Audacious & Salacious in Stilettos

Just one innocuous post, and sound the hounds!

One minor mention that the man I had been head over heels for had decided to break things off, and I might as well have walked into the dog park fresh in heat.

Apparently, heartbreak has a scent.

I do not know. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that I feel a little dead inside right now—the scent of carrion only making the pups more curious—but I find myself unusually willing to let new people get strange with me.

And strange they have gotten.

Just moments ago, a man asked me:

Him: Are you into sexsting and this stuff

Me: I’m not interested in sexting someone I have never slept with before.

Him: Okay.
Sorry about that question
I just thought we can have some fun sometimes if you feel comfortable with that

Me: No, thank you.

I mean, in what world are we living?

And yet, rather than offended, appalled, or even particularly amused, I mostly find myself fascinated by the absurdity of it all.

In pain, I become strangely detached, retreating to some metaphorically elevated vantage point above the fray, watching the tiny interactions of the dogs below with bemused confusion. Look at them scuffling about. Look at the peculiar little rituals they perform in pursuit of sex and affection. How strange…

Perhaps dissociation comes with an observation deck.

There is a certain freedom in numbness, I suppose. When you cannot feel much of anything, consequences lose some of their bite.

And I am self-aware enough to know exactly what I am doing.

The numbness is a defense mechanism. A little psychological Novocain administered by my own brain to postpone the pain of loss I know is waiting patiently somewhere beneath the surface. Eventually, the anesthesia will wear off. Eventually, I will have to sit with the grief instead of outrunning it. I will have to mourn not only the man, but the future I had begun quietly constructing around him—the one that, for a fleeting moment, felt close enough to touch.

I’ll feel it.

When I’m ready.

For now, though, I am content to remain blissfully anesthetized. To flirt. To laugh. To be desired without asking desire to mean anything more than exactly what it is.

So let the dogs catch a whiff.

Let them circle.

Let them howl.

And let them eat their fucking hearts out.

But like a lone wolf in pain, I go to my cave and lick my wounds in private. I just do not fully understand what happened…

In a matter of days, we did an entire 180, and the emotional whiplash is competing stunningly with the physical whiplash from my car crash.

Because when we are together, everything is perfect. Easy. Natural. There is no labor to it, no forcing pieces into places that do not belong. And for the first few days after I leave, it is all about how much he misses me, how strange my absence feels after becoming so accustomed to my presence.

Then, a few days beyond that, something shifts.

Where once he made me feel treasured, now I feel bereft.

And yet, beneath the grief, I feel myself returning to the woman I was before I met him. Clearer. More discerning. Less intoxicated.

He was a heady drug, and perhaps, ultimately, a painful distraction.

The truth is, no man can be stolen. He walks away willingly.

If you are texting him, I assume he gave you his number. If you are calling him, I assume he answered—or called you first. If you are spending time with him, I assume he told you where to find him. I hold him accountable for every conversation entertained, every door left ajar, and every ounce of attention freely given.

I do not care about the other women. They owe me nothing.

It is the responsibility of the person who professes to care for me to behave accordingly. A man who respects me does not put me in the humiliating position of competing for the affection he claimed was mine. He does not make me look foolish while another woman watches from the wings.

What I find particularly interesting now is recognizing my own conditioning: I have been dating like a wife before ever seeing proof of a man’s investment.

Devotion before demonstration.

Loyalty before consistency.

Sacrifice before security.

And perhaps that is how a woman loses herself—not all at once, but incrementally, by giving someone the privileges of a position he has never actually earned.

So I am trying something different.

I will not audition. I will not compete. I will not campaign for a position in someone else’s life.

I will watch.

I will evaluate.

I will allow actions to speak before I assign meaning to words.

The Lead Bitch is back.

And may Darwinism reign.