Journal October 6, 2015

Perhaps I am just old fashioned.

I am theoretically and mentally perfectly fine and accepting , even an enthusiastic supporter and defender of the so-called poly amorous and ethically non-monogamous lifestyles. I understand it on a conceptual and empirical level, I know people who have made it work for them and I admire their openness and all the consistency of communication it takes to make the lifestyles work for them as well as it has.

However, on an emotional level, the level I unfortunately or fortunately seem to operate the most from, I don't think it's for me. I used to think it was and I did try, but I can feel it in my gut and in that bit of battered muscle in my chest above that I'm just not cut out for it.

I am a monogamist traditionalist romantic at heart, and this it seems is a state almost vilified in the circles I now inhabit and roam. The newest and most counter-culture kink is wanting to be with only one man for the rest of my life. Yes, I can almost hear you shudder at the thought.

For me, and only for me I am not casting any judgements on anyone, I cannot engage in the intimate act of sex if I do not have any tender feeling for the person opposite me. No, that's not entirely true, I can, physically, and I have in the past and may do so again some desperate and achingly lonely day in the future. But merely engaging in the physical act is just not enough for me, or it comes with such a heavy cost of feelings of guilt, shame and lowered self-esteem to make it a wholly unappealing prospect. Again, only for me. If you have found the magic button that allows you to have all the sex all the time without regrets or philosophic nostalgic pondering then you ride 'em cowgirl! I envy you.

I know I should more firmly embrace the hard won feminist liberties of being able to enjoy my body and have sex as easily, readily, and frequently as I so choose without succumbing to the cultural baggage of guilt or slut-shame or any of the myriad other ways I self -sabotage my post-coital high. But I can't. I do give it the good old college try though, engaging in casual and "friends with benefits"  type relationships, but in the end I cannot help but feel somehow cheated. It is as though I realize, sometimes too late, that men invariably consider me good enough to fuck but not good enough to date, or to spend time with, or share interests with or introduce to friends or in any other way get to know me beyond the bedroom's four walls. I am never good enough it seems. And all I ever wanted was to be good enough to someone, other than myself of course.

I will admit to a bit of false advertising, of caving to the inevitable truths of the experience of a 40 plus woman dating in our world today - the "wants to date but nothing serious" tag or the "exploring non-monogamy" buzzwords sprinkled throughout my dating profiles. Why? Because dating in your 40s is fucking hard. I am not the young pretty and pretty dependent arm candy the men my own age, post-marriage and/or post-divorce, seem to desire and chase in an effort to feel themselves needed again. I am not the "cougar" looking for young men that will come to me to learn tips and techniques to make their same-aged future girlfriends moan, or to exchange their sexual stamina and vigour for a monthly allowance and/or for me paying for everything because I am "mature, and have your shit together". It reeks of mothering far too much for my liking. So labeling myself, or perhaps mislabeling, as "open-minded" and other quaint and culturally up-to -the-moment euphemisms for being just "down to fuck" is my leverage in an ever shrinking and shark-infested dating pool.

What gives me pause and pain are the occasional men who, being on the same wavelength as I , tell me that although what we engage in is casual for the moment, they are not averse to it developing into, possibly someday maybe, a Relationship. The dangling carrot in front of this romantic's nose. The carrot that makes me decide against better judgement to sleep with someone on the first date, to open myself up and make myself vulnerable when I am usually, perhaps to my detriment but mostly for my protection, very guarded and very cautious. The carrot that whispers to me "Can't you just see yourself with him in 5 years? Can't you just imagine spending Christmas with him, being introduced to his family?" and, against all internal warning systems, I can imagine it and I do. Yet these same carrot-dangling men invariably have sex with me once or twice, three times if it's a slow week and they haven't plans on book-ending weekends, and then slowly, or abruptly, disappear. Ghosting, in the modern day parlance. I am left to wonder what did I do or say that was wrong? What about me wasn't good enough? I'll never know.

It's not the sex that I take issue with, not the casual usage of my body, time, talents or affections for his or our mutual pleasure and reward, it's the intimacy taken for granted. I can have and have had in the past the rutting, usually at the local sex club or swinger party where I didn't even ask the man's name, my focus being purely physical and immediate. But if you and I have had 4-hour long phone conversations, shared ideas and beliefs and stories and the small vulnerabilities of our lives, if we`ve not only had the great sex  (in my home! a rarity in itself) but felt comfortable enough to sleep together (snoring and all), and my god if I`ve gone so far as to make you dinner or breakfast the next morning, when you suddenly and inexplicably lose interest in even texting me hello in the following next few days, I have to wonder was it all worth it? Was sacrificing intimacy at the altar of sex just for the chance of companionship worth it?

I am beginning to think it is not. I am beginning to think that I would much rather be alone and not risk my heart anymore and not risk repeatedly being made to feel, through omission or deed, that I am for whatever reason I cannot fathom (and I can fathom oh so many) not enough.