Sunday night, I took care in donning my thigh high stockings, lace and silk slip, 5 inch heels, and LBD for dinner with my boyfriend. It was a….hopeful little get up.

My boyfriend, for his part, put on a suit and picked me up in a cab in front of my place. We went to a quaint and lovely restaurant in the Gold Coast where we shared a quiet, relaxing, and tasteful meal. It proved to be one of the best I’ve shared at any restaurant anywhere. It was one of those dinners where everything just came together: the service, the food, the wine, the conversation, the pacing, the ambiance. It was like magic.

Throughout dinner, we laughed and reminisced, shared our food with and plans for one another. But, unavoidably, reality crept in. While I am immeasurably happier these days, and while the Zoloft continues to help, I am still hampered by some of its negative side effects. In particular, the loss of my sex drive.

Well, Happy Valentine’s Day to you too.

The reality is, while the desire, the interest, the “spark” is still there for me; it’s fleeting at best. And perhaps most libido killing of all, the ability to “successfully arrive at my destination” has entirely vanished for me. Believe me, I’ve tried. Still a no-go.

Yes, it can be frustrating. Yes, it can still be “good.” And yes, I still give it “a go” and stuff, but…IT’S NOT THE SAME. Knowing that, a part of me has relinquished this portion of myself as the price I pay for finally feeling happiness. But, this Valentine’s Day, I’m not the only one paying for it.

That’s right. This Valentine’s Day, we didn’t have sex. There, I said it.

I’m not going to go the trite route and say, “But we have so much more than that,” like it’s an “either or” situation. Or act like we don’t need that portion of our relationship or something. Not only would it be trite to throw statements like that out there, it would also be delusional and inaccurate.

The truth is, we do need sex and it’s not okay that we didn’t have it after dinner on Sunday when we “celebrated” Valentine’s Day, nor on the actual day either. I feel horrible guilt for my role as my boyfriend’s sexless valentine, and the pressure of my failure has made a mockery of whatever hope I harbored when purchasing and actually wearing that lingerie in the first place.

For all the guilt I feel and all the pressure I place upon myself, my boyfriend miraculously refrains from adding to it and instead remains supportive. He is patient with me, listens and tries to understand, and still finds value in so many other parts of our relationship besides the one. He stuck by me last autumn as I fell apart and continues to stick by me as my current state sullies the unique affection only we two are supposed to share.

And yet, after dinner as our meals sat heavy in our stomachs and we lolled about haphazardly and fully clothed, we came to an agreement. We let ourselves off the hook, noted that this Valentine’s Day is just one of many more to come. In the end, we didn’t have sex, but what we did have may prove more lasting.

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In the wee small hours of the morning, I decided that I don’t like it when people and/or dudes refer to their junk as “meat.” It’s grody. Also, grody? This boyfriend I had in high school who would seriously go around saying “hot beef injection” all the time. Shocker that didn’t work out.

Speaking of schooling, whenever someone starts talking about licking butts I always think of cholera and how in seventh grade biology I had to give a report in front of the whole class (on cholera, not butt licking). I nearly hyperventilated when I realized I’d have to actually say “diarrhea” as part of the symptom description. Thankfully, by some eleventh hour stroke of future Thesaurus Rex wordsmithing skills, I said “flu-like symptoms” instead. Whew! Seventh grade was hard enough without also being known as “Diarrhea Girl”.

Incidentally, seventh grade was also my first introduction to Sex Ed, which ABSOLUTELY FAILED me. It was at that time I was instructed that boys have things called “nocturnal emissions” and was shown a video of a woman shooting a baby out of her lady bits into a bath tub and OH MY GOD MAKE IT STOP, THE HORROR, MY EYES MY EYES!!! That image will forever be seared into visual memory. And to think, I had hitherto somehow believed that babies came out of a girl’s belly button. Yes, really.

As for learning anything of value- like how to kiss, or how to have the sex exactly- I remained at a loss and would be forced to continue scouring my Seventeen and YM magazines for clues. I also remained clueless about oral sex, believing it was when you and a boy talked about having the sex. This continued until I was, oh, 15 when a dude actually broke up with me after failing to convince me that people did that sort of thing. Yeah….

Anyway, back to the butt licking cholera. I learned, thanks to some super sleuth pre-Internet research (seriously how did we actually learn about anything back then?), that contaminated water is the cause. So, when someone takes a side trip over yonder, doesn’t that just pose potential exposure to a concentrated form? I mean, what if some microscopic dookie particles are still present? Boom! Cholera. Or something like that.

Moral of the story: don’t call your junk “meat” because apparently it gets my mind to thinking about these things.

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I go to Victoria’s Secret. I get fitted for a bra (don’t get too excited boys- no nudity or boob fondling is involved), which is generally a sad experiment because each attempt seems to yield a different result. 32B. 34A. 34B. Triumph! They’re getting bigger! 32A. What the fuck!? Then, I proceed to try on the box of bras they stuff you in the fitting room with. Also, a sad experiment. I hate, loathe, want to find the original designer of said bras and ask him what the hell he was thinking by making a bra that requires a BOOKLET with step-by-step DIAGRAMS to put it on properly.

Of the 6 or 7 bras left in the bra box, I seem to always end up picking the most sedate and comfortable. This bra is an everyday bra. It goes to work and goes grocery shopping. It folds laundry and watches the Barefoot Contessa (Why is that by the way? She is neither “barefoot,” nor a “contessa.” Hmmm…). This is not a sex bra. This bra does not know how to flirt or blow kisses or blow anything for that matter. If you’re lucky, this bra will order online for delivery make you dinner.

This is the same bra I was wearing one day, as I sat at work complacently talking to GDF and Emo, when something happened. There was movement. The right strap didn’t slide downward, no, this time it simply GAVE UP. It popped off its latch and became ”untethered.” Which is precisely when the front of my bra and the little booblet in it began to keel forward. I’m free! I’m free! Moo-ha-ha-ha. I imagined her saying. The strap had failed, and as my chest subsequently ran amok, I ran to the Ladies to latch that shit back down.

Which is why I have to ask; how is it that after everything I’ve been through to find this “practical” bra- when I’ve forgone any hint of sexiness for comfort and have shelled out $45 or more- that (at best) the bitchass thing goes on holiday down the sides of each shoulder? Is it afraid of heights? Is it secretly rebellious and wants me to think it’s a sex bra after all dammit? Are my shoulders abnormally “slopey”? Is that even a word?

We may never know the answers to any of those questions. We may never know. But what we do know is that you can’t return a bra like that because “it’s been worn” and yes, that would be gross and/or wasteful and the very opposite of green-friendly. This bra is thus still in the rotation, and wouldn’t you know I’m wearing it today!

Which means I sit here typing and every few lines finds me digging at my raging under boob and surly straps. Apparently, they seem to think Today Is The Day they’re going to make it to my hitherto illusive elbows. And at this point, I’m apt to say fuck it and let them.

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Here’s the thing: although he is still employed and lucky to be, since being “rehired,” his job situation has continued to be precarious and the whole experience has proven demoralizing for him, resulting in six months of depression and emotional withdrawal. It’s affected everything. The way he talks. The way he sleeps and doesn’t sleep. The way he dresses. The way he eats. The way he dates me. The way we do, and mostly do not, hmm hmm these days.

And the situation has taken its toll on me as well. When you love someone, the things that happen to them also happen to you. When you see them hurt, you hurt. When you see them struggle, you struggle. For months, my heart has ached for him. I’ve struggled to be supportive, to make him laugh, to let him mope, to initiate plans or meals or the aforementioned hmm hmm. I’ve tried to be there for him in all his moods, but it’s left me feeling drained and saddened and resentful that all of this LIFE (how dare it!) has intervened. It has literally derailed our relationship from what it was headed toward; changed it irrevocably, robbed us of those early carefree romantic days.

But I still fell in love with him. Against my nature, I still somehow kept my heart open and gave to someone even though he’s sometimes unable to give back the way I need him to.  I feel bad for saying anything at all, but it kills me to feel so alone all the time. And yet, I stay.

I truly believe that just because the person I love is having a difficult time, is mired in a depression that I can understand but cannot fix for him or make him do anything about, it is no reason to turn my back and walk away. He is still the same person to me. He is still fun to be with and makes me laugh. He is still “present” when he finds the will to be. He is still supportive of me in all the ways that are unique to him- helping me with my blog, with family and friends drama, with stress when I’m feeling overwhelmed or upset. We still make time for one another and communicate honestly and openly about everything- even breaking up. And, most importantly, we still care deeply for one another.

So when he calls like he did just now to relay that this HATEFUL M.F. SHITHOLE ASS HATTERY FUCKSTORM is likely to continue, and perhaps reach new ASS SUCKAGE heights (in 30 days he finds out what happens with his “new” position that is now also being eliminated), then follows his call up with an email of the following video (it’s his ”happy place”- he loves dogs and this commercial makes him smile); I know him well enough to know just how bad it is. And it reminds me that I love him for little things like this, and that I want him to be happy at any cost…even if it means he has to move away without me to find a new or better job elsewhere.

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Me (snot-laden and “sick dialing” from under a blanket): “Oh nothing. I was just, you know, thinking…don’t cheat on me, okay? That would suck.”

Boyfriend: “Huh? Where did that come from? Are you okay?”

Me: “Yeah, I’m just feeling gross and uncute and I just watched He’s Just Not That Into You on HBO for the second time in two days and the Bradley Cooper character cheats on his wife because they’re not having sex anymore and we don’t have a lot of that going on right now either and even though I know why that is and even though we’re nowhere near married I know that stuff like that still happens and I think about it all the time and how much that would really suck and kill me inside all over again especially when I’m all hopped up on cold medicine and see you flirting over twitter vulnerable.”

Boyfriend: “You’re not gross- you’re sick. And how could I cheat on you anyway? I work from home and hardly ever leave my house.”

Me: “….maybe they deliver?”

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I read an article today in December’s marie claire about the new male midlife crisis, the whole premise of which is to shed light on the growing and disturbing trend of man-boys who remain in long-term relationships with “keepers” whilst refusing to “put a ring on it.”

According to the article, “the old [male] midlife crisis was triggered by the pressure and routine of providing for a family that relied on a guy for survival; the new one- which comes before kids, often before marriage- stems from trying to keep up with a woman who may not need him at all…[who] offers a financial safety net, the patient acceptance of his neuroses, and blow jobs in equal measure.”

For me, the article felt very familiar and, for the most part, rang true. In a lot of ways, I feel I’ve lived it. Whether it’s been in a long-term relationship of my own or even a brief encounter with a hot/then cold guy, I feel certain I know this terrain well. And I’ve come away feeling that I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t. The younger guys just want to play, want me to be aparty to their friends-with-benefits schemes. The older ones want the ego boost of a younger woman, making me an accessory to the crime. So what’s a girl like me to do?

In my case, I’ve historically struggled with Big Talkers, guys who promise much and follow through on next to nothing. It’s not that they won’t commit per se, but that they make it sound like- or even worse promise- that they will, that they want to. In the end, when *shockingly* they do not, I wind up feeling like there’s something wrong with me. I feel like a failure; that I’ve failed the relationship test, failed to be good enough.

It’s a horribly disheartening downward spiral. And all the while I see my friends go on and “master” the whole relationship thing, get married, and live The Dream- or somebody’s version of it at least. I look at them and wonder, what am I doing wrong? Why am I deigned not good enough? Why am I not the kind of girl for whom men want to ensure is theirs “forever”?

It’s sad and pathetic and everything you’re not supposed to admit, let alone write. Still, it’s how I inevitably feel each time another relationship ends and/or a guy intimates that a real relationship is not what he’s after, that “hanging out” is how he likes to operate.

The thing is, I’ve ridden that carousel, enjoyed it for its merits, and reached a point in my life when I’ve elected to relinquish my ride ticket. I may not be gunning to put on a white dress and call it a day just yet, but neither am I rearing to enter into a going nowhere fast relationship situation. But we were having fun, weren’t we? they say with that checked-out shrug. Yeah, “we” were having fun until one of us wasn’t anymore, until one of us realized that the ride you’re offering circles into PERPETUITY. Dicking around would be the phrase, I believe, with the accurate appendage providing the appropriate personification.

Guys like that, the carousel guys, are as the article claims, “part of a cause-less generation…spoiled as kids…now they want to spoil themselves as adults. The old cliche was that a man would wake up one morning and realize that he wanted his youth back. The new version is that he never reached adulthood in the first place…[he] feels entitled to fun; sacrifice is not in [his] vocab.”

There’s truth to that, if we’re to indulge in generalizations (and let’s face it, the article and this post are rife with them), but what about the man who has grown up, who has also chosen to debark the carousel (and maybe even cash out of “the circus” altogether)?

It cannot be ignored that I am in a long-term relationship again and that this very topic has arisen a number of times between us. It is, in truth, a hotbed of residual baggage for both he and I. He’s older, has been married and divorced without children, and has his own strong opinions about the matter. And I…haven’t.

I spent most of my twenties in an LTR that resulted in couples counseling and not much else. Sprinkle a handful of disinterested He’s-Just-Not-That-Into-You man-boys throughout for good measure and you’ve got a fairly accurate depiction of my adult dating life. So, no, I haven’t had any of the experiences that my boyfriend has. I haven’t even been given the chance.

Perhaps the article best captures our stalemate: “he wonders, do I really want to fill a slot, to be the final check mark in her idea of the ‘perfect life’?” And I wonder, is that how it comes across- as a check box? Is that really all it boils down to? For me and/or for him?

Without resolution between us, I read articles like today’s and ask myself who’s got it right, who’s the more “evolved” party? The modern woman who’s independent, successful,  well-rounded, and doesn’t need a man to provide for her beyond the provision of “love”? Or the modern man who’s fun-loving, successful, appreciative and supportive of her merits, but who doesn’t need marriage or babies to find happiness or “completion” in a relationship? Is it possible for these two “modern” halves to make for an honest and happy whole relationship? Or did women’s lib simply fuck us all over- men and women alike? Where the hell do any of us possibly go from here?

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No, thank you.

I mostly blame that show, “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant.” Have you seen it? Who am I kidding, of course you have. That thing is like a freaking car crash. You don’t want to watch it, but you do with that perma-frown of disgust on your face. In fact, if you’re anything like me, you don’t stop at just the one episode, but instead wind up watching all six while TLC marathons the hell out of that shit.

And it’s the same thing over and over; you know what’s going to happen, but it still sucks you in. They’ve got it down to a science. More often than not there’s a toilet scene when the woman gets all confused by what she’s just produced, which is typically when the producers cut to the testimonial from the actual new mother. Every time, every single time, the woman makes a point of saying she didn’t even get to have an epidural. Natural childbirth, she says with those wild I-could-cut-a-bitch eyes. That show is the best birth control ever. Speaking of which….

Yeah. I didn’t get my period last month. I mean, like, at all. For the first time ever in my life. How messed up is that? And the real treat is that because things have been so busy with work and weekend plans lately, I hardly realized I’d missed it until it came time to start a new pill pack. Ooops.

The thing is, I’ve never been one of those girls. You know, the kind who freaks out that she’s pregnant every month and talks about it incessantly. I had a friend in college like that and would make fun of her by drawing pictures in her notebook during American Literature class of an oven with a bun in it. She didn’t like that very much. Anyway…

The whole thing kind of reminds me of when I was 13 and I’d read Seventeen or YM magazine and there’d always be that one article about the one in a million I-Got-Pregnant-But-Didn’t-Technically-Have-Sex/Must-Be-From-A-Toliet-Seat poster girls written as some sort of cautionary tale…BEWARE! IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU!

So despite assurances from my doctor and a glowingly stellar performance by my pee (way to make that minus sign as a clear as day!), you can be damn sure I kept thinking back to that TV show. So what if the test said “no.” My body’s every ache, craving, and odd ailment said “yes.”

Of course, I thought to myself, I don’t know I’m pregnant either.  Of course my recent onslaught of insatiable mid-day hunger isn’t a tape worm as my friends joke, but instead the Thing-That-Shall-Not-Be-Named-But-Begins-With-The-Letter-B’s demand for nourishment. And of course, all of my excessive sleepiness is less a result of subsisting on five hours of sleep a night than the physical exhaustion of cell division. Cell division!

You know, come to think of it, I always was bad at math. Let’s hope it stays that way until further notice.

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