I feel that I do not spend enough time talking about my masturbatory habits on this blog. Every day, I receive comments and emails from people demanding that I spend more time detailing all of the strange and crazy things I do just so that I can spend five minutes every day thinking about something other than sex. I hate to generalize, but ladies, you really don’t know what it’s like. Even if you are a total slut, you are still likely to be more in control of your libido than just about any man in the world. Even the most mild-mannered and gentlemanly among us is likely to be a total pervert as soon as he gets home and the blinds are drawn. I like to think of myself as mature and responsible. Though I’m likely not quite, I certainly try to be. So you can imagine how frustrating it is when I spend the entire morning rooting around porn sites trying to flesh out whatever bizarre fantasy has lodged itself in my brain this time. I look forward to the day when my penis does not have the ability to reduce me to a drooling moron at a moment’s notice. Surely my mind will regain control of itself sooner or later, right?
My penis has veto power over virtually everything except my survival instinct. (And even then, it’s a close call.) The problem is that there are a million little pieces that must fall into place before I can move on to another stage in my life. Eventually, they add up, and I’m able to build upon what I’ve learned confident in my knowledge that no matter what happens, I won’t have to go backwards.
So if it ever seems like I’m repeating myself, it’s only because I can’t let go of something until I know it’s really over. I hate Gertrude Stein, but she was onto something when she pointed out that there is no such thing as repetition, because saying something over and over again subtly changes its meaning every time. Somewhere along the line, you fall into a rhythm.
I still don’t fully understand why it’s so difficult for me to get what I want. I demand that others treat me with respect, and in return, I extend them the same courtesy. Time and time again, they knock my hand away. I complain about this all the time. Lately, the thought has occurred to me that perhaps people justify being so passive-aggressive around me by telling themselves that they’re sparing my feelings by not telling me what they really think. It formed the basis of an intense fight that my mother and I had all the way back in February. She insisted that what she and my father were doing to prevent me from making my own decisions was all for the better. I had to explain to her that I don’t give a flying fuck whether what happens to me is good or bad unless I have some agency in the matter. It’s still a bit too early to say this for sure, but I think that’s starting to sink in. She doesn’t second-guess my every move the way she used to. Once or twice, I’ve even contemplated calling her to ask how she’s doing. (Do I care? Not really. But it seems polite to ask.) I’m getting better at telling people to go fuck themselves. When they realize that I don’t care about their approval, that I concern myself with nothing other than meeting my own standards, they stop coddling me. They talk to me like a big boy rather than someone who just doesn’t get it. A professor that I had a massive argument with back in June has been nothing but supportive since. I daresay she’d even go to bat for me if somebody else accused me of not pulling my weight.
If there is anyone reading this who is still stuck in that stage of their life in which they’re not allowed to think for themselves and wondering how to pull themselves out of it, let me give you this little tidbit: Never let anyone make you feel bad just for being who you are. Hopefully, you know that already, but what you might not know is that there is a lot that you might be willing to compromise in order to preserve your own essential nature. No one except you is allowed to decide what that is. Whenever someone begins a sentence with, “Maybe if you just…”, I stop listening. I don’t need anyone else, not my friends, my family, or even God Himself telling me what to do. I’ll decide what to do. The only thing I ask from those around me is unconditional support. I grant it to them; I expect it in return.
There was a time when the knowledge that I didn’t have a boyfriend would tear me apart. What was so frustrating wasn’t that I was single, but that I couldn’t even see my way clear to finding someone. I had no prospects, very few friends, and knew only guys who were single, not my type, or straight. Really, all I’m looking for is someone who can ease my raging misanthropy and quiet the voice in my head telling me to murder everyone until it’s no more than a dull roar. I’m pretty sure that’s the kind of thing that Nicholas Sparks writes about.