I peed.

The lessons I got from the (blessedly) few times I allowed some moke to get creative were

1. It is always and forever about them.
2. It never ever has anything to with what might spice things up for me. (like fucking foreplay, you bovine shitheel?). I should buy thigh highs and Merry Widows and high heels for you? Really?
3. They had seen it on a porn movie, so clearly I was supposed to be writhing, moaning, and shrieking with pleasure. I don’t get paid enough (and most certainly by one of these meatheads who called himself a BF) to put on that kind of performance, particularly when there is nothing in it for me. Especially titillation or an orgasm. And since I don’t happen to be a sex worker, kindly help me understand why it’s my job to make you feel like Mr. Wonderful when you don’t bother to reciprocate?
4. They had no clue what they were doing, or why. Kinda helps, butthead.
5. As a partner, I didn’t exist except as something to be used, manipulated and shaped into something else other than who I was, which was a mature woman with sexual needs, preferences and particulars about which fuckwit could have cared less.

Which is why, at 66, and boyfriend-less now since January, I really wonder if I give a flying crap any more. I’ve had far too many partners and found all but perhaps 1% so inept, so selfish, so wanting and so monumentally uninformed, uninterested and unconcerned about a woman’s needs that I frankly would these days rather pull dandelions out of my lawn.

That at least pays off.

Is there hope? Vienna De Vega would argue yes. But she has a lovely lover (god bless her too) and I do not, and after all these years of searching/hoping/hanging out for a Good One…well.

Dandelions.

That at least gives me some satisfaction. And I don’t have to put on black panty hose to do it, either. When I am done with the little shits I can throw them into my garbage can and be done with them, much the way far too many men treat their women’s needs. And their women.