Wednesday, February 25, 2015
I don’t remember the exact moment my sabbatical from sex began. Or even why it happened. I love the sex. After my divorce several years ago, I had all the sex. I was sexy in every corner of my fair city. Ask anybody. Or everybody. I had a blast. This time, not so much.
After my last break-up I thought I’d once again hit the sexy party girl road. I didn’t. The comfort of men was somehow not so comforting this time around. I had had enough. Enough bullshit. I felt, I don’t know, empty?
Empty and angry
Angry at men
Furious with men
Men lied, and cheated, and lied again. I couldn’t get past the anger and feeling of betrayal toward men, not even for one night. How could any man excite me when every man made me cringe? I dreamt about it, the sex. I wanted so badly to be held, to be touched, to be told I was wanted, needed. But the thought of actually letting a man touch me was like a blow to the gut. I couldn’t do it. I have a couple of close male friends who took the brunt of my non-sex-man-hating-anger during this period. I love them for that. I truly do. I had to get over this non-trusting of men. I had actual hatred towards men. I knew this was not normal. Not all men deserved my hate. It was making me miserable. It was making me miserable to be around.
Eventually men happened. The sex happened. I found little joy. I found lots of problems. I could not be happy. The men weren’t making me happy. They used to make me happy. What had happened to me? The touching, the kissing, the handholding, the closeness, none of it made me feel like I wanted to feel. Why wasn’t it working? It had to work. I wanted to have sex. I wanted company. I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to be like everyone else.
I pushed it all away. The men, the sex, all of my chances for happiness were pushed away.
I woke the fuck up
I was no longer happy with me. Self-esteem no longer existed within me. The emptiness I felt was because of me. Not happy with me - I was not familiar with that sentiment. It had been years since I had been unhappy with me. I like me. This did not feel like me. This was wrong. Something had to change. I had to be happy with me before I could be happy with a man; before I could have sex. For me to be happy I had to start doing things for myself. It began with little things: going to dinner, hanging with friends, plans that didn’t revolve around a man. Then the things got bigger: concerts, day trips, festivals, theme parks, vacations.
I was having fun
With my family
With my friends
There were no men. No men to hate. No men to distrust. No men to make me feel like less of a person. No men to bash my self-esteem. No sex. None. This was a good thing. I needed time to like me and to find my sexy. I needed to feel worthy of being liked. I needed to do all of that so I could stop the man hating. I needed to do all of that so I could move forward. I needed to do all that so I could enjoy the sex if and when I allowed it to happen.
I like me. I cried, I laughed, I had fits, I hid from people, and I stomped the hell out of my feet to get here.
I cried but I did all the things
But, I like me. It was worth it. Because I like me, I no longer hate the men. I determined that my man issues are worse than I originally thought. Trust issues. I still have problems believing that men (people) are sincere, about anything. I continue to believe that all men have ulterior motives. This is my problem. There's no one to blame. It's just me. Yes, I am damaged. Yes, I am working on it.
I continue to abstain from the sex. Once it wasn’t a huge deal; it wasn’t a huge deal. And I’m terrified. I'm absolutely dark, creepy house at the end of the block when I was 6, terrified. It’s true. I’m scared shitless to allow a man to touch me. I can’t even imagine sex. No night time put-me-to-sleep-smiling thoughts, no sexy after I hit the REM sleep, no daydreams of hot, half naked men on the beach rubbing me down and then "you know". It’s almost as if sex no longer exists for me. It’s not easy. It's sad. I am in pain. I am raw. Sex will hurt me both mentally and physically.
I still have a sense of humor. Always a sense of humor.
I want it; I need it. Once I believe what comes out of the face-hole of man, the sexy-time issue will be a non-issue and all will be well.
Monday, February 9, 2015
Until I was 10 years old, Valentine’s Day was a day in which my classmates and I exchanged goofy little cards that we dropped into handmade pouches taped to the sides of our desks. Some years one of the not so frazzled class moms would bring in cupcakes or we would munch on some of those dry, powdery conversation hearts after we tried to create every dirty sentence we could out of them. That was the extent of it. My parents probably went out. I remember a heart shaped box of chocolate or two. I was usually the recipient of such a box but Valentine’s Day really was a non event in our household.
In 1980, the year of my 10th birthday, my baby sister was born. On February 14th. In the years that followed, February 14th was my sister’s birthday, not Valentine’s Day. We were special now. Within the confines our immediate family, Valentine’s Day fell behind the back burner and onto the floor. It was fine with us. Birthdays meant cake. Cake is good. This was not a negative happening. There was still the goofy card exchange at school, lots of heart shaped crafts in art class, and I still received the obligatory heart box of chocolate each year. Now though, there was a reason, a real reason, for us to celebrate. We were the coolest. We had a heart baby.
When my baby sister reached school age, the months of January and February were spent peddling cookies for the local scouts. Selling (and buying) cookies took a significant amount of time, energy, money, and patience. Valentine’s Day continued to hide out in the background. Cookies were now considered a valentine treat. I was too old for the school parties at this point and after the scout cookies and a birthday party, it took no trouble at all to brush away this silly heart holiday.
Now in my head all of this non Valentine activity made perfect sense. I was a realist. My heart, though, had a different wish. It wished for one of those romantical, lovey-dovey, 10 minute kiss on the balcony, dinner, drinks, dancing, and a walk on the beach nights all rolled into one heart shaped evening of bliss. When I traded in living with the family unit for a place of my own, I decided I would still celebrate my sister’s birthday but I had to start working on my dream date. My Valentine's Day dream date.
No so much. We had moved from Chicago to the Daytona Beach area. February in Daytona Beach isn’t romantic. It isn’t even remotely romantic. There’s this little two week event in February called Speed Weeks. Ever heard of the Daytona 500? Every year around the 14th of February is when that race occurs. That means the entire county in which I live is filled about two hundred thousand (or so) extra folks. Who wouldn’t want to travel to Florida in February? Who didn’t want to bask in the sun while whichever snow riddled city they had traveled from was frozen over? Every restaurant, bar, beach, club within 60 miles was filled to the max with race fans. There are no quiet romantic dates on Valentine's Day in this town.
What the Fuck?
Once I was married there were dinners out of town, overnight trips, last minute chocolate, gas station roses, movies, numerous cute but useless stuffed animals, and even edible underwear to celebrate the holiday of hearts. Stuff I planned because I wanted to go somewhere and the holiday was the excuse. Not the undies or the gas station roses, the other stuff. Deep down I had no interest in this ridiculous red and pink holiday of hearts but the non-stop commercials promising diamonds and kisses were wearing me down. Where in the hell was my chocolate diamond, damn it?
I never did get a chocolate diamond. Hell, I never got any diamond. I have countless numbers of little fuzzy white bears holding red satin hearts. I don’t even know who they’re from anymore but I have them. Was Valentine’s Day ever unpleasant? Not that I recall. It just wasn’t the hyped up version of all things love that I had created in my head from seeing all the propaganda. It never will be.
Now that I’m older, Valentine’s Day itself, means almost zero to me. It’s my sister’s birthday. It’s a race day. It’s cookie day. It’s just another day. I have been married, single, dating, madly in love, bored to death, and divorced on Valentine’s Day. None was better than the rest. As for my dream date, it will happen one day. I don’t care what day it is. Love is love. Infatuation is infatuation. If it’s right, romance will happen when it’s meant to, not on a day covered in pink and red hearts.
This year, I’ll be spending the Valentine holiday with the love of my life. My daughter. A friend and her son will be joining us. It will be special. It will be filled with love. There will be food. There will be booze. It will be a joyous occassion.
Life is good.
In all seriousness I would pass on the dream date completely if I could find a man who could make a reservation without asking me a single fucking question. A goofy card would be cool too.
PPB aka The Precious Princess - The Princess is a twice divorced, recently dumped, recently unemployed, self-proclaimed member of the mentally hilarious. She has been referred to as living under a rock stocked with vodka and anger. Her 12 year old “Mini”, who is carbon copy of the Princess, is often the subject of blogs, and Facebook posts. In addition, she writes about dating, the dumbness of boys, life after 40, and shares stories from Bananaland which is both her past and current residence. She is the owner/sole admin for the Facebook page Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words. Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book. Be afraid.
Thursday, February 5, 2015
I like most of you. I do. A lot. I know that one of you out there was made just for me. “A good man. A true man. A man to love me for sure”. (Thank you, Bette Midler for those eloquent words) I joke about you and laugh about the things I think you’re good for and how dumb I think you are but the truth is, I really like you. You are a necessity in life; as a partner but also as a father, a son, a brother, a friend, a coworker, and sometimes a backbone. I also joke about women. I’m famous for my “vagina=crazy” quote, and I’m quick to discuss how women are bitches. In short, I fuck with all the sexes equally. This letter is not to man-bash.
I’m writing to tell you something that has been bothering me for months. I tried to ignore it. I really did. I tried not to judge you. It thought that it really wasn’t my place. The longer it went on, the more disgusted I became. You all didn’t commit the heinous infraction I’m about to describe. Many of you did.
The bile is rising to my throat right now thinking about it. I’m making “that” face as I type. That face I make when I smell spoiled milk, rotting potatoes, or dog shit that has been frozen and thawed. That face.
Let me try and explain this to you without breaking down, crying my head off or calling each of you a sickening fuck. You deserve all of the above but name calling solves nothing and I’m ugly when I cry. In short, my long-term relationship ended. As soon as one day after the relationship ended, I began receiving private messages on social media from you. Not all of you. Just a few. As the months went by, more of you joined the cluster of fools. Today it’s almost every
man boy on my friends list. Some of you are casual and cool, some flirty
and cute, and some of you are downright fucked in the head with messages
blatantly asking for sex and/or sexual favors. All of you hiding and messaging in private.
It doesn’t seem like such a big deal, does it? I’m single, why not? Why shouldn't I enjoy messages from
men boys who are supposed to be my friends? Should be a great fit, no? A small
portion of the “why not” is because each one of you are married or in what
appears to be serious relationships. This makes you not only an asshole but the lowliest scum that exists. The
reason your partners don’t give it up to you or act the way you’d like them to
is because they know. Women aren't stupid. But keep looking for
other women to fill that hole that you caused.
I bet it’s working fantastically for you. That’s not why I’m writing this. I’m not judging. I don’t know your situation.
You could have an open marriage, could be separated, or it could be that you are a fucktarded simpleton who needs to be wanted by more than one woman (the last option being the most possible choice). I don’t care. That’s your issue. The real reason I’m writing this here story of woe is to ponder aloud, this:
Why did you message me? Was I so hot? Did you like me? Did you want me? That’s what you wanted me to think. You wanted me to think that you thought I was so freaking awesome that I would get my head all big and I’d fall for your insipid bullshit. “He thinks I’m cute” so I’ll give him a piece of ass. Those thoughts lasted a hot minute. “Is it because I’m fat?” was my next thought. Big girls are easy. Ain’t that right? You thought my self-image was shot because I was dumped and overweight? Did you figure that my self-esteem was so low you could get a quick roll with me and maybe even boost my self-esteem in one shot? You’d have been doing me a favor. Right?
Next this - “What kind of sleazy bag of shit do these
boys think I am”? I couldn’t figure it
out then and I still can’t.
Not one of you asked me out. Like on a date. It was all about sex or what you could get from me. I wasn’t even good enough for an affair. Just some whore you could hit once and hide away from your seemingly normal lives.
I began to link numerous blog posts from my page to my personal feed about cheaters, what I wanted from a man, and anything I could find that might explain to you that I was not going to be your fuck-buddy. Not then, not now, not ever. This was the passive-aggressive approach but I didn’t have the time or energy to write each of you individually (yes, there were that many of you). Not to mention, it
was publicity for my blog. Can’t blame a chick for marketing. I also figured that if you were messaging me, you were probably harassing the shit out of other women on your friends list. My giant head isn’t so overgrown that I believed I was some “special” whore. The purpose of this letter is not to “out you” or get you into trouble. It is to try and explain how your behavior made me feel. Like shit. That’s how I felt. That’s how I feel. Like a useless waste of a human being. You thought I was weak and would cave and perform sexual favors because you showed me some attention. You thought wrong. I felt disrespected. I felt embarrassed. I felt ashamed. I felt sad. I felt confused. I still feel all those things. Add mad to those things and that's what I feel now. Mad that I allowed a bunch of losers, posing as men, to make me feel that way. Never once did I feel lucky or excited because I special enough to receive your messages. I wasn't impressed. I laughed about it with my friends. I joked that you were sick, desperate losers. All the while, I felt I was being sexually assaulted without any physical contact.
I continued conversations with some of you because I couldn’t even believe it was happening. I had to keep responding because I couldn’t fathom that it was real. I’m a writer at heart so I also knew that one day I’d use your sad, tired pick-up lines disguised as messages, in a writing. I didn’t think that the day would come so soon but I needed to get this out there. For me, and for all of the other women that you deem your personal booty message whores.
In closing, if any of you half-wit fucks are actually able to read this – FUCK YOU. Fuck you for making me feel like a piece of shit. Fuck you for all the other women you made feel like shit. Fuck you for not having enough respect for your wife or significant other to be a MAN. And just fuck you.
A stand-up bitch who isn’t taking your bullshit
Precious Princess's Guide to Bananaland where she is famous for her rants and her blunt, honest, and sarcastic look at life. She blogs both extremely funny and all-the-feels posts at Princess Bananaland. She hates people, kids, and karaoke. She uses all the swears and makes up dirty words. Eventually when she’s done being sloth-like, she will write a book. Be afraid.