I was going to move on to another topic cos I was already bored talking about the Manwhore - he's old news even though you haven't heard much about him. Serendipitously, a random hot guy on the dating site was chatting me up something fierce tonight. He was clearly working his way towards initiating cybersex so I asked him if he was a manwhore. He clarified that a manwhore is a guy who gets a lot of sex, not a guy who wants a lot of sex. I thought since he was hot he got lucky a lot but apparently not. Hey, that's almost a limerick!
The distinction between getting and wanting sex is not lost on me. I'd like to enjoy a lot of sex and God knows I get enough offers, but some insidious Victorian Era morality has dug its way into the fabric of my being. It gets in the way of me getting between the sheets. The expression I'm looking for here is: Pain In The Ass. Heh heh. This expression tickles my funny bone cos that's what the random hot guy wanted - anal sex. Seriously, what's the big fucking deal, guys? I think all those porno chicks got you thinking we're crazy about it when really...it's not all that. *AHEM* ~Back to original topic~
I'm sorely tempted to get out there and get some hot sex but I'm worried I'll turn into The Cling Thing in the aftermath. Goddamn default programming. It's no longer kosher to blame my parents for raising me with so-called good values. At this stage of my life, it's up to me to separate the romantic narrative I attach to sex in order to enjoy a bit of meaningful distraction, but how?!? I want to convince myself that sex for the sake of physical pleasure is good enough. As I type this, I automatically edit my thoughts. I'm suddenly yearning for some kind of emotional connection as part and parcel of sex. Bah! My overactive conscience strikes again.
If guilt is the ego's way of tricking you into thinking you've made moral progress, then why can't I shed my illusions about the meaning sex has for me? I'm going to try another tack. The whole human being is involved in sex. The brain is in the head when the dick is in the vagina.The heart pumps the blood to the dick so at least figuratively a man's heart is working, too. Oh, this is such a weak anatomical premise for a convergence of physical and emotional spheres during sex. And why is it I assume that a man turns off his emotions during sex, anyway? Yet another illogical, not to mention blatantly sexist, assumption.
What I'm getting at beating around the bush this way (pun intended) is that my interest in The Manwhore was at least in part to find someone to help me con myself into going for sex. It's such a bullshit way to go about it. I need to own that I want sex and be like Nike, "Just do it!" Unfortunately, I harbour this irrational fear of turning into emotional jell-o, "Oh no, my needs are showing!" and the concomitant feeling of being dependent on someone else to reassure me of my choice. Talk about dumb and dumberer. First, I'd default to someone else's desires and then blame them for my insecurity. Smacks of cowardice.
There's no wiggle room here. I need to feel the fear and do it anyway. Isn't that what all the 'feel good' literature tells us? Ready...Set...No! Oh, for crying out loud what's the hold up? Where's the trust in myself, eh? Worse case scenario, the guy is a jerk. I can take care of my feelings, right? Right? This question is the one that bothers me most because I can't answer with certainty that I would still value myself.
It seems like I just got out of that spot not so long ago. I'm barely done picking up the pieces of my shattered self and putting them back together. A year seems like a long time but my emotional life operates in a different dimension - progress is not measured in hours or days but in revelations and themes. Complex issues require more effort and patience. My wounded spirit wants some goddamn peace and quiet to gel back together. I've recovered most of the shards of my identity and reassembled my self-image but it still feels fragile.
Nevertheless, my restless soul yearns for something physical. The lizard part of my brain agitates for getting under someone as a means of getting over the problem. This emotional turbulence seeks release to vent accumulated angst. Enter The Manwhore. Just what I needed...a fall guy for some no strings attached user-friendly sex. The fact that I consciously cast him in that role surely indicates premeditation to commit some crime against myself. Not to mention the not-so-innocent bystander. As The Manwhore got to know me, however, apparently he started to care about me and decided against casual sex. Fuck me. Or not.
So this is a lopsided lament about an unhappy coincidence where a sex object changed the game. But wait! You haven't heard the rest of the story! It was a perpetual tug-of-war. First, he wanted sex and I didn't. This was during the requisite 'courtship' period where I sought to ease my way through my guilt. I wasn't feeling completely restored to myself and was vacillating. I finally articulated that I wanted to have sex, but by then he'd changed his mind because he 'couldn't do that to me.' Ah Christ. The one-dimensional figure in my immorality play grew a conscience.
Coming soon to a blog near you...oh if only!