Post-script

I guess it's true what they say. Right when you stop looking for love -- or at least the beginnings of a relationship -- it finds you.

I'm now happy to say that one of the three guys mentioned in my last post is boyfriend, and has been for the past two or three weeks. It's the first healthy relationship of my life, and I look forward to seeing where it goes.

And last but not least, I'm no longer a virgin. Hallelujah.

* Signs that you are in a healthy relationship.

Whether or not to become a Kept Woman

Last night on OkCupid I got propositioned by an attractive 32-year-old man to be a "kept woman." It took me a few hours to realize that this was what he was after. One of his first questions was whether or not I had anything against dating an Arab, and since he's my age and working in the next town over, I assured him that the person was more important than the nationality. And it's true. I have nothing against Arab men whatsoever. But throughout our conversation he made it clear that to date an Arab meant I was to do certain things for him and to get certain things in return. Whether or not this is true for the entire Arab population in America is highly suspect, but for him, at least as a new resident, falling in love is not part of his equation.

Some women would have no problem with his proposition, and I'm sure he won't be hard pressed to find a woman who is flattered that he wants to buy her sexy clothes of his choosing, sexy underwear to wear for him, take her on extravagant outings, pay her expenses, have her move in almost immediately, get married in a matter of months, and settle it all even before the first meeting. I've seen enough Real Housewives episodes and seen enough celebrity couples to know that these kinds of deals are often made. Donald Trump said something to the affect of: "No, I don't mind that my wife married me for my money. I married her for her looks."

But for most of us, we see love and marriage not as a bartering exchange but as something that happens organically. In our world, a date is made because of a mutual connection. A second date is made because that connection was deepened. Physical intimacy and economic compatibility are important, yes, but cannot be the basis of our relationships and cannot be the only ingredient in whether or not they are a success. I suppose if a man wanted to marry a woman simply to "keep" her as a commodity, falling out of love would not be an issue because falling in love would a nice side benefit to an already done deal.

I can't help but think of Carrie Bradshaw and Aleksandr Petrovsky of Sex and the City. "The Russian" showered here with clothes, fancy accommodations, and treated her like a princess. While I'm disturbed that the writers had Carrie refer to her boyfriend by his nationality instead of his name, and had the character himself fill a cultural stereotype, in the end Carrie needed a man who saw her as an equal, not a trophy: "I'm looking for love. Real love. Ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can't-live-without-each-other love. And I don't think that love is here in this expensive suite in this lovely hotel in Paris." I'd rather keep living off food stamps than giving my body away for material security. A true artist finds her own success and wears whatever she damn well pleases.

Taken

Last Saturday night I went with my roommate to her work's annual Officer Ball. She herself almost had a date to it, but figured 6 dates (with no intimate contact yet) was a little short of being able to ask someone to what is basically a grown up prom filled with her nosy coworkers. So lucky for me, I got to dress up, look hot, and feel important.

My roommate had already warned me that most of the cops were married, and those that weren't liked to troll for pleasure. Well, even some of the married ones. No one really caught my eye except for a 40-something cop of some sort who read the nominations to something comparable to the Darwin Awards. Wow, I thought as his short, balding self with some unspeakably strong sexuality read for what seemed like a half hour of heaven. He became out of view as soon as he sat down, but when the ceremony was over I immediately glanced in his direction to see if his ringless hand was otherwise engaged. Turns out, it was.

Not only did the short, bald, 40-something have a date, but the date was a tall gazelle-like 20 or 30-something creature dressed in Victoria's Secret's slutty-chic finest, complete with those boots that go over the knee. I kept them in sight as the night went on, and was a bit morose to discover that the gazelle moved just like one on the dance floor and that the guy had his body all over her like he wanted to have sex with her at that very moment -- which I'm sure he had done countless times before. Suddenly flats-wearing me seemed highly inadequate for such a man. Especially because I am still a virgin.

I haven't mentioned this last part in awhile, largely because it is embarrassing, and largely because I rarely have gotten to a point in a relationship lately where it matters. Since having my surgery to fix the vulvar vestibulitis I have gone to bed with one man, my upstairs neighbor O. Trying to be the good girl -- while also trying to mask my complete apprehension -- I played hard to get and wouldn't let him go all the way. But the fact that my body did tense up even though I don't have pain in that area anymore, did make me question my ability to sleep with someone without letting them know of my virgin status. As a 34-year-old divorcee, no one expects that I am so sexually inexperienced. Sure, I've done lots of other things, but when it comes to anything getting close to that particular area, I become a 13-year-old in the back of her boyfriend's car wondering if "it will hurt." Or rather I become my 19-year-old self "knowing" that it will hurt, just like it did back then.

Part of the reason I wear flats is because with my movement disorder I can't walk in heels. Part of it is because I just prefer the comfort. And I'm sure another part of it is that my go to style is cute rather than sexy. I have a huge butt and huge boobs and I like flaunting both. I even wore black fishnet stockings with my dress to the ball. But the black flats with little fake pink pearls on them and little tiny satin bows represents the virginal side of me -- the side I desperately want taken away but also don't know quite how to rid myself of.

Naturally this has been something I've discussed in detail with my sister and close friends. In my mind, I can't sleep with a guy without letting him know of my virginal past, or else he will try to ravage me without knowing that I am still a delicate flower that needs to be opened slowly. But now I'm wondering if this good girl act is really doing me a disservice, especially in regards to the type of men I find attractive. While I don't believe that sex can be used as a tool to reel someone in, I'm learning that perhaps I should let go of the antiquated notion that I have a proverbial key around my neck that needs to be protected and given to the man of my dreams at just the right moment. Advice I have gotten lately is rather to live in the moment, and while I have no regrets about not sleeping with O, especially because he lives right above me, this advice might be just what I need in getting through my divirginization. "Instructional aids" are soon coming to my doorstep, hopefully replacing the need to go into any kind of backstory while in the heat of passion with my next lover, making it more likely that he will actually become one, whoever he is. Then I may still not show up to a ball like a gazelle in Victoria's Secret's finest with heeled over-the-knee boots on my feet. But if I ever do get that short, balding 40-something-year-old in bed -- or on the dance floor -- I'll know how to take him like he's a true victim of prey.

Get your own pair of gazelle boots here.

Let's start from the beginning

Fibromyalgia really has no beginning. It comes on you gradually and threatens to take over your life just like a boiling pot of water does to a frog. It first appears solely in terms of its side effects -- IBS, TMJ, PMDD. You start to feel like you are crying out for help. Mostly because you are in fact crying. But then one day you find yourself in bed hit with the un-flu, unable to sit upright or walk more than a few steps for two weeks. Three years later you get a diagnosis and are put on medication. Finally your cry for help is validated and treated as a real illness. Now the fun part comes: finding love.

My symptoms came on when I was still married. They exacerbated an already loveless marriage that fell apart as unromantically as it was put together. Much of it was my fault. No one expects their new wife to suddenly suffer from then-inexplicable wrist pain (later diagnosed as a repetitive strain injury), the inability to digest much of anything (later diagnosed with gluten sensitivity and the need for digestive enzymes), and, worst of all, the inability to have sex. That latter one, diagnosed ten years later as vulvar vestibulitis, kept me from having sex with anyone, ever. Now as a 33-year-old with two surgeries to correct the problem, I actually have a chance at keeping whatever love I find.

This blog will document my search for a suitable companion who will find me an ideal match despite my inability to drive due to motor issues, my need for twelve hours of sleep a night, and with the knowledge that my flareups can come on any time without warning and last just as long as they feel like it. I've almost graduated with my master's degree, my next online teaching assignment is a successful interview away, and I have a wonderful life filled with wonderful friends and family. I'm finally at a place in my life where I can accept someone into it as an almost completely independent adult at the ripe young age of 33. Welcome to my journey.