I, too, am still crying over an ex-boyfriend who doesn't notice I'm gone (mostly because he's got a new girl to replace me). I'd like to follow your example and enter into a slutty stage and forget about him. But here's the quandary: I know from experience that screwing around with strangers is just not as good as sex with a sweet, smart, cute, funny, bald (ex) boyfriend whom I just adore(d). At 41, am I too old to enjoy meaningless fucking? Or do I just know better?
Dear Aspiring Slut,
Turns out that when I wrote that I was about to embark upon a new slutty phase of my life, I was talking outta my ass. Sure, I gave it a valiant try—a couple weeks back, I even had a scarily cute man rolling around nearly naked with me. But when it came to givin' up the goods, I couldn't do it. My body was screaming "Go, go, go!" as my brain howled "No, no, no!" and for once in my life, my brain won the battle. Maybe it's a sign of maturity (or, more likely, a symptom of mental illness), but as hot as it got, I couldn't go the distance. He was good about the whole thing (and why not?), but I was left feeling vaguely embarrassed. When did I turn into such a prude?
I thought my reluctance to make the beast with two backs might be because I wasn't yet over my ex. That thought was dispelled when I ran into him this weekend: With any luck, your ex will embark upon the all-beer/no-bathing plan that mine appears to have adopted, and you will soon be joining me on the "over it" section of the sofa.
But maybe I couldn't do it because I actually kind of like Nearly Naked Man and didn't feel like rushing into anything that might end in heartache. That would be oddly circumspect for a girl who normally considers the consequences days or weeks later, but not completely out of the realm of possibility. Thus, I thought, maybe truly anonymous sex with a complete stranger would be the way to go—after all, I was actually getting to know N.N.M., so I couldn't just up and fuck him! Fortuitously, my friend Concetta called that very day. She left an urgent whispered message, so I called her right back.
"I hired a hooker!" were the first words outta her mouth. "YES!" was the first one outta mine. We'd discussed the logistics of hiring a pro a couple years back and were stymied by the lack of man-whores on the market. Frankly, I was impressed she'd even found one. I demanded to know every detail. Long story short: The guy couldn't get it up.
"Maybe it's because I'm fat," she sulked. I was outraged: What kind of rent boy goes to work without a supply of Viagra? Thanks to modern science, this guy should've been able to perform even if Concetta was a hideous she-beast (F.Y.I., she's beautiful). A girl just can't win.
So what's a horny lady to do in times of need but turn to her trusty vibrator? Two double-A's and you're good to go! Ain't nothing wrong with that, right?
Apparently not everyone shares that opinion. Yesterday my shrink informed me that masturbation was "bad." I almost fell off my chair. He told me that back in Catholic school, the powers that be referred to it as "the lonely sin." That term has fallen out of favor, but a wank is still a mortal sin—which means unless you repent each pull o' the pud, you will be turned away at the pearly gates. Any wonder I'm an atheist?
I'd long suspected my shrink was suffering some Catholic damage, but this sent me over the edge. I'd been expecting—if not kudos—at least a nod of approval for rejecting flaccid hookers and casual sex in favor of small appliances, and instead here he was—my allegedly nonjudgmental mental health care professional—telling me I was a bad person because I enjoy a little dance with myself once in a while. Boy, did I let him have it.
My advice to you, Aspiring Slut, is screw what my misguided therapist says; you and I should stick to self-love until we find someone worthy to put it to. (Or at least until I can locate a hooker with a hard-on.)
Problems with love, self- or other? Write Dategirl at email@example.com or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western, Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.