Some time ago, I was going to post some blog entries on MySpace dedicated to what I’d learned or not learned about myself from various guys I’d dated. Never finished that project. Barely started it, really. But also I pretty much switched over to Facebook and then Twitter as opposed to using MySpace as my online outlet, so that’s also part of the issue. Then I started this blog. So we shall come full circle and I’ll try to do it here.
So the longest would probably be on Bill, aka Mr. Pussy (not my nickname for him but from a friend, and it works for me). Not because I learned the most. Well, maybe I did, but it just took me awhile to absorb it after subsequent reminder lessons from other guys reinforced the basic bootcamp training, so to speak. I think one of the last times I saw him, I was thinking I needed to do this blog entry as I was driving down the freeway on 805 South, and I thought about how much I still hate him, amazingly. So I look around me at the traffic and lo and behold who do I see but Bill himself in his green Lexus. Since I have this idiot savant-like memory for people’s license plates, I know his immediately, look over, there he is like a spazz on his cell phone, not using a hands-free headset like he’s supposed to by law now. Dork. He never goes that way, he lives in Encinitas so I have no idea why he’s going southbound, but it seems like fate somehow for me to see him right when I’m thinking about how much he fucked up my life. Ironic, isn’t it?
At any rate, let’s begin with the saga of what I learned about myself from Bill, part 1 of a multi-part (TBD) series.
I learned that I deserve better. I deserve better than to be someone’s perpetual “second string” in the gridiron of their sex life, that I deserve better than to be treated like somehow I was an embarrassment who needed to park my car around the corner, lest their ‘primary’ girlfriend see my telltale license plates on my Subaru at the time and get suspicious if she decided to drive by his house after she got off work … not exactly on her way home, which to me counts more as ‘stalking’, but hey, that’s just my humble opinion.
I also learned that while slow, leisurely, spiritual, yadda yadda tantric sex definitely has a time and a place in one’s life, there is also much to be said for just banging it out (forgive the crudeness of phrase) and going to bed, both more or less satisfied in a rough span of, say, 15 minutes or so. I don’t always want to spend 2 hours making love. Frankly, parts get dried out and I get tired. I’m not 18 anymore and I have to get up and go to work the next day. Being able to withhold your ejaculation doesn’t impress me the way you think it should because, well, I’m not a guy. I have no idea what it means to do that, and frankly, it comes off as more masochistic than impressive. Given that I take anti-depressant medications and basically am orgasmic about as often as Halley’s Comet blows through, I don’t really think of orgasms as being something you want to save up for a special occasion. And of course how you felt compelled to tell your other girlfriend about this issue of mine, whereupon she made the charming comment (which you also felt compelled to share with me) of “well, why would you want to have sex with HER, then?”. Nice. You and your tantric girlfriend, with all your cumulative and combined studies on the ecstasy of lovemaking for the sake solely of lovemaking, vs. being the goal-oriented sex the rest of us peons are used to, still couldn’t conceive of why you’d bother to have sex with someone who couldn’t orgasm. Yeah, that served to keep me feeling completely inadequate for several months longer, probably why I stayed with you as long as I did. Like I somehow needed to prove I was as good of a girlfriend as she was. Better yet, better. And you know what? I was better. I still am, and sure as shit I was too good for you.
In my own efforts to learn about tantra and myself, I tried meditation and even had a session with a shamanic healer. That was enlightening. I remember afterward telling you how she emphasized that I needed to work on opening myself up to you sexually and you working with me, being loving and supporting, and naturally I think you proceeded to dump me within less than two weeks after that. I learned through meditation that I missed having a father in my life more than I realized or even acknowledged, and that just once I wanted a Daddy who would have bounced me on his knee and called me his Princess. My parents split up when I was around 5 and I never recall my Dad doing more than watching Walter Cronkite on the evening news and working at the Auto Club. Maybe just once in awhile I wanted a guy who treated me like a Princess, too. Whose love for me was constant, rather some mecurical whim driven by the wind or the tide or by whatever his mood was that day.
For all his faults (and he has many), a subsequent boyfriend (Rich 1) wrote this about me. And I realized he was being pretty damn honest. He usually was. In many ways he was kind of like the little girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead. When he was good, he was very good. When he was bad, he was very, very bad. What I couldn’t handle with him was the perpetual feeling of being the ice cream flavor that gets put back into the freezer when the new flavor of the month comes out. He was like that with women. Always sure that another woman, the perfect one, would come along and he needed to sample it or at least be available to try it. I hope for his sake that someday he does. Or that he finally figures out that perfection exists only in the eyes of the beholder … and that perfect would probably get pretty dull after awhile. Anyway, he wrote me a recommendation once to humor me, a recommendation of me as a girlfriend, not a job reference. I liked it. Here’s how it went:
“Cathy has been a great friend and lover that I would recommend to most every man, except if you are a Republican, narrow minded or just plain stupid. Cathy is extremely generous physically, emotionally and has a knack for knowing what gift or trinket will put a smile on your face. She will also listen to your hairbrained schemes and will politely refrain from telling you what a nut job you really are… Sexually I have yet to find someone who made me feel as fully satisfied as she does. She can stimulate both your mind and body and excels at using toys to bring you to the brink of ecstasy and beyond. In addition, her hot tub and selection of lingerie will make any evening a special experience. Finally, if you are a connoisseur of the feminine form, specifically breasts, then you will appreciate hers as they are truly spectacular (and real). I highly recommend Cathy to the discerning man who is looking for a rare combination of intelligence, passion and looks.”
Can’t say as Mr. Pussy ever wrote anything like that about me. All I ever got to hear from him was repeated episodes of discussing his feelings and dismissals of how my feelings were invalid because they were just my reactions to things. Funny how that logic never applied to him. The first time I started dating someone else (Rich 1), he couldn’t handle it and yet expected me to just placidly go along with his polyamorous lifestyle, as he called it, with his other girlfriend. Hmmm. Wanting our cake and eating it too? I think so. Rich 1 may have had his issues (addressed in a later post) but at least he rarely failed to let me know how much he appreciated me. Maybe not my feelings so much, but at least having me around.
Then there is one of the guys I miss a lot, even though I only got to date him a short time – Steven. Probably far and away one of the best-looking guys I have ever known. Granted, I have a weak spot for dark, thick, wavy or curly hair and dark eyes, just turns me to jello every fucking time. And he has a gorgeous body – not all buffed out to excess, just nicely toned, like he actually uses his muscles rather than them just being there for show. A bit worn around the edges from motorcycle crashes and whatnot only makes him look like a Hispanic/Italian version of Indiana Jones in my book. Funny, smart, eclectic, sarcastic – all works for me. So what did I learn from him?
I learned the way I want a man to look at me when he’s sitting across a table from me. Or anywhere in my vicinity, for that matter. I miss the way Steven would look at me, the cool astonishment of a guy who can’t believe his luck that he’s out with a gorgeous woman like this. That’s how he made me feel, that I was that woman. God, I miss that. I only got to see it on maybe half a dozen occasions, but something like that sticks with you. Thank you, Steven, for the way you looked at me.
I guess I also have him to indirectly thank for suggesting I grow my bangs out, so you could see my eyes better. So now for probably only the 3rd time in 45 years, my bangs are (almost) gone. I’m getting used to the look. Will it last? Dunno. I realized once I could see my forehead clearly again why I always wore bangs, namely because I have a couple of dark birthmarks/scars on my forehead that I always see now and that are a bitch to cover up with makeup. I doubt anyone else notices them as much as I do. I also notice the dent I’m getting above my left eye from frowning or squinting too much, like an indentation in the muscle up there. Granted, it’s the same eye I do my Mr. Spock eyebrow lift impression with, so that’s probably part of the problem. Getting old sucks. Noticing it sucks even more.
More later – this post has been too long in the works, so I just needed to start somewhere.