So I’m looking over my choices…a very pretty African guy…too pretty in fact.  Pretty boys think all they need to do is show up, so that was going to be too much work.  Then there was too-Israeli…not ever going there again EVER.  Then my eyes settled on that familiar Black Sea something in the eyes, and some good hands dangling over a set of good legs.  That’ll do.

About a month later, it became clear that he did feel like he was doing me a favor.  His boyfriends were also butt-hurt that I didn’t pick them.  They can all go shag each other for all I care now.  If I want to do girls, I prefer they have vaginas.

So after I removed the reserved sign, I pretty much started hunting.  It was all good until one fateful night, not even far enough into the experiment for anyone to believe that I am not a “nice girl”, I met someone as weird as me.  Our eyes met, and we just knew something was going to happen.  We were both kind of drunk, but since we’re both kind of crazy already, it didn’t matter much.  I’m pretty sure that we’d have behaved pretty much the same stone cold sober.  What made the encounter even more interesting is that the pub owner, heretofore known as Satan’s late night playlist was strikingly similar to my age appropriate dude shagging playlist at home.

I won’t get too deep into the details, but suffice to say, I find myself catching feelings.  This is somewhat inconvenient as he has not yet defined the relationship.

I’m not really sure what I should be doing, but for the moment I feel I should not be seeking replacements.  We’ll see what happens.  It looks somewhat hopeful since we’re both at somewhat similar phases of life.  He’s self employed, and so am I, so he understands the idea of projects and being busy and self motivation etc.  He’s also divorced with a kid, and I’m platonically married with a kid, so neither of us is trying to make new babies.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’d have 10 of his little ‘sperglings if it was a perfect world.  Our kids would be as awesome as Moon, and we’d pass the days composing, inventing, finding new ways to set things on fire, and reading technical manuals as bedtime stories.  Alas, it is not a perfect world, and I am not 20 years old.

Still, I find myself quite taken with this one.  I hope he wants to keep me around.

Again, much, much credit for my wellness has to go to the guys at the Chateau.  Aside of helping me to rediscover and improve my feminine side, they’ve made my masculine side a better “man” in crucial ways too.  In a strange sense, I think my inner “man” helps to heal my inner woman.  He certainly came in handy this past weekend.

For the first time in my life, I didn’t have to be basically forced to be vulnerable.  I admitted to the actual guy I wanted, to being horny, a bit desperate, and quite easy, though focussed on a particular target.  Remarkably (to me anyway) this did not result in immediate rejection or mistreatment as the night wore on.  My honesty was actually appreciated.

I have no idea what the results will be sexually or emotionally in the cold and sober light of day, but I’m optimistic.  I’m going to clean my room, shave every day just in case, and definitely not sit in my room waiting for the Dick Fairy to bless me or something.

In summary, I’ve gone from Rehab to Return of the Mack in one weekend.

…as soon as I recover from three nights in a row of drinking anyway.  I am so not looking forward to tomorrow’s workout.

I also almost picked up another taxi driver, but that’s not going to go anywhere.  It was flattering though.  So my ego is repaired even though the betrayal still has me feeling like I swam in sewage for three months.

My heart is still on the floor though.  In all my life, nobody ever said all those things to me who didn’t mean it.  A few have loved me and tried to pretend they didn’t, and in hindsight, some may have pretended to love me but not said it because they knew they were just pretending…but nobody ever went beyond the “I love you” to the ways, reasons, and professions of undying love, who wasn’t serious.  This is all new stuff for me, and I have to admit to being a bit rattled by it.

Nobody in my life has ever held me close and whispered in my ear when I was crying, “You are safe with me,” and not been telling the truth.  I am not so pretty or so rich or so anything that anybody has ever felt the need to lie to me so badly.

I honestly don’t know what to do with this.  I don’t know what to do with the memories.  I don’t know really how to feel except angry and frightened.  I don’t know what to feel about him except hate because I can’t think of any reason he would do this to me except hate.

In time I suppose I will get past this as I’m pretty sure nothing like this will ever happen to me again.  Unless some halo has appeared over my head that makes me look like I’m 20 and that guys have to profess undying love to get into my pants because my vagina squirts ambrosia of the Gods or something, it is very unlikely someone would go this far just to crush me again.

It’s just…that this could ever happen to me once has me wondering if I’ve stepped into the Twilight Zone.  It’s just too weird.  It’s a nightmare.

In this video, I read the letters Papa II wrote me with his own hands, burn them, and then eat some of the ashes to own my half of the stupidity of it all.

As you hear the words, remember that I am not a young, hot chick a guy would need to lie to with such mushy words of lerve.

I believe that even though the Talmud isn’t quite as damning of non Jews as it’s often interpreted, primitive rabbis themselves do interpret it in the worst way.  They do not account for the between the lines sanctity of human life and extend customs around slavery and for self preservation at the time to all non Jews.  They essentially are or became the monsters anti semites paint them to be, and spread this monstrosity so deep into the culture here that the message that it is okay to lie to and deceive us, and is even a sort of “mitzvah” to harm us.

So a non Jewish woman is no safer in the hands of the average Jew as a non Arab woman in the hands of the average Arab or Druze here.  Each has their own infidel class that includes anyone who isn’t in their ethnic/religious category.

The difference between them is that Jews are less aware of how they’ve been programmed, so they don’t know that anything is wrong that they need to fight.  They will claim that they are not racists because “Jewish” is technically a religious designation, but they treat it like a race.  So what if technically, they are malignant xenophobes.  It’s a distinction without a difference.

I am more convinced than ever that if a non Jewish/Arab/Druze woman is thinking of living here, she should prepare to either suspend her romantic life, only date guys who were raised and educated outside Israel (read tourists and foreign workers), or simply not believe that a man loves her unless or until he invests something real in the relationship.

I have met Israeli men who don’t have the scratch on their brain and do right by their non Jewish girlfriends and wives, but just a handfull.  So they do exist.  I’m not saying it’s hopeless.

What I’m saying is “don’t bank on the exceptions”.

He doesn’t see how the woman is manipulating him by saying that he “chooses relationships that are doomed to fail”.  Of course, she is referring to his relationship with me, which she must think is unhealthy because I am not Jewish.

She has also gone so far as to say that she loves him and feels they have a special bond.  A legitimately mentally challenged person could see where this was going, and would probably see their way to telling their caretaker that their therapist was creepy…but oh well.  She’s female, so it just cannot be that she is abusing her position in order to seduce vulnerable soldiers under stress.  Oh my goodness no.

If he’s dumb enough to fall for it, then I’m darwinian enough to let him.

You may ask why I’m being so free with the details in this one.  Well, it is a part of my new “no mercy” policy.  No Israeli man has ever had mercy on me or cared enough about my feelings to hold back a whit when trampling them, so I have no more mercy for them.  Even Shai, in his way, has failed in this.  When we went platonic, he simply could not understand why I would be upset by never being able to have sex with the man I loved the most ever again.  Perhaps unconsciously, he said things to make me feel bad for wanting sex.

Especially after some truth time at the Chateau I no longer believe men are served well at all by women, especially non feminist women being silent about our feelings…about what it is to be a woman who is a woman living under the feminreich.  Women are not served well by this either.

When we encounter a man who has been broken to the point that he enjoys being victimized, and would dump a woman who loved him and who supposedly he loved in favor of a harpy who is the very definition of a glaring red light, something is dreadfully wrong with this culture.

Now, on the one hand, I have to deal with the sheep cooties.  My wishful thinking or perhaps pure desperation for any kind of affection, blinded me to the signs.  He is actually very self pitying, and thrown off course by things that wouldn’t be an excuse to someone from another culture.  In every way except maybe certain perversions that are different from the norm, he is a typical Israeli “fob”.  That’s basically an ars just of the Eastern European variety.

I feel kinda stupid and yet sort of fascinated by my own capacity for self deceit.  This though, is exactly why I shouldn’t go without sex for too long.

Well, lesson learned.  Maybe I’ll find another nice Scottish guy, bonus if he’s intact, and not screw it up this time.

Anyway, the ceremonial burning of the lies (love letters from him) will take place tomorrow at sundown.  At that point, I will hopefully begin to even forget his name, but not the lesson.

Papa II called today, and we talked.  Well, I snivelled and he clarified.  So we’re good now.

I’m feeling kinda stupid, and though others keep telling me it’s okay because I’m a woman, I’ve kinda come to demand more from myself.  I do not want to ever have another episode like that again, so I’ve simply decided not to.  I did not enjoy it at all, and it didn’t really do anything good for me.

Next time I’m not sure what something means, I’m just going to ask like an emotional girly girl then and there instead of playing it cool like a dude but then failing because I’m not a dude.  I need to take my own advice and remember that face saving strategies are men’s domain and not something a woman should bother with.

Now, those of you who have been reading me for awhile understand that what was left of what little entitlement I felt disappeared with the bitch epiphany.  For those who haven’t been reading long, this was when I realized that for someone of my age and in my situation and with my level of looks, I got a lot better treatment from men than I could have if Nature were indeed as cruel as I’d painted her.

So rather than scaffold my ego with affirmations and “shoulds”, I began to think in terms of “ises”.  What I should get because I’m a fairly decent person no longer mattered, and it all came down to what I need to be a happy, sane person.  I stopped having expectations, simply demands.  If someone could not assist in helping me to get my needs met or did not meet my minimum requirements, this was no longer taken personally.  I simply accept it and move forward.

For this reason, I no longer required love or a relationship or even the potential for a relationship to meet my sexual needs.  I understand that love and sex together are one of those things that is nice to have, but in raw terms, it’s not a need.  In the absence of a loving and sexual relationship, I need a good shag at least a couple times a year to stay a healthy woman who isn’t smoking a lot of weed to sedate the dragon between my legs.

Until diplomatic relations between Israel and Turkey went sour, I found exactly that in Prince.  Bonus, he lives far away, so my reputation wouldn’t take much of a hit.  As far as anyone around here was concerned, I could maintain an image of dignified inaccessibility appropriate for a woman of my age and social standing.

Then Papa II returned.

I felt a great deal of relief.  My body reawakened to its natural near psychotically horny state, and I thought I would finally get to relax and be me instead of the cold cyborg I have to be to survive in Israel without every jerk who thinks he invented bottom feeding, picking me out as an easy target.  I could be female again.  Yippee!

…but the military has made sure that’s not going to happen.  For many reasons that I’m not even going to get into I’m basically having to reapply the IronWynch mask.  I’m becoming, for all intents and purposes, a mostly non sexual person again.  The problem is the “mostly”.  Something inside me is resisting.  It is something new, and I’m not sure how to deal with it.

Since my context has shifted from ethereal entitlements to solid, raw needs, I find myself again wondering why I am here.  I wonder if my sentimental attachments are misguided, and if I am too alien for any man here to handle my femininity.  Maybe it’s that I am not sufficiently feminine.  I can deal with that idea without being down on myself.  Relative to most women here, I suppose I am somewhat masculine, and the differential between myself and men here may well be too small for me to register as female.  This may be why I am required to further masculinize or de sexualize myself in order to have a relationship.  If I have to choose one or the other, and the feminine side is being rejected, then there is nowhere for me to go but Broville or Noville.

It is killing me.  I don’t want to die.

So my inner woman, now that after the bitch epiphany, I’ve found her; now that after having a brief taste of a full relationship, she’s got some live air time, I don’t want to have to kill her again.  I won’t do it.

Now there’s the dark edge of that, which I’m skirting at the moment.  I want to say things that I’m afraid if I say them, I’m going to lose Papa II.  I want to ask for things that I know I’m not going to get and may as well not ask for.  Even more confusing, I don’t want to ask.  Screwed up as it is, I want him to just know somehow.  It’s so stupid and female.

I know in advance what the Chateau would have to say about this: I’m old and it is therefore natural for men to not want to shag me.  Maybe they are right.  Maybe I have hit the wall.

…or maybe my rationalization hamster is just horny and looking for a way to blame him for my being impatient.

Do I look like your grandma?

I wonder if that’s one of the things tonsils are for: virus targets so your throat doesn’t get damaged.

It’s a bit of a challenge to be the girl, but I’m learning.  I think that in missing him so much for so long and in the excitement of finally getting him back, I forgot some of the duty part of the role: pit crew.  He is so independent, strong minded, and strong willed that though I did pretty well at being nurturing and caring, I didn’t do so well at not being overly demanding of attention.  When I found myself having to remind him that I understood that he might not be able to call very often since I’ve been in the military too, I realized that it was because in some other ways I was not behaving as if I understood.  So I have that in check now.

It’s an important thing to be supportive of your man’s occupation and/or mission.  I have some of my own, but being female, I think like a Lernaean hydra.  I can multitask until I literally run out of energy.  At this very moment, I am giving my hands a break from  beading an Oya eleke by writing in my blog, and simultaneously composing a poem in my head for two binding scrolls while considering with what essential oils I will anoint the same.

…but mine is physically and mentally light work.  No plane is going to fall from the sky because dove doesn’t exactly rhyme with wove.  No ship is going to sink because my reading light flickers a little when you turn it on.  Nobody’s going to burst into flames because of an accidental extra bead.  If I sneeze from smoke while consecrating a talisman, the Orishas are not going to give me a dishonorable discharge.  Well, maybe  little discharge of mucous, which Eshu would find funny and remind me that for all my lofty ceremonial efforts, I am still just a mortal.

Many men’s work is so far away from that.  Lives are on the line.  My man’s work is like that, so if I’m going to be in a relationship with someone with that heavy a job to do, I have to help rather than hinder.  He has enough stress in his life.  So I’m not putting my little wants aside for him, though I’d be happy to if it pleased him.  I’m putting them aside because the work he does keeps bombs from falling on my home for another day.  On days it doesn’t, then I can be fairly sure the people who launched them will get a few back.

No, it’s not politically correct or peaceful, and yes I understand that politicians and the rich don’t give a crap about us and treat us like pawns in their deadly game.  Still, peace will take a very long time to accomplish.  Death happens in an instant.  I also don’t believe that war happens because of the politicians or how they use soldiers.  It happens because deep down, the will of the people of any nation is imperialist.  They let the politicians draw them into conflicts because that is what they want.  They want to kill their enemies/the other whether or not they are a real threat.  This is human nature.

Some people’s nature is not like that, or it’s well enough under control that they can keep a balance, but this is very few people.  Most people, like the spectators at human sacrifices of old, like to know that the government is willing to shed blood to preserve their society.  It makes them feel secure.

I can’t say I’m either average or a peacenik.  I don’t feel secure and never have under any kind of government.  I understand very well that security through institutions is an illusion.  For me, only love is security.  I am grateful to my family and friends for this.  It’s “you and me” security.  When a group with a supposed “common good” is so large that I don’t really know where everybody in its’ head is at, I no longer feel safe that my good is important.  It’s why I have few friends.

If we argue, we can work it out eventually because at some point we knew each other never really wants to hurt the other.  If we hurt each other, we know it wasn’t on purpose, so even if it takes awhile for us to find our way back to one another, we do.  Love is cool like that…a coolness with one another that conquers just about anything in time because it’s not “common good”.  It’s your good and mine.  It’s personal.

Hearkening back to a bit older post, it’s kinda freeing to know who was the bitch.  I’m not sure if I’d feel that security if I hadn’t come down off my pedestal.  It may have been just a rickety stack of palettes held together with duct tape, and straining under my weight, but it was pretty damned high.

So my inner princess has to roll up her dainty little sleeves and keep a nice, comfortable nest.  She has to sit quietly or bring snacks while her prince is watching television or at the computer.  She has to let him sleep peacefully and long on the weekends.  It’s cool.