Thursday, September 24, 2009
My Heart? Liars Need Not Apply!
Deep breath ...
I haven't hinted about my love life on Sex and the Beach in a long time, at least not since my last post in '06 about Mr. Thinks He's Huge, Fractured Mannequin.
There's a reason I created a persona, because I don't believe in airing out my dirty laundry and I highly respect the privacy of others. But sometimes, a story is just too good to be tucked away on some dusty shelf of memory. And besides, this is a single woman's guide to chronic living, isn't it? I owe it to my single gals out there.
So here ya go, ladies, fasten your seatbelts ...
Unless you were literally born yesterday, the story I'm going to tell you is something you've heard before. Boy meets girl. Boy is a player. Boy lies. Boy uses girl.
Because you see, this story isn't just about how I met a man who was one adverb away from being a pathological liar, but also about how impossible the dream of real intimacy seems to me right now.
This man, who hailed from another city, came recommended by a friend. Everything was perfect: chemistry, personality, wit and intellect. We hit it off smashingly and couldn't wait to see each other again. He returned to Miami and after a wonderful time together, I came to find out he was still married; he'd hidden this fact brilliantly from the world, especially from my unsuspecting friend, a trusted person who would have never condoned such an affair.
But one morning, without even looking for proof of anything amiss, Twitter, Myspace, Youtube and Google lay it all out before me. All his seriously fucked up lies started to make sense. The manipulation and craft was brilliant. Earlier I mentioned the word player, but this guy was a top performer, worthy of an Oscar.
I'm not naive. I'm not a prude. I'm not a floozy. I'm not a doormat. I'm not a player. So how the fuck could something like this happen to me? It's embarrassing and humiliating to admit, but I have the courage to speak my mind, God damn it, as I always have. I am not gonna fucking lie: I was used. I hate it. And most importantly, I never deserved it.
Every single of my female readers knows EXACTLY how this feels. It sucks, but we have to own it and move on.
PIGEON HOLES ARE FOR PIGEONS, NOT REAL WOMEN
Being single gets old, folks, especially if you're in your 40s, never been married and childless. I'm tired of the jibes, the pressure and the jokes about being a cougar or a spinster. What? Because of my status and age I have to be either a penis-hunting whore or a zero to the left of plus one? Why can't I just be a regular Jane who wants some honest good lovin' and a decent man to grow old with?
Well, you know what? I'm not out to fuck younger men and I don't particularly care about signing a paper that means I get a break on taxes because there's a penis in my life. What I do care about is living an authentic life and sharing that with someone who is not a lying sack of shit.
I want love. I want intimacy. I want great sex. Why the hell not? And the only way to achieve that is with a man who not only doesn't lie, but also understands what it means to be authentic. This is not about the size of a man's penis, this is about the size of a man's heart.
Did he really think he could pull the wool over my eyes for much longer? This isn't the first time a married man has tried to get into my pants, but at least the others were honest and respectful of my boundaries.
What blows my mind is that my little sordid tale happens all the time ... and what does this say of relationships and intimacy in general? Seriously, on a very deep, human level, what does this say about trust, if even lovers can't trust each other?
The trust that two lovers share creates a chain reaction outside of the bedroom. The kind of disrespect I have experienced is profoundly disturbing not only because it affects me personally, but because it also reflects the state of humanity.
Of course, you bet your ass he didn't get away with squat. I called him on it privately. He gave me his bogus apologies. Whatever.
WHAT A WOMAN WANTS
Freud once asked: "what does a woman want?" That's simple, guys: a woman needs to be able to trust. Break that trust and you're also breaking her heart. Break her heart and she will never spread her legs the same way again with you, even if she fakes her orgasms.
In truth, I feel sorry for him. (Oh, and terribly sorry for his wife and whatever other women he has manipulated.) Tapping into my compassion, I've forgiven him on a human level, but as a woman, forget about it. I'm no sucker.
It's a good thing I found out so soon, before I got more tangled in his duplicity. I really thought I had done enough spiritual work to avoid manifesting an asshole like this, but I guess the universe had some unfinished business for me.
So like I said, ladies, this is a story you've heard before, but there's always room for more caveat emptor. Like chronic living, you can't exactly give up on loving, can you? But when it comes to dealing with men, be very honest with yourself about what you really want. Be on your guard, without being bitter. Open your heart, but don't play victim. Love takes courage, and as shitty as I felt the day I found out he was married, I'm still only joking when I say I'm going to star in the next edition of Golden Girls.
If not, you'll see me and my gray-haired cougar spinster divorcée goddesses living together in some house in West Palm Beach ten years from now. We'll be twittering about hot flashes, the best lube for our dried-out vaginas and tossing coins about who gets to fuck the poolboy.
But I haven't lost hope -- not yet.