This Valentines Day marks two years dick free. A dick free diet – it’s kinda like gluten free, only it’s cheaper and doesn’t smell like wet dog in your toaster. Yep, you heard me. I’m sober in all ways: sex, alcohol, dates, aka getting fucked up, knocked up, fucked over, played out or thrown under. While I’ve sat restrained in zen restraint, restraining against my restraints, divorcees have remarried and refucked their exes – and their replacement exes – in laps around me. They are like Olympic ex-making champions. And I am, well, in the bath.
At first, the rate of reup around me was a bit . . . . bewildering.
But since we’re coming up on the day of Heart-Shaped Corporate Woe, let me extoll upon you what the Gentle Lady Dickfree will be doing summa cum Sunday.
First, let me briefly luxuriate in the hallmarks of modern datingdom that I do not miss. Let’s just call them the Shady Tindersexts, et al. The “you’re so important to me/what’s your name again” department. Ahhhh that shit can fly full free bird: away. Because, like Lynyrd bragged, that bird will never change. Until it gets AIDS and its dick falls off. And even then it will be a dickless free-flying douchebird. To all y’alls out there still trading shares on the digital floor of the Relationship Exchange, searching for “the one” while you’re still embroiled with the last two:
I know, not everyone has a bad time in love.
Yeah they do. Yeah, it totally fucking blows.
The occasional sex is like a fun-sized Twix bar in a bowl fulla stale five pound Tootsie rolls, but you keep chewing because you gotta find The One, amiright? The one, the one THE ONE. OH MY GOD where is THE ONE. Are you the one? How about you? It’s all about the ONE who will love YOU for YOU. The one who, like Justin Bieber insists, will miss more than just your bodeee. Eeee. ee.
See, the thing is, if I see a hot man nowadays, my instincts are True and Good.
- Step one, hit the deck.
- Step two, scramble for cover.
- Step three, watch him at a safe distance from behind a parked car or a clothes rack.
Because when you see someone hot in Carroll County, the only sensible thing to do is sprint like a superhero back to your crystal jet. Alone.
A hot 30 or 40 something dude around here never means anything good. And while they are so nice to look at, they are ALL taken. Even when they’re single, they’re taken because their minds are like an overflowing baggage carousel at Not Over My Divorce Airlines. And honey those claims won’t be sorted out for another four to ten years.
But people cannot stay single for long. It is absofuckinglutely infuckingtolerable. It’s right up there with carcinoma. Whats that, you say? You’re not sexually or emotionally entangled with a human placeholder? Quick, grab some Tindersext for that deplorable sense of freedom eating away your gut. In fact, I should start a new charity, something like Relay For Misery. Everyone quick, PAIR THE FUCK UP, grab someone with a pulse and a rack /dick who acts nice to your kids (for now) and stuff him/her in all your empty holes on the double because your EX is watching on Facebook and you want to appear to be HAPPY and TOGETHER, don’t you? YOU’RE HAPPYANDTOGETHER and NOTALONE, RIGHT?
Because being alone would be terrible, for economic reasons. It’s smarter to be less miserable together, because two shitty incomes are certainly better than one. Don’t forget the Illusion of Family that you can lord over the church set, until you realize that he’s just not that into your kids, or his own, or you. But college sports? Those are fucking fascinating! Try a little harder to like them too. Get more sports related-bumper stickers for your truck and team jerseys for your tits and endear yourself to him and his friends. Then on your way to the store to get some cheese dip be sure and pick up a headstone so you can bury your hopes and dreams.
But there’s this thing, and this was my original point. It’s the antidote to settling for half-baked togetherness. It really is. It’s called a tub party. Tub Parties never cheat on you, tub parties don’t sniff out a sidefuck. Tub Parties don’t even have a phone!
See, you draw a bath, just a little hotter than you can stand it, and deep. You light candles. You get a jar of gooey salt scrub. Maybe a loofah strap that you can drag across your back, your thighs, between your toes, your buttcrack, wherever you wanna feel loved roughly, and just writhe in it, do floating yoga poses, do whatever the fuck you want. Have a glass of cold water nearby, and a pile of towels to dry your hands on so you can scroll through music on your phone, and set aside a whole fucking hour.
Then, when you’re done, you crawl into your warm bed with the cool sheets, where you have arranged all your favorite cocks: the elastomer prototypes, the hands-free ones, the bluetooth inflatables that have Robert Aguirre’s voice asking about your day. You make sure they are all charged and freshly batteried. And then, at last, you fuck yourself. You go to town girl. You give yourself that goddamn motherfucking happy ending that real life never could. You do that shit. You go.
I know it doesn’t sound as exciting as trying not to wonder why he doesn’t text you, or having your computer accost you with HOT SINGLES IN YOUR AREA. But it really really grows on you. It is highly sustainable. And it gets to a point where, not a lot can top Tub Party date night with yourself.
So, happy Schmalentine’s day, fuckers. May you all get some D in your V, and not a VD, and not from an exbf who DNGAF. Because trust me, there are some shea butter-scented rubber alternatives that really have much more promising ROI.
copyright © K. Dawn Goodwin 2016