3am Ramblings

Today is 367 without the love of my life and my soul, MF. I contemplate the start of this reflection as my head is buried deep in the toilet. I shove my fingers as far down my throat as they will go, hoping I can force the poison out of my body. I’ve gotten too good at deep throating in the last year that the vomit won’t come out. Is this a blessing or a curse? The men waiting in line to enjoy my decadent body would say it’s a blessing. At this moment, I am cursing it. I want the poison out of my body. You went two and a half months without, and in one weekend, you spoil that dedication over a cup of whiskey and a beer. You are an idiot; you tell yourself, why, why, why?! Because over the last year, you’ve been given a trump card that has allowed you to make every poor decision imaginable. You spent a year indulging in sex and drugs and, thanks to COVID, with minimal rock and roll. You were careless, reckless, and a horrible friend. What came of it? A lot, actually. That’s the wild part. In a year of losing yourself completely, you gained more than you ever have. Would I pick this path again if given a choice? Fuck no. But I think I needed it.

Here I am, 32.5, a Lonely Oyster who does not have a job, a home, or any idea what her life will look like in a month. I packed a decade of my life up — basically my entire adult existence — and moved to a state I’ve only been to a few times. I’m living with my dad, who finally wants to be a father now that he is dying. It’s sweet, but I think it will slowly kill me. I’m thankful for it, but it’s getting old fast. If you asked me a year ago what my 5-year plan was, I would say owning a piece of property in the woods, a successful business, and my belly fat with my second child. MF fucking around in the unattached garage full of airplanes and tools. Drugs didn’t exist, booze wasn’t an issue, and to everyone, we were happy as fucking clams. Unfortunately, we didn’t get to be clams; instead, I am a God Damned Lonely Oyster.

Fuck why are hangovers a thing? My head is throbbing, my stomach woozy. No more, I tell myself. But let’s be honest. I will likely poison myself once again to loosen up for one of the three dick appointments I have this week. Thank god for sex. That shit is magical. It has been the best medicine in a year of total despair. In the two months I have been living here, I have learned more about my sexuality than in the last year. I’ve been balls deep in almost every man I desired… almost. You’re off the market for nearly 10 years, and you come out into an entirely new world. I can have multiple partners, lead with sex, and never once be called a slut. When I was doing this at 22, it was looked down on and needed to be hidden, never discussed. Now I can openly say I am a heteroflexible (what a wonderful thing) kink bunny with no intentions of going monogamous anytime soon. And all that is okay. The homestead in the woods is no longer a dream, but the idea of being hogtied on a yacht is what gets me the most excited.

I knew I was a small town, big fish, blah blah blah. But being here, I have realized how fucking small my world was. There is literally a club down the road from me where for $10 a month, I can get tied to a cross and whipped till I bleed while a room full of people watches. Who knew you could actually want something like that?! Apparently, I am not alone. For the first time in my life, I feel confident in my body. I know I am hot, a good lay, and people (all people, not just men) want me. I am in the hot girl club, and it feels fucking good.

Now, if I only could get my head straight. How do I get this body confidence to ooze over into my mind? If only my perfect breasts that didn’t lose a pound of the 25 I shed this year (how did that fucking happen) could fix my depression. If my tight ass and delicious pussy could be the magical Xanax that shuts my brain off and keeps me from being ridden with guilt and stress every day. They kind of do. They get me laid, and that fixes things for a minute. But, unfortunately, orgasms only last so long.

So what have I learned in this last year? What have I gained other than a book full of unbelievable sex and dating stories I plan on sharing with you? Fuck I want to vomit again… god damn strong gag reflex. I just want the poison out. Or to be bound and gagged with a ten-inch cock thrusting inside me… damn, I am horny. Why does being hungover make me so horny… where is the boy toy when you need him. Okay, now I am rambling… I promise I can think and write more broadly than sex. As I just said, I am horny as fuck and need to get it out of my system fast. Why is everything like chapsticks and lighters? You can never get them when you need them, but you have too many when you don’t. I literally get to sink my teeth into 3 hot men 3 days in a row, but I don’t have the patience to wait for it… anyway, back to what I have learned.

I finally feel like I get MF; I know what the shit pie tastes like that he ate for his entire life. I’m grateful I can understand him; I hate that it’s too late. I would have acted and treated him differently. I wouldn’t have yelled as much, threatened, gave ultimatums. God, I would give anything to hold that man again. Have his head buried deep into P and G, nuzzling my breasts. But here I am, the fucking Lonely ass Oyster, because the powers that be threw MF and me a pile of trash. He was the best human; he didn’t deserve to be tortured every day. I now know how that feels. To be so deep in this hole of life that you think there is no way to climb out. I lived that shit for 367 days. He lived it for 32.5 years. It’s crazy to think I am the age he will forever be. In a few months, I will be older than him and always will be from here on out. It’s a trip the wild concepts your brain comes up with at 3am on a Tuesday while trying to force the poison out. GET THE FUCK OUT! Drinking is dumb. I need some rest. Vomit, bed, maybe some weed. I will be back. Tootles to nobody.