Lycanthropia Vernal

Spring isn’t here yet. I know this because I’m not a werewolf. I don’t mean this literally but I don’t exactly mean this figuratively either. I mean that I haven’t broken free from the oppressive weight that winter binds me with. The seasonal affective disorder that makes me a prisoner of my own thoughts and feelings, robbing me of my faculties and willpower. Stealing my supernatural powers. Do I really believe that I have super powers? You might ask. Well, it had been observed since my youth by many a teacher, counselor and professional of various description that I was in several ways gifted. Though because of this I would tune out, go into my own mind and lose focus on that which was asked of me. I was fortunate to avoid an ADD diagnosis. I never lacked the capability for attention, I simply elected not to award it to things I deemed trivial. Adults were never considered authoritative on the subject of what was important in my mind.

My gifted mind educated itself in a rather round about, trial and error process. I’ve learned alarmingly little from schools. I would say that I actually absorbed about the first four grades worth of education. Then grade seven science, grades ten and eleven advanced English, also grade ten science and math. After these I felt as though I was finished with school. Until I decided to go to college for art.

Not long before college I began noticing certain things about women at certain times. Specifically in the spring and summer I had begun to notice quite keenly a smell. It was subtle and raw. A musky, heady olfactory flourish. I likened it to the combination of hunger and sexual desire. Later because of a girlfriend and her roommate I determined that it was a woman’s cycle I was smelling. After I’d determined this it made certain situations awkward. I only seemed to have the capability in spring and summer. For a time I thought because of all the extra clothes, however even indoors it wasn’t functional. With many years of smoking it has been dampened dramatically yet in the spring I still experience it slightly.

When puberty finally reached the top few gears and Jack arrived a plethora of unusual talents came with him. I could memorize songs almost instantly, take untold amounts of drugs, charm girls with relative ease and function on little or no sleep. I wrote poetry. Perhaps I’m biased but I found it to be evocative and powerful. I did this until I was fairly convinced that poetry was a dead art form. However, in the daytime my energy was shot. I thrived between noon to six in the morning, roughly. In the city I became a rooftop dweller, I knew how to gain access to the tops of all the downtown buildings. I never engaged in what you’d call free running though I was quite agile.

In my nocturnal adventures to keep myself entertained and make money I became a jack of all trades criminal. I’m not particularly proud of this now and it was rather foolish and childish. Amongst my proletariat group of friends theft was constant. We live in an age where if something isn’t locked or bolted down even the honest man is likely to rob you. We were the enforcers of this rule.  If you consumed drugs that meant you sold drugs. Everyone was a connection.

All of these things changed for me rather rapidly when I went honest. I’ve always been a hard worker. I have always had access to labour jobs due to my honest, blue collar father. Shortly after starting one such job I was visiting friends, doing drugs when a guy who was there threatened me with a knife. At this point in time I was all raw wiry muscle so I told him as a clear fact that I would take the knife from him if he tried and then I would use it on him.  He realized I wasn’t kidding and relented, putting the knife away. My friend Calvin and I went to the club for about two hours then returned. When I got back with him he went to his room and returned a minute later and sent me home in a cab. I was perplexed. By the next weekend it came out that while we were out at the club that same guy and his friend in that same apartment as guests of Calvin’s roommates had beat to death our friend Stanley with a baseball bat.

After this I began to shut down. Not because of grief nor the close call. Not because of the shock at the realization of mortality. No I had always been quite comfortable with death. This was because I had realized that it didn’t matter. It was him and that hadn’t bothered me. It could have just as easily been me and that also wouldn’t have mattered.  I felt a little bit guilty that I didn’t care.  On the surface I cared, I understood that people were shocked and grieving though it didn’t bother me personally.  This triggered a serious downswing for me and I became slightly more depressed than usual.  It held long enough for me to lose my job due to inaction.  I simply stopped going.  I tried sleeping around in the vain attempt to snap myself out of it to no avail.   That’s when I received a letter from Trixie.  She was living in the big city and having a great time and wanted to know what was so important that I couldn’t come and visit?  A visit turned into a roughly six and a half year excursion that included attending one of the nations premiere art schools.  For one year.

The big city was a cornucopia of debauchery and delights for Jack.  Meanwhile, old Dysphorian had to pick up the tab and tow the line.  I had very excellent times and I suffered some of my very worst bouts of depression here.  You have to understand that I didn’t even know that I was depressed, I thought all people felt the same as me.  I truly believed that others were simply better at coping or managing their downs and that I was just not getting it.  I thought that Jack was my true personality when I wasn’t feeling glum.  That when I did the random, over-the-top, crazy, exciting things that Jack did, I was finally expressing myself and letting my hair down.

What it comes down to is the truth lies somewhere in between.  That a more balanced me, a medicated me isn’t relying on a manic push to deal with long periods of crushing depression.  That with effort and medication I can become a regular, boring mortal just like everyone else.  Except I’m keeping my spring werewolf for life.  You won’t take that from me.  I’ll also never fear death, we’ve been in love for far too long and I know all of her erogenous zones and weak points.

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As You.

You don’t eat properly.  Mostly fast food or junk that you get from convenience stores.  You are an excellent cook but you could be fucked to cook for yourself.  Your sleep has never been regular nor sufficient.  You get roughly four to five hours a night and have since your late teens.  You are easily distracted and difficult to entertain.  You bore easily due to swift comprehension and find many social outlets mundane.  You play video games until you are distracted by something you want to read on the internet until you find that boring and begin to watch television shows or movies.  Mindless watching becomes tedious so you read a book, the book becomes predictable and menial so you watch short videos on youtube.  After a few videos you decide to write a little bit and when this runs dry you stare blankly at the vacuous nonsense that people share on facebook.  Eventually you can’t help it… You have to step in as the voice of reason and start quashing the Chicken Little cluckings of the mindless masses on the various scares of the week or month.  You work yourself up into a dysphoric frenzy blasting people with the righteous thunderbolt of logic, throwing diatribes all over friend’s walls like mardi gras beads.

When the dysphoria eventually abates you think about the people on your facebook friends list.  You think about the quaint concept of friends.  You let your mind rest on the fact that very few people ever text you, fewer still ever call.  You know that this is because very few people actually care about you.  Sure, some of this might be the feelings flowing from the crash that you are now having, the depressive state you are sliding into like a junkie into a nod.  Also however it comes coupled with the sting of truth.  You know that at the very least if people ever do think about you they rarely ever do so fondly.  Their memory of you is one of Jack McBastard drunk as fuck and telling their sister to go fuck herself at top volume in the middle of a restaurant.  Explaining calmly as though totally sober that their relationship is a sham convincingly enough as to be believed.  Or just your standard frat boy shenanigans involving people bleeding at three in the morning on the living room carpet waking the children up on a school night.

People know that you are bipolar.  Some of them even know what that means.  Some of them know that it means that you suffer from dysphoria in addition to depression.  That you can in fact experience both at the same time.  The important thing to remember here is that you don’t matter.  You may as well kill yourself because it would probably just make their lives easier, right?  I mean, it isn’t as though they give a fuck.  It isn’t like they are looking in to see if you are okay.  Nobody will ever call, text, write an e-mail or contact you in any other way because you aren’t the one that matters here.  They are.  Your behaviour isn’t indicative of a problem of your own. Nope.  It’s merely a threat to them.  So you know what?  Fuck you.  Die.

This is the way you think.  It isn’t wrong.  It’s like an ouroboros or self loathing and self pity.  You don’t want it to be this way but you can’t help it.  The only way that anyone will actually “help” is to give you shitty off-the-cuff advice like: “Be positive” or “You just have to look at the bright side of things, then you’ll feel better”.  No.  That shows a serious lack of understanding and total callous disregard for the welfare of another person.  In fact, that kind of advice may as well come with a loaded gun and the issuer may as well just shoot you themselves.

So you are totally alone.  Texting is easy, calling is easier and nobody will ever do it.  This is a clear sign that you are truly alone.  You know this with your heart so you embrace this and go out.  You find a bar and you drink.  You look for a woman.  You flirt.  Your hope is to manage at least one night where a single person cares intensely about you, even if it is only your body, for a single night.  You feel alone in a crowded room and every person that you can’t have sex with is a mockery to your sensibilities.  They take up space and waste your energy.  Eventually however you find someone.  You become James Bond.  You are super charming and sophisticated.  You take them home and gratify one another.

Jack’s Rusty Cage and Swift Vengeance.

Things did not go as planned with Sylvie.  She decided to cancel and so there I was, frantic!  How was I going to satisfy this deep need to validate myself through sexual expression?  First I laid it on fairly thick in a hypomanic frenzy to see if she might not be willing to move some things around in order to accommodate our coupling.  Kind of crappy move, but this woman holds a special place in my mind as the “one that got away”.  No change and I think I only upset her a little bit with my continued flirtations and persistence.  I recognize this to be childish and more than a little pushy, not the kinds of traits I normally attribute to myself.  I normally don’t assert myself to women, I usually take it as it comes.

Now what?  A brief respite in the form of a visit to a female friend.  Married with kids, I have no intentions of being a pervert here.  She has other company in the form of an attractive female friend who is preparing to move some three thousand miles away.  I think that this might be interesting except for the fact that she almost immediately stonewalls me.  ME!!!  I’m used to women feeling one way or another about me but no matter what I get a reaction.  From this lady I get less than nothing.  She is a social flatliner the entire duration of my visit.  It bothers me immensely.  Especially given that I had recently had my validation bid canceled.  Things start to get dangerous as my fragile ego begins to crumble.

The next day I return to the major North American city in which I lived for around six to seven years to visit my friends.  I stay with my best friend from high school and college roommate, Damon.  With the wife and kids it’s a full house and the children are happy to see me.  I just adore them, he has a daughter, five and a son who is two.  They are delightful.  Roiling inside me however is this itch that I have not yet scratched and a massive bruise to my self-esteem.  I fire up tinder and start getting hits.  I score myself a date for Friday night when I attend a friends music show.  She seems like a super nice and really cool woman, we chat incessantly through texts like giddy high schoolers and make stupid jokes.  In the meantime however I have caved completely and the cage door has fallen off of its rusty hinges.  The teasing and promise of attention has finally pushed me into a hypomania.  Jack steps out from his dusty cell and appraises the situation.  Date on Friday, but there is still Thursday night old bean and you need to get naked with something.

Jack takes the wheel.  I tinder harder and faster, I start something that I like to call “A swing and a miss”.  When I get a match with a woman the first message I send is something inappropriate or shocking.  Something like: “You look like a good kisser, want to meet up at a secluded booth in a seedy bar and make-out?”  Or: “You don’t really seem like the one night stand type.”  The idea with these is as the name suggests, you are going to strike out for almost all of these.  Except that when you don’t… Well, you sir have found a fuck partner.  If she responds to these type of bold and outrageous advances she is likely to engage in meaningless sex, guilt free.  Sure enough I get a few hits but one stands out.  A musician and vocalist, aged forty one but surely that’s a mistake and she entered her age wrong.  She doesn’t look like she has gotten too far into her thirties let alone forties.  She looks younger than I do and I look young for my age.  We chat, she isn’t into my proposal initially (that we meet and have sex).  After a time however Jack butters her up well enough that she is intrigued and agrees to meet for sex.

We meet at a pub in the gaybourhood as she lives nearby to there.  I ask her if there is anything about her I need to know, is her address indicative of anything?  She says no.  Good, no penis.  When she comes into the bar and touches me on the shoulder to get my attention I turn and am actually shocked.  She is better looking even than her pictures and has an aura of fuckability all about her.  Seductive eyes and a nice soft sultry voice.  I drop my glasses from my pocket while moving from the bar to the table so dumbfounded I am that I am fumbling.  Not normal for me at all.  Jack gets me to the table and starts the conversation.  She is undecided whether or not to proceed.  We share stories about our past relationships and find that we have had some similar experiences.  She tells me that she has done this once before after she got out of a long controlling relationship in order to liberate herself sexually.  I totally comprehend.  I do not judge, it isn’t in my nature.  Here I am looking to score, how could I judge?

I ask her if she is really forty one.  She confirms that she is and I tell her that can’t be true, she looks younger than me.  She disagrees, I insist and point out that she has no crows feet whereas I do, a little.  I think she is a little flattered but ultimately doesn’t care.  She is comfortable with what she is and she isn’t accepting my charm as leverage in her decision to mate with me.  Jack realizes he is dealing with a genuine woman and sees what tactically needs to be done.  He releases his control over me temporarily.  I behave as a normal Dysphorian for the next half hour or so.  It comes to decision time as we finish our third or fourth drink and she signifies her acceptance by gifting me with a kiss.  We pay and leave.

Jack swoops in for the main event.  Once inside her place I use the restroom, upon returning from my visit she stops me in the hall and we begin to make out.  Deep beautiful kisses flooding me with dopamine and approval.  I have my drug.  If I thought that she looked young clothed I was in for a surprise.  A pleasant one, so don’t you worry.  Once nude her body resembles that of an endowed twenty-four year old volleyball player.  Her breasts have not sagged in the very slightest, they are high and taut.  I would think that they were fake until I felt them.  They were not.  Everything else about her is smooth, well-curved perfection.  We proceed to roll around on the top of her bedclothes without bothering to pull them over us, fully naked in one anothers coital embrace.

The next day after I return to Damon’s place I put in a text to thank her and offer a similar treatment upon my return to the city.  She enthusiastically accepts, assuming that she is unattached.  I proceed to nap and plan my evening at my friend’s music show with the next lady.  First I go to Damon’s place of work, a fine dining restaurant and throw back five cocktails.  Jack is still driving for some reason, but why?  Didn’t he get his fill last night?  After this I meet with a long time female friend and mutual friend (former musical partner) of the evenings host.  Trixie and I have a great conversation and some fried tofu and yam frites.  Jack has two more drinks.  At the venue I meet Daria, my date for the evening.  She is bright, vivacious, energetic, beautiful and fun.  We hear the music, and Jack has more to drink.  Jack kisses her right there at the table in front of my friends.  No sense of propriety at all, he does as he pleases and if that bothers you, well… that’s a you problem.  Eventually Jack gets so abrasive that he says something off-putting to Daria that has her change her mind about being out with me.  She decides to leave.  I chase after her.  In my mind I feel the need to explain to her or apologize, make it clear that I didn’t mean whatever Jack said.  Maybe she could see that I wasn’t that guy and she might decide to return.  This obviously fails and only makes me look like a douche who is desperately trying to stalk a girl for sex.  So not the case, but the lesbians in attendance will not see it that way.

Oh, Trixie is gay and married to a woman.  Many of her friends that are there are also gay.  So now I just look like a misogynistic clown who feels like he is owed sex… Sweet.  But wait, there’s more!  Jack then proceeds to flirt with anyone and anything that will listen to him, yeah…. Well done, ass.  They are all lesbians and they already don’t like you right now.  Fortunately another mutual friend steps in to save the day.  She literally throws herself into my line of belligerent jerk fire.  She takes some of the hit but then redirects me to the burrito joint next door with the company of a gay male friend who is actually a really handsome guy and some bitchy little troll-woman who won’t shut up about the fact that I brought a tinder date with me.  Whoa!  Wait a minute… how does she know this?  It isn’t as though I was advertising it… Not that it’s any of her damn business even if I did, I mean who is this fucking thing?  She is fuck uglier than a burnt corpse and giving me hell for having a date that I procured via electronic means?  Listen burnt-troll bitch, you can’t get a date… Just shut the fuck up, nobody cares and you aren’t going to shame me for using tinder.  Seeing as she is here with a woman who is literally saving my hide I don’t tell her off.  Jack is gone, diplomacy is a sure sign that he has no more control.

 

So that’s how my hypomanic outburst ruined the fun for many of my friends and made me a total shit-disturber.  Not cool at all.  Jack’s revenge for keeping him bottled up for so long.  Fuck that guy.  I would hate him more if he wasn’t totally effective at times…

Edit:  This entire blog is intended for me so at times clarification is overlooked.  Jack, for the newer readers or people who haven’t read back is Jack McBastard.  This is the name I have given my hypomanic tendencies and is not actually another person, persona or personality nor is he my attempt to shirk responsibility for my part in anything that I have done.  I am fully aware that I am squarely to blame for my behaviour.  I have since spoken to Sylvie and there is a very solid chance that we may yet reunite for a tryst or two.  I apologized for my persistence and borderline aggression.  I genuinely feel terrible about that, it really isn’t my style.  If I don’t get what I want I normally drop it and move on, I can always make good elsewhere.  As it turns out I am far more attractive than I realized, Jack is far more charming, Dysphorian is very genuine and the combination is nearly irresistible.  My self-awareness teeters on arrogance coupled with the self-justification so common in the cognition of bipolars that we are often confused as narcissistic personality disorder types.  I almost suffered a small amount of cognitive dissonance upon discovering that I was in fact attractive… I had lived so long assuming that I was average and attempting to determine and gain self-worth by sleeping with as many women as possible, something that has rather become habit and still hasn’t gone away.  Not that I would want it to.  Women are amazing.  I would have a Frank Sinatra breakfast everyday if I could.

Hairdresser On Fire.

I’ve alluded to her in the past, my hairdresser, the one who I was flirty with when I started my relationship with Zoe has always been a crush of mine.  We are always a near miss, on our way into a relationship when the other is out.  Well this time I have my fingers crossed.

Things did not work out with the other lady I was dating.  I kind of blew my cool for what I thought was a fairly legitimate reason.  Now I don’t think I’m out of the running entirely but even if I am I am totally not sweating it.  I still have a tryst to attend when I go visiting here on my week vacation and now it looks like the hairdresser could be moving back into the picture.  We will call her Samantha.  So she and I have always had the open hots for one another, never so much flirted as simply stated: wow, too bad you aren’t single, I would totally scoop you up!  For real, just blatant, no fucking around, spit-it-out, statement of fact.

Last night I did karaoke.  I am also a really good singer.  I’m not just tooting my own horn here, I went with a group of seasoned musicians and vocalists and my first song was “Sober” by the band Tool.  If you aren’t aware of this band or it’s vocalist Maynard James Keenan, he is debatably the most talented male rock vocalist alive.  His only challenger might be Matt Bellamy of Muse.  With the company I had, experienced in music and knowledgeable I wasn’t sure that my chops would make the grade.  Sure enough when I got back to the table after thunderous applause I got a huge round of congratulations and compliments.  One statement being: “When I saw that you chose Tool I thought ‘Wow, is he really going to try to sing Maynard?  Is he crazy or stupid?’ but then you got up there and did it and man… I was blown away! Good job!”

I was really touched by this reception.  Not only because these people know what they are talking about, but also because they are a new group of budding friends.  They are people that I am growing fond of and close to.  But I digress.  The lady who runs the Karaoke happens to be Samantha’s best friend and I know this.  So I approach her after nailing a few Killers songs.  I say to her: “You should say hello to Samantha for me.” with a wink.

She and I, let’s call her Rachel, end up having a good long conversation.  She doesn’t like Samantha’s boyfriend, which she knows isn’t a good sign for the relationship.  She gets super friendly with me and likes me a whole bunch, which indicates that Samantha would last a while with me.  The night carries on and all goes well, my group closes the place with a quartet of “Bohemian Rhapsody”.

The next day I go for a haircut.  Normally when I go for haircuts my stylist, Samantha joins me in my car for a cigarette.  She does today as well.  We talk and because I’m hung over, turned on and giddy I don’t even veil nor attempt to make my flirting even a little discrete.  I say things like: “I am so glad you wore jeans today, I can’t keep my eyes off of your bottom.”  To which she replies with genuine enthusiasm: “Thanks! I haven’t felt good I’m glad someone thinks I look good!” Among other things that were less lewd like how pretty she was etc.

We talk excitedly throughout my haircut, light flirting included and at the end she doesn’t charge me.  I insist but she doesn’t yield so I graciously accept the free haircut.  Sexiness has its perks.  Throughout our conversation she did partially confirm that things were not going well with her guy and in so doing I laid it out there that I was available and willing as she already knew.  I felt a little guilty but really… I should have been with her instead of Zoe.  Zoe was a mistake that I should have abandoned for Samantha.  I even said to her that I wasn’t attempting to give her incentive, I was simply reminding her that we’ve missed the opportunity twice now and we haven’t stopped flirting since we’ve known each other.  There’s something to this.  As I’m writing these very words she is telling me how handsome I look these days through facebook messenger… Wow, we are in this thing deep.

As she is getting done work she messages me to tell me that she is going tanning.  We chat a bit and she invites me to join her though she doesn’t have much time.  I go.  I get 9 minutes of stand up because my tan is just about where it needs to be and all I really need is a maintenance.  After I get out I wait for about a minute and she comes out looking glossy and fuckable in yoga pants.  She has such a bubbly and vivacious attitude I could just grab her right there in the middle of the tanning studio in front of the ugly people and show them what pretty people look like when they mate.  She drives me totally wild.  She has curves.  I love it.  She isn’t big but she’s also not petite.  She certainly has something I could put my hands on both up front and on the bottom.  She has the best wavy, wild, full volume brown hair, the brightest blue eyes, her whole person lights up when she speaks.  I am smitten.

She will be mine.  Oh yes.  She will be mine.  In the meantime I have Sylvie to make sweet fuck to.  I’m looking forward to rectifying that little lapse in performance.  The woman is gorgeous and since Zoe I’ve been lacking any real activity.  I’m in my thirties as attractive as I’ve ever been and feel more now than ever like my best before date is approaching…  I want to let my freak flag fly and I am kind of stuck in the middle of nowhere with few options other than to mine my facebook for past lovers, which is pathetic, it’s like a crackhead raking through the carpet looking for a rock to smoke (something I’ve been privy to sadly). Yeah, Tinder is sparse, Plenty of Fish may as well actually be populated with REAL FISH.  It’s pretty bad out here as I’ve mentioned in past posts.  I do better than most out here and it isn’t all that grand.

Let’s hear it for hot hairdressers!

Great White Buffalo

During the winter right before my wife left me I reconnected with a high school sweetheart at my wifes work of all places.  My wife worked as a barista at a locally owned and operated cafe in her small city where I met her as a teenager.  Where I also met this woman, we’ll call her Sylvie.

Sylvie and I originally met at the catholic school I had been attending there in that small city.  I was only attending it because it had superior academics believe it or not and all my friends went there.  Sylvie and I shared a home room and morning advanced English class.  I sat directly behind her and I used to tease her.  But not in the mean spirited, rude and pugnacious way that most ignorant male teenagers do.  In a legitimately cute and forgivable, charming, misunderstood genius, witty and broody kind of way.  I sold this really well by being a total smart-ass and well liked by the teacher, who would call upon me whenever he needed an answer to prove a point.  The kind of answer that tells the class ‘you see? this stuff isn’t impossible to grasp, one of your peers is following along, you should be able to get this too!’  Yeah… I was that guy.

So I was sitting pretty, literally.  Soon enough she was joining me after school to hang out on the couch at my mother’s music store which I worked at.  There was one problem, she had a boyfriend.  He was short and had a stupid nickname to reflect that fact.  I’m not normally an overly judgmental man but he was beneath her.  He was controlling and stifling, he had very little to offer (not that I had much, I was 16 or 17), wasn’t terribly clever and hung around with go nowhere, violent losers.  I understand the appeal, I had and have been similar at various points in my life due to bipolar.  Alas, I clean myself up and move on, knowing that there is better out there for me.  I was angsty and broody.  I was artistic and idealistic.  I liked to drink red wine and write poetry.  I fancied myself a renaissance revivalist (I was a pretentious and ambitious little shit).  I had all kinds of appeal to a teenage girl.  I was actually good friends with my future wife around this time and she was very similar to me in these regards, except she never outgrew these things…

So one afternoon fading into evening on the couch at the front of my mother’s music store I am making my move, about to kiss this gorgeous girl still wearing her school uniform.  Suddenly BAM! A huge explosion of noise right beside my head.  Sure enough, her boyfriend is outside watching us just about to share a kiss.  She gushes apologies and dashes telling me to lock the door when she leaves.  They go without a hassle but I do lock the door anyway only because this is my mother’s store and I don’t want anything to get ruined or have the police involved.  It burns me up inside that I was cheated out of the sweetness of her lips.  My blood is boiling at the thought of her touch and how it doesn’t belong to me.  My stomach is rolling over imagining her with that repugnant squirm of a man.  I wonder then as I will wonder several thousand times before and since why such amazing women choose literally the MOST pathetic, disgusting, useless and in all other ways horrible men.  It is a recurrent theme.  There is no such thing as perfect, if there was I’m not it, but even with bipolar I’m vastly better than most.  It seems like most women are TRYING to find the biggest loser that they can.  No joke.  Anyway, this is neither here nor there.  I’ve been that loser for at least a half dozen or more women so I shouldn’t talk.

For a short time she avoids me.  I don’t see her in home room.  I hear rumours about how he hit her and make vows about how I will bury him in the woods.  A week goes by and she returns.  Apparently she was only sick it just so happens that it was really poor timing  (I personally suspect that this was around when she had an abortion).  She is single upon her return and seems sad but resigned.  At first she doesn’t seem herself but after a time she opens up.  We become quite attached rather quickly.  I’m an anxious horny teenaged boy but not totally insensitive so I don’t push too hard for sex.  I suspect it’s this lack of killer instinct, this adherence to empathy and compassion that is the reason that I haven’t quite made it to triple digits.  I used to think I wasn’t very attractive, apparently it’s my self-sabotaging behaviour more than anything that drives women away.  I’m too nice and not pushy enough at times.  I’ve since learned to put my needs ahead of my manners when the situation requires.  I can thank Bukowski for this.  So I take it way too easy, we make rude jokes and I get the feeling that she is more sexually charged than I am.  Good to go.  Eventually I do push it.  She tells me that she doesn’t want to.  Oh, okay.  All that sex talk and jokes about blowjobs was just that, talk and jokes.  Okay, I’m a teenager so I am a little confused but I’m respectful so I back off.

I have to move back to my hometown, a slightly larger city about an hour away.  Ouch.  I have no license and no car.  This is relationship death for teenagers.  We manage to keep it going for a time.  I visit by train and she even talks her parents in letting me stay at her house so long as I sleep downstairs.  The next day her family goes to run errands.  She brings me up to show me her room.  She sits me on her bed and starts kissing me.  She tells me that she isn’t wearing a bra.  I immediately check to see if she is just teasing me.  Nope.  She slides her legs under her blankets and her skirt comes flying out a second later.  I am erect.  She invites me to join her on the condition that I lose my pants.  I take the deal.  I touch her through her panties.  I still remember every detail of her.  Now here’s the thing, I’m not an endowed man, I am average.  Like, perfectly so.  Yet she was tight.  I had difficulty getting situated and once I was due to being a teenager and so excited I think it took me about 2 minutes and I’m being generous.  So tight.  I marvel at it because it made no sense.  She wasn’t new to this, I wasn’t large and still it was like pushing a sausage through a fruit loop.  I would be pleased with this if I hadn’t been looking forward to a session.

I know that you are thinking, how good can a teenager be in the sack?  Well, funny that you are first asking that question to yourself in your own head, but second that I heard it and am now going to answer it.  Right around this time I had recently been in a relationship with another girl my own age and we used to have mutually satisfying marathon sessions.  We would frequently have sex wherein I wouldn’t even need to recock after an orgasm.  Often lasting several hours at a go.  So to have this disappointing short session with Sylvie was embarrassing, yet she seemed to expect it.  It occurred to me later that maybe this is what all of her sexual experiences had been to this point.

We had a similar situation at my place in my hometown when she came to visit me.  Shortly after this due to the distance we slowly tapered off and dissolved completely shattering my heart.  I really loved this girl.  I had written poetry about her.  I was a lovesick little puppy, it took me 9 months to recover from the loss of her.

Almost 20 years later I’m married and sitting in my wifes place of work enjoying a mocha latte, when I look across a narrow aisle from my plush leather chair to the couch.  Thereupon, sitting with a girlfriend is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.  Drinking a tea that my wife just delivered to her.

“Sylvie?”

“Yes? Oh, but… Dysphorian?!”  Her face flushes immediately and her eyes light up, she cannot hide the fact that she is excited to see me.

We speak only momentarily but I get her business card and gather that she is recently separated.  It makes no difference to me at the time.  I’m married and quite happily so at that particular time, I’m just so blown away to see her after such a long absence.  My heart has a room set aside for her with a candle lit in vigil for her.

My wife leaves me and a few weeks after that when I come to pick up my stuff I ask Sylvie to have lunch with me.  She does but she shoots me down very hard and in the most firm and polite way.  She leaves me with the impression that I will never talk to her again.  We become friends on facebook I suspect so that I can torture myself later.  Her reason for denying me is that she doesn’t want to be inappropriate with regards to my wife, seeing as we just separated she feels as though it is disrespectful.  I see her point and conceed, kind of… But I counter that she did leave an emotionally distraught bipolar depressive a week after a valentines upon which he spoiled his wife, even wrote her a poem…  She thinks this is cute yet sticks to her guns and I am glad she did really.  I was being bipolar and seeking validation through sex.

Summertime rolls around and I find myself staying with some friends in that very same small city once again.  I get to messaging her on facebook about how I would like to see her and bring her a tea.  She agrees, I do.  When I arrive with the tea she is puttering around cleaning and preparing to go to the cottage that night.  She is wearing a low cut flowing top and tights.  Her legs, cleavage and ass are all beautifully on display and looking almost exactly the same as in high school, in fact, she might actually look better.  At first the conversation is slow and awkward.  Sooner or later we come around to the fact that I am very attracted to her and she to me.  We discuss vaguely the possibility of us and she makes it clear that we can’t have a relationship.  Still I get the feeling that it doesn’t end there so I mention that I am not local.  Nobody knows that I am here so they don’t need to know about our business.  I make a metaphor about how if you have a craving for a food item you just go the grocery and buy it and nobody cares.  She understands.  The whole time I am helping her clean things in her kitchen.  Eventually I tell her that I just need to go and that it was good to see her cutting my visit short abruptly.  I make sure that this seems obvious.

About an hour later I text her something to the effect of: “I’m sorry, I had to go.  I think you knew exactly where our conversation was going and you were so sexy that I just wanted to take you right there on the kitchen table.  I figured with your sons upstairs that would have been inappropriate.”

She replies: “LOL yeah, I’m glad you showed some restraint.  I will be at the cottage tonight by the fire, why not join me there when the boys go to bed?”

Game on.  I pack some drinks and she sends me directions.  It’s very late when she finally gives me the go ahead.  When I get settled by the fire I drink at least two beers, we walk down to the water and back to the fire.  We talk.  I feel like an awkward teenager again.  It takes me more than an hour to make my move but when I do… It isn’t fireworks, it’s more like an ordinance stockpile and a pyrotechnics load being lit up all at once.  In the conflagration we manage to bust a hole clean through to hell and the fires of that unholy pit smother the rest of the universe so that there is nothing left but us and we are the two hottest, most powerful deities remaining, floating in a void of our own.  Her body is a stradivarius and I am a concert violinist.  Her mouth is the sweetest, softest thing I have ever tasted, her tongue dancing in concert with mine, flitting about my own lips and alighting momentarily on her own at just the right times.  If kissing was a sport this woman would make the olympics.

Eventually I ask the question, where do we go to have sex?  The boys are in the one room cabin.  She points into the dark and says one beautiful word: trampoline.  I love that word, because it starts with tramp and ends in a good time no matter what you do with it.  Unless you’re the poor sap who hurts himself.  Sadly…

This is where the story gets terrible.  I had only recently started taking most of my meds so an erection seriously wasn’t in the cards… Pathetic.  I put extra effort into going down and foreplay but I think she was upset and self-conscious about my utter refusal to get erect, thinking that perhaps it had to do with her, maybe her stretch marks?  I can say that it certainly did not have anything to do with her.  She was lovely.

Things got very awkward after that.  I bailed the heck out of there.  I tried to apologize through facebook messenger, she accepted but I got the impression she was being polite.  After that I tried commenting on the odd things on her wall to stay mildly relevant but would be met with mild hostility so I backed off.

Until today our conversation begins in reply to a wall post where she began redressing me publicly for stating that there are plenty of men that she overlooks (it was one of those picture posts about there not being good men, blah, blah, blah…):

Dysphorian: Why do I upset you so much? I actually know a fair few things but that isn’t what I am getting at. My point here is really that there are excellent men who crawl on broken glass to please you, if only you let them in. Yet you antagonize them.

Sylvie: I’m a Gemini lol

Dysphorian: And I regret nothing more than not being there to put my face in your crotch and then make you crepes

Sylvie: Omfg

Dysphorian: You’ll have to be more specific. It’s true what I say. I really feel horrible about my last horrible kick at the cat… My medication screwed me over. But you know what I think of you and that I would love nothing more than to pamper you.

Kissing you is one of the best feelings I’ve ever had.

Sylvie: Oh Dysphorian ,,,,, never worry about that … And that’s a good line how many times have you used that one ;))

Dysphorian: Sylvie, do I seem like the line type to you? Really? I just told you I would like to put my face in your crotch… Sometimes I am refined and sometimes I am blunt. I use what comes to me. You know that you are my great white buffalo. You have a very special place in my heart. Besides which you are just plain sexy as fuck. I still dream about you kissing me over your shoulder by the fire. That was particularly exciting.

Sylvie: White buffalo? Lol really

Dysphorian: You have seen Hot Tub Time Machine yes?

Sylvie: Omg yes. Magical things happen and hot tubs LOL.\

Dysphorian: You’re the one that got away, you’re my great white buffalo

Sylvie: Ohhh

Haha

But in that movie that white buffalo was actually a bum ass

Dysphorian: She turned out to be a bitch, yes… but that doesn’t mean that’s what they all are

Sylvie: Lol I know

I’m a fucking nightmare lmao

Dysphorian: How so?

Sylvie: Noooo just an angel

;))

Dysphorian: what are you doing sunday through tuesday?

Sylvie: Hanging out with my kids

Dysphorian: you should create some space for us to make out.

orrrrr… have coffee…?

Sylvie: Make out ? You know I like to fuck Dysphorian.

Dysphorian: Ah, okay, then it’s settled.

Sylvie: Or I guess coffee. Less mess

Lol

Dysphorian: seriously.

Sylvie: Hahaha

Dysphorian: worst case coffee, best case sexy times… set a day and time.

Sylvie: When r u around ?

Dysphorian: From sunday noonish to wednesday morning

so monday and tuesday nights are best

Sylvie: Okay we will have to see it would have to be after 8 PM

Dysphorian: I’m totally okay with that.

Sanguine release.

What to say?  Much has changed.  First, I wasn’t alone on Christmas.  My cousin had offered me a spot with his family and I reached out to him and joined them there.  This is after my (now former) girlfriend and I swapped gifts.  We stayed together for a month or so.  I guess describing the ultimate downfall of that relationship would be a good place to start.

Zoe never really let me in like I said.  She would ask me to do things around the house like paint her bedroom.  Now this is a fairly invested labour.  Slightly beyond a simple “chore”.  Yet when I spoke of the future, living together, paying for things like renovations, making decisions or talk of being an authoritarian for her children she would become visibly uncomfortable and say flat-out things like: “No, you have your life and you live at your place.  This is my house and my children don’t need any more parents.”  Which wasn’t the point… At all.  There were times when the young boy would test me.  Attempt to manipulate me, as he frequently manipulated his mother.  All children do this, it is their first attempt to understand the breadth of their own power.  The moment she was in the shower he wouldn’t ask for something, he would demand it.  Usually I would know that item, usually a treat, was not permitted at the time so I would deny it flatly.  To which his manipulative response would be to cry.  Because sure enough when his mother returned to find him crying he knew with certainty he would get a treat and I would be an asshole.  He would be fawned over for a half an hour.  This was a regular routine.  Zoe to this day is convinced that I am a child abusing psycho.  The only reason that I persisted was simply to establish a pecking order, which she was all too ready to subjugate as soon as possible.  The moment I saw this happen the first time I called her on it and she all but told me I was a cunt.  This should have been my queue to leave.

A heads up to any man who dates a woman who is this attached to her children.  Leave.  Leave right the fuck now.  She is not okay in the head.  She needs more professional help than me and I have a therapist, had a medications specialist and have a doctor I have to meet with regularly over my headspace.   Later in the relationship I started pointing out when he was manipulating her.  I became the cook as a former chef in training and made meals.  He was an extremely finicky eater, even for a child of 4 he was insanely, intensely picky.  He would eat something one week and love it.  LOVE IT!!! Then 5 days later he would sit and pretend to gag on it for 5 straight minutes.  I will give him this, he was a very clever child.  He would be excused from eating.  An activity that required him to use his own utensils and eat several different things, sometimes known sometimes unknown.  Without fail, every night half an hour after being excused: “Mom, can I have a yogurt?!”

Sure enough, she would spoon feed him yogurt!!! I pointed out how she only reinforced his shitty behavior by catering to him and she would lose her mind.  Insisting that she was a good mother.  I wasn’t criticizing, though I understand why she thought that.  I wasn’t attacking her nor judging her.  I was only trying to be objective.  If she allows this behaviour now it will carry throughout his life into adulthood and he will treat all women, maybe all people this way.  He will be entitled and pushy.  Maybe the kind of guy who thinks no means yes, if you see where I’m going with that…

So these are the things that created tension between us.  Her mother gets into my car for a ride home and has a break down.  Cries about how she treats her daughter and bullies her.  Which bothers me as well… Her daughter is a nice girl.  Smart and interested in cool stuff.  The kind of teenager I would like to have as a daughter if I had kids.  A little lazy, okay a lot lazy but I can deal with that.  I bring this break down to her and instead of asking me about it or talking it over with me and trying to understand it, she immediately flares up and yells at me calling me a liar.  Like I would make it up trying to cause a fight between her and her mother?  So she calls her mother to confirm it who denies the whole thing, seriously!!!  It takes me like a week or so to convince her that her mother did in fact say the things that she did and by then it is too late, it does’t matter because the crazy bitch (I just want to interject that as a woman lover I never use the word bitch, it’s for special cases like this one and as a sufferer of a mental disorder I also don’t tend to call people crazy except in special cases, like this one) has completely lost whatever love she had for me.  Which is fine.
Because I buy flowers every week without fail.  I rub her feet every night.  I make near gourmet meals in a kitchen that came out of the fucking 50’s, no easy fucking task.  Every night when she goes to put her kid to bed I clean up all his toys.  I do these things without being asked.  I give her 3 to 5 orgasms a night, some of which last as long as 10 minutes.  I love her as deeply as I’ve ever loved a woman and I can’t even get her to look me in the eyes because I know that she doesn’t love me in the slightest.  I’m too good for her and I know it and I’m at my wits end because I know I’m better than this.  I know I deserve better than this.  I know that by being in a relationship with her I passed up on a chance with a much better woman and I deeply regret every time she cuts my hair.  I know that I only bother to try to stay with her because there are literally no other options in this area in the hopes that she will open her stupid fucking eyes and see how too fucking good for her I am.  I hate myself because I am too weak to be alone and I am doing myself more damage by staying with this sack of garbage.  She is a prostitute I am paying for with self-worth and the price is way too steep.

She doesn’t leave me so much as exile me after a fight.  Eventually the exile becomes permanent.  She’s classy enough to wait until that weekend to hook-up with another guy.  A muslim.  For frame of reference this woman wears Guess jean shorts that almost show off labia.  That do in fact show off cheek.  She tells me that she has changed her wardrobe to show him more respect.  I told her once how I found it disrespectful how she would rather wear skimpy clothes and go dancing with a group of female friends than hang out with me.  That she thought it was okay or acceptable.  Not that I cared, I actually don’t mind and I was only half serious, I just wanted to know how she would react.  She got super angry, almost broke up with me.  Now she is with a muslim and changing her wardrobe and entire philosophy of existence so she can be a kept piece of cattle as a second class citizen.  A slave in a repressive culture.  If she thought that I was in any small way restrictive, she is going to have a serious wake-up call when things get serious between them.

I have since started dating another woman but I’m trying not to be too hopeful about her.  She seems really perfect.  Too perfect actually.  She even holds a bachelor of Psychology, like really?  She is obviously intelligent, career oriented, attractive and fun.  I’m just unsure about her.  We’ve had a few communication errors so I’m trying to take it super slow and not get too invested.  I just never really understand when you text someone and they don’t text back.  I don’t get that.  It isn’t a challenge.  Even: ‘Hey, I’ll be busy for a while but I got you and I’ll text you when I can.’ It takes seconds.  So I just assume that if you don’t that you don’t want to talk at all.  Which I know is a shitty way to think.  I’m also one of those people who compulsively has to answer a text right the heck away.  I can’t sit on it.  So I gauge these things differently I guess.

I’ve taken up archery.  I’m quite skilled at it.  I intend to pick up some better arrows soon that should slightly improve my shots.  The flights on mine aren’t very good and the shafts are a tad short for my draw.  It is excellent therapy.  The focus, the meditation.  So relaxing and cathartic.  I would highly recommend it to anyone who has tension or hypomania.  It really pulls you in.

That’s it for now, I’m up way too late.  I hope to update more soon.