I Claim Thee, Blue Balls

Hello. A few weeks back, you may remember I was sick with a Mancold, and claimed it for my own. Well, the head has cleared and all traces of the fever blister have faded. I find myself with a fresh discomfort to claim from the sole purview of dudes.

Let me predicate this post by expressing gratitude. I'm blessed with bustin' good health, surrounded by loving friends and family, and live with more opportunity and comfort than 99% of my fellow humans. Thank you, whoever is responsible. Now let me continue.

I have a raging case of blue balls. I went to sleep with them, and I woke up with them. In case it's been a while since you experienced this condition, it feels like two stones where I reckon my ovaries reside. Let's imagine them to be porous granite. Now let's imagine water droplets embedded deep within minute cracks and imperfections. Now let's place these stones inside of me, where they alternately heat and freeze at the extremes brought on by desire and frustration.

Expansion, contraction. Result: discomfort which flips me side to side in bed; general antsiness in the pantsiness. A sullen irritation with the human cause of said discomfort, and with myself. Whaddaya mean, I can't get cock on demand? Bring me cock on demand! Sigh. Someone's feeling entitled, someone is craven and petulant...COCK! ON! DEMAND! Double sigh.

This wasn't something I predicted would arise from dating this new man. It's been a long time. I'd forgotten how trixie modern men can be. I'd assumed it was fairly easy to get laid, once the general howyadoin' was established. Not so. It may be a consequence of our age.

By our mid-thirties, we've had our share of good sex and bad sex and scream so loud you scare housekeeping staff and have fellow hotel guests complaining to the front desk and getting upgraded to a better room sex. (Yes, that was me; yes, you're welcome. I do what I can.)

My point is, by now we're fastidious. We like our bad sex stories from our 20s, lord yes. They are fun to share and giggle over with girlfriends, what doofuses we all were. But we don't need more. The quota gets filled quickly and with, one hopes, a safe finality. We get picky. I'm picky, despite moments of lust where I feel quite capable of raping entire villages. I respect picky. Doesn't have to mean I like it when someone I've picked wants to "go slow".

That said, I appreciate the comedy. I'm confident in how I look to the point of arrogance, and assume under correct circumstances most men would wish to sleep with me, why not? Making this statement goes completely against every feminine principle washed into my brain from an early age, but I suspect it's more true than untrue. Except I'm blue-balled and now those feminine principles are poking a stick into my ego and laughing, oh looky here, look at Ms. Ever So Fuckable. Those rocks ain't getting off anytime soon, at least not with a person. Ha!

It's also amusing for me to feel like the man in this situation. "I'm shy," he warns jokingly on one of our first dates. Aww. That's...nice. Forewarned, I've been wooing this one carefully, being respectful and patient and my version of alluring, which likely resembles a rabid deer in the headlights. But whatever, I've tried to be cool. Once physical contact is initiated, however, I figure we're good to go, at least for a few bases. I strike out.

"I'm reeeeeeeeally tired," he says. Once, okay. Two times in a week? Really? You're that tired? I suggest perhaps not exercising so strenuously before seeing me, an allusion that seems to sail over his pretty head. Or maybe things are sailing over my pretty head.

Impatient with lying next to an attractive man in bed with way too many clothes on while he appears to drift into sleep, I jump up and get my jacket to go home. I am definitely not tired.

"What, you're going?" he asks, rubbing his eyes. "Aw, that's probably good, I'm really tired." And then kisses me good night. In my hyper-aroused state, I respond to his kiss--and get the double shoulder-pat. Good night. Yeah, sure. I leave a little pissed off, go to sleep a little pissed off, and wake up a little pissed off. But it does crack me up: I'm the dude in this scenario. Totally.

My girlfriends don't really know what to say.

"Maybe he's just wanting to get to know you as a person," reassures one friend. "Maybe he's afraid to get too close to you, because he knows you're probably leaving town soon. Or maybe you're sending out signals that you don't want to get intimate because you're hung up about your lover, or you don't want to get attached because you're leaving town."

This ascribes some nobility to both him and I, and is a sensitive analysis in suitable shades of grey. It may be true, entirely or at least in part. I may indeed be wearing the stamp of the infatuated, following a recent rendezvous with my lovely, maddening lover.

My other friend is more catholic in her analysis. "He's gay," she says. "Totally gay. I know, I've been there, I was the last woman for a few guys. One or two have gone back, but most have stayed the course. He's gay."

I could accept being the transition female for a man struggling to come out; would be honoured, in fact. In this case, it's unlikely. He speaks with a degree of friendly indifference about gay guys he knows that bespeaks Comfortably Straight. My friend is mistaken. I appreciate her faith in my powers, but must conclude I'm not sexual kryptonite to every hetero male out there. Alas.

Of course, further proof of my perverse nature is that I'm currently with period, and so am in no position to actually have first-time intercourse. In my world, logic dictates that he doesn't know this so he should give it a try. I make so much sense to myself at times I want to slap myself.

It is worth noting here that a spare panti-liner somehow escaped my jacket pocket while I was over there last night. It's likely been discovered this morning by my date or one of his roommates or the ancient dog. Excellent. In my defence, it was not used, of course, and why shouldn't I have one in my pocket? But the Grade 6er in me laughs in mortified delight as I imagine him or the roommate staring at this innocuous but definitely feminine object lying on the floor, and computing its origins. Dear me.

I'll have to ask if I "dropped something" when I speak to him next, there's no point in pretending otherwise. Oh, I'm sure to get some now, I think, men love to be reminded of the fact we menstruate. It's sexy! Third sigh. Perhaps this relationship is doomed to be a friendly and curious failure. In the meantime, I carry my stones and laugh my ass off.

Ms. Ever so Fuckable out.