I feel as though I’m working up to some sort of enormous sexual pinnacle, that may span several women over a few days next week.
This week I’ve either been chatting with or meeting; a Dominican girl, an Ecuadorian woman, another Ecuadorian woman, a Macedonian woman, an Egyptian woman, an Armenian girl, a Russian woman, a fifty four year old Swiss woman & a Bulgarian woman.
In respective order, they have agreed to come to my place, had sex with me, agreed to meet me again, agreed to a drink, been chatting with me, agreed to come to my place, agreed to meet me for a drink, agreed to meet me for a drink & agreed to meet me for a drink.
These five, are in addition to the BalletDancer, SPC, the MarriedBelorussian, FilipinoAirHostess & of course, Venezuelan.
In addition, CostaRican has agreed to fuck me on return of her holiday, Verman is inviting me to her country next weekend, I’ve been video chatting with twenty one year old Finnish girl & chatting with another twenty one year old Swiss / Polish girl. I’ve just now also spent the last couple of hours chatting with a beautiful nineteen year old Norwegian I met while bored at the airport.
In total, that’s five women I’m regularly sleeping with. And another thirteen who are potentially up for it.
If things had been slightly different, I could have still been with Mexican & on the verge of welcoming my first child into this world. It was early December last year, when she went to the gynaecologist & heard she’d had a technical miscarriage.
These last couple of weeks, for whatever reason I can’t quite put my finger on, I’ve found myself thinking about that situation & how I handled (or rather, failed to handle) it. Otherwise simple moments such as walking back home from the gym, or coming home after an evening drink with the latest woman to enter my life, I find myself regretting how I treated someone who although naive, mentally weak at times, easily influenced, somewhat misguided & capable of cruelty after being hurt herself; was inherently a good & although it may seem hard to believe, somewhat innocent person. Despite the angry posts I have made in the past during my phase of getting myself back to normal after what was not a good few months for me, I can say I regret a lot about how I acted.
In hindsight, I realised early on I’d made a bad decision, after as little as a month. I’d even overcome the crushing guilt that had brought me to the point of taking actions with the goal of killing myself; if a couple of variables had been different, I would have taken possession of the means I chose to overcome my cowardice of dying in pain & ended my own life. I still remember sitting in my car in a random car park, shouting at whatever (if any) higher power exists among us, as to why he wouldn’t even allow me the means to take my own life. But yet, a week later, I had somehow got through even this previous feeling of totality & although still weak, managed to put things into action to try to improve my circumstances & add some structure back into my life. Looking back, it was truly a dark period of my life. I could say in fact, the darkest. Although I had thought about that act in depth on a couple of occasions, it was only the time I describe above when I had made a decision & was completely intending to go through with it.
Am I happy now? I finally moved into my first permanent apartment in my current locale, since the end of the end. I took pride in making it into my own haven, simple but with the things I like for my personal space. No moving for the foreseeable future. At least one element of change, stopped until the next big decision. I finally have financial stability, with spare income every month. My investments are paying off, despite volatility. Sometimes I think about how nice it would be to live with Venezuelan. She really is unlike a lot of girls I’ve met in my life, content just to be with me & with a truly good heart.
I must admit however, the variety of girls is something I still enjoy for now. Particularly the ones who are very attractive (such as SPC or MarriedBelorussian, two of the hottest women I’ve been with) or with whom I have strong chemistry with.
The most important thing I’ve learnt from all this is you can be a good person, while still prioritizing yourself. I thought back & realised the concept of prioritizing yourself had always been painted upon me as selfish. My mother was responsible for this, although I believe it was unintentional & instead a by product of the trauma of a broken marriage. In any case, we take responsibility for our own decisions in life. Anything is able to be changed by simply making a concerted choice & taking actions to that effect. I chose to live a full life, & that includes the risk from change, however painful at times.
After the day Mexican & I finished, I immediately moved out. The last time I received a response from her was after an apologetic email I sent her, when she told me how much pain she was in. I transferred her some of my remaining money & told her she should spend Christmas with her family (she was meant to be spending it with my family – in hindsight an unwise yet being honest, a typical decision by me at that time, given everything that was going through my head then). I never received any further contact from her of any emotional content ever again.
The next thing I saw of her was online, via a famous business networking website, with a picture of her looking quite happy with herself & in the local airport. For some reason I felt obliged to write her a huge letter explaining almost everything. I toned down my sexual escapades of where I’d previously lived of course, but acknowledged some symptoms of addiction to sex & how much her telling me she’d fucked someone else since the very first day we’d been together, had hurt me so. The burning feeling I’d get in my stomach every time I’d thought of that never left me. At the end, I concluded by saying I’d still like to be with her & even have a family as she’d always wanted.
The truth was, I was in disarray & didn’t know what I’d wanted. I hadn’t recovered from how I’d hit the bottom. I’d somehow got through the awful intentions filling my mind a Sunday night, to began the process of bringing some semblance of normality to my life. Only then to convince myself of the illusion she was the answer to all the pain I’d experienced, & to emotionally attach myself to her to the point of dependency. A month passed, when I’d realised I’d made the wrong decision, but yet I felt obliged to make it work, as the guilt was still encouraged in me by her. I was never truly forgiven.
That same guilt made me feel obliged to stay in that situation, as the illusion made me feel as though I was indebted to her for giving me another chance. I did care about her, but it was clear soon after it would not work between us. Already, there was too much history & frankly; we were very good at a causal relationship, but not compatible enough for a long term arrangement.
Because she never forgave me for BM-13, the fatal wound I’d somehow managed to survive was being reopened by her attitude & behaviour at times. This was how I was controlled; a fallback option for use in any argument, instead of resolution.
The huge explanatory letter was received. It didn’t matter. I received not even a message of acknowledgement from her. I honestly thought she’d blocked me in every manner. But then I did receive contact from her. All only justifications on a number of things I apparently should have paid for as part of he breakup, which came to about nine thousand dollars if I would have paid for it all. Demands for money, & nothing more, until the very last day when she called me on the day I deduced she’d moved out of our previously shared apartment. Almost immediately as I picked up, she mentioned she’d left a list of costs for me in the mailbox, I tried to interject; simply to truly apologise. I did regret what had happened & was fully accepting that it was irreconcilable. Although the wound was periodically bleeding, I never wanted to allow my demons to entirely control me. I was sorry.
I was immediately cut off, being told how she ‘was not interested in speaking with me’. She wouldn’t even allow me to apologise. And suddenly, that was it. I detected a tremble of emotion in her voice, before the call was ended.
Another email arrived one day soon after. She again mentioned about more some money I owed her, although the phrasing did imply she was interested to know if I’d stayed in the same city (I have, because of my creative activities).
I didn’t reply. It was mostly about money, & any contact I’d tried past that initial day was ignored. Her reasoning within these emails had always been it was ‘my fault’ the relationship had ended, because of my infidelity. But this was another attempt to play against any guilt I may have still had, which had been so wildly effective before, as she watched my fragile emotional state again collapse for the umpteenth time, wracked by guilt, never placated as with true forgiveness but instead utilised.
I never paid any money, except that which I was equally liable for. Lies emerged. The ‘cancelled’ internet which apparently needed paying off for the remaining contracted month; transferred to another address, presumably hers. I didn’t care where she was no living; I had no intention of trying again. It was disappointing to see someone who I’d previously shared such close moments with resort to such tactics, but presumably with the positive reinforcement she repeatedly received from her feminist friends, anything was on the table henceforth.
I had to return to the old apartment in which we’d lived on a few occasions. Firstly to perform two group viewings. Being that smiling salesman amongst the desolation that you once called home. People repeatedly asking why you were moving out. My responses maintaining the salesman demeanor by giving light hearted responses, with the only goal of getting the whole process over with as soon as possible; omitting that I’d shed a tear more than once upon arrival, as I looked at the empty shell of a home now utterly devoid of the furniture we’d brought & assembled by hand together. The plants we’d intended to grow together on the terrace planters, entirely rotted, dead & entirely indicative of destroying something.
The final handover was painstakingly drawn out, as after some frenetic cleaning by myself caused by almost entirely running out of funds. I sifted through the remaining debris of the few traces of what remained; the Japanese monkeys she’d brought to ward off evil spirits through to the dead roots of the aforementioned plants I had to bury in the communal garden. Although somewhat traumatic at the time, in hindsight perhaps a good closing activity.
After the cleaning was finally completed, I did feel a bit better. All reminders were gone & the handover was close. I was hoping for a quick exchange of keys. But instead was forced to hang around, while the agents who had finally graced us with their presence, pompously inspected the place, before much in the same way as a defeated gladiator (me) at the feet of his opponent (the incoming tenants) awaiting his fate before a Roman emperor (the agents); gave the thumbs up. My ‘life’ was spared, the ordeal was over & I could leave.
My final act was to take the final piece that told anyone this was once the attempt of a broken love; the name badge of the apartment doorbell. I walked to the nearby bridge of the mass of trains that had regularly awoken me. It was very high. I had considered keeping it as a single reminder of the entire episode. But any good memory I could recall, became overpowered by another more powerful bad one. The truth was, 2015 was the worst year of my life & irrespective of blame, this relationship had been a major reason why.
I looked at the name badge for a good few honest minutes. I thought about everything that had transpired & at that point, had no idea about what the future would hold. I gave it a final kiss & intentionally cast it to the rails. I wanted the heaviest train to crush the names out of it. The moment of sadness I’d felt as I kissed it for the final time, was replaced by an empty space; a space ready to be filled by the reconstruction of myself.
There’s only so many times you can break a person, before they finally start to stop hurting. And although they may not appear so, typically that person will get a little stronger every time.
A colleague of a colleague at work unexpectedly supported me during those following weeks & he always said; ‘you must never contact her. She will contact you’. I honestly don’t think she will. I have thought about contacting her. But in much the same way as a girl will make it clear to you through her interactions (or lack there of) if she’s interested, the same applies to an ex. She knows how to contact me if she wishes & if she doesn’t, I’ll assume that’s it forevermore.
When I started this blog, I wrote in the header this blog is for me. Speaking truthfully, there’s been weeks where I haven’t even know what to write, because my week has basically just been banging women. That’s a large part of it & for the time being, still will be.
But the inevitability for most is; as time goes on, we lose people. It could be for a number of reasons. Distance. A change in circumstance. A marriage or even just a relationship. A change in character. An argument never resolved. A death.
The more time passes, the more the simple things matter. And moreover, the more those truly close people you still have: matter. Those are the ones who truly know you, & with whom will pick the pieces of you when once again, you fail somehow.
This blog, is one of the only places I can truly speak of what happens in my life. To express, is to release. To release, allows you to grasp something else. To grasp, is to learn of new. And to learn & again try, is the only way to live.