EVERY GUY’S NIGHTMARE: INTRO
December 4th, 2014
It’s every guy’s nightmare: learning that sex meant something different to a woman than it meant to him. Feeling that he had a nice, mutual, consensual, pleasurable experience that somewhere along the line went terribly wrong. It’s my nightmare: feeling used. Feeling feelings. This isn’t a post about sexual assault or even getting taken advantage of. This is about what it feels like to get hurt after the fact. To experience something so wonderful it is life-changing, then to have it taken away. This is about how memories aren’t static. They aren’t neat and can’t be compartmentalized. They change meaning as they are put into perspective by future events. Mostly this is a post about how I am lost and embarrassed and don’t know how to file away feelings I never expected to have. I don’t want to be a decent guy’s worst nightmare. I don’t want to be an unstable mess. I don’t want to be a thirty-year-old who can’t handle sex, who requires aftercare for an experience that was likely insignificant and routine for the guy no-longer involved. For a guy who should be one-in-sixteen of the past year-and-a-half, nothing but a number, a frivolity, a diversion. A hose teeming with semen.
There are a lot of things I don’t want to be and a lot of things I wish never happened. But here I am. An embarrassment to sex writers. A downer to my friends who always counted on me for fun times and good stories—sexual shenanigans.
This week has been enormously rough. Friday someone from my doctor’s office called me from home to tell me my surgery on Monday had been cancelled. Insurance assholery. Monday when I was supposed to have my surgery I got a sweet card from my cousin saying “The Ordeal Is Over.” Too perfect. Only it wasn’t. Today I slipped into my mother’s apartment to take a new box of cat food and I hoped to go undetected. We don’t talk face-to-face about my medical problems anymore. It’s too overwhelming. Mostly it’s texts from nextdoor. Like I’m a modern day Cher Horowitz. Except less perky. Before I escaped, she said, “Don’t think I forgot about you.” And added some logistical things about where we were in the insurance process, as I averted my eyes and edged toward the door. Forgotten is how I feel every day. The world has turned and left me here.
I was supposed to write the finale to my The 13th Step series. It was the “Rock Bottom” section. It has been outlined for a few days. But I can’t. I just can’t. I don’t have the emotional energy for it. Or anything. I’ve been waking up crying. Alternating between waking and shaking. I rock myself back and forth, like an autistic kid, to soothe myself. I touch myself in a non-sexual way because orgasms are traumatizing, though inevitable. I can’t handle all the catharsis so long as I am trapped in my body; ejaculation is in retrograde. The best I can do is sniff my fingers like I am Mary Katherine Gallagher in Superstar. Except, I’m inhaling my vagina instead of my armpits. My life would be funny, like an SNL skit, if it weren’t so devastating.
Here is a post that has been pending since early summer. My feelings have gotten increasing overwhelming as the recent medical setback has forced me to take time to consider my body, where it’s been in the past and how it’s transformed over the last year. As dealing with the medical and insurance industrial complex has made me feel, once again, like I’m a fucking science experiment when I just want to drown in sperm and feel like a real live human. An animal, not an instrument.