I am dictating this post as I walk down the street, following a deeply unsuccessful and unsatisfying date. Please forgive typos. I’ve tried to clean it up, but I’ve done so while walking, and at least a few sheets to the wind.
The date, and the woman with whom I had the date, have left me reeling. Were I sane, I never would have gone on this date. I had more than enough information to know that nothing good could possibly come of any interaction with this woman. And yet, today, I tried, for a second time, to place my cock in her mouth.
Yesterday, we made a plan. The plan involved each of us traveling, for almost an hour, to meet one another. When the time came for us to meet, I was standing at the appointed place, and she literally could not bring herself to exit the bus on which she had traveled to meet me. She simply was too anxious, too scared, and more than anything – too conflicted.
Let me take half a step back. When we first started interacting, she said to me, “Are you sure you want to date me? I’m literally suicidal half the time.”
Stupid me, I didn’t say, “Thanks for disclosing that, I wish you well.” Instead, what I said was, “I want my cock in your mouth.”
Now, there’s nothing wrong with my wanting my cock in her mouth. She is smart, interesting, sexy, hot. But she gave me fair warning. She is unstable. Volatile. All over the fucking place.
And over the few days of our interaction, she gave me nothing but confirmation of this.
At times, she was enthusiastic, compliant, delicious. At others, she was needy, desperate. Were I a sane man, I would have run. (I think I’ve written variations of this phrase several times.)
I am not, however, a sane man.
If you’ve read this blog, you know about my past.You know that, years ago, I led a life that was dominated by compulsion and shame. Somehow, this woman managed to transport me back to that time.
I found myself thinking about what precisely it is about her, about the ways in which she interacts with me, that has me doing things I know are insane in the moment. That has me agreeing to meet her, to make sacrifices for her, when I know that all that will come of it is disappointment for me.
There are, as far as I’m concerned, two interesting posts to be written about my date this evening. One is far less interesting than the other. The less interesting post is the post about my dates with her. About yesterday’s date, the one that didn’t happen. And the one about today’s date. About the evening that ended with our sitting next to one another, talking about my cock in her mouth, about her anxiety, and my desire. And her leaving. That’s the less interesting post.
The more interesting post is the post about why the hell I allowed myself to spend time, energy, and money pursuing this woman, who was crystal clear from the outset that all she had to offer me was drama. Abandonment. Disappointment.
I’m not sure I can possibly ever communicate to anyone who is not me, or my therapist, just why it is that I am powerless in the face of a woman who promises, with absolutely no uncertainty, to disappoint me. To reject me. To abandon me.
Years ago, I spent my entire life, and more time and money than any human ever should, pursuing disappointment. Sure, I thought I was chasing orgasms. Or pleasure. Or some sort of dream connection. But in retrospect, and with tons of therapy, self-examination, and meditation, as well as work in twelve-step programs, and writing, I have come to understand that the disappointment associated with sexual interactions with women who only had those interactions with me because I was paying them, is in fact what I was chasing. (Read that sentence twice: it’s difficult to parse, and important.)
The knowledge that these women did not want me. That is what I craved. Not consciously, no, that would be crazy. But unconsciously, it is in fact what I desperately craved. And still, to an extent, crave.
Disappointment, rejection, abandonment. Disaster. Annihilation.
All of these things somehow confirmed my worldview in a way that was gratifying for me. At the same time, my every interaction with such a woman in such a context gave me the hope that I could transcend my lifetime’s experience of all of those things. Disappointment, rejection, abandonment. Disaster.
Every woman I interacted with represented both hope – that somehow, this time, I might triumph – and certainty – that disappointment, rejection, and abandonment were the star around which the planet that is me revolves.
This woman offered me that certainty.
She also offered me that hope.
If, somehow, my cock were to end up in her mouth, that would be some sort of triumph. Some sort of transcendent, ecstatic, proof of my worth, value, desirability.
At the same time, though, what she represented was the certainty that my pathogenic beliefs – that I’m not desirable, that, in fact, she would be better off without me – would be confirmed.