I’ve been at this blogging caper for only 11 months and couldn’t hazard a guess at the average lifespan of sex-related blogs. The postings of some three year-plus veterans who inspired me to start jotting have trickled to almost nothing, no doubt mired in decisions about saving material for book deals or caught in byproduct activity of producing non-sexual words for income. Some sexual comets flew by at a dazzling rate, leaving my mouth agape at the quality and regularity of posting but they crumbled to dust as quickly as they had arrived in the blogiverse. Others I discovered relatively recently, but was too shy to request permission to access now-private journals because I hadn’t taken the time to comment and make myself known. Yet more blogs have had to take second place to life changes, disappear to reduce threats to privacy or writers simply burned out: there’s only so many ways to describe the gnashing of genitals if lust is the premise of a journal.
Here? I still have a lot to say after scanning the jumble in my draft folder, but where’s the sex? I was thinking last night that The Drummer and I have had partner sex probably twice this year plus a few masturbation sessions, but his libido is flat and my enthusiasm is similarly lethargic. We’re creeping along in a cycle of familiarity that the effort of reviving passion seems a lot of work when finances, work, fatigue and health issues need pushing aside to find glimmers of lust concealed underneath. To use my favourite phrase of the moment: I can’t be arsed.
Jekyll and I have met for sexual purposes no more than three times this year from memory. We were supposed to catch up last week but he postponed literally at the last minute (I was sitting in a hot car on a sweltering day watching my temper rise every minute I spent wondering where the fuck he was). He suggested we try again later this week but I’m grumpy at the reverse side of his healthy narcissism that he’s questioning my enthusiasm lately yet he’s been difficult to communicate with for several months now. This discussion will continue and I’m in the mood for it.
ArmyDude had a free night during the week but was too depressed to catch up. He falls into very dark moods similar to mine but withdraws entirely from unnecessary contact at the onset while I tend to lash out before I hide from the world. I saw this one coming because of some problems in his personal life and I was also partially responsible: I gave him some blunt ‘feedback’ when he had his head in the sand about a problem he confided in me. It was another judgement call that being a confidante is all well and good, but this time was impossible in my heart to imply support for his decided ignorance and I elected to give him a verbal kick in the pants. It was a straight, honest kick and I let the issue rest after the first shot — I know he hadn’t discussed the problem with his wife and was probably hoping for validation from me but not this time around. He dropped by the office the following day and seems fine, but I don’t know if he’ll confide so much again.
MB and I have recovered from the disastrous trip last year and developed an e-mail friendship of sorts, which I’m quietly destroying at the moment. He sent a work-related paper that he’s planning to present and wanted an opinion. He made the error of saying it might be over my head and I ripped off a nastygram asking exactly what my pretty little head might not understand because he’s not a nuclear physicist or fucking prime number theorist. Haven’t heard back from him yet.
I was supposed to meet someone last night for drinks but freaked out and postponed. I took the route of self sabotage by probably over-reacting to a message he sent and took flight because I didn’t think I met his perceptions about general sexiness, which were possibly only pre-meeting flirtatious hints. He was kind about my turning into Hydra about being asked to show some cleavage and we might meet next week. I wouldn’t bother meeting me at the moment with my frightening moods so the man is either desperate or a saint (my tits aren’t that great, anyway).
I was going to conclude by contemplating why I am in a prolonged cunt of a mood, but my cunt is soft and pleasing and it’s the completely wrong analogy. I am a nightmare. This episode of depression is far more malevolent than I’m prepared to accept and I have lied by deception to my doctor and people in my mental health circle like ArmyDude about how much of my current life I’m faking. My libido is in the negatives, I don’t have the patience or desire to meet people and the only place I feel safe is under the blankets with the lights off. I also have chronic pain that’s inflaming my temper and will take several weeks to control with medication and, all tallied, I wish society was evolved enough to have affordable and socially acceptable walk-in rest facilities as a crutch between real life and psych wards to check stress at the door for a few weeks before returning to real life. One day. Someone send me money and I’ll start the trial site.
Sorry, no sex this post either. Perhaps someone will write a post lamenting about sex blogging and moan that some people started blogging about sex but there’s no sex any more. Touché.