24 September 1994

For those of you who would rather have this diary entry in pictures, let me create a visual of my sex life in pictures:

Picture 1.           
What I want my sex life to look like, and what it actually looked like four years ago, is a lush oasis, an inviting lake between a sea of trees.
You knew that there was a desert, somewhere out there, but you would have to travel half a day to get to the edge.     

Picture 2.           
Three months ago, it was no longer the fertile grounds of the oasis, but dried up to a desert with blossoming bushes. 
Surviving on what was available.            

Picture 3.           
Two weeks ago, it was the helicopter shot of a desert with the little white chapel where the Guns N’ Roses video for November Rain was shot, with Slash in the desert playing his guitar. 
Because of the presence of Slash, it’s hard to fully realize that he is in fact the only reason for optimism in this entire situation.            

Picture 4.           
Current day, the picture is of a desert with the wind blowing a dried out bush, a desert rose, over the sand.      
The rose will stay this way, drifting and in its dormant state, until it starts to rain and it can come to life again.

For those of you who prefer swearing:   
“How the flying fuck did I let this happen?!”

And for all those willing to endure reading how I managed to “lose” both my lover Bear (nothing is certain), as well as miss out on the most promising lead I had in years – a Slash-like house painter who was basically just tossed into my lap by God – I have to warn you:      
There are no easy answers, let alone satisfying ones.       
I haven’t got a clue, how I managed to make this happen.            
Or better yet, not make it happen, but I’ll try to explain it as good as I can.

First off, Bear.

My dearest, sweetest, lover for the past four years and nine months, and the man about whom I still don’t know what he wants out of life. What kind of future does he want for himself? What does he want from me?

I honestly could not be more clueless.

To me our sex life, his entire presence, and all the wonderful hours we’ve spent together have been more than I ever hoped I would get out of being with a man.

Initially though, I thought he was entirely normal. Maybe it was this beginners luck that saved me?

In 1989 I more or less “recruited” Bear as my lover, since acquiring a sex life as a single had proven to be impossible for me. At that moment I simply put one foot in front of the other, and was very pragmatic. The sex was good, even though Bear was the first man I had real sex with, and it was so good we continued having it even after the first time.

It wasn’t until the few females in my life shared what they had to, dare I say, “put up with” that I realized how lucky I was.

That any other man would probably have failed the test, and might even have failed to fuck me or make me come. Which is saying something, because my body is beginner-friendly.

But my faith in the average level of men’s love making skills was gone and I started cherishing Bear, even more than I already did.   
As long as he still wanted me, and wasn’t (yet?) in a relationship he wanted to remain faithful in, I would enjoy him.

However, I did notice that our dates were becoming less frequent.
And this summer when we were both transferring from being college grads to working lives, I wondered if it was still enough. 
If being in such a dry office environment wouldn’t require a little, or a lot, more juiciness between the sheets.         
I wouldn’t say that I opted for a weekly gang bang, but having sex only once every 2, 3 months would no longer be cutting it.

So when I opened the front door two weeks ago, and discovered a Slash-like painter who wanted to paint my balcony, I thanked the Lord for his swift moves.
It was before my first workday, just in time!

The painter and me didn’t kiss, nor did we openly flirt really, but there was definitely a lot of chemistry between us.              
When he mentioned he went to Warhol’s every Saturday, I understood the hint.     
But guess what?             
The first Saturday he wasn’t there, I felt like an absolute idiot.    
But this was nothing compared to what I felt the second Saturday! Because this time he was there, but he let the bar lady hijack our conversation deliberately.      
It was clear that some kind of loyalty issue was at stake here and I lost.
I lost, plain and simple.
Whatever she had to offer him, I didn’t.
Maybe it were just quiet nights at Warhol’s that he didn’t want to sacrifice.              
Or perhaps they did sleep together occasionally, or planned on doing so.

It is hard to believe we had something, for those few hours.

When he came in for the last batch of his painting materials I noticed his tobacco pouch was still on my desk.       
I quickly picked it up, and because his hands were full I slipped it into his pocket.
For a moment I felt the warmth of his thigh, through the boiler suit.
We smiled, both slightly uncomfortable, as if we had both felt it.
At that moment I just interpreted it as nerves, or healthy tension.

But seeing how miserable things turned out, maybe I did overstep his boundaries and missed something important.

On a different note:

The neighbor just had a tantrum.            
He lives alone, so I’m afraid it was directed at his cat.     
Heard something similar when he moved in, and then he literally yelled at the cat for being stupid. I hoped he was just a handyman, and not the new neighbor and owner of the cat.

But I must have suspected even back then, there was more to it because on my way to the city my heart started aching so badly, I cancelled my plans and dropped by at my mother’s because I was feeling totally miserable.         
The heart problems have intensified the last few weeks, now that I’m working.

With the neighbor having his second tantrum and work stress, I’ve decided to go see a doctor for this.
My heart really does feel broken.