The Winter of Film and Needles

The last time I got out of a serious relationship, I wanted to fuck.

It had been a long time dying, that one, and we'd beat the proverbial horse with the biggest stick we could find. The sex had gone to hell, as it does in most relationships brought back from the dead so often the flesh was off the bones. The best sex we'd had in months - hell, the only sex we'd had in weeks - was two days after we broke up. Though I don't regret doing it, the horse was past resuscitation.

So I tore into that Summer of Sex with gusto. A little unsure my wiles would still work, but hungry enough to make up for it. I wanted other people's hands on me and in me. And then some.


This time, the thought of kissing someone makes my lungs shrink. When people look at me on the street, I avert my eyes. Hell, I've only jerked off once after we broke up: my breath hadn't even slowed before I started bawling harder than I'd come.

So this time, it's a quiet time. I don't feel bad about that. It's the right thing to do, to let myself rest. I've had three break ups in less than two years. My heart, she is tired and worn thin. And I know whose hands I want on me; I also know it will not happen.

I can live with that, with all of it.

Luck of the draw, I like spending time by myself, nearly always have. I'm pretty good company. I have enough knitting projects lined up to last me till late spring, and a long list of movies I haven't yet seen.