, but did. I asked a friend of mine if I am being too picky. Maybe my standards are too high.
I’m not sure if I blogged about the time last year I went on two or three dates with a guy who seemed awesome and then he threw a steel post at my head. The good news is that the potential slave handled himself much better than that guy. He paid the bill and excused himself. My line of questioning did seem to be a bit intimidating thought it was just casual banter. He seemed nice enough. He claimed to have slave training though we never really got to discuss that. His answers to my questions made him seem like his addition to my world would lead to criminal charges being brought against me. Surprisingly, I’m not really looking for that kind of drama. I just want someone who can rub my feet and make breakfast. Maybe my standards are too high.
A couple weeks ago a friend of mine tried to hook me up with a bartender she knows. The bartender seemed kind of quirky. I liked him. He seemed excited about kinky things. I was game. At the next bar my friend started talking to someone else and they both agreed that the bartender was a super person “he just has a little bit of a drug problem,” they tell me. This is New Orleans, everyone has a drug problem. It’s not usually even mentioned. It goes without saying, so the fact that they said something made me curious “what kind of drug problem?” “Oh well ya know, sometimes he, ugh well,” they stammered and tried to dodge my question. “Sometimes he smokes crack” it comes out. Crack — really? Hmmmm, I can’t see a problem with that.
Are you fucking kidding me? I remember a time when I would not consider dating anyone shorter than myself. Now my criteria looks more like this:
No Felons, No Crackheads, No one who throws things (no fits, no steel posts, no punches, nothing).
Do you think my standards are too high?
This is the city that care forgot. The town of misfit toys. Everyone here is damaged goods. I get that. Really I do. I just wanna believe in love and romance in a world where gravity keeps steel posts firmly planted on the ground, where crackheads are not the best opportunity to have a fun filled night on the town, where I might meet someone at a vegan restaurant and not immediately assume that another meeting with him could lead to a rico charge.
Oh love, you evasive temptress. I’ll happily settle for lust, passion, intellectual stimulation. That last one is really just a sarcastic shot in the dark. This town attracts that certain type of distraught intellectual who wanders into a bar alone and stays there for thirty years. By the time I bump into them they usually appear as through they have been smoking crack and hitting themselves in the heard with a steel post.