Archive for the ‘dating’ Category
I have decided that I am un-dateable.
I mean, of course I am. I should have known. I had previously thought that dating after marriage wouldn’t really be all that different from dating while married. That’s a funny sentiment, isn’t it? How many people can say that?
Having an open marriage for six years meant that I had permission to date outside of it, so it wasn’t that I was unfamiliar with the dating scene, the climate, the process of meeting people, vetting them, getting to know them and perhaps becoming involved. I thought dating after being single would be a rather seamless procedure…. I’d have more free time to date! I wouldn’t be already romantically encumbered and therefore I’d be seen as someone who is more accessible! And hey! I have perfected the art of blow-job giving!
All paths, in my mind, appeared to lead to surethisisgonnaworkwithoutafuckinghitch.
Um, yeah. Notsomuch.
I failed to consider the emotional baggage I would be carrying around with me. I had no idea how much annoyance and disillusionment and the outright anger I was going to be strapped with as a result of my divorce. How could I have missed the fact that I am walking around with big, hulking, 20 pounds weights of this shit? But I see it now. Feel it now. And now that I get it, I get that I am hauling it all around – psychic underpinnings of my life as it exists now – and I can understand why no one would have any interest in contending with such a heavy load.
Personally, I don’t want to either, dammit. But I suppose this is my current station, might as well make the best of it, yeah? Maybe this is why I have lost so much weight recently, because of these pitiless, ponderous weights? Chocolate croissants! Donuts! Fried pickles! Cheeseburgers! Doesn’t matter, eat it all. I have a built-in calorie burner.
Actually, eating is often the very last thing on my mind, which probably explains the weight loss. “The Divorce Diet”, as FFG calls it.
But back to being un-dateable. I am un-dateable. It’s just the truth. And I have decided that this is okay. Because what I need right now is to determine how the next few years of my life is going to go. Enough of just taking life as it comes, I am on my own now and need a plan. So I am beginning work on what this plan will be and what living on my own (for the VERY first time EVER) is going to look like. How will I support myself? What other major changes besides un-hitching myself from my husband will I have to make in order for occasional contentedness and some semblance of emotional weightlessness to transpire? So far, there are a couple other big ones that will probably occur soon… so why in the hell would I want to tangle anyone up in a big ‘ol Texas-sized mess with me?
That would just be rude.
So, no dating for Sadie for a while.
You understand I said dating. I am still going to need sex, I always will, we just know this. But I am working on a plan for that. One that might pan out or it could fall to pieces. I am keeping expectations low on that front, while my expectations on getting my proverbial solo shit together will remain as high as the satellites in the sky. Since I am the one in control of that. For the most part anyway.
Being un-dateable is not a tragedy. But if I didn’t work diligently towards the goal of getting my (very own) life in order?
That surely would be.
Since my separation, and because I had an open marriage, the most common question I get asked is – Would you have another open relationship?
Ummm… I have no clue.
Part of me wants to just say yes, YES, I will be forever Open. Open to more. Open all the Way!
Yes indeed, I have a bit of a stalwart inclination to announce, loudly, that the plurality of openness (meaning my opportunity to experience sex and intimacy -of varying degrees- with different people while having a primary partner) suits me perfectly.
But maybe it doesn’t.
Or maybe it suited me then but not now. Or maybe the practice of non-monogamy is something that, like sexuality itself, is fluid and ever-changing. There are aspects of it that make great sense, or at least did to me and my husband at the time. There were parts of it that were extremely challenging, and then there were times when it seemed easy. Almost too easy. But yeah, I’ve always had an inclination towards non-monogamy ever since I started dating way back in High School. But now? The idea of finding a partner (or partners) with whom non-monogamy could actually work?
Seems like a daunting task.
Especially since I was pretty sure it was working when I was practicing it. Well, when it was working, I guess. Because it didn’t always. But nothing is seamless, is it? Every puzzle has the outline of each of its pieces, visible even to the naked eye. It’s the same with relationships; especially non-monogamous ones, where the seams are prone to magnification of such extent that ignoring them is impossible. Recognizing the breaks forces examination of the relationships.
All of them.
The hope is that they can be put back together, but that just isn’t always the case.
I don’t know what sort of shape my intimate life or future relationships will take. I can’t know that and I guess I will have to be okay with the not knowing. Since no one else is privy to such things either (dammit!) Even if we think we know… we don’t really. I once thought I knew – forever was the goal – but I was wrong. And while plural relationships have their advantages – like teaching us how to love deeply and form important bonds with others besides our primary partner and access compersion for all involved, and helping us recognize that relationships aren’t proprietary endeavors – for now, I think I quite like the idea of monogamy.
Monogamy of the self, that is.
A commitment to Me and only Me.
Singularly … single.
This is a little matted image that sits on my window sill in front of my computer ~
I received it as a gift from Rosie Q. last year and I allow it to tease me daily about the fact that I haven’t had the decadent pleasure of a nooner in I don’t know how long.
But in my active, pervy little mind I occasionally recall the afternoon delights of my past, and hope against hope that in my nearest of futures I might be graced with the opportunity for another mid-day treat.
I had a date last week. It was one of those dates that made me feel both like a grown up and a teenager in the span of a small handful of hours. Dinner and drinks? Grownup. Emotionally intelligent, lively yet circumspect discussions about sex and relationships? Very grownup. Later finding myself on a couch making out full-fucking-tilt with a guy whose eyes when only half open scream sexy because he is so very aroused and perhaps even a little tipsy, and how they almost glow, glow for god’s sake, after he’s just said something to me in a whisper about Consuming. Me. Up?
I was transported to that time long ago when I cared about my makeup being kissed off my face, about the transparency the result would allow. But that night I didn’t give a shit. See me, I asked him soundlessly. I wanted nothing more than to be witnessed. And I was. Together we observed with frantic, frenetic, seeking hands. Hands that searched the smalls of backs and napes of necks and strands of hair. Lips found noses and chins and shoulders, fingers and collarbones and tummies and chests. For hours they searched.
Little treasures we discovered all along the way. Every bit of shell plucked from the sand as if from the hands of children. Teenagers. Until it was time for me to go home, clothes still on. Eroticism at its peak.
So really? Who needs nooners when there’s the innocence of that new discovery?
Well, me. But I am sure I will get back there eventually. No rush.
Growing up? It’s a process, after all.