the sound of my heart

I’ve lost that lovin’ feeling.

I reread Peyton Place this evening. When I got to the part where Michael Rossi slaps Constance MacKenzie in order to break through to the piece of her that can still feel, after a lifetime of “doing it right” (with one notable mistake) I was jealous.

Conditioned at first to be horrified. But jealous when I saw it was the start of her own grand opening.

And I wish there were men like Mike Rossi left, lovers who fully intended to be husbands, firm in heart, body, and soul. I saw Modern Man in Staples the other day, shoehorned into skinny jeans and a tee, imagined sickly white dough for flesh. Just dough, drawn tight at the waist by a belt. If that’s the shape of things, no wonder I’ve lost interest.

Who’s going to snap me out of this?

What kind of person would it take?

Love is patient. Love is kind. But I feel myself catapulted into a premature menopause and I don’t know if that’s my body talking or everything around it. The trebuchet is a brutal, brisk master. Boom, clap, the sound of all my wanting slamming into a castle wall.

Forget, it hisses. Forget how to hold out for weak-at-the-knees. Seduction isn’t commanding anymore, like it was in the films once upon a time. Seduction is that scene in Juno where he knocks her up. Seduction is casual. It’s not going to matter to Modern Man what happens to me next. And if it fails…? Because fear of failure in this is overwhelming me. Too small, no matter how good he thinks he is; Nature screwed me first.

Of course I’ll come back to my senses. That’s the problem.

I need him to be better than I am, someone I can look up to, someone I can believe is really worth the giving.

I don’t need to be told this is okay. I am unhappy being frigid — and I am frigid by my own standards. I don’t need to be told about anyone’s party line. I’m stubbornly a woman in a world that wants me to reject the binary. I don’t want a butch woman, either. If I’m going to look for masculinity, I much prefer a man. You be you. I’ll be me. He’ll be him when he happens. It’s okay if he has a soft, sweet side, but this, this is not picky:

Somewhere between five and twelve years my senior. Ish.
Taller than he is round by a significant margin.
Is interesting enough that we can teach each other our lives.
Has his financial shit together.
Is not married or otherwise partnered.
Is interested in growing up and settling down with someone like me.
(Would settle for the forever haul.)


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