plenty of fish


There are plenty of fish in the sea as they say …and I should know as I’ve fucked several of them in the past few weeks.

(Yeah, it’s going to be that type of post and I’m that type of girl. And that’s something I don’t even have time to go into so just move along if you’re the type of person who thinks a person’s worth is determined by what the do with their naughty bits.)

I can see how it would seem strange and cold that I put an online profile up looking for “intimate encounters” only a couple of days after Rob took a torch to our relationship and then proceeded to dedicate himself to indifference. THIS IS THE THING. There is very little I can do right now to feel better. I cried. I talked about it. I FELT THE FEELINGS and waited to heal. I continue to do all those things. Meanwhile, I’m unhappy or angry or generally unpleasant AND my confidence is shaken AND I’m tired of all the sympathy that comes with the support I get from the people who love me so I’m avoiding them. That’s where the queue of new, attractive, libidinous gentlemen comes in.

Today I wore a tank top with out another layer of clothing covering my arms. I can’t remember another time, ever, when I’ve done that, despite “accepting” my body.

See, at some point with Rob I stopped feeling so sexy and confident as I had 3 years ago. There was the back stuff, and the unemployment and other self-esteem zapping life stuff. But also there was Rob rarely initiating sex. There was me being unable to remember him ever giving me a compliment. There was me, a few months ago, telling him that I felt insecure, about myself, about everything, and that I needed him to reassure me. There was him failing to do that.

I’ve always been wary of building self-esteem through the eyes of other people, especially men.  But that’s where my confidence had disappeared from. I still knew I was amazing at my job, I still knew I was a caring, loyal person. I knew I was a good friend. ET CETERA.

And I will never believe that Rob was right to be so withholding, that I didn’t deserve more, but somewhere in the depths of my too sensitive bleeding heart, there is that fear. That someone I trusted so much would do so much damage to me…that’s something that I think I will spend a long time recovering from. No matter how much I know myself, no matter what I do, there will be a tiny, loathsome voice that will tell me that I am not lovable.

I am terrified at the thought of actually putting myself out there and dating. Meeting a new person, getting my hopes up, getting disappointed, getting out of awkward social situations, and especially, developing real feelings for someone. If not terrified, then sickened. In no shape or form do I want to even think about a relationship consisting of anything but sex. So, it is so indescribably gratifying to have lots of men see me and want me and to be able to be as superficial and selective as I want to narrow down the pool to the few who I then end up using for immense physical pleasure. Gratifying.

Somehow, in 3 short years, I had forgotten that someone could look at fat nerdy me and find me desirable. That perhaps lots of someones could. And since I remembered, I’ve felt good thinking about it. I’ve felt a little lighter, less burdened by all of the mourning. I’ve felt more love for myself and a whole lot less for the man who I thought I was spending the next 50 years with.

Plus. Good sex. Super fun. When I didn’t feel up to seeing my closest friends and family, I had lots of time on my hands and it was an absolutely fantastic distraction when the alternative would have been me doing nothing but holing up on the couch and watching tv.

So orgasms or no orgasms, I’m glad for the fish. The one that said, “Don’t act like you ain’t sexy” and called me girl as in damn, girl. The one with the huge hands. The one who says sweet things in a thick Jamaican accent. Even the one who experienced uber-premature ejaculation, because at least he was enthusiastic.

I wore a tank top today.