I'm going to completely over-share. I haven't had sex in three years. I think my hymen is growing back. This is not for lack of trying, let me add. But neither am I a slut. I'm a 40 year old divorcee who had her heart ripped to shreds. Every time a man shows the slightest interest in me, I run. I then go home and berate myself because I can't run for shit. If I try to run across the road to where my car is parked, I have to stop to catch my breath. If I run to go to the loo, I wind up doing that weird walk any woman who's had kids knows only too well. If I run to the shops, I break into a sweat. But at running AWAY from men, I'm a marathon sprinter. Yes I know technically it's one or other but you get my drift, right?
Friends tells me I am a vital, sexy, confident woman and if I want to have meaningless sex with someone, then no one gets to judge me. But you know what? Here's the awful truth. I don't want meaningless sex. I want meaningful sex. I want the whole shebang. I want the kisses that make my heart and soul race - not just my libido. I want that moment of comfort and trust when I take off my clothes and present my absolutely not top model body to the man I'm with and still see desire in his eyes. How very old fashioned and buttoned up of me.
ROCKMEHARDPLACE: because I'm a passionate woman and I really miss physical intimacy. But I need a boyfriend first and apparently there's no stock available. I'm doing all the right things. I get out among the people. I'm fun, easy going and I'm myself. Oh wait, isn't everyone? I don't play games and all the MARRIED men I meet think I'm awesome. Single men seem to fall into two categories around me for some reason. The ones that stare shyly across a room but never come over to say hi (even if I do give off the Cleo-inspired appropriate signals all men who read Cleo are supposed to understand) and the ones who see me as a MATE. GAH! Damn me and my knowledge of Australian Rules Football.
So in the meantime, I stay home and watch True Blood and the Tudors to get my "romance" fix. This involves me holding my breath and clutching the couch pillows a lot. In all seriousness, I watched Jonathon Rhys-Meyers look at one of the court ladies and slowly and quite chastely kiss her hand and it was a white knuckle moment for me. I sat on the couch and watched True Blood with my obligatory Australian version of Stanford Blatch and both of us had that brief moment of "should we?" For the record, we didn't. For many reasons, but most of all because we both want the meaningful relationship and because we value our friendship too much to mess it up.
So I'll continue to go to bed and grind my teeth (hey, keep your mind out of the gutter thanks) and pray to the Universe, God, Buddha, Jesus, Mother Earth and whoever else may be listening that they will send me a man who likes Star Trek, football, Mozart, Muse, Foo Fighters, jigsaw puzzles, fancy dress parties, spontaneous home discos, Tim Tam Slams, Bruce Willis movies, Shakespeare, super hot Thai food, long lunches at the pub and thinks it endearing when I sing off-key after too much red wine . Cos I'd like to lose my virginity again. Soon.
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