Monday, October 25, 2010

Sexual Madness

I’m working my ass off to clear this back shit up. I still, of course, have Tamar, the greatest P.T. on the planet. By the way, I’m not kidding about that. And having had a fucked up back in my past life courtesy of an overzealous trainer, I know that soft tissue back injuries can take eons to heal. Add my new and exciting limitations, this will be a more difficult slog than the first mess I made of my back. (That first bit of back torment eventually healed following chiropractor’s orders. We got it before it spread like a jam on my beloved peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. (No, the latter sentence is not nonsense. The beauty of all that I’ve learned is that there are all new and exciting ways to make yourself feel worse. But as my life is now nonsense, I think it’s high time to embrace it. So I gave my surreal hell of an existence the little cuddle it so deserves. Back to cuddling later.)

I am immersed in ways to sit correctly at this lousy computer. (I seem to fear less using it at the table than I had when I found I was no longer allowed to use it on the couch. (If I want to feel any better…yeah, I really do. While I’ve discovered I have a pretty high tolerance for pain, I still have no fondness for it.)

But I promised cuddling. Sex. My psychopharmachologist tried his damndest to put me on medication that left my sex drive in place. I think Jill Sobule gets it best. In Happy Town, her boyfriend said she made him miserable, but they stayed together because the sex was really good. Post Prozac:

"We don't fuck anymore, but we sure can snuggle down.

I used to sit under a gloomy cloud of gray

And now the sun's come out and it won't go away.

I used to go up. I used to go down.

Now I'm just even here in Happy Town."

I think I have a real problem when I watch Rubicon and have a visceral reaction to the administrative assistant who has the hots for Will. I find her to be lacking in any oomph whatsoever. (Okay, she has a fine body.) But her character is like a limp dishrag. And she looks like there’s nary a thought in her head. (Always be suspicious of those who look empty. They’re either actually empty or what the hell are they hiding behind that blank expression. I’m fucking angry at a television character. Not intellectually. But this is bullshit. She's a whole person. I'm just part of one. (In so many different and fun ways.) This is visceral, and I’m out for blood. I am crazy.

Have I really gone completely mad that I actually feel threatened, no jealous, by a fucking character on television show? Yes I have. By changing from Zoloft to Effexor, my sex drive dropped like a stone. (Zoloft, which left my sex drive out of this mess, made me shake to the point where I was unable to hold a book steady enough to read it. Otherwise, it worked beautifully.) Welcome to Effexor Country aka Happy Town. There’s a semblance of a sex drive, a vicious tease that’s what it is, but most of it has gone pfft into the ether. So I get jealous of stupid-ass television characters because I feel sexless, no longer human.

The little nasty secret about anti-depressants. I’m not depressed, I’m functioning okay, but I’m miserable because I feel less than human. I’m desperate. I now can really appreciate oddballs like the guy who worked at G&R who found girls with physical problems really hot. (Like one girl he lusted after with coke bottle lenses in her glasses. Crutches were great. I think this boy would see me today and sit up and take notice. And he was a good-looking dude. With money. He also thought there was some medieval king who had a hot rod stuck up his butt. I think that kind of turned him on too. Guys like that have a place in this world I know now in a way I never did before.) If I have to be someone’s fetish than it must be. Yes, my husband tells me I’m hot as ever. But I’m not. Tubing and clear breathing masks don’t add to pulchritude. Now other kinds of masks are another thing entirely. Gimme.

Do I try something else? Can I without walking the suicide gauntlet yet again? The sexual mechanics are all in order. I just have a post-it stuck to me that says “Under Repair.”

What the hell else can I do without completely losing my mind? Fuck. C’mon! Don’t take the little that’s left of my humanity. I am not a hydra. I’m a menopausal woman who only feels the menopausal part. I want the woman back before I completely go to seed, and I want her now.

I want the world to want to fuck me.

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