Disclaimer: The following is one of the most personal pieces I’ve written. I’m not ashamed of anything in there, but at places it can go rather deep. I think. I’ve never been good at judging how other people might react to these kinds of stuff. I also get… descriptive at times, and the whole thing might come off as emo and whiny. If any of those bother you, I suggest skipping this one.
The she and the someone I refer to is not a single real person. She’s partly a composite of memories spread over various past relationships and one-week-stands, with my own fantasies filling in some of the gaps.
I’m weird. No, seriously, I am. Prime example: I never get anything done when I play songs of which I know the lyrics by heart, yet I can’t resist playing them while trying to get a blog post written.
Another one: In bed, those nights I vainly attempt to catch some sleep, I imagine myself in a conversation-turning-monologue with people I know as way of ordering my thoughts and opinions on a certain subject. Last night, for example, I imagined such a conversation that turned into me ranting about why I miss being in a relationship. I don’t quite remember it verbatim, but I’ll try to reconstruct it in a single, readable text. Anyway, here goes:
I don’t think I miss sex. Maybe because of the fact that I find any form of intimacy involving a penis to be off-putting, I don’t know. But I have always found someone else touching the wretched thing to be uncomfortable more than pleasant. Maybe it’s my own lack of experience, or the fact that I find vanilla sex to be a rather dull concept… Whatever the case, I’m not ashamed to admit that the only thing on the planet that has brought me to orgasm thus far is my left hand. Nor am I ashamed to admit that while I don’t find sex all that appealing, I do enjoy orgasms, although since November, I feel the need for them waning.
No, what I do miss is intimacy. Sharing my bed, life and plight with someone who cares deeply about me. Having endless text message conversations about absolutely nothing, yet being giddy every time my phone beeps.
I miss foreplay; surrendering to passionate lust where you don’t care if it wrecks the bed or not. I miss the sheer primal joy of having someone nibble my ear, or bite my shoulder, or run her nails along my side. I miss running my hands all over someone’s body: caressing her face, messing up her hair, playing with her breasts, stroking her thighs… I could have an entire night just foreplay, then fall asleep in her arms.
I miss being connected to someone on an almost subconscious level, thinking about them whenever I have room for an idle thought, wondering how they are and if they think of me sometimes as well. You know, if they want to.
I miss the drive a relationship gives. I miss the motivation to, say, get rid of my body hair regularly, rather than just covering everything up. Or another reason to pick up my life and take it to the next phase, rather than lingering in the current one for much longer than I should. Not necessarily things she asks of me, but things I suddenly find more important because my life is suddenly partly hers now.
For more than three years now, all this and more I’ve been missing.
Not that I blame anyone. I’m an unemployed transsexual in the middle of her transition who lives with her mother. I’m also not the most socially skilled of people. While casual conversation comes much easier than a few years ago, expressing my feelings or my interest to someone is still difficult and awkward and hampered by my undying fear of rejection. A fear not at all unfounded, given that I am what I am.
Yet despite all the great and wonderful changes in my life, this still gnaws at me. I can’t seem to get over it, and with my emotions being all over the place, I can’t help but feel the need to vent about it.
And if anyone says this was too whiny, I think I’ll just blame hormones.