I’m Single. Let’s Celebrate. Invite Your Dick.


SO I broke up with my boyfriend last week. The old dude  (read: “Dating someone super fucking old” https://dudesandshit.wordpress.com/2013/05/21/dating-someone-super-fucking-old/).

We met while I was working at a physician’s office and he was a patient there. I was 26 at the time and he was 51. Me, being the awesome vixen that I am, tooootally laid on the charm and eventually got him to pick me up. My first move was finding out if he had a girlfriend. So I booked his appointment on Feb 15th so I could slyly ask what he did for valentine’s day. Such a slick fucking move. And it totally worked.

I have to admit, though, after the thrill of going back to my coworkers and getting rounds of high fives for being such a stone cold pimp, the reality started to sink in.

AWWWW maaaaaaan.. He’s SO OLD! WTF?! Do I actually have to follow through with this? Am I mental? I kinda just wanted to see if I could do it… I don’t know if I actually wanted to do it ! FUCK.

We took things slowly. Tortoise pace. And eventually I trusted him enough and after a while, I barely noticed the age difference. We spent an entire spring and summer together before I moved to another city to start my Masters program. We went to Jordan and Israel together. We took a road trip all over the west coast of Canada and a helicopter ride over the rocky mountains. We went to Vegas, New York, Halifax. We did wine tours. I cooked for him almost every night. I fell in love with him.

But the honeymoon period was short lived. When I moved, I found it really hard to connect with him over the phone or skype. He really just wasn’t GOOD at intimate conversations. After he told me about this new car wax he bought for the porsche and which fertilizer he is going to choose for his lawn, he didn’t know what to say after. Meanwhile, I’m on the other end looking in the mirror and making my fingers into a gun and mock blowing my brains out. And as time went on, things started getting worse. And then, THEN, he started having boner issues. And that, my friends, THAT is when this kid checked out.

I brought it up. But talking about it makes it worse. It always does. Furthermore, since we only saw each other once/month for a weekend there was this weird unspoken awkward pressure at bedtime. Then he stopped trying. Entirely. As in straight up didn’t try and have sex with me. At all. Ever.

Okay, so most of you haven’t seen me. But just trust me on this one: I am most certainly certifiably fuckable. So I wasn’t on some “ooooh it’s me. oooh I’m not pretty anymore” bullshit. It was more like I was on some “holy fuck. I swear to god if I don’t get fucked soon I am going to spontaneously combust” type shit. Every guy I saw turned me on. Especially young dudes (young as in MY age.. you PERVS!). It took every mighty ounce of womanly strength I had to not hump every dude I saw. Porn helped. But I think I may have permanent nerve damage now in the tendons of my right wrist from masterbating so often. It was to no avail. I needed to feel it. To take that short, quick inhale I reflexively take when I’m first penetrated. I felt feverish. Delirious. There was no doubt about it: I NEEDED TO BE ENTERED.

And there wasn’t exactly a shortage of volunteers.

So, shit.  I did it. I had sex with other(s). And honestly? I felt IMMENSELY better.

My bitchiness was down 89%. I slept better. I gave less of a fuck (yea… well technically I guess, I gave MORE fucks…. anyway). It was glorious. It was stupendous.

But there is no going back from that. As soon as you cross that boundary with another person, your relationship forever changes. You can still be in love. I think you can even still stay together and be happy and recover from it. But something changes. And for me, that something was irreversible.

I no longer saw him as my boyfriend or my partner. I actually didn’t even really see him as a friend. His jokes made me cringe. I escaped his touch. And before long, I could barely look him in the eye.

It took me a few weeks to grow nut sacks big enough to actually cut the chord. But I did it. Gently, slowly, and openly. Even though I NEEDED to and WANTED to break it off, it still sucks. I’m happy with my decision. But am still having far too many self-loathing, mope around, get drunk alone, and watch shit girly TV days and nights. I am also practically void of ANY motivation to get my thesis proposal done.

I need to get out. I need to shake it off. I need to look HOT. I’m SINGLE god dammit. We should celebrate.

And oh yea, your dick is cordially invited.