No “Do-overs.”

It has been a long time since I have participated in a full-bore ass to the ground mind in the ether scene.

I wonder if “Use it or lose it!” applies here?

I remember my first scenes. And how the pain was such a strange flavour. Garlic ice cream peppery cotton candy chocolate bacon flavours.

Will I ever have cravings for that again?

More interesting is having such a reputation for being possessed of a really high tolerance for pain and extremity of submitting to it, will I just not want that?  It is a bit difficult to have a “History” and “Reputation.” It clings to you dispassionately, regardless of how much you have changed, grown, matured or regressed.

Part of me thinks it won’t happen again, I’m too over it to start learning to crave those strange fruits again. I wonder if I could go back and, knowing what I know now, do anything differently.  Wishing for the impossible seems futile. But what is it to wish for that “perfect someone” if not the most buoyant and hopeful of futility’s children?

Another part of me is.  So.  Tired!  When I look at yet another e-mail flirtation from someone far too far away, get an inappropriate message or have a chat exchange that quickly devolves into some cybering nightmare. Or some fool who thinks it is a fun game to pretend to be single when they are not, who plays fast and loose with labels and adjectives, all the while hoping you’ll overlook their status and blindly give your body over to their whims sneaks up on me.  

Part of my resolve to have my needs met in a partner, to avoid casual play when it leaves me feeling somewhat collapsed afterwards, part of that erodes daily with every wave of loneliness. Every surge of neediness pulls away at that wall of resolve revealing it as the the child’s abandoned sandcastle that it truly is.

Part of me wants to let go of this “hope.” I don’t want to go through this again. The hoping. he excitement. Wondering how I can be pleasing, hoping I am, hoping they love me back.

Hoping I won’t give up.

But there aren’t “Do-overs” and I cannot give up. 

I might be just that stupid.

When I was about 3, something on Sesame Street sent me into a hysterical paroxysm of laughter.  I was rolling in the floor, kicking  my legs in the air, and then blindly jumped up to run to the back of the apartment to tell my Mom what was so funny. My nearsightedness compounded by my laughing sent me headfirst into the cinder block wall.  I yelped and fell to the floor, a knot already rising on my head.  My Mom came running over, sighed, and went to get a bandanna and a penny, to strap tightly on the bump. In the midst of this very grave operation, I burst out laughing again.  My Mom, (I am sure) thinking that this time I had truly lost my mind, asked me what was so funny

“Did you hear the noise I made when I hit my head! It was so silly!”  and I laughed even as I winced form the huge-ass bruise on my forehead.

I guess I have answered my own question, really.

It hurts.

You laugh.

You get back up and run.

Again.