I’m done. I’m so fucking done.

Well, probably not really. I’m going to keep looking, and there is a good chance that I will keep trying. But only because I’m too stubborn and too stupid to admit when I’ve been beaten.

I don’t want to be alone. But I am, and probably will continue to be.

I don’t get out much. But I made three attempts in Real Life™ this past week. One I chose not to act on, for reasons that I explained previously.

The second, another new girl at work, I actually asked out. Unlike with the first girl, I had no background information, not even a name. I had misjudged her age, but was beyond the point of no return by the time I realized just how young she, too, is. Not that it mattered. She very sweetly informed me that she is married. Of course.

The third was a waitress at a local steakhouse that I met the weekend before last when I ate there. She claims thirty-five, and I believe her. She’s thinner than my usual preference, but cute.  Three kids, 12-18. I figured, why not. She has significant ink on both arms, and God only knows where else, and I’m not a fan. But as long as it’s not another dude’s name, I’m pretty sure I can get past it. Anyway, I was going to eat there as an excuse to see her again last Friday, but she wasn’t working. Saturday, I tried again. Not working, again. Maybe God’s trying to tell me something about her.

And now, let’s look at the results of a recent online dating site search:

Must love dogs.

Full time grandma (!) of a four year old.

Mom of five, ages 2-21.

No overweight guys.

Wants kids (at age 43!!!).

More pictures of her fucking dog than of her. OK, not really, but three pictures of her, one of just her dog, and one of her and her dog.

Here’s one. Shooter. Good sense of humor (don’t be upset if I shoot better than you), but no – she has dogs and doesn’t want a homebody.

More fucking dogs.

Must love kids, as I have three and they are my world.

Wants kids.

This one looks OK. Has a nose ring, which is a huge turnoff for me, but maybe I can get past it. Never mind. She only dates black guys.

Finally, here’s one, no pets, sounds reasonably sane, all kids over 18. But she’s fucking gorgeous. I’ll write to her, but I’d have better luck getting a date with Scarlett Johansson. (Not that I’d want one. Skinny-assed yankee cunt.)

Sure, maybe five percent of the search results would be worth writing to. And by “worth”, I mean that the chances of a positive reply are slightly better than the chances of me winning the Powerball jackpot. And the Mega Millions jackpot. Both in the same week.

I don’t see myself as an overly shallow person.  I’m a realist, and I know that I’m no prize in the appearance department. While I truly believe that my definition of attractive is rather broad, there are limits.  There has to be some attraction. Even I don’t find everyone desirable. Many of the ladies in the aforementioned category are so far outside of what I consider attractive that I don’t think chemistry would be possible. Not that it matters.  They probably won’t write back either. Just like all the rest.

For a long time, I thought that my lack of success on match a few years ago was because of my marital status of “separated”. Now, I don’t know. I’m officially divorced now, and my profile reflects this. I’ve written to maybe fifteen ladies this time around, which, admittedly, is hardly a representative sample. Two responded. One ignored everything that I wrote and sent, “Thank you. :)”, then failed to answer either my initial email or the two follow ups. The second seemed interested initially, but after two brief replies, she stopped participating in the conversation without explanation.

I’m not in a huge hurry. I’m still on the edge of not ready. But considering how long it will probably take to get someone to go out with me, I figured I’d be OK to start trying now. That way, my first date may take place before I become the world’s oldest living human. But probably not long before. Assuming I ever land said first date.

My dear sister, whom I love very much, has accused me of thinking with my dick on more than one occasion. She may have even been right. Once. But, despite how much I enjoy sex, and how important it is to me in a relationship, I want need more.

I honestly believe that had I not pushed to become more than a penile life support system, I would still be fucking B on a regular basis. In the beginning, I was basically a booty call. We had to keep our relationship a secret, so we’d steal a couple hours every chance we got, and fuck each other silly. Because that was pretty much all we could do.

The sex was awesome.  And the frequency was even better.  I had the only relationship problem that men will never complain about.  I was so frequently and well drained that I worried that I might have trouble getting it up next time. But, as awesome as it was, I wanted more that physical intimacy and satisfaction.

The drama began when I started pushing to bring our relationship into the light of day. To be an open part of her life. To be introduced to her kids and be involved in their lives. To spend time together outside the bedroom. The more involved I became and the more serious the relationship, the less bedroom time we had and the more frequent the problems, until it finally ended. Precisely how, Dear Sister, does that translate to thinking with my dick?

Fuck this.  It ain’t worth the headache. Regardless of what I may or may not have to offer in a relationship, nobody is interested.  Banging my head against the wall isn’t going to change that.

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2 Responses to No

  1. Erin Palette says:

    If it makes you feel any better — you’ve gotten more sex in the past 5 years than I have. :/

    • alaskan454 says:

      I’m truly sorry. And no, it doesn’t make me feel any better. I want you to be as happy and satisfied in that department as I want to be myself.

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