The neverending search for love and meaning

This weekend I was a bit low, thinking about the long time it has been since I’ve been intimate with someone I loved, or even just cared for. I know it might seem as though in my years of bachelor life, that a relationship is just not high on my priorities. Sure, there are great things to being a bachelor. I can wear dirty clothes if I don’t feel like doing the laundry, there’s no one calling me to ask me where I’ve been, I don’t have to plan my life with someone else’s needs being weighed in the process. But it is very lonely. And over the years that I have been single, I’ve watched myself grow more and more stone, disliking physical touch by more and more people, except for the few special people who I trust enough to hug. I’ve discovered I need more than hugs these days though, something HAS to change, or I can see myself spiraling into complete stone butchness, and I really did like snuggling with girlfriends back in the day when I was cute and quirky, not old, crazy and cranky.

So I thought I would try online personals again. I went to this site where I already had a profile, logged on, and waited for something to happen.

What happened was the closest to an online stalker that I care to get.

First of all she comes on coy, asking me to tell her more and more about myself, all the while revealing very little about herself, besides the obvious fact that she likes sex. This makes me anxious. For one thing, I think it’s rude to pry into a strangers life if you’re not going to be completely bare and honest about yourself at the same time. “But Thirza, you post things about yourself online all the time and never ask us for anything.” Yeah, but I know the vast majority of my reader ship, and so in a way I do know about you all. Except for you, little lurker in the corner! Yeah, I mean you!

Anyway, then she starts asking me what I’m doing tonight, what I did today, what I did last night, what I am thinking about. When rats get angry with other rats they do this cute hopping thing. They look totally frustrated (and adorable). That’s how I felt, like a hopping mad rat. Where does she assume she can ask me all these questions while totally deflecting any questions I ask? Then I ask “So, do you make any art?” This is a crucial question, this is the question that makes or breaks any continued interest on my part. I’m an artist, it was what I was born and bred for, it is my passion, I think about it all day, I devote time in an institution learning about it, my social circles are all artists. Even those that don’t make art know they should at least be able to talk about films with me. Besides that, it’s a perfect “Getting to know you” question. It’s platonic, it’s general, it’s easy to answer. What does she reply? “I take that as a hint to change the subject.” WHAT! What kind of bloody answer is that?

Meanwhile this other girl comes online and we start talking about 80’s music, and I’m really wanting this other girl to go away when she’s all like “Do you want to play, are you playful?” And I respond with this gentle kind of “I’ve been burned and I just want to be friends with people first.” And she’s like “Oh, what do you want to know.” For god’s sakes, anything, just give me anything for fucks sakes! SOMETHING NOT RELATED TO WHAT YOU DO IN BED! So I say “Someone I can have a conversation with, someone who’s honest, blah blah blah.” Really trying to reinforce this concept of being able to relate to someone on an intellectual/spiritual level, not just a sexual level. Then she invites me over. WHAT! We haven’t even gone for coffee, I mean, that is like, the first step, it’s like some kind of social non-sexual face to face interaction HAS to happen before all else. So I tell her no, and I again explain I am looking for friends first. Then she says “Snuggling is not fucking.” SIGH. See above where I wrote about turning stone? THIS IS WHY!

I am not someone’s snuggle bunny until I say so. No cuddles for you. So I went offline, grumbled, that girl with the conversation about 80’s music was more promising.

AND FURTHERMORE: On the topic of becoming stone butch and having tattoos, here is my pet peeve. Once at a dyke bar, short short sleeved shirt baring my tats for everyone, so many women just assumed they could grab at my arms without asking any kind of permission. And being crazy, having a sense of personal safety around your body is extremely crucial. I mean, the last time someone grabbed my arms was to drug me and put me in restraints, which is pretty much a routine type of rape performed by the psychiatric system. It’s demeaning and it’s an issue of control. So when this butch dyke grabbed my arm, I nearly flipped out and punched her in the face. DO NOT TOUCH MY TATS UNLESS I TELL YOU YOU CAN. One of my friends with tattoos says he has the same problem with random strangers assuming they can touch him there, it’s quite weird.

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