― 
"We are threatened with suffering from three directions: from our body, which is doomed to decay..., from the external world which may rage against us with overwhelming and merciless force of destruction, and finally from our relations with other men... This last source is perhaps more painful to use than any other.
Even though it was never even close to being considered a 24 hour drive- thru, my vagina has decided to close its doors.
For good.
Gentle Readers: If those hallowed walls could speak, they would tell you they are angry and have been for years but they mistook their anger for dryness.
It's always a woman's fault, isn't it?
I never dreamed men would be the problem.
Desperately looking for lubrication while dripping wet, I have thought about progesterone or maybe just an economy size tube of KY Jelly.
Now I will be truthful about this......it has been out of REGULAR commission for about 20 years.
But, I mean it should be like riding a bicycle, right?
Its owner has been clinically depressed and on quite an acute cocktail for her melancholia.
Excuses be gone.
The fly in my ovarian ointment is RAGE, RAGE, RAGE.
The men in my life have been an ongoing disappointment for the last forty years and I have no more pussy left to give to them.
And to give equal time to the men, I am certain they no longer want to fuck my pussy either.
It is a two way street.
This post has been sitting here for a few days waiting to be finished, however, I thought it to be entirely too inappropriate to publish it on March 8th which was International Women's Day and to add some feminist lustre to the occasion ......Day Without a Woman 2017.
Now I know it is uber cool these days to blame everything on Donald Trump but his attributes are truly my vagina's nemesis.
ANGRY MEN.
Fuck 'em.
No, I can't fuck them any longer.
What causes rage?
"THE ART OF THE DEAL".... Somewhere in suburbia...back in the day... Someone's ex-husband is reading Donald Trump's best seller while picking his nose while his wife is trying to go to sleep.
Yes, I married a man who could read and pick his nose at the same time.
Yup, I can pick them, can't I?
The ex-husband adores Trump because the ex-husband is also a narcissist and is a Trump wannabe. However, the ex-husband is full of rage for many reasons but mainly because he is selling used cars and not building casinos and towers all over the world.
I divorce him.
I do therapy.
I keep on falling for men who hate women.
So, like I said RAGE is the purple elephant in my (bed)room.
Last year, I turned 60.
I am lucky, I am still considered fuckable but I know my expiry date and it is coming around the corner searching madly for me.
So what do I do?
Well, last fall, I willingly and lovingly(?) put myself in a stupid sexual situation with a very complicated man and may I also add, a Trump supporter.
We both have RAGE issues.
Of course, I ignore them.
Instead, I become fascinated with orchids and even though I hardly have enough money for groceries, I buy a beautiful purple plant in early December.
The plant was being difficult and sending me mixed signals. I couldn't figure out exactly WHERE or IF it even wanted to live with me ANYWHERE in my apartment.
I tried my dining table and that didn't go so great so I decided to place it on the coffee table.
There were care instructions accompanying my plant, but for some reason, I seemed to be fucking the orchid up by watering it too much or not enough.
And I won't even dare to bring the sunlight issue onto this orchid situation.
What the Fuck!!
It doesn't take a botanist to figure out the purple orchid is a metaphor for my vagina and is NOW the purple elephant in my (bed)room.
Does he love me?
Does he love me not?
Oh, the mixed signals!
I don't know whether I am coming or going.
But I can feel the rage.
He loses my number over the Christmas holidays.
He has a sore leg on Valentine's Day.
And the rage rises.
And guess what?
He lacks in the coital etiquette department. No, he doesn't pick his nose but in every other aspect of his life, he is a most well-mannered gentleman but in the sex department...
The scenario: my bedroom, three weeks ago.
"I'm not feeling it,": he says with his back to me having jumped up immediately after coitus.
Well, kind of coitus.
Of course HE is not FEELING it.
Nothing is happening down there, intercourse has now become the art of the impossible.
Two ageing people in one bedroom seething with rage.
At each other.
At themselves.
At the world.
At the past.
At love.
He gets dressed.
We talk.
He leaves.
I pick up the wine glasses from the coffee table where the dubious orchid sits.
I never, ever dreamed, I never thought it would end this way. I guess no woman thinks the fucking will ever end.
But what I feared had finally caught up with me.
My expiration date had arrived.
And endings always come too fast, don't they?
Especially, when it comes to matters of our parts and our hearts.
Comments
Post a Comment