I guess it’s not a good sign that I’ve been feeling
nostalgic for a breakup dinner from like eight years ago: I was looking for a
hot story to send The Coach and I landed on part two of my Real Date/Car Sex
story with Steampunk Guy. Here’s part one: https://kittencalendar.blogspot.com/2013/07/real-datecar-sex-with-steampunk-guy.html
It’s not great that I refused to admit to myself that it WAS a breakup date
until a couple weeks later, but looking at the story through my current pleasantly-poisoned-by-hookup-culture
view, the dinner part of the story felt like a miracle. Steampunk Guy had like
nine partners, including a wife, plus a kiddo to take care of, but he still
took the time to break things off kindly. I felt, here in Slutty September of
2021, a burst of gladness that Steampunk Guy had, well, broken my heart, but in
such a dignifying, humanized way.
The Coach didn’t break things off, he just finished
getting vaccinated and still didn’t want to spend time with me in person. He
still sexted a few late-nights a week, and I was still having fun with that
until I wasn’t. But I can’t fathom, and I really wish someone would explain to
me, how sexting could have been fun for him with someone he did not want to be
in a room with. Why not just look up some porn or pay a cam girl (and tip her
well!) instead of keeping someone he didn’t like on the line for longer than he
wanted to?
When I responded to his messages/comments a month ago,
I’d put a pin in the prob he and I had encountered long ago, the feeling of him
having a fat fetish (rather than simply being attracted to whole hot fat
people) or thinking I was just someone to be humiliated. I saw the physical
mismatch of us—him twenty-nine and slight except in one particular way (I found
out through unsolicited-but-not-entirely unwelcome dick pic, obvs.) (But is
there such a thing as dick-catfishing? Probably.) and traditionally fit-looking,
me 47, Amazonian and weighing in at 302 pounds. We WOULD have looked a little
funny in public together, but someone who liked me as a person wouldn’t have
cared.
What started as feeling appreciated, celebrated,
overwhelmingly desired a month ago turned into hidden, erased, dirty-in-a-bad-way.
Maybe he did feel attracted to me but ashamed about it, or maybe he just wanted
me to be a sex-typing-bot whose feelings, bad days, and vulnerabilities he didn’t
have to care about. Maybe he wasn’t brave or kind enough to turn me down
directly. Maybe he was just a jerk. In fairness to him, I knew that trying to
be casual would get me to this emotionally untenable place eventually. I just
shouldn’t have let it go on until it hurt this bad.
This past few weeks have been a (not un-fun) scramble
to find the things The Coach couldn’t provide in someone else, to distract me from
the loneliness while I kept him in the mix. Not! A great! Strategy! As sad as I
am to lose (and reblock) The Coach, I’m grateful to be done with that scramble.
I’m so impatient with what I really want, it’s so annoyingly specific and (imaginary
in this case) snuggle-prohibitive sometimes.
Yesterday, a car plowed into my side mirror and smashed
it off on my way to work. I wasn’t hurt but I was heartbroken—I love my car so
much, and the mirror metaphor was a little too on-the-nose. Sweetie-Now-BFF
immediately sprung into action ordering a replacement mirror and rearranging
her schedule to get me to work until it was fixed. And while that was happening,
I was worrying that I would seem too needy when (okay IF) The Coach texted
after ten. I know it’s not superfair to compare a TWO DECADES LONG friendship/love/friendship
with a recent not-quite-a-fling, but BFF’s kindness and concern reminded me of
what I’d like to have eventually with a guy. The Coach was not going to get me
there.
So at quarter to ten, I said texted him the things I
was feeling. He was was an entitled, bratty jackass about it. So ends my foolhardy
foray into hookuptown. I can’t promise it’ll be the last, but I promise to keep
trying to embrace wanting what I want. But first, wallowing.
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