I just had utterly casual sex for the first time in 25 years. It wasn’t fulfilling, it wasn’t exciting, and to be utterly blunt, I think a good deal less of the fellow with whom I did this than I thought could be possible.
That last part is particularly sad to me because, until today, I had thoughts of possibly trying to build a relationship with him.
I am sitting here, less than thirty minutes after his departure, feeling a strange combination of relief and anger. I suspect I am much more settled into ‘singlehood’ than I thought and I’m certain that the anger is due to the reality that he wasn’t at all interested in more than the sex.
One of the reasons I’ve been celibate as long as I have is precisely because I never wanted to endure the moment in which it became obvious that a man was in the process of judging whether or not he had ‘stayed long enough to be able to get away’.
I wish I could meet a man who didn’t want to get away.
I thought I was going to cry, but I’m pretty sure I’m not. Rather, there is this curious rock in my stomach and the sensation that I should have known or remembered the ‘lesson’ from long ago.
They say history repeats itself because we do not pay attention. It’s true.
Prudentia doctus.