April 22, 2018 Journal Entry
Well, I’m 55 now.
I’m watching that movie Little Children. Kate Winslet’s character has an affair with her very handsome neighbor. While they’re having sex he asks her, “Do you feel bad about this?” She answers. “No.” He says, “I do,” and then they both cum.
I remembered when I was with Jeff, and my legs weren’t open wide enough because I was busy placing the vibrator just so. “Well I’ve got to get in there,” he said. I laughed and spread wide to let my lover inside.
It’s hard to imagine that it was me that day, spreading wide for him. It’s like a dream, like it happened in a movie, and not to me. It feels like I wasn’t there. I’m looking at this woman doing this thing that she doesn’t do. That she doesn’t think she wants to do, or even can do. I’m thinking Jeff really wants me. ME. Coco. But now I know he mostly wanted me to spread wide and let him in. Sure, he wanted me to be happy, not so sad perhaps. But he wanted inside more than anything.
At the time, I didn’t feel bad about it. Now I do. And not the kind of bad that makes it more exciting. The kind of bad that makes me look at the bad parts of me and be sad about those bad parts. More sad again, sadder than already. Which is already really sad.
I hate that I had an affair with Jeff. I don’t hate me; I don’t hate Jeff. I hate what I did. I hate it. Because during the affair, throughout, I lied to myself. I continually projected my love onto Jeff, thought he might, just a little bit, feel the same as me. He didn’t. I know that now. I knew it then. But the fantasy was too big and too big and too big and too big. It consumed me to the point where I didn’t think I could go on without the too big. It was so big. It filled my life so too big.
Now, in the look back, the too big isn’t very big. It’s a book. A book is a big thing indeed. But what was too big is now very manageable. I love Jeff. But it’s different. Now I have other men to focus on. Other men are focused on me. I don’t know what will happen with these two. But they are very good men. Single and emotionally available and decent men. Most notably, age appropriate men.
I wonder, as I spend more and more time with my two suitable admirers, if I’ll keep my young lovers. Adam, 31, so sweet, so young, so unhappy, so married with children. Mike, 42, who took me to the casino and bought me vodka crans, and then during sex, came way too fast exclaiming “It’s just been so long!”. Jason, beautiful brown man, 31, so smart, such a great conversationalist, such kindness, such fun. I wonder if I’ll keep my young lovers while I learn more of these two single, emotionally available, decent, age appropriate men. And I wonder which of the two of them I’ll pick. Will I pick either? I don’t know the answer to those questions.
Even if I commit to one of these two, will I cheat? And if I cheat, why will I cheat? Because I know how? Because I can? Because I have? Because a potential long term meaningful relationship is frightening to me? Because I don’t know if I can even sustain long term? Because I may have dementia, which means I only have two to eight years left, and I deserve long term plus a slew of willing and delightful young lovers? I don’t know the answer to those questions.
And the notion that flits through every now and then, several times a day actually, is how much of this debilitating depression is a consequence of the affair with Jeff. I thought I could and was compartmentalizing. But of course it’s impossible for me to do that. I’m not made that way. I can act that way, but there are consequences. And is the consequence this pitiful pit full life? Because if it is, I chose it and I did it. To me. To ME.
Happy Birthday Coco.
And as they say of old, "Many Happy Returns of the Day".
[Originally published 7/28/2022]