More Microbial Misadventures

Thank goodness I have some work this week.  Otherwise I’d be climbing the walls and crying intermittently.  I’m only writing about this to get it out of my system, and perhaps to salvage someone else’s relationship who might be going through something similar.  Here goes…

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 some honest men 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?


My pronouns are whatever you're comfortable with as long as you speak to me with respect. I'm an Afruikan and Iswa refugee living in Canaan. That's African American expat in Israel in Normalian. I build websites, make art, and assist people in exercising their spirituality. I'm also the king of an ile, Baalat Teva, a group of African spirituality adherents here. Feel free to contact me if you are in need of my services or just want to chat.

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  • You’ve read the article, now get the t-shirt! :-D