Advice for my younger self

I am on a little jaunt of self discovery today.  Or….I am thinking about discovering some self. It feels good.  I feel ready for growth.

I am reading and popping around the internet and I see an author writing some advice to their younger self. And I wonder what would I tell me from the advanced age of almost 42?

Sex:  Have more of it.  Be more open.  Less worried about what it means (to you and about you).  Experiment.

Body:  Love it.  It is all you have.  It will never be perfect but it will be perfectly you and others will love it just as it is.

Love: Seek it out.  Be open.  Take what love is given to you and return it in the best way you can.

Go to college.  Use a condom.  Ask more questions.  Take your health seriously.  Find things you love and let them enrich your life.  Do not be afraid to trust.  Or be hurt.  It will happen anyway.  And it is not a reflection on you.

Perfect does not exist.  Stop striving for it.  Stop taking everything as a criticism.  It is an opinion.  Grow.  Learn.  Make more mistakes.

Believe.  That you are beautiful and worthy and lovable. In miracles and good things.

Let things go.  Not everything is meant to be forever and that is ok.  Wish it well and move on.  Continue on your own path.

And no matter what know you will be ok.  You are a survivor.  And you will always find a way.


Pity party

My mother just emailed me and said I seem a bit high strung and is everything ok?

Nope.  Not even a little bit.

I spent 2 hours on skype with my best friend today.  Retelling the story of The Attorney, The Rapper, the ones in-between, the ones that went nowhere.  It was disheartening to realize I have made no progress this year in my life.  At all.  I am still pathetically single.  I am still 15 pounds heavier than I want to be.  I am lonely while being surrounded.  And mostly I am special to no one.

And it is the same.  The same as last year, and the year before, and every year all the way back to 1973.  Well, maybe I was special for awhile.  But once my brother came along…..well, he is all they ever really needed.  I am the consolation prize since he went off to live his big fancy life.

There are things I want in this life.  And I am not sure I am ever going to be in a position to have them.  I want to travel.  I want to love someone and be loved in return.  I want to not worry about money every moment of every day.  I want to be comfortable in my own skin.

Ok.  So, I hate a pity party.  Even when one has been brewing for weeks.  I NEED to cry right now.  But I also need to plan.

I need to use my gym membership more.  3 times a week.  MINIMUM.  4 is better.  Or every other day which would be 3 then 4 then 3 then 4.

I need to start walking.  I got the jawbone up24 and I am not moving enough AT ALL. Walk 2 times a week for now.  I can move it up in a few weeks.

Eat better.  I will feel better.  I will sleep better.  I will loon better.

Less eating out – it is too expensive and too many calories.

I am going to make a list of things to do at home – projects.  I will work on those instead of worrying about dating.

And I will work.  I will work a lot. I will get caught up on all the silly shit I tend to avoid doing.

Then, after the holidays, after I turn 41, after I get another year older, maybe I will think about dating again. But right now? I am not in the right head space.  I am still so hurt from the Attorney.  And so….offended from the Rapper.  And tired of not being good enough.  Tired of no one thinking I am worth the time to get to know.


When I met OK I had little interest (May 3 2014 after a wedding) .  He was good looking and an entrepreneur.  But once I got more details…….He did not come across as very bright.

But yet we continued to text and we got on this talk about connection.  We both crave it and neither of us are finding it.

So, Thursday night (5/22) he starts texting me:

You know when we met I felt it

Felt what?

I felt you.  Your desires.  Maybe I’m wrong.  I wanted you, just never said it

I don’t really think this exchange is anything more than trying to see what I want from him.   There was no real flirting on our one date.  When we left he did try to keep me there with stupid little chat, but I was tired and wanted to go to bed.

Later he is asking me what I want:

I am at a place where I want real or I want to be alone.

We have that already you know

Now….these texts are all being sent when I am drunk and there is lots going on in the bar.  I get an invite to go to a strip club the next night.  I am swept off of my stool to dance to old motown records.  I am not taking this in.  None of it.  Not until right now.

This turns into sexting for days.  Non stop, hands in my pants, him sending dick pics… goes on.

Tonight we chatted on the phone.  It was ok.  Til the end.  And he starts to tell me that if we meet and we decide to fuck that it will be a long 2 day event.  I wish I had taken notes.  He tells me that he won’t cum.  He won’t come for days because as soon as he does it will be over.

First he wants to see me.  To watch me.  To see what doesn’t work.  To find the places that do and to build on it and show me what is possible until I literally cannot handle it any more.

“Most guys live up to what they say.  I am telling you half of what it will be.  I do not want to be forgotten.”

And I start to cry.  I cannot help it.  The speech, not told very well here, is moving.  But mostly I think he DOES see me.  The real me. And that is terrifying.  And I can know that he cannot know me and know that he does all at the same time.

While I do not think he is the brightest bulb on the tree, I think this is his gift.   He has told me is stilted terms he likes to make people feel good.  And I think he might be some sort of healer without knowing it.  He intuitively knows what you need and gives it to you.  He sees you.  All of you.  The good, the bad.  And he does it all anyway.  Because that is who he is.

And as we get off the phone he says “I want to tell you I love you, but we don’t even know each other”.  And I feel the same.  But I get it.  There is some weird connection.  And we may never be face to face and I might fucking die if I never get to kiss him.  Just once.

I love you. And not a day goes by that I don’t tell you.


I love you. And not a day goes by that I don’t tell you.

But the silent poetry that throbs in my chest cannot be uttered in three little words—or 3,000 for that matter. Whenever I try to describe the way I feel for you, every word seems trite and hollow; the whole English language insufficient.

Maybe if I write it, raw and uncut. If I pour myself out, and breathe passion fire into these words and make them live, they might come into your heart and dance. Maybe when you read this it will take you there—to where the wild drums are beating, where pain and bliss both run together, where lovers die into each other, and are born again…

I want you to know this feel this.

When I say “I love you,” what I really mean is that I want you. From the very first time you ran your fingers through my hair, I have longed for you—for your touch, your embrace, your taste on my lips.

You turn me on. It’s undeniable. It’s chemical. It’s electric.

When I say “I love you,” I really mean that you’re beautiful. You’re gorgeous in your heels and gowns and all your glittering finery, and even more so in your pajamas and blue jeans. When you’re not even trying, when you let go and just be carelessly, naturally you, it takes my breath away—like a sunset reflected in still water, or a starry night so clear you can see the Milky Way poured out across the sky.

When I say “I love you,” I mean that I love your form, your body, your arc and elegance. I love the curve of your neck, your breasts, your back and your hips. You embody pure woman from the curls in your hair down to your ankles and toes. Like no one else can, you awaken the man in me, the beast in me, the passion and hunger and lust.

I love how you move, your effortless grace. I love how you walk, your rhythm and sway. I love how you dance. I love how we fuck­—how we breathe and thrust and grind as one. One pulse, one pleasure, one ecstatic culmination; a prayer, a holy communion.

When I say “I love you,” I mean all of you, just as you are. I love your silliness and your playfulness, how easily we can laugh at ourselves and at life. I love your courage, your strength. I love your jealousy and insecurity. I love your (sometimes painful) honesty. I love how you really walk your talk and take responsibility for your own “stuff.” I love your willingness to face your fears and grow.

I love who you are, deep down—the timeless innocence I see in your eyes. Underneath everything you say and do I see a pure and selfless intent, a kind and compassionate soul.

When I say “I love you,” I mean I trust youI respect you. I admire you. I adore you.

When I say “I love you,” I mean that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for every time I take you for granted. I’m sorry for every time I’m too busy, too distant, too self-absorbed to make time for you. I’m sorry for every time I fall short of being the man you deserve.

When I say “I love you,” I mean that I love this dance of loving each other. I love how it constantly calls me to go deeper, to walk my talk, to own my shit, to face my fears and grow. I love sharing life with you—the triumphs and the failures, the laughter and the painful silence.

When I say “I love you,” I mean my life is better with you in it. I’m a better man because of you. And the more I come to know you, the more I want to know. I miss you when you’re not around. I’m grateful for every moment we’re together.

When I say “I love you,” I mean I want to be the one you turn to when you’re hurting. I want to be the one who listens. I want to hold you in my arms. I want to take care of you. I want to give you something to stand on in this crazy, constantly changing world.

I want to make a home and a family with you. I want you to be my partner, my lover, my Radhe—the yin to my yang. I want to wake up next to you in the morning. I want you beside me when I close my eyes at night. In a universe of infinite possibilities, on a planet of seven billion human beings, I want you.

Baby, the next time I grab you as you’re passing by, put my arms around your waist and pull you close, kiss your sweet lips, look deep into your eyes and say “I love you,” this is what I really mean:

Here I am—body and soul, sinner and saint, warrior and fool, all of my love and all of my baggage—all of me. Here I am, with open arms.

I see you—mother, daughter, sister, lover, the light and the darkness, the goddess and the scared little girl—all of you. I want you, all of you, you and only you, just as you are.

I have a place here in my heart for you. 


They cum, they go

The guy I was last talking about….long story short.  Tried to break up with him, he cried.  Dated for another few weeks, banged, and it was bad. Like really horrible sex.  I am not sure it was that bad in high school when none of us knew what we were doing.

Things are sort of hot on the couch and we go upstairs.  The making out is decent.  Not super passionate, but ok.

Next thing you know pants are off.  Excuses about it being cold in the room…, what?  I was still in the making out phase.  The only reason I am marginally “ready” for sex is because hormones make it so when you are ovulating.

Then he is putting on a condom and I am like “WHOA, slow down there sport, there is no rush”.  Another moment or two and he puts it on anyway with a comment about not wanting to take the time later.

And he puts it in.

I would like to point out he has not touched me below the waist at this point.  Or ever.  I could have been dry as a desert and he would have just stuck it in.

And he pounds away in missionary.  It is not large. Possibly do-able, but I am guessing half hard.

There is no tenderness, no passion, nothing.  Just the pounding.

Finally, my legs are done with this position and I ask if there are other positions be likes.  Yeah….pound, pound, pound.

After another few moments I essentially push him off of me as my legs are just not meant to be in the position for that long.  Or I guess if they are, there is usually so much other stuff going on I would not notice the pain?  I climb on top, hoping I can at least see if this dick is do-able.

It could have been ok, but it slips out twice (and I am hardly a gaping hole), but I like to lean back when on top and it is not working.  So, I give up.  I try to be nice, but the apologies start.  I am trying to ask questions – was there something I could have done, is there anything different that could have happened…..he has no answer. He NEVER has an answer.  For anything.

I make a comment that 90% of what can get a girl off has nothing to do with a dick.  He does not get or ignores the hint.  My mind is reeling.  I have dated guys who do not like pussy before and it is the most depressing thing ever.  OMG, he is afraid of pussy.

We lay there for awhile.  And I decide to mess around with the penis, as it is there, in my bed.  I get him hard again.  It is not large. And curls down.  DOWN!  I have never seen one turn that way!

We do it again. And again, it is missionary and pounding, and no tenderness and no passion, just a function.  And he finishes.  And he apologizes that it was not longer.  And I am thinking, “When done properly, the actual act of sex does not need to be very long”…meaning when there is real foreplay.  He keeps telling me it will get better.  He will get used to being with me. He is nervous.  And all I keep thinking is “Any man with a dick that does not work should be a PRO at making sure the girl gets hers and the fact that he has not even touched me below the belt  is a HUGE concern”.

He spends the night which is really annoying as I just want to get my toys out and finish myself off (as I AM ovulating and it makes me super horny).

The next day I break up with him.  Over email.  Because I am not going to deal with the tears again.

I tell him it is more than just the sex.  I do not want to be the alpha in my relationship.  I need/want someone who is more sexually adventurous that I am to push me further. And with him I would make all the moves.

And that thought depresses me.

He never answered the email.