The 100-mile (sexual) fast

Greetings, idle thoughts on a Saturday morning.

I'm allowing myself a quick posting pre-run to reward myself for getting out of bed at a decent hour this morning, though I was up late at a trivia night fundraiser for the local art gallery. Hot Friday night: "up late" means the event went to 11pm and that the room was full of mostly late/middle lifers buzzed on cheap wine and trivia. It is what I do when in my hometown. Last night leads to think of the effect of place on one's behaviour.

For me, there's a clear divide betwen behaviour at home and how I act when away. Let me explain. I currently live in a smaller town, fairly tight-knit. I enjoy many aspects of this, as for the most part, people here are beyond "nice" and genuinely pleasant, enjoyably eccentric. it's a very accepting place.

That being said, it is still a small place. Even those of us who don't particularly want to know each others' business cannot help stumbling upon it on a daily basis. As it is largely an older community, the pool of "young" people my age (30s) is relatively small. Men I could potentially date have been recycled through the community already, many times, and for some reason this fills me with yes, distaste.

There's a scene in bodice-ripper "Elizabeth" where Cate Blanchett is being danced around by Joseph Fiennes, and he whispers to her that she is his Elizabeth. She break frees, assumes the pose of a tigress, and snarls at him and the court "I am no man's Elizabeth!". I'm like, right on sister! I get it. Not quite ready to do that crazy pancake make-up and no-eyebrow look, but I get it.

I don't want anyone to try and infiltrate me or make me a public conquest. I will not date anyone in my town. I am not so in demand, but am becoming skilled at deflecting the odd parry. No one here is tempting in the slightest, and it offends my sensibilities to think of someone gaining access to my inner life for casual sport.

Delicacy surrounding privacy may sound strange coming from a gal who writes about how constipated she got during SexWeek 2009 (woohoo!). But I don't like acquaintances to know details about my personal life beyond what I choose to tell; let them speculate if they like, but I usually remain fairly tight-lipped on what I poetically term The Important Stuff. It may be too late in life for me to cultivate an aura of mystery, but to assume a bit of Queenishness, one must do one's best.

The Important Stuff is not the fact, it's the feeling. I have no problems reporting I am single, etc. I am amicable with my ex, and focused on the logistics of "wrapping this one up".

It's the defending against assumptions, spoken or implied, that causes me to retreat. You ladies who have clawed their way out of suffocating long relationships, be they friendships or romantic, will understand the grim effort it takes to keep on clawing when someone's clutching your ankle. It is tough. Not the stuff of idle chatter.

The assumptions are along the lines of "you must be emotionally battered, lonely, looking for a replacement plug for your heart, looking to get back out there, etc." All of these things, at least in my case, are untrue.

Pointing this out is usually met with a politely incredulous smile, quickly replaced by an expression of concerted curiosity and a "Really, tell me about that...". Okay.

Point one: emotionally battered

I'm learning to skip rope better because every time I misstep, I lash the tops of my feet. This inevitably causes me to mutter "...motherfucker..." and pay attention. It works. Also, the tops of my feet are building an expectation of lashing, and are made of tougher stuff than a mere few months ago.

The tanned-to-pemmican analogy can be applied to the emotional state as well. Years of enabling shitty behaviour led me (eventually) to measure input to output, and decide it was no longer an acceptable ratio. Rather than the experience making me weaker, however, it has left me terrifyingly fit, if steadfast and specific are suitable descriptors for emotional fitness.

I got out in time to preserve some of my original affection for my former mate/sparring partner, too, and am happy to bump gloves and call it a draw. But the next guy who steps into that ring had better be prepared to punch above his weight.

Point two: lonely, you must be, says Yoda

No, when you consider the alternatives. Despite many good qualities, my ex is an emotional vampire and a demanding man-child. I ended it mainly because I was just so fucking tired. I don't mean physically, though my health was suffering as an unintended consequence. I was just exhausted, running on auto-pilot after nine years of endeavouring to anticipate and meet the wants of someone else. It takes its toll. (I am obviously not cut out for motherhood, but reckon I could at least beat or oppress a small child into submission. A full-grown man is much harder to control.)

There is no lonelier feeling than keeping company with those who do not understand you. After 6 or 7 months of official break-up and more than two years of living mainly by myself, I still gloat that I have vast chunks of time to myself.

As for sex, the ex and I didn't really do that too much, and when we did it was high marks for technical execution, demerits for artistry. Much more satisfying for me is the occasional dalliance and my own imagination. The novelty of an innocent hotel slumber party with a hot 29-year old Greek economist is still very satisfying to me; that shit can keep me going for months.

Point three: replacement/getting back out there

Ha! What is "out there"? The Colosseum, are we gladiators? (If so, I'd like to request a tussle with Russell Crowe, please.)

This assumption is the one which amuses me most. It's along the lines of say, I notice you weren't quite drained dry by your last experience. Have I got a thirsty friend for you!

Um, no. There is no replacement. In my correspondence with a doppelganger penpal not long ago, we concluded that next for us is either friendly series of sexyepisodes or a sweep off the feet sweetheart, or some pleasant combination of both.

Myself, I am optimistic about the year ahead. I have an object of affection in my life, albeit a faraway one I will see very little of for at least another year or so (and no, not the cutie-pie El Greco, sweet but too too young). While it may not eventually work out logistically or emotionally, for now it is enough to have an ideal. To know that a compatible man exists for me is a grand reassurance.

Until things emerge from the murk, my goals are to sell my current abode and plunge into a city. It really isn't much more defined than that, but I'm excited at the prospect of being debt-free and being in a noisy crowded arty problematic alive city and culling my possessions to a small roomfull. The prospect of buying a new bed thrills me. My current bed is symbolically and literally stained with past experience, and I cannot wait to tip it into the dumpster. Hell, I may have to have a winter futon bonfire where my girlfriends and I can get drunk and dance around my flaming past. Until then, I will keep on keeping on. Now I must run run run.

Stay sane,
Gretchen