When I told an old friend and former lover about all of the sex I've been having, he shook his head and looked dismayed. He said, "While I am all for fucking, your recent tear - and let's face it, you are on a tear - is indicative of something more troubling." He is familiar with my recent romantic disappointment, which I have chronicled on my other blog. "I love you," he said, "and I'm worried. I think what you're doing is a cry for help."
"Maybe I'm just having fun," I suggested. "I've always been a slut."
"Yes, and so have I, but I know you're upset about what happened."
"Of course I am," I replied. "But why can't I just have fun? Maybe I'm not meant to be in a conventional relationship."
"Yeah, sure," he scoffed. "You were plenty happy with that snowboarding dude," he added, referencing my last serious long-term relationship.
I know myself enough to realize I am acting out in some way, but in a less self-destructive manner than delving back into the world of drugs. Yes, sex is just another hobby, another distraction, another salve, but at least this one is free. And yes, my partners and I are using protection.
I'm not sure where this is going, really, other than that I want to remember what I've done, and muse about what I'm doing. Someone observed that I am "so dead inside" recently and that made me wince. Am I? Part of me thinks I am being funny, blase, irreverent, but it probably is some way of distancing myself from truly feeling anything other than orgasms and reveling in being alone. Am I reclaiming myself? Or am I just distracting myself from the true issues at hand?
