New post, Cole:

Hola a todos!  I hope everyone is doing well. 

If you read last week’s post, you will recall that I have decided to take a thirty-day (perhaps plus) hiatus from the Rapist.  If you’ve been reading my posts from the beginning, you will know that this is not something anywhere near easy for me, so I’ve decided to seduce myself into making the task at hand a little bit more bearable.

 Following in the footsteps of the beautiful Wednesday Addams, Marge’s middle daughter, I figured a little “retail therapy” might lessen the brutal blow of going without sex or communication of any sort with the Rapist, and soothe my pangs of sexual withdraws and verbal anorexia. 

People who know me very well know that I have several vices, and not only am I fine with them; I embrace them like children of my very own.  The most obvious of them are liquor, sex, nicotine, and bacon, but the ones few people know about are my unhealthy obsession with lingerie, literature, and stationary, with perfume falling shortly behind.  Liquor, sex, nicotine and savory foods are never really further than an arm’s reach away, and in fact I do make a point to read for an hour or so in bed, (at the least) before I go to sleep every night, but nice, quality lingerie and a few written words, the “old fashioned” way, on nice stationary, elude me more often than I would like to admit.

Don’t get me wrong.  I have drawers upon drawers of incredible lingerie, from Victoria’s Secret to La Perla and everything in-between, but due to the fact that I am a construction worker and come home filthy from head to toe, I am in no way willing to wear a two hundred dollar bra to work that I know will end up forever stained or even worse, as happened a month or so back, with a hole burnt through it because the red hot nail tip I was grinding off fell down my shirt, into my bra, and not only burned a hole through my shirt and bra, it also burned my precious right breast, and has left me with a scar that will most likely never fade.  And I’m ok with that.  Scars, as with variety, add a little spice to life, and I would be far unhappier without scars than with them, I’m just saying the opportunity to wear this incredible lingerie is tragically rare…

So, back to my vices.  As many of you know, Marge and I went to Las Vegas for my “thirty, nerdy, inked and dirty”.  Vegas isn’t exactly Marge’s “thing”, but I think that we both did a few things that we enjoyed immensely while we were there, some of them we have mentioned, others we have kept private because neither of us wants to “incriminate” ourselves.  I suppose I should get to the point…

     On the actual day of my 30’th birthday, once the sun went down, we wanted to go “drunken lingerie shopping”.  For some reason this was something we had agreed upon before we even left for Vegas.  What can I say?  We’re just weird (and also AWESOME) like that.  Well my vices are difficult enough to try to keep sedated in our tranquil little town on the central coast of California, but in Vegas my self control button tends to get stuck, especially if it’s my birthday, and an epic one at that.

 

     We had been drinking all day beside the pool at Caesar’s Palace, myself more than Marge, because liquor is my vice, not hers, and I had quite a healthy buzz on by the time we left to do our shopping.  As a matter of fact, my buzz was so warming and comforting, that I didn’t even bother to glance at the price tags of the insanely hot and sexy lingerie I was trying to purchase at Agent Provocateur, and you could not imagine the shock I received when my bank card was declined when I went to pay out, and while I was trying to sort things out with the cashier, not thirty seconds later my bank called, trying to verify if indeed I had just tried to make a two thousand dollar purchase at a lingerie store in Vegas, or if my card had been stolen. 

     I swear to you right now, if any liquid had been in my mouth at that moment in time, I would have spewed it all over the lovely cashiers in front of me. 

     I thought it was a mistake.  Two bras, two pairs of panties, and a garter belt totaled to over two thousand dollars?  It seemed outrageous to me, and it was, but one set in particular I wanted to get, all black, bra, panties, garter belt, so bondage, with its crisscross of fabric, straps, and everything so appropriately placed.  I felt like I was kissing my lingerie soul mate goodbye that day when I had to walk away, defeated.  But before you shed a tear for me, just know that I have shed enough for myself over that loss, and about a week ago I decided I would cry no more, fore I ordered the exact same setup for myself, online, and it came in the mail just the other day.  I tried it on, to make sure that it fit, and just as I had remembered it, it fit like a kinky, S&M inspired glove!  It’s the type of getup that goes hand in hand with whips and handcuffs, ball gags and a leather leash and collar.  In short, it was everything I dreamed it could be and more…

     Now, you must understand, there are two reasons I enjoy quality lingerie.  The first and primary reason I enjoy it is to make myself feel sexy.  It doesn’t matter if what I am wearing above it is a haggard pair of Dickie’s and a wife beater, or if I am wearing it somewhere that no one would suspect that what I had on underneath would make them cum in their pants, the fact that I know what is going on under my clothes makes me feel more amazing than if I was wearing Hanes men’s white briefs and a sports bra.

     The second reason I would wear such decadent undergarments, is of course, if I was wearing them for a man I felt deserved to see me in such an extravagant getup, and who would appreciate it as much as I.  I may or may not have mentioned in previous posts, I think I should have been able to live the life I live in now in the era of the roaring 20’s in Paris, all pearls, heels, lingerie, silk stockings, dresses, perfume, and the excitement and passion that pulsed through the arteries of that time.  

     Anyway, I stayed true to myself when I made this rather extravagant purchase because primarily, I bought the lingerie for myself, but if the Rapist behaves the way I hope he does, it will be a little present for himself as well, because the man does love it when I go all out for him, and I think he will especially like the latest number I got.  Just before I stopped talking to him I told him I was lingerie shopping.  I alluded to the fact that it was pretty kinky, S&M inspired attire, and that I was hoping one day I could wear it for him, handcuffed.  Hopefully that image is branded into the crevices of his brain and he falters before I do…

     And the last of my vices, the stationary, well, I have plenty, and all it’s doing is sitting in my file cabinet collecting more and more dust as time passes and I do not write anyone a letter, so I thought of an idea.  Just because I’m not communicating with Rapist doesn’t mean that I can’t write to him, it just means I can’t send what I write, at least not yet.  Primarily, Rapist and I text, email, and speak on the phone, and as he says, I have written him some truly beautiful emails, but how lame is that, when you really think about it?  Is that progress?  If it is, I find it incredibly depressing!  So now, when we get older and we want to show our grandchildren the beautiful collection of love letters our suitors have sent us we have to boot up our computers as apposed to fishing an old shoe box full of beautifully scented letters from the attic?  Maybe it’s just me, but I think that’s tragic.  So I’m thinking of temporarily replacing the vice of sex with the vice of writing the Rapist, whenever I feel so inclined, a beautiful letter, expressing how I feel about him and our current situation, on lovely stationary, scent it with my perfume, but instead of sending it I will hold onto it.  That way, if things work out, he can read them later. 

     Much like this blog, writing to him will be cathartic for me, because I really do miss it.  I used to write him an email every night before I went to bed, when I knew he was working, so that he would have a few lovely words to read when he woke up in the morning.  Just a little something to let him know that I was thinking about him, and something that would cheer him up when he got to work and checked his email.  He has told several times how much he looks forward to reading my morning emails, and whenever I am too busy, and there isn’t one waiting for him, he gets so disappointed.  Writing a love letter as apposed to a love email is more meaningful, in my opinion, I can use it as a bit of a crutch for myself, and in addition to that, I just straight don’t trust myself to write him and email and NOT send it, or even just press send out of habit.  

    

Damn.  I miss him.  And I hate myself for missing him…

  

As another week slowly rolls by, I can’t help but wonder why the Rapist and I even got together in the first place, and how I allowed myself fall in love with him.  Sure, in the beginning, it was because I was horny and he was there, but so were several other guys, other options I could have chosen from, but I just had to choose him.  Like him, the danger of it appealed to me.  It appealed to me because it was “wrong” to screw someone in the same department as my ex, according to society, and the thought that I might get away with something naughty and taboo enticed me. 

The first time I became aware of Rapist’s presence, I was offended at the way he spoke to me, with such unwarranted familiarity, such blatant, overt desire.  The way he undressed me with his eyes was anything but discreet.  I had no idea who he was, yet he knew me, knew who I was, what my name was, and he would call me out, by my name, and find any way to tease me in some silly way or another.  I remember the first time he did it.  I was completely taken off guard.  I thought to myself “who in the fuck is this guy, how does he know my name, and where does he get off, speaking to me as if we know each other?”  In short, I wondered who in the fuck he thought he was.  In the end, he turned out to be just the man I wanted him to be (in the sack), but only because I “trained” him. 

     The first time he actually “bothered” me (after several run ins and exchanges) was when I was in the Radiological controlled unit of my work.  Before Sedouche fucked me out of a job because I wouldn’t fuck him, I worked both in the RCA (radiological control Area) in the protected area of the nuclear power plant, and also outside of it, doing HAZMAT.  It was not unusual for me to need to go in and out of the RCA, to tend to a pending job that I was qualified to carry out, and others on my crew were not. 

So, not to get all nuclear nerd, but in order to better understand the unsavory situation at hand, I must explain something.  When one enters the RCA, one needs to wear a device that measures the amount of radiation one will receive while in an area that may or may not emit a certain amount of radiation.  This device is called a PED.  In the industry, when entering the RCA we call it “pedding in”, and when exiting the RCA we call it “pedding out”.  So, that fateful day, I had needed to rush out of the RCA to tend to another job, and though I left the RCA, I forgot to PED out.  I did whatever it was that needed to be done, and in trying to PED back into the RCA, the computer refused me.

     It only took me a moment to realize that I was already Pedded in, which was why the computer had rejected me, but while I was in the midst of figuring this out, the Rapist was exiting the RCA.  When I realized my silly mistake, and was expressing it to the person who watched people exiting and entering the RCA, the Rapist didn’t hesitate to jump right in and engage me in conversation, to tease me being silly and having forgotten that I was already pedded in.  He never hesitated.  He was on me like flies on dog shit, always had been. 

    

That was the first time that I was aware that he wanted to fuck me, but at the time I was more offended (I’m using the word lightly) than intrigued.  You must understand, and I know that Marge can relate, being one of the few women in the field, working in the male dominated industry of a nuclear power, women receive a lot of attention.  I never took kindly to any man speaking to me on a familiar level if they did not know me personally.  I found it rude, and I did not appreciate it.

     It only took a few more run-ins with him for me to decide that he would be a perfect, casual fuck.  Primarily, I knew since he was in the same department as my ex, Martychist, that he would keep his mouth shut, in order to not alienate himself at work. 

I was sure he would be down, yet at the same time I was hesitant.  It was a potentially dangerous situation, and I was dubious.  I knew he would keep his mouth shut if we fucked, but what if I was wrong about him?  What if he was in a relationship situation?  What if, like so many others, he had taken Martychist’s side, or he was loyal to his fellow “nuclear operator brothers”?  What if I came onto him and he actually wasn’t “down”, as I had believed him to be, and he was just a lecherous flirt?  I could get fired for coming onto someone at work.  Sexual harassment is not taken lightly (aside from in my case, with Sedouche, of course).  I wasn’t willing to risk my job just to get laid, so I decided to play it safe.

     I saw him one last time before I made my decision.  I hadn’t gotten laid in so long and I was horny to the point of distraction.  A nuclear power plant is no place to be distracted, so I knew I was going to have to do something soon!  I was pedding into the RCA, and he was about to, but went into the men’s room first.  It was a rare, brutally hot day.  I was wearing black Dickie’s, as usual, and a white men’s Hanes t-shirt, my sleeve’s rolled up, due to the heat.  It was another of those days that I needed to run in and out of the RCA and the protected area, and I was dripping with sweat.  The rapist and I exchanged a few words as we collided simultaneously in the hallway.  As I turned left to grab a PED, the rapist went straight into the men’s room.  As we ended our conversation and parted ways, I could feel his eyes upon me.  He simply could not look away.  It was at that moment I knew I had him, and I decided that the next time I was alone with him I would make my move.  What I wanted to do was walk up to him, slam him against the wall and start making out with him, but I figured a more discrete approach would be better, in case my advances were not reciprocated.

It only took me another week to catch him alone.  He was on break in the training building.  I was on my way out to the hazardous waste facility when I got a page.  I went into the training building and began searching for an available phone, and there he was, sitting in a chair in one of the offices.  I didn’t even see him at first, but he saw me, and he chastised me for not saying hello to him.  I had a lolly pop in my mouth.  I offered one to him and asked him where the nearest phone was.  I took off my hideous, bulky jacket, left it on the chair next to him so that I would have to return and fetch it, and I returned the page.  A co-worker told me that I needed to pick up a truck driver in one of several parking lots.  I came back to get my jacket.  He couldn’t wipe this gigantic grin off his face that made me want to sock him in the face and hop on his cock at the same time.

It’s difficult to explain, but there was just something about him that I couldn’t resist.  He made me angry, yet I was drawn to him, and the angrier he made me the more intrigued I became.  I guess if I had to describe it in one word, the word would be chemistry.  Chemistry is something that comes naturally and cannot be forced nor denied.  You can feel it buzzing around you like static electricity.  I invited him over for a “beer”.  It only took him three or four days to make that “beer” happen.  We’ve been “drinking beer” together since Easter of 2012…     

(Cole):

     So, I decided to take Marge’s advice and take a little break from the Rapist.  She is right, actions speak louder than words, so I’m giving him an acrid little taste of missing me.  She talked me out of thinking of it as a game, as using sex as a weapon, because it really isn’t the same, or as she so eloquently worded it:  

“It is not using sex as a weapon. Sex as a weapon, women don't really want to have sex. They don't want to be intimate with the other person. You are using YOU as a weapon. He gets NONE of you.

I have told you and YOU KNOW I AM RIGHT, as long as he has ANY of you... your humor, your battles, his tongue up your ass, makes you orgasm just by looking at you, whatever the fuck... HE OWNS YOU!”

     The woman can be very persuasive!  And in the long ranting email she sent me in response to the first draft of my last post, she brought up several points that I just couldn’t argue with.  Rapist and I have spoken several times about how lovely it would be to “go public”, but that’s all we do.  Talk.  I don’t want to talk about it anymore, I just want to do it, but in order to succeed, I can’t exactly tell him what I’m doing, or he’ll just wait out the thirty excruciating days and on day 31 everything will go back to normal.  Well I am not a big fan of anything “normal”, and I am no longer a big fan of what our year-and-a-half relationship has turned into.  So I told him that I wouldn’t speak to him again until he is ready to take our stock public.  The last time I spoke to him was Thursday October tenth, and I’m still going strong, which is somewhat surprising to me.

     In the entire time we have been seeing each other, the longest we have ever gone without speaking is two weeks, and I was the one who caved.  I’m almost always the one who caves, unless it’s him just rolling up to Shanghai me because he knows damn well I can’t say no to him when he’s standing right in front of me, but this time I have a plan…

His favorite days to kamikaze are Wednesdays and Sundays.  Wednesdays I’m at work, Sundays I’m drinking bellini’s and watching the Raiders game.  He knows he has a better chance of coercing me on a Sunday, because like most unmarried people, when I get a little buzz on, I get horny as fuck!  He knocks on the door, I see him standing there, I “wet” myself, throw on a pair of shoes and I’m out the door.  He doesn’t even need to kiss me, let alone open his mouth to convince me, I am just ready, can’t say ‘no’, or as Marge says, “I start thinking with my vagina”. 

     Wednesdays will be a little more difficult for him, because I can just lock myself in the house I’m working on and turn the music already blasting in my headphones up to full blast, or just turn the air compressor on and ignore him, no eye contact, nothing.  And Wednesdays are made even easier for me to avoid him because, since he is an operator, like my ex, Martychist, I can easily predict which particular Wednesdays he will be working, because like all operators, his schedule is a five week rotation that always stays the same (aside from vacation days, of course).  If it is a Wednesday that I know he will be working, I don’t have to worry.  If it is a Wednesday that I know he is off, I will take precautions, or else just ask for the day off and disappear.  And luckily for me, Marge, my partner in crime, is off on Sundays, so if he shows up at the house I have no doubt she will chase him away with a stick, or else her shotgun, or maybe even hose him down with the garden hose!  Who knows?  All I know is that Marge is crafty, and tenacious, and she will stop at nothing to “protect” me, both from myself, and from the Rapist.       

So, as I said, we rarely go without speaking to each other, unless we are arguing.  Our biggest arguments are derived from me telling him that I am seeing someone else, someone who wants to be seen with me in public.  This is where the arguments begin, and we have never argued over anything other than his jealousy, or my frustration over our “situation”.  First, because he obviously doesn’t want to share me with another man, and second, because he WANTS to be seen with me in public, go out and party with me, go to brunch, etc, but something is still holding him back.  In a way, I think he still likes the thrill of the possibility of getting caught, of being discovered, found out, however you want to put it, because sometimes the man is far from discrete.   

Let’s see…

First, There is the fact that the Rapist just recently drove my car for the first time, as he has wanted to do for so long (and I am always in his truck, but his truck is just like every other truck out there).  My car, on the other hand, is far from inconspicuous, and to make it even less so, there is my personalized license plate, CHIEUSE (French translation doesn’t exactly exist in English).  A ton of people that work at the power plant live in the town I live in, so if you want to remain anonymous, or fly under the radar, you don’t go cruising around behind the wheel of the Porsche S.U.V. of your “secret girlfriend”.  He was more than happy to drive “Juicy”, as he calls her (unfortunately his nickname stuck, because that’s what I call her now too), since he can’t pronounce “chieuse”, so I threw him the keys and we hit the town running.

 

     (At this point, I no longer care about my reputation or his reputation.  I no longer need to protect my ex, though I have no doubt he would still flip out if he knew I was seeing someone in his department, especially the Rapist, despite the fact that he is re-married and has a child.  One thing I’m sure of, even if he isn’t entirely, emotionally ready to move on, he damn well better act like it!  Not just for the sake of his third marriage, but for the sake of his child as well.  The last thing he needs right now is another meltdown at work, at my bosses, at his bosses, or at the Rapist.  He needs to just chill out, or at least act like he’s chill, to save face.) 

     Then there was the time very early on, when my tumultuous work situation was about to go down, when Sedouche was stalking and threatening me (for more information on this go to my very first posts, or even just to jog your memory), and I wrote the Rapist an email saying that Sedouche had found out who he was by “intranet” stalking him, and that we couldn’t see each other anymore or we would get caught.  He wrote me back and said point blank: 

“We're not done!       Who cares if some douche bag is talking anyways? Us not seeing each other is not going to stop that. If you don't want to see me anymore just tell me. But to stop because this guy is talking is not a good reason!”

         There is the fact that he knows that Wednesday Addams knows who he is, what he looks like, what his real name is, and is dating the son of someone on Rapist’s crew at work.  I would say that Wednesday is certainly “wise” and mature beyond her years, but that doesn’t change the fact that she is a teenager, and the subject might come up, making our six degrees of separation, that already started out as more like one degree of separation, go down to tiny decimal points…

And I have several other examples.  Suffice to say, he is aware of all of these things, and he simply does not care.  So who knows?  Maybe he is just waiting to get caught, and the thought of it works as an aphrodisiac.    

     Right now I imagine he is treating our current situation like a game, which I guess in a way it sort of is.  He is kicking back, waiting for me to cave again, as I always have before.  He knows the extreme anxiety I get when we are angry at each other and not speaking, and he is using that knowledge to his advantage.  The thing he doesn’t know, is that this time, his cockiness is not working to his advantage and in fact, it’s working against him. 

     He tried and tried to get a hold of me the first few days into what I call “Marge’s thirty-day challenge”, but I stayed strong, did not answer the phone, and did not respond to text messages.  Now he’s in the ‘two can play that game’ phase, and he is ignoring me right back.  Knowing that he is probably snickering to himself at work, thinking, knowing, that at any minute I will give him a page, a call, or text him, apologize for having feelings, and forgive him for being an obtuse asshole, is, for some odd reason, not filling me with anxiety this time, it’s fucking pissing me off, which helps a little bit every day to renew my convictions and stay strong for a minimum of thirty days, if not longer.  It’s been a week and I am anxiety free and going strong.  I’ve also been reading a lot and staying busy, but that’s beside the point.  

     The other thing he has working to his advantage is my “brain penis”, and just recently he has begun to notice even more little nuances and eccentricities that he says makes me “like a guy”, or at least more so than most women, most noticeably in issues involving sex.  The last time we fucked he commented that he knows he has given a particularly noteworthy performance because afterward, instead of slapping him repeatedly in the face or teasing him over some random little thing, I just roll over, close my eyes, and take a catnap, unwilling to move or even speak for a good ten minutes.  Like a man, sex is my weakness, and he damn well knows it.  He knows that the longer we go without speaking or fucking, it isn’t just he who will suffer, I will suffer as well, so it all comes down to who can hold out the longest.  I might need to get some batteries, because I want to “win” this time, damnit! Marge says I’m a bigger man than he is anyway.  I guess this time we’ll see…        

The last thing he has going in his favor is that it’s times like these that piss me off and invigorate me the most.  The times when I know we are so pissed off at one another we want to rip the other’s face off, and then their clothes, and hate fuck each other into oblivion!  It seems as if, when we are the most pissed off at the other, that we collide with such violent passion.  We begin with arguments and end with epic orgasms.  Nothing resolved aside from knowing that we hate each other as much as we love each other.      

               

     I think, or I guess I am hoping, that it will go something like this:  The first week, he tries to get a hold of me several times and then pouts like a bitch (which I have already proven to be a correct assessment, because that what he has done).  The second week he is laughing, thinking that I am going to cave at any minute.  The third week he starts wondering just what in the hell is going on, and by the end of the fourth week he will either submit to my terms or at the very least be willing to negotiate.  Who knows?  Maybe I’ll make it five weeks, or even six.  Maybe at the end of 30 days I will be so disappointed in him that I won’t even want him anymore.  Maybe my “empty threat” of not speaking to him anymore until he is ready to take it to the next level won’t turn out to be so empty after all.  Maybe my vision will become a reality, no longer a theory put to the test but a truth, the truth being I am no longer willing to waste another minute of my life with a man who is content to live his life on cruise control as apposed to stomping on the gas and taking the risk of getting a speeding ticket, because the temptation and exhilaration of acceleration is too enticing to resist, because life is too short to waste playing it safe all the time, because relationships are investments and with every investment there is some level of risk involved, and that sometimes it’s worth it to gamble because sometimes people do get lucky.  

The thing is that I’m not sure I want to waste my time with someone who isn’t courageous enough to take risks from time to time.  Go big or go home.  My life has been a serious of risks, of chasing dreams, of aspiring to do anything and everything I wanted.  And yeah, I fucking struggled, and sometimes some shit has blown up in my face big time, but I’m still alive, functioning, happy, and ready to take yet another risk.  I’ve hurt others and I’ve been hurt myself, but if it’s true what they say, that what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, how will you ever get stronger if all you do is hide under your blanket to protect yourself from failing or getting hurt, either physically or emotionally?  Maybe Marge is right.  Maybe I do have bigger balls, and the Rapist is nothing more than a coward, scared to live a life full of passion, ambiguity, of the possibility of having to suffer through the disappointments that make the successes all the more sweet because you had to suffer through the cold, harsh valleys alone in the dark before you could truly appreciate the sweet nectar of sunshine and success that awaits you on the peaks.

Is Rapist a coward?  Will he disappoint me for the last time, or will he reach between his legs, remember that he has balls, and realize that he wants to try a life of passion with me on for size?  At this point, it’s too early for me to tell, so in the meantime, I’m just waiting, hoping that my thirty days of nothingness will eventually provide me with something, because the thing is, I want to be with someone who is willing to fight for me, not someone who is content to just let me slip away and then swallow the bitter pill of regret later.  I want to be with someone who feels like the passion and chemistry we have between us is something rare, and special, and that a life without that kind of passion is not a life worth living…

(Cole):

     So I’ve decided to make some healthy changes in my life.  Just because I turned thirty over a month ago doesn’t mean that ship has sailed.  Better late than never, right?  I still haven’t quit smoking, but I’m going to, and hey, at least I’m thinking about it!

     I wake up every morning and drink three or four glasses of water before I leave for work, and I make sure I drink plenty throughout the remainder of the day.  I’m making a conscious effort to go to the market more frequently and only buy a few fresh, organic (when I can find it) ingredients to last me only a day or two, like I used to do when I was living in Europe.  A few fresh, choice ingredients, eating plenty of fruits and veggies, with a knife and a fork, a nice glass of red wine, a good book in hand.  That was the way I used to eat, before my life fell apart, in a way…

     I’ve also started brushing up on my Spanish, because it is seriously lacking, in comparison to my French, and if I want to start learning Italian in the near future, my Spanish needs some serious improvement.  So when I come home from work, before I go to bed, I do my best to study a verb tense that I should be more familiar with, and to learn five new vocabulary words. That, and I listen to Rosetta Stone for Spanish (Spain Spanish, apposed to Mexican Spanish.  There is a differnce!) at work for an hour, when I’m alone.  The CD I have is the one I got before I left to live in Barcelona for six months, so it’s a little simple, but repetition is key, and there is nothing wrong with brushing up on the basics.  Which reminds me…  My ex-lover from Spain has contacted me a few times, since my birthday (we have always stayed in touch, since I left Spain, December of 2011), just to say “hola”, catch up, etc.  I should write him back.  He doesn’t speak English, and nothing assists with brushing up on one’s language skills like communicating with a native speaker, right??? 

     Oh the tangled webs we weave.  Where is my head this week?  Well, fortunately it was in the ceiling of a kitchen and a bathroom, busy installing insulation in preparation for drywall installation, otherwise, I might be too busy stressing/obsessing over personal problems to function as a sane, rational human being. 

     Where do I begin?  Well, there is the text I received from the Giant, whom I hadn’t heard from for almost two weeks:

“God dammit MO!!!  I tried and tried to forget you!!  But alas… I could not!  I miss you and that sweet li’l wicked smile!  I am sorry for being a jerk… I was just being greedy and wanting more time with you! Forgive me?”

     My first instinct, fucked up, rude, and sarcastic as I may be, was to write back “Hey, so glad to hear you’re alive and well.  I haven’t checked the obits in a while…”

     Instead, I responded with silence, until the following morning.  I didn’t want to say anything at all, and in fact I wanted to ignore him altogether, but you see, I really do have a heart, and so the following day, around noon, I responded with this, and it’s sooooooo “accommodating” to his precarious emotional state that it even makes me ill, but at least it was nice, and hopefully made him feel nice too:

“Nothing to forgive.  We’re just in very different places in our lives right now.  At this moment in time, work consumes me.  My future is still uncertain, which is frightening yet exhilarating at the same time.  I need to be in a more stable, giving, and selfless place before I start dating seriously.  You helped me to understand that, and for that I thank you...”

     Not only was it cloyingly sweet, it was true as well.  I’m too busy to give any unencumbered bit of my free time to someone who does not only not stir my loins, but does not tickle my funny bone either.  What can I say?  He just isn’t funny, never made me laugh, and laughter is very important to me.  I refuse to date someone who doesn’t either make me laugh or make me horny, and to not do both is a definite no no.  After all, I’m not my ex-husband.  I’m not going to settle for someone just because they are there.  I have standards, for fuck sake! 

     And speaking of my ex, Martychist, Rapist told me just the other day that he is re-married (marriage number three, mind you) and has a newborn daughter.  Keep in mind this is the same man who not nine months ago had a meltdown at work and made a scene, throwing a little temper tantrum and yelling at my bosses about me.  Nine months ago…

So, we have been divorced a little over a year (the actual, official date is August 31’s, my birthday.  Double whammy happy birthday points for me, and not one but two reasons to celebrate!), and he is already re-married and has a kid.  That means when he had his little melt down at work he was most likely already engaged, and possibly knew that his now wife was knocked up.  I am happy for the man that he now has a family, something he always wanted with me and something I was unwilling to create with him, but it doesn’t sound to me, or to anyone else I’ve spoken to about the situation, that he is or was emotionally ready for this gigantic leap.  In a way, I feel sorry for him.  I wish him the best, I really do, and I am glad he found someone who wanted to have a family with him.  If he is truly happy, then I am happy for him, and I hope that he didn’t rush too quickly into something that he wasn’t mentally ready for or capable of handling.  Who knows?  Maybe the third time really is charm!

     I didn’t really care enough to ask whether or not Martychist was remarried when I first heard the rumors, but Marge said to ask Rapist so we could start taking bets to see how quickly he would get divorced for the third time.  When Rapist spilled the beans about the child, I laughed and said ‘well the kid sealed the deal.  They’re basically trapped now!’  We got a good laugh out of that, and then he told me that Martychist got fat and looks like shit.  Not necessarily things I take pleasure in hearing, but they don’t make me feel bad either!  Hell, if he’s happy, that’s all that matters. 

     So let’s see…  What’s new with me?  Nothing.  Nothing at all.  I’m still playing the same pingpong game inside my head.  Happy with Rapist.  Not happy with Rapist.  Fine with how things are.  Not fine with how things are.  But one thing remains the same.  The sex is always epic, passionate, hot, sweaty, numerous positions, violent kissing, groping, moaning, grunting and, for me at least, multiple orgasms… 

So how do you say ‘no’ to the person standing right in front of you when that person knows every single button to press to give you pleasure, and when to push it, and with how much force, and for how long?  Marge says the only way I am going to get what I want from him is to stop putting out, and in addition to that, straight up stop talking to him for thirty days.  She says that then, and only then, after he goes thirty excruciating days of realizing just how much he misses having me in his life, will he finally submit to my very reasonable terms.  I understand that she is probably right, but to me it seems like using sex as a weapon, and I HATE when women do that! 

Take out the trash or I won’t have sex with you.  Take me out to dinner for Valentine’s day or I won’t have sex with you.  Fuck, you know the routine.  And the thing is, I know that what Marge is suggesting is a different thing, I just don’t like the thought of it… 

First off, if I stop having sex with him, I won’t be getting laid either, and that would be a HUGE problem for me.  Let’s not forget that the only reason the Rapist and I started fucking in the first place was because I was recently separated from Martychist, had moved out of our house and into another town, was in the middle of an outage working 72 hours a week, and I just wanted to get fucked.  Shit, if I had had the time and energy, I would never have propositioned someone working at the power plant!  How does that saying go again?  You don’t play with your meat where you make you make your dough? 

But… I was lazy, tired, and horny.  Do I really need better reasons? 

Second, I would really, really miss him.  And third, I don’t want to have to manipulate the guy to get him to “submit” to my terms.  I just want him to want to.  And it isn’t that he doesn’t want to be with me.  I know he does.  I can see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice, and feel it in his touch.  I know by the way he picks up the latest beer or scotch I have been drinking so he can try it, and, as he says, “feel like he’s bonding with me”, even when I’m not around.  I know he wants it by the way he’ll check out a book from the library that he knows I love, or sample a dish he’s never tried before because he knows I like it. 

Martychist was like that too, but the difference is this:  Martychist blindly loved and agreed with everything I loved.  My favorite author was suddenly the “best novelist we had in our personal library” and everything I said was basically as good as the word of God.  With Rapist, if he isn’t thrilled with a book, or prefers one of his favorite beers to one of mine, he has no problem telling me.  That, and I would be willing to bet money that if Rapist ever tried to read the newspaper over my shoulder I would only have to send him one brief, satanic, murderous glance and he would never attempt to do it again, unless it was a joke to provoke me, as a from of foreplay.  And, I’m sure he is not so needy and wimpy as Martychist that he would have to follow me around like a puppy dog in the morning, when all I want to do is drink my coffee, check my email, read the news, and take a shit before being expected to behave in any sort of civilized manner with another member of the human species.  My one hour to myself in the morning is sacred, and probably not something I will ever be able to do without.  It’s like Martychist always told me, I was born old.  So, maybe I was.  All the more reason to leave me the fuck alone in the morning, because some of us geezers can be quite vicious!

     So there’s all those reasons, and then, how do I begin to just stop talking to someone who makes my palms sweat, my heart beat, and my clit throb?  I obviously can’t explain it to him, or he would think I was just being a manipulative bitch playing a stupid game.  Do I just straight up stop talking to him, no explanation, nothing?  I don’t want him to think I’ve found someone else.  I don’t want anyone else.  All I really want to do is prove a point, and thus far, words have been an inadequate form of negotiation. 

Who knows?  Maybe words won’t get through to him.  Maybe he needs something more convincing, more forceful, than a sentence that I can spew with such conviction over the phone, yet when he is there right in front of me, touching me, kissing me, stroking my hair, kissing my forehead, looking into my eyes…

You get the point.  The thing is, that in depriving him, I am also depriving myself, and let’s not forget that more often than not, I behave and think more like a guy than a chick, and even Rapist has discovered this to be true.  That’s probably why he knows that sex is my weakness, my Kryptonite.  Hell, if sex wasn’t so important to me, I might very well still be married to Martychist and I would never be in this situation in the first place! (Not really.  Ick!)

     So, in a way, Marge is right.  I should either “accept things as they are, or play hardball, in order to provoke the changes I desire.”  In her experienced opinion, the only way to get what I want is to make him suffer, for lack of a better word.  But is that “fair”?  Is that true sportsmanship, or is it akin to planting an apple tree in your backyard to coerce the deer over before you shoot it in-between the eyes?  I would never kick someone while they were down, or sucker punch them, so is it too much to expect that I can win this fight in a proper manner, or must I resort to manipulation tactics, the definitive and fatal thing that ultimately drove me away from the Giant?  If I’m going to fight at all, shouldn’t I fight fair, even if my sane and rational tactics have thus far gained me little ground, if any? Is it all really fair in love and war or are some “hits” below the proverbial belt?  Can I use every weapon in my arsenal, even if some are illegal in the state of California, or do we lay our weapons down and fight this one out with our bare fists?  Should I slap him in the face and challenge him to a duel (that certainly sounds like a whole lot of fun!), or study my “enemies’ lines” and creep in while he’s sleeping so he never even saw me coming?  It’s funny.  As women, Disney conditions us to believe we are princesses awaiting rescue, and no matter how long we may sleep, a prince will come and rescue me.  Well you know what?  I have slept twelve hours a day, when my schedule permitted it, and the only thing that woke me up was a full bladder and an aching back.  Disney never prepared me for this type of situation.  Thanks a lot, Disney, and by the way, FUCK YOU!

     The thing is, fairytales and happy endings do not exist (except in Asian foot massage establishments).  They are the lies we are told as children to give us hope, because without hope, if we knew the way things would really turn out, we wouldn’t have the courage to go on living…