Time To Give Up – and start winning

I’m not an expert on anything.

Not even brownies and blowjobs like I claim on my CV*. I do like to think that I’ve learned a few things along the way but most days I feel like a naïve idiot at best and a total fecking eejit at worst.

 

But I do try

Not very hard sometimes – but when I do try hard I give it all.

But.

 

When do you give up?

When do you decide not to expend any more energy and just focus on something else? Cut your losses?

I feel I could better serve my life if I just gave up the notion of having any kind of fulfilling relationship. Of course if it was that easy, giving it up, I would just do it and not have to debate it.

 

It’s not easy to give it up. We’re sold it from a young age and it is widely accepted as the norm and in nearly any culture as an agreed marker of success.

And humans are social, we like to be around other people, we particularly like to think that there’s someone for us, someone we have ‘the right’ to spend time with and request time of.

And why wouldn’t we. That notion is lovely.

 

 

But

by all accounts we’re getting worse at it – finding someone and making it work. 40% of all relationships are now instigated online. I don’t have hard data for you as to why this is. And I have even less on what this means for the success of these unions. But that won’t stop me throwing out some wild conjecture nonetheless.

I’ve read that online dating is a hugely different selection process than in person; we’re way pickier and brutal, always looking for the perfect and rejecting any tenet of a person’s life/style/character that we don’t feel aligns with ours. Or even what we want to be i.e. even smokers will reject smokers as they feel they won’t give up if they are with another person who smokes.

And this is hindering the process of finding fulfilling connections.

Supposedly.

 

While I’ve also heard, admittedly second hand from a psychologist, that we make just as quick, flash judgements in reality as we do swiping on Tinder. The eye sees something primal and whatever it’s looking for it can see it in a photograph. So technically it is possible to find someone just as worthy online… So that might not be why we aren’t making connections.

So as I heard recently, pick a side, an idea, a notion – and you will be able to find data to support it.

 

I don’t know how I feel about why we are less coupled up than we used to be. But the fact is that we are. Are we too picky? Are we too entitled? Is there too much choice? Is the Western ideal of self focus instead of community focus the reason?  Maybe humans aren’t so built for monogamy as we’d like to think?

No that any studies on how to find a partner was going to stop me. I know what I want and I wasn’t about to negate any route to getting it, online, in person, or on an app.

Except.

I haven’t gotten anything.

Well not anything like what I’ve been looking for. Nothing lasting, nothing fulfilling, nothing even in Dublin! And I have to ask myself – why am I still trying?

Is it a desire within me myself? Or is it something I see everywhere so feel like I should have? Well I can’t tell.

I honestly think it is something I want, for the record.

 

But at what point do we give up? At what point do we stop wasting time looking for a thing that might not exist and just be more grateful for what we do have?

I’m not entirely useless, I have a semblance of a career. I live in my own house and I’m not awful looking – all things I should be happy about.

I have a wide circle of friends, close male ones and close female ones. I have family who are good, and while I’ve minded them longer than I got parented, I still like them. And that aside I’ve never questioned that my parents love me. I’ve questioned a lot about them, but never that. And what’s more I’m fairly certain that they like me too, even if I’ve never made them proud. (trust me, I haven’t)

I have a sister who is like a part of my soul. I would choose her through a thousand lifetimes across a hundred millennia. I would always choose her, if choosing your family was something that could be done. And I’ve two others I’m pretty fond of.

And more than that, I have a BFF – a woman that I love like a shark loves blood. Consistently, measurably I don’t think I love anyone’s company more than hers. It’s visceral.

And loads others.

 

So look. Just look at all the love in my life. All the fantastic love that I have been fortunate enough to find. I’m rich and teeming with it. I am not without support no matter how much I think I am on the dark days.

 

So why…….. why do I feel like I have not succeeded in love? Why am I made to feel like that?

 

Why are these loves not measured and scored and taken into account? I don’t list them to brag, I list them to highlight the absurdity that I can have all that and still be looked on with pity as I apparently don’t have love in my life.

Why indeed.

 

Well maybe it’s time I did just that. Maybe I should bask in the glow of the blessings I do have and give up on the one little one that I don’t.

I’m getting all I need from other sources – why do I think I need a partner too? Why don’t I just accept that the fairytale isn’t for everyone. Not all of us get to have a life partner, and many that do aren’t very happy with them. Surely accepting this and getting on with things is a better plan? I don’t lack for male company – or not for too long anyway, so wouldn’t I be more at peace if I just stopped chasing?

 

And even though I can’t even keep a straight face when I type that, I am going to try. I am going to try my very hardest to accept that finding a partner just isn’t for me, to accept the fabulous relationships that are in my life and be happy with them. To take the magnificent sex I (usually) get and be happy with that. Because it’s more than a lot of people get and I think coming to terms with that has to be better than chasing nothing; than wading through bullshit and misogyny and awful online profiles. I’m weary of it.

I gave it a great shot, I batted well but it’s time to step down.

 

I’m not alone, I’m just single. And that should be enough.

*My brownies are very good mind, and have rarely disappointed, in fact most have said they’d pay for them. Ditto the blowjobs.

The Escort

I don’t think I ever need a wedding, not for most of the reasons I usually spout about them but because I had my big day. I had a glorious few days surrounded by the people I love. Doing exactly what I want.

It was the greatest party that anyone had ever thrown me. The house was heaving, the DJ’s were in and the base bins were hired. I won’t bore you with how good the rest of the day was we’ll just pick it up when we all piled back to mine around 3am. Which is when all good house parties start.

As I said the house was heaving, all three floors were packed and the music was great. A little too great. And the cops were inevitably called. It’s my house, I’m not sure where the house mates had disappeared to, but it was definitely me who was called to the door to deal with the cops. I don’t know if any of you know this but the law in Ireland is that if a neighbour calls to complain about the noise, the cops will show up but they can’t actually do anything. They can’t cross the threshold and they can’t arrest anyone. Essentially all they can do is ask you to turn it down. So unless anyone invites them in (much like vampires I note) they can’t come in or break up the party.

So out I went to talk to them. It’s worth noting that at this moment in time I am the happiest girl in Ireland. Quite truly. And I gleefully skip to the door to handle this.

“Hello Gardas!” I beam at them. And they immediately know what’s up, all 5 of them. They are smirking at me and are very amused at the situation.

“How’re you doing” is the first question, in a big Kerry accent.

“I’m great it’s my birthday!” I say, to barely stifled giggles from the cops.

“Do you’ve any idea how loud that music is?”

“Oh yeah” I concede, “that would be the bass bins”

“Oh we know, you don’t get that sound from anything that isn’t professional”

Me: –

“Any chance of keeping it down a bit, a few of the neighbours have been on to us?”

“You know what Garda, I’ll do my very best!”

And they all break down laughing and he gives up and heads off.

 

And I still don’t know how I didn’t default to shouting ‘Ah will you not come in for a quick dance?’

 

Anyway, as delighted as I was to get away with it that time, I’d heard that they had been at the door previously and no one could find me. So when the door went again, I was summoned. I wasn’t sure that my luck would last through a third warning. And what if there was another law? One that said that on a third warning they could come in and do what they liked?

But it was my house and it was my responsibility to face it.

 

Hello?

“Em, we’re your neighbours”

And my head then explodes.

 

Wait a second? You don’t look like you’re old and loaded and live in a giant house where my house is the mews? And you’re all … what’s going on here.

I think this in my newly exploded mind –  but I still start my, ‘ok we’ll try to turn it down’ speech but they stop me because they’re not the ones that complained, they were just on their way home from some other party and heard the noise.

Well come on in guys, there’s booze in the kitchen.

And 5 young fellas pile in, with a chorus of ‘Thanks, whose house it is, great party, is it a birthday, thanks’. While every one piled up behind me expecting a Cop Encounter points at me and I start my ‘Thank you, you’re welcome, get in quickly’ rant.

And the last guy in, hands me a china cup filled with sugar. “We em, needed sugar”.

Which was just so fecking cute!

 

I handed the cup to someone else and turned to try to head back down the hall into the sitting room. But the guy with the cup of sugar caught up with me.

“Hey, it’s your birthday, yeah?”

“It is!” I confirmed with another beam. And then he said he’d better give me a birthday kiss. I’m not going to stop him as I assume he means on the cheek. But nope, he means on the lips and he full on lobs the gob. And I just ….. let him.

And for the rest of the night he is by my side. In an inexplicably suave way. He asks me if I want a drink, I tell him that I’ve paid for all of it and he says, so what, do you want me to go get you one. And that’s how it continued. He kissed the face off me, told jokes, danced, checked on anything I needed. It was, well unprecedented. And it just seemed lovely, not weird at all.

I am enjoying it immensely and all of a sudden I think of that film True Romance, and I start to think that this is all too good to be true. Not that I care, but I really start to think that …. Someone got him for me as a birthday present!

No seriously, I did.

So I asked the girls, and their incredulous laughter didn’t actually allay my suspicions. The night wore on and the more I enjoyed this guy’s company and his attention to me the more I convinced myself that they had hired him. He was perfect. And anyone who knows me well would know damn rightly that the best present that I could get on my birthday would be sex.

 

I knew it sounded crazy but the better he was the more I questioned them, the more they laughed the less sure I became that it was a crazy notion. I mean it can’t be impossible, can it? (just to clarify, in the cold light of day, I think that it might be impossible to get a 25 year old, hot, straight male escort in Dublin – I’m open to being corrected)

 

The party rages on. It winds down, some head off to an early house and then back to my place and eventually it’s just a few of my best mates and The Escort as I’m not calling him, and his best mate. Me and the escort go to bed. We don’t have sex but we do have some fun.

The party was Friday night and he stayed until Sunday evening. And eventually we do have sex and it is everything.

He doesn’t have the biggest cock but he sure knows his way around a girl. And I have some of the best sex of my life with him. I come every time.

He would start kissing me, then bite my ear and start the whispering.

Do you know what I’m going to do to you? I never answered.

Then he’d slip his arms around me lightly, at first but I knew what he was doing.

I’m going to fuck you til you’re out breath from screaming my name. And at that I would buck, arching my back and exhaling a sigh.

I’m going to push right into your aching pussy and work it until you can’t even beg anymore. Again I’d buck and he’d tighten his arms around me, so I couldn’t move.

Next up he’d go back to kissing my neck and then sucking my ear – which sends me wild. I can’t keep still if someone does that. He was well aware.

I know you want it, but you’re not getting it yet, I know what you want, I know you’re aching for it.

And of course I was, but he wasn’t done yet.

But I’m not going to give you my cock just yet, I’m going to hang on to your tits with one hand while I slip the other into your knickers.

He narrated everything he was going to do, making the anticipation all part of the fore play. He never stopped talking to me, either telling me what he was going to do or describing what he was doing, always at my ear, filling it with words I loved.

Telling me how much he loved my pussy, telling me how he was going to eat it. And when he was in me, he’d tell me how he loved how tight it was, how wet it was, how neat the lips were and how he loved to see them swollen.

 

It was all words and all talk all delivered well. He’d have me so aroused even before he got his hand in my underwear. Every time.

I didn’t realise how much I was into in until him.

 

Every ride we had was perfect. Even the last one. Where we had sex, ate pizza, had sex again and then he went home then called me to end it.

 

It was 6 weeks of perfect kissing and spectacularly successful sex.

And he’s still up there as one of the best. He is similarly referred to as The Escort or Edward Norton by my friends. And even now when I think of good dirty talk I think of him and I get wet.

 

I wonder who thinks of me like that?

I’ll Happily Pay For It

It’s never for free. You always pay for it one way or another.

There’s no such thing as free sex.

 

I said that recently and I think I was wholly misunderstood. So I just wanted to go back and to clarify what it is I meant because it’s not half as awful and cynical as it sounds. Let’s not forget I’m a big, filthy, romantic at heart.

 

Sex isn’t for free and neither should it be, in my opinion. You have to pay for it, you always have to pay for it. Sometimes a price you want to pay, sometimes a price you’d pay more and sometimes you’ve no idea you were going to pay way over the odds until it’s way too late.

 

want to pay for the sex I have. I want to pay in reciprocity and in fun and in effort and in respect. These are the things I will happily pay with for sex. It’s an imperceptible trade but it’s part of the contract; I will give you all these things and in return I expect to get them back. Not only that I will also give you an orgasm or at least my very best efforts, I will put my utmost into trying to make sure you have a good time.

That’s what I think I should be paying. That’s what I believe sex costs.

 

In return, if you want to sleep with me, I hope that you’re paying me respect, I hope that you’re paying me attention I hope that you’re paying me the courtesies that I am affording you. And I hope that you’re giving these things willingly. This isn’t a strict trade, this isn’t clinical i.e. if you don’t make me come then I won’t make you. No, this is unconsciously what we agree and gleefully should give. We shouldn’t want the sex without wanting to give something.

 

But it’s not always like that is it.

Sometimes we encumber ourselves with terrible debt. We pay for it with bruised egos and battered hearts and skewed versions of love.

I have paid awful prices. I have saddled myself with debt I thought I would never escape yet I always have, and I know I will continue to.

(I’m not talking about unwanted pregnancies or STDs  – they are all failures of contraception and protection, they are not the price we pay for sex, they are the price we pay for carelessness and sometimes, rotten bad luck.)

 

Just recently I paid an awful premium.

 

The sex was fantastic. His goal was to make me happy, to extract as many orgasms from me as he could, hungry, greedy for them. His goal was to see me writhe in ecstasy and lose myself. And I did.

My goal was to please him too, to give him what he always gives me. To not say no to anything.

What could possibly go wrong?
What is possibly amiss with this happy, wanton tale?

 

I have always been the other. Initially it was just me, but I knew she was likely to return, I always knew there was a she. My acceptance of this peaked and waned. Whatever else I can say, I always knew. But I never felt like a mistress, it never felt like an affair. It feels naïve to say it like that now, but I never did. It just felt outside of whatever else he had.

 

We have nothing in common really, except appetite and insatiability. A recognition of something that is at our core, something neither of us has with anyone else.

This was just other.

This was not to end with a fáinne, it was not to meet parents or friends or….. anything typical. And that I could live with. That I would pay, and pay, and pay forever for.

 

Until this last time, where a hint, a glimpse a half word almost not caught, made me understand that this, this thing we did, that we can’t stop from doing, this was now….

I was now..

The mistress.

 

A title I never wanted and will not keep.

And I hate the price I paid for that last night. I detest how it mars everything. It was already marred you might cry. But not to me. It is only sullied now.

 

So what did I pay? I paid with the reality that it was now over, that we had had or time. I paid with a sense of loss and of sadness. I paid not with regret but whatever that thing is that’s two steps from it.

And yet. Maybe I need to pay this bill, maybe it had been owed all along, like a winter heating bill that hits you in February; an accumulation of all those winter nights you sashayed around in your underwear with the heat turned up to 11. It was always in the post.

 

I’m paid up and I don’t want my credit extended. There will be no more ‘One last night’, we’ve had about 5. Where would it ever end? When he bought her a diamond? When the honeymoon was over, when he she gives him a child?

No.

I don’t want the title. I want to cash out and walk away.

 

 

But not even I can believe myself.