They’d probably stay longer if I stopped making them cry all the time… Guess who is dating again? “You are doing it Corey, you’re doing it!”
It’s been more than three years since I’ve dated someone who didn’t annoy the shit out of me or make me question why humans were designed with the need to touch… There is finally a boy in my life that I want to touch. And touching him makes perfect sense to me. For now. Today we had a talk about tomorrow. Which is always my downfall. I have found that talking about the future is the easiest way to make my men cry.
I ALWAYS talk about the future.
And I always make my men cry.
What is wrong with you? “What the fuck is wrong with you Corey?!”
Be happy. Just be happy. I haven’t learned this yet. I think I may have to tattoo it on my body.
Life is wonderful in so many facets, yet the one thing I always want is a man to love: A person to hold; and a person to journey with me along the road. And I always get it. I’ve always been blessed that way. Men have always called me “beautiful”, they have always called me “sexy”, they always whisper “You are brilliant,” and they always sigh, “You smell good.” Finding men to love me is an easy thing. Even at 37: Fatter than I have ever been, with saggy breasts, a bad hip, and a cloud of sadness that is always hovering in the not too distant future; I have still managed to find a man to fall for me. It is a gift I got from the women in my family. And I should be grateful - and I am. But I also have to poke holes in them to see if they bleed out. I have to hold their hands, look into their faces, sit next to them in a purple paisley love seat and ask them questions that make their minds reel and their eyes fill up with salt water until it is spilling over; and they are staring at me in silence. Because of course simple questions are too easy; I ask questions of them that have no answers. I ask the kind of questions that steal the gases from your lungs and cut the tongue from the cup of your mouth.
I once dated a boy who had no words. He was beautiful and ink covered and hard-edged and fragile and I made him cry all the time. And after enough of that, he left. And while we were apart he planted the seeds of our heartbreak into a digital garden of bright yellow sunflowers and lavender roses with giant black thorns. And over many summers and springs those seeds finally grew into consonants and vowels. And one day, several years later, the digital garden blossomed a phrase: “JUST STOP!” It was too late, and long over, but he finally had words to the questions I demand to ask: “Just stop.”
I should stop. “Stop Corey, just stop!” I’m going to stop and just enjoy (I’ve said this before) -but really this time.
Stop asking so many questions - and wanting so man answers - and wanting to live as if integrity and truth is everything. Some things can be ambiguous and unclear. Can’t they?
It’s been two months and things are going well. Very well. This new guy is sweet, and gregarious, and emotionally open, and traditional, and tall, and his cum tastes like candy. And a million star filled eternities span out in front of us - And there is no way to find out exactly what that looks like before we get there… So just stop asking. Stop! JUST STOP! Stop treating happiness like it’s a wild animal to be tamed and broken and chained in a basement to keep forever. I’ve done that before. And they always die in the end. But first they cry.
So stop making them cry.