Let's Talk Sex

Over the last year I have had several conversations about my sexual identity, experiences,  wants, desires, fantasies and fears. It has occurred to me that not once have I truly allowed myself to act on these sexual urges. I tamp them down until I become a mass of raging hormones and horniness. And then, like a wave, the urges overwhelm me and I find I have to take matters into my own hands- literally.

Guys are the ones I've had some of the most frank discussions about sex with. I have been open with them regarding my ten plus years of celibacy - not by choice mind you- and my lack of overall experience in bed. They seem to view it as a challenge or they feel sadness for me and make promises they won't or can't keep.

During the last two months I've had two guys offer to buy me a dildo. I kindly refused their offers, probably to their disappointment. I now wonder what the outcome would have been, if I had said yes.

One offered that we could "help each other." Tempting though that seems, we are both worried about how that would impact our relationship and friendship.

Another young man and I enjoyed ourselves one night with some hot and heavy sexting... this one night was the closest to sex I've had in years. It was also strangely fulfilling. Now, after that bit of a tease, I find myself wanting to call him and invite him out and jump him. As I told a friend: "I want to molest that guy. I want to do dirty dirty things to him." Given a chance, I would ravish him and take as much pleasure as I could. Even though he is ten years younger than my thirty-four years, I would throw myself at him.

So, what holds me back?  Fear. Fear that I would not be pleasing to a man. Fear that I could not find pleasure in a one night stand, and would be guilty or regretful. Fear of diseases or violence or subjugation.  It is time for me to overcome these fears. The question is, how can I push past these fears and who should I choose to help?

Unfinished: Mindrift

This is a post that I began back in February right before I stopped writing.  I feel that I should post it, so I'm gonna:


On Friday night, I was feeling better. Still tired and a bit rundown and dehydrated, but well enough to head out to a bar with my friend Matt. He had invited me to the bar to see a friend/colleague of ours, Sean, play in his band, Mindrift. The gig was supposed to start at 10, but we got there at about 9:15.  I'm glad we did because the tables in front of the stage filled up quite quickly. 

We ordered drinks and watched the band do their sound check, checked out Sean's butt as often as we could, chatted and generally waited around. Another colleague, Cathie, showed up and joined us.

After about a half hour, Sean came over and greeted us. He have me a hug and Oh My God did he smell good!  It was good to see him again, I hadn't seen him since May. We chatted.

Sean left and prepared to be awesome.

The world is a better place

Soon after my last post I began to feel horrible about "life, the universe, and everything."

I would head out with friends and would become so fed up with them and irritated by them after only an hour or so.  I began to hate everything and not care about things that I usually loved.

I no longer wanted to do anything except stay in bed all day.  Even spending time with my nephew, whom I love dearly, was a chore. I stopped writing this blog.  I just didn't care about anything.

For a while, a week or two, I was able to fake enjoyment. Put on a bright smile, laugh, giggle, squee and create a sense of enjoyment. But every time I looked at myself in the mirror, that bright personality shattered.  My eyes looked dead, soulless, vacant. I looked and felt like a zombie.

The end came when I spent a day with my three closest girlfriends; they are more like sisters to me than friends. We went shopping, something I usually enjoyed. As we wandered around the stores, I became more and more discontented and angry. Not at them, but at myself.  I knew that something was wrong with me. Every time one of them laughed I would become so jealous and envious, and angry.  Why the hell couldn't I feel that joy I used to feel at just being alive, why couldn't I feel that happiness, that vigor, that pull in life that  in the past had kept me wanting to do more and more?

Moments after they dropped me off at home, I began to cry; I bawled. And then I did the smartest thing: I called my doctor.

"I think I am depressed," I said to her, "I just don't feel right, I don't seem to care. I feel like I hate my friends, and that isn't me."

"That isn't a big surprise. You've been through a lot in the last year," she replied kindly, "Also, some of your medications can cause depression.  I'm actually surprised it took this long to become apparent. Come in on Monday, and we will get you started on an antidepressant."

Monday came, I went in to see her. I started taking the antidepressant.  At first, every time I took the pill, there would be sparkles in my brain and flashes of light in my vision- like glitter. Within a week I felt better. After two weeks I felt human.  Now, three months later, I feel amazing.  I have such drive for life and excitement for even the small things.  Oh, and I'm writing again.  The world is now a better place for me.