Cleaning list: 

• my job is the enemy of my work, which is prize winning; 
• my job is the site of increasingly violent harassment the more prizes I win, grinding my career to a stand still; 
• I can't stay living where I am in a 4 story house alone behind Wendys;
• I have to move God knows where, alone to figure that out; 
• I'm in a relationship, technically, which does nothing to change any of the shit I have to suffer and figure out alone.

Up until last summer, I rationalized staying in the relationship because at least there were fancy dinners and functional orgasms, neither of which makes life worse. But then 1 gave up drinking so NO. to fancy wine pairings and 2 my orgasm capacity ground to a halt in the face of that whole long shitty list. 

I am essentially made of f-uck. F-uck you, f-uck off, f-uck this, f-uck me. My f-uck cannot break or I'm f-ucked!

In my work, I rely on people wanting to do what I am asking of them. For me they will talk, write, cry, laugh - whatever somewhat strenuous activity and/or emotional outlay I request. So it's not just my sex life I'm talking about. I mean all of me. To do me, I gotta be feeling it. 

And I am not feeling it. 

My f-uck power, my inner driving force, my dilithium crystal, my magic, is blocked up or off. How am I going fix my life if I have no lust for life?! So first things first, I have to fix my f-uck. 

I tried self-help, looking for representation(s) of sex to get some juice flowing, a vision of a way to be. But there is so little sexy sex on TV that I can tell you episode 3 of Disclaimer has a hot sex scene. High rec 🔥 But I remember that because it's an anomaly :/

I tried books. Hard to find a good one. Lousy sentences are toxic to the clitoral wellbeing of English professors, 50 Shades of just too stupid. If you don't know what "niggardly" means, we are not going to get very far. Susan Minot is a prize winner, however, and Rapture is a blow job. The entire novel from start to finish is one single act of fellatio. I can relate to the woman who is giving the blow job in Rapture. But. The male character's very different experience during the blow job perplexes me. Perhaps Unknown Font wasn't thinking/feeling what I thought when I was giving literary-level blow jobs like that. I have no idea what it was like for him. Someone worshipping your junk, humming OM and other sensation experiments to bring your orgasms closer to God, that's a lot. Maybe too much.

Rapture only left me wondering about that some more. 

I passed every most recent physical w flying colors and my hormone panel is aglow, flowing like a desert river, deep and bracing. The new therapist and psychiatrist both concur as well: I am fine/healthy/sane, but I am unhappy, unsatisfied, unwilling, alllll the un's. 

So that's that. Nebraska has got to find some other woman. I went to AZ with that having been settled in my mind. I've got to start fixing my shit. I scream it at him, NO MORE!

Break ups are so much work. You have to make a bigger mess to clean one up, ugh. I have been TRYING to be decent to the father of my furkids, someone I will run into at work, etc. Be civilized. Isn't that what you're supposed to do? 

I don't know what I'm supposed to do.

Nebraska books a few days in Sedona. He knows I cannot resist that. I want to sit on a vortex like it is a sibian made of the Oversoul. He books me a 90 minute session with a vortex healer. The only type of physical that I fail miserably, my fitbit registering it as workout of some kind even though I am lying on a massage table. My poor throat chakra!!! And what else might help me feel better? Libido medicine has to be highly specific, like gene therapy. I no longer have the brown boots that I wore with that skirt. So I say "boots" (armscrossy). Out of all the shoe and boot places in Sedona, he picks the perfect ones, in a window display, the last pair and in my size. 

He corners me like this. Over and over. Like appeasing a furious zoo gorilla with really great bushels of bananas, which she takes because she's in a glass cage anyway, so fuck it. I love the boots (bananas). Zipping them up, that smell, it's powerful magic 👢. 

Welp, I could try a reverse rapture, sit on his face for approximately a novella. I get him a small journal so he can record his cunnilingus stream of consciousness. For real. I am exhausted, my f*uck is busted, I don't want to fight anymore, and I do not want to hear any more bullshit, so what other good options are there if those lips are moving? Keep yourself busy.

While I think. 

There were convergent points of desire between Unknown Font and me, and I think about those a lot lately. To what extent were those desires mine to begin with and what did I absorb from him? And vice versa. And where did those desires go in each of us since? What forms taken?

I don't have fantasies at all really anymore. It's more like a disorganized hodgepodge slide deck of smut that I click through, looking for something that'll do the trick. Like, just get it done ya know? 

What happens if I stop doing that, what if I stop making it work?, my vagina wondered one day.

A disturbance in The Force. 

(I am only guessing, but I suspect something similar happened to Font. Did something snap? Was his dick no longer willing to "be present"? Does that happen to men? If so, would he would tell me? Inside my head, where I'm not supposed to be able to hear it? Like via The Force, a fuck-jedi bat-signal type deal?)

When I met Nebraska not long before the pandemic, I needed to find a new dude, a chore needing done -_-  I was at my favorite academic event of the year, so more likely to find a member of my species at least. I wanted to do what I always do in hotels: order room service and eat it naked while watching Law&Order SVU. Kinda like eating oreos while watching The Biggest Loser only different. But I made a deal with myself to stand next to the bar for ONE minute of "openness" before I could skedaddle. And a stranger handed me a glass of wine in that one minute.

I asked him a question: what is something a person needs to know to really get you, something nobody knows? I was not expecting an interesting answer and figured that would get rid of him, but he said "I am a spanker of women." (🤔) And you?, he asked. What could I say at that point? "I'm into long fervid cataclysmic affairs." He decided he was in love by the next day. 

Since then, mostly he has behaved like a cardboard cut out of a person. No writing inspired much. I figured the "we" would just bleed out eventually. But it didn't. And I can't afford this anymore now. I am not okay this way.

He holds me off. He's like the woman in Rapture. He doesn't want it to end. He's grown afraid of me, of displeasing me. Of what I might do. I push against the resistance, I might do anything smib As I come back into my skin, seething and starving, I find that my desire is to demand what I want and get it. 

I go to the leather store. I buy a whip just for the leather smell, aroma therapy. The lady ringing me out flirts with me a little. It feels like the gun class. I was expecting, oh I don't know, to feel less unprepared for the end of the world by taking that gun class. But what I actually felt was joy. Childlike joy. #shebang! 

I take the whip back to the work condo complex. I manage only to accidentally smack myself with it a few times. Nebraska is in the other room, he comes in and takes the whip, he says I have to let it do the whipping, just bring it up and let it snap, which he demonstrates and makes a humongous whip CRACK sound. He goes back to what he was doing. 

I practice, working up a sweat, getting it a few times, then a few more, delighting myself with the sound when I land it right. I think of it as a magic object, raising my energy, helping me heal. #witchplay

I take the whip into the next room. I send my energy flying through it and then pull it back. CRACK! "You got it!," he says. Yes. I want you not to bullshit me as you answer some pointed questions. "Or you're going to hit me?" No.