The maudlin little tweet below is from a few days ago. I was home alone, the day after an afternoon of spanky fun at Miss Hunter’s Slayers party that had been followed by a blissfully intimate and erotic couple of hours with the adorable Lilly Watson. I was coming down with a bump. At that moment, I was intently conscious of not wanting to be where I was, though without a sense of knowing where I did want to be.
I’m sure that sentence worked when I wrote it! Perhaps it still does.
When the intensity’s faded,
And the intimacy has gone,
And what’s left is another fucking Friday evening drinking too much gin on your own,
Then you start to think that something has to change.
— Bibulous One (@BibulousOne) January 26, 2018
“Something has to change”. Three twitter friends instantly agreed. “Yes!” they tweeted in unison. And they were probably right.
But must I really give up my one place of refuge from the gradual dismantling of a 20 year marriage; my place away from the ever more desperate attempts to save my job and those of the twenty others depending on me? Can I no longer allow myself a place away from the stress, the not knowing what to do, the feeling that I have failed? Where else would I sit out the storm, if not in the unjudging embrace of a sex worker? How would I deal with it all without the beautiful clarity induced by my Mistress’s cane.
The uglier my situation becomes, the more important these snatched moments away from it seem.
If this campaign were a short skirmish: advance, engage with the enemy, retire; it might be different. Then I might set all else aside until it was done. But, job and family, these are wars of attrition; ‘three steps forwards, two steps backwards’ campaigns and, on both fronts, there’s another six months of this to come, more likely a year. That’s a long time to get up every morning, knowing that the day holds only a series of questions for which you have no answers.
In that situation, it becomes important, essential even, to plan some Rest and Recuperation, some time away from the battle to dress wounds, breathe deeply of clean air and to remember, for a while at least, that the fight is not all that you are.
I should ‘start dating’, I’m told, start to form the relationships that will be my new life. It sounds sensible, but last time I actively looked for a new relationship was 35 years ago. It worked; we married, but somehow that marriage ended and a new one began without me ever really working out who I wanted to be with. Right now, to “start dating” would feel like opening up a new battle, one for which I feel just as unprepared as for those I fight now. I need more simplicity in my life, not more complexity; I need more certainty, not more confusion.
It’s not perfect, what I do. The highs are too high, making the lows seem hard to bare. But I’ll take that in place of a life full only of battles. So I will continue to see sex workers. I’ll be Bibulous One when I need to be, and enjoy the company of the wonderful people who inhabit the world in which he moves. I know it’s not permanent. I know that the more of this I experience, the harder it will be to stop.
I am aware of the emotional risks I take.
But it can’t be so hard to understand why I would want to spend time with this smile, to have all the joy of it turned in my direction so that, if only for a moment, I can feel myself to be its cause.
And, if the price to be paid for that feeling is to find myself drinking Gin alone on a Friday evening, with only the memories of my last encounter for company, then I can live with that for now.
My thanks to Lilly for allowing me to use this wonderful image