Experienced

So I had a weird weekend. The two of you who saw the post yesterday—yeah, sorry about that. I had a little meltdown.

LawyerBoy and I didn’t even have a disagreement. He agreed with me; he just said something stupid. And it hurt my feelings and reminded me that he’s not my fucking boyfriend or anything. I’ve been playing pretend with it.

He has been texting me a lot more. Like, it’s weird when someone texts me first. It’s odd. I’m normally the one bothering people. He was sick this weekend. I had wanted to hang out.

We had picked out a new bed for him and were talking about the difference between sheets and what kind of feeling you like on your skin, and we both like the same kind of feeling, and it’s fucking stupid. It just felt very connected. And he was texting me all weekend.

I had actually been working on my guitars. I bought a bass I’m going to do for him. He has way better and way more expensive basses. He played Jazz bass in high school and college and in orchestra. He was also the tuba player for the marching band in college. They have a bowl game coming up. So he has played, like, not in a garbage band forever. I still had to introduce him to the Allman Brothers. He loves New Kids on the Block. I don’t know what I see in him either.

Anyways, we were having a good but separate weekend because he was sick. I’m going next weekend to help him set up the new furniture. Would have done it this weekend. Anyways.

So he has these friends. They’re a couple. It’s the beneficial kind of friendship. And we got to talking about decorum when with multiple partners. Yeah, I know.

And we’re laughing and I’m joking around, and this is so fucking stupid for me to be upset about. I said if there is more than one woman, you have to be careful who you are paying the most attention to because, in my experience with it, women get jealous if their partner is enjoying the other a little too much. And I was like, yeah, you pick who you want to piss off less. And we’re discussing this married couple, and I was like, hypothetically, who would you be paying attention to—me or her?

This man is a fucking moron. He admits to being stupid for telling me he would pick her over me. He feels bad for saying it. Then he explains that I was just more experienced. I’m like, she is fucking married. Whatever.

Experienced. Like that’s supposed to be a compliment and not a translation for you’re not the type you keep.

And it’s wild, because she’s married. But whatever—my brain doesn’t care about logic in moments like that. My brain hears one thing: You’re temporary.

I’ve heard it in a hundred different dialects. Experienced. Not naive. Fun. Easy. “You’re so confident.” I am not confident. That is not a descriptor for me. And then, when you give them what they wanted, they turn around and pretend it cheapened you instead of exposing them.

I start hearing “more experienced.” I know it’s guy-speak for saying that I’m a slut. They all judge you. Even fucking {D} judged me for it. LawyerBoy—like, his body count is barely into double digits. He always has judged me. He said shit straight up to me about it.

In my defense on this, we turn out one of two ways when you have the childhood experiences I had. You’re either hypersexual or hyposexual. There is rarely a middle ground. But for a woman, men like the whore but date the virgin. One would think times have changed, but men are still very much like that. I’m just the kind of girl you fuck and not the type you keep.

I can’t necessarily help it. I honestly don’t know how to engage in a relationship with someone without sex, and lots of it.

I learned years ago that I have my stalkers not because they were in any way interested in any other part of me than the one they stuck their dick in. I always say you can never trust anything a man says while his dick is in your mouth. Ever.

Guys fall head over heels for me because they’re thinking with their dick. Solely.

I’ve been told by at least a hundred men that they love me. I’ve been proposed to—Christ only knows how many times. I’ve had to gently explain to men that they don’t love me. That they don’t know me. It happens.

That is why I just don’t want to bother anymore. I mean, I don’t want to die alone, but I don’t want to go through all the bullshit and tap dancing and just end up with men who are just interested in sex until they call you a whore for giving them the sex.

Of all the men I know, the only man who actually appreciates the whole me doesn’t want a relationship with me. My alcoholic Turkish architect with a motorcycle and a neck tattoo. He and I would be perfect for each other. We spend our lives going from one concert to the next, and we’re always at the same concert. He is just not interested, and I’m tired of feeling it and knowing I can never have it. Whatever.

I miss him sometimes. We would text for hours, sending music to each other, listening until 3 a.m. Oh well. Who needs that shit.

Anyways, I’m going to forgive LawyerBoy. I know my place. I’m not the one they’re ever going to keep, but I’m a hell of a lot of fun while I’m around.

But, that shit is getting old fast. I don't think the day will come when not helping a man pick out his sheets but instead ours. That is a sucky realization. 

My guitars are turning out kind of cool though. t These are all only half done so don't judge too much.