Dear Slushkitten

Dearest Slush:

What the hell am I gonna do about the cob webs that are gonna grow in my lady parts while I can no longer sleep with people who don’t respect me? I can tell right now, they are expanding, wrapping their every so fibrous web of around the scar tissue of my fragile fertile womb!! Oh the horror the horror!

Dear Slushkitten (love love love the name, btw),

Thank you for your question! I love you because we are both in love with love and have simply divine taste in the men we fall in love with. I’m not being a smart ass – I mean it. We pick suuuuuper cute shells of dudes, fill them up with make-believe and squishy-bunny-baby-face heavenly qualities, and then get brutally wounded when they can, and/or choose, not to meet our nonsensical and hysterically romantic expectations. The expectations are of the nonsensical sort because, I’ll speak for myself, I have absolutely no idea what reasonable expectations are. Unless dude is flagrantly repellant (and oooooh I have met many repellants), they pretty much call the shots and I morph to their needs. I’m no challenge.. I’m all “whatever”. I hear dudes like the chase and I’m all “whatever. I’m tired. And bored.” I didn’t especially care for any of the sweet angels from heaven I’ve met over the past 7 years – there were some exceptions, but not many – so my heart was not always broken. Hell, it was barely beating.  The expectations are of the hysterically romantic sort because in sobriety, everything should be different, and everything IS different, but now what? I know what NOT to do, but what am I TO do? In my first (and only) sober relationship, I did what I am good at – threw the ball in his court and waited to see what happened. And what happened? I was left standing alone, longing for that disappointing, pissed off, turned off, cute shell, while said shell was longing for someone more bland… I guess. More boring and detached – stable maybe? Is that what stable is? Who the hell knows what he wants. You, sweet Slushkitten, and I are more than they (CM and TP-FFB, respectively) could handle. They are not to blame for anything, really. OK – I didn’t type that with a straight face. But as far as giving me, or not giving me, what I needed, he is really not to blame. How can he live up to my expectations when I don’t know what my expectations are? How can he give me what I need when I have no idea what I need? I guess that’s what recovery is about – putting the kibosh on my desperate need for instant gratification – I want to be recovered NOW. I want to be adored NOW. So, instead of being bothered wondering what not to do, or what to do, the answer is to do nothing (hi-five, Nelissa! I listen). All in good time. Calm the fuck down. We have the rest of our lives to live! And I sort of think we’ll never have the answers, so may as well have fun with the imaginary partners because sooner or later we’ll be loved to death. So, I hope I’ve answered your question, kitty kitty Slushkitten kitty! What was your question anyway? Hmm. Well, enough of this love blather.. let’s talk about sex!

I totally understand the question of what to do about those cobwebs in your lady parts! You are a Virgo, so it is easy for me to change the subject in my brain when I start thinking about your lady parts because you, Miss Virgo, are as pure as the driven snow… and I’m only thinking about your lady parts because YOU brought them up! Anyway, a sage sober lady once gave me a little advice about sharing in meetings of the horror! the horror! of the horrible days in my previous life when I was sleeping indiscriminately with people who didn’t respect me, and I didn’t care about (nor remember). The advice? Don’t do it. Don’t have meaningless exploits anymore, and don’t share about past ones in meetings of mixed company. I would never go into detail, of course, (well, except that once, but I’m pretty sure it was appropriate) but she said that once you mention promiscuity as part of your story, the fellas stop listening to you and can only think of… your lady parts!!! Makes sense. Unfortunately, I got the heads-up too late. For me, hearing other gals’ stories of shame helped me hugely in earlier sobriety. Like sooooo many other shameful and disturbing behaviors, I honestly thought I was the only one ever to have done them! Hearing that a beautiful and seemingly well-adjusted woman did the same things and survived, was like another invitation to join the club, that I belonged. One time after I shared and was feeling mortified about having over-shared (as always), a lovely and wise friend told me I didn’t over-share, it was OK, and that 75% of the women in the room could probably relate. It’s like everyone’s pain and shame, including mine, collectively bring comfort. Go, AA! But anyway, my dilemma is this: how do I nonchalantly let FH and all my other imaginary boyfriends know I don’t have VD? Seriously! If sage sober lady is correct, then all FH and my other IBs do is think about my lady parts! Because, you know, recovering alcoholics don’t have anything better than my lady parts to think about. This is ridiculous. I can’t in the same sentence sing the praises of AA for teaching me that I am not, nor was I ever, a skank, but then admit that I spend a considerable amount of time thinking about how I can work “I don’t have any STDs” into a share. I could just raise my hand in front of dozens of people and say, “My name is Slushkitty and I am a grateful STD-free alcoholic”. Or I could say something like, “I know I talked about my sexual indiscretions in the past, but did I mention I was smart enough to buy stock in Trojan, and God knows that was good thinking, right?”. The best way to erase the ideas FH and IBs may have in their heads of my lady parts and impure prowess is to mention sex at every turn. “How are you, SK?”. “I’m fantastic! I’m learning to forgive myself for sleeping with half of the Eastern Seaboard! Thank God I didn’t get any STDs!”. Or I could casually mention it in my blog and hope the word gets around, you know, juuuust in case. Speaking of subtle….

And speaking of inappropriately putting everyone’s STD worries at ease (everyone including those who really didn’t want to know one way or the other), I once went out on a second date! I didn’t really have many of those, hence the exclamation point. Lots of burnt rubber in front of my house. I partook of the online dating nightmare a few years ago – it still really embarrasses me to admit that – and met this one particular fella who brought new meaning to the word “confident”. We went out for lunch in Harvard Square one day, and it was ok, he was nice. Now, I am a fairly small person, and I was like a towering, hulking sasquatch next to this guy, we’ll call him “Karl”. I felt so huge and so unsexy, and I was sooo numb to the world, I was practically dead, but poor Karl didn’t seem to mind… or notice. We went out a second time. Yackedy yackedy yack yack yack he went on non-stop on our at least five-mile walk yackedy-yacking about his supermodel ex and how much money he has, and I so didn’t care and was just happy to hear a voice other than the mean ones in my head. We decided to come back to my place – I had to meet my couch and TV quota. Looking back, that was screaming the wrong message. But then, I had no idea what he was thinking. I’m sure I was pleasant enough but I’m pretty sure I gave him no reason to think I wanted a piece of that. So, we’re on the couch, I am showing no more sexual interest in him than I am showing my cats, and he casually hands me this envelope from Quest Diagnostics. After our first date, Karl went and got himself tested for STDs, and gave me the results and the phone numbers I could call if I needed verification!!! WTF!!! I appreciate his cleanliness and all, but what did he think my reaction would be? What did he want it to be? Should I have rolled over and assumed the position? Is the official paper bearing negative results for genital warts considered foreplay in online dating? Depressing. Again, I’m sure I was pleasant enough but I’m pretty sure I gave him no indication that I would ever consider having him touch me until my test results came back from Quest Diagnostics, which could take a few months. At least.

So, Slushkitten, I hope this has been helpful! My advice – keep your cobwebs to yourself. No one needs to know anything until they need to know something, and at that time, Quest Diagnostics can help you with everything you need to know! Hang in there, buttercup! I love you.



8 responses

  1. Hey wise SlushKitty! I too think you shouldn’t feel shame about whatever you share because, fuck it, it’s your sobriety! Sadly, it’s true that some men in the halls get judgey when we share about the more sordid details of our less-than-sober lives but who were we being less-than-sober with?! Guys like them, or friends of guys like them while the guy like them drank even more to soothe bruised egos. So, really, your share just makes them think, feel sorry for and/or worry about themselves, which is kinda standard for people in recovery anyway. For once (and I mean this for all sober women), let’s *not* allow our stories to become all-about-them and share whatever we need to in order to stay sober!

    There are some great sober men, definitely, but I was “approached” by supposedly sober men when I first came in — I was beginning to sense something was up when they seemed more interested in getting my number than giving me theirs’ — so that galvanized me to make sure I put myself and sobriety first and for that I’m grateful for the twisted “service” of some smarmy guys.

    Love your blog!


    • Karl’s readiness with his test results made me suspicious — people that arrogant are often deceptive too.

      I am not a bitter person. No, not at all.

    • I admire and care about both of you. To be honest- I love both of you, more and more as you allow us to witness your friendship. Nothing either of you “shared/shares” alters my deep regard for you. Speaking for people of any gender old enough to be a parent of either of you (and I have references so don’t argue with me)- the more we know you, the more we love you. Kinda creepy wonderful, isn’t it?

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