Here’s a hint that Heloise never gave you: Save time and money by using Scruff to find not merely afternoon sex, but a therapist, too. In this age of multitasking, why not maximize your time by releasing some emotional loads along with the physical? It’s not as if you’re there for love.
I concede that might be cynical, but my Facebook feed is filled with every shortcut how-to I never wanted to know about. This era seems gaga for efficiency, and every tool needs multi-functionality, so why aren’t men examining their tools for dual purposes? I already don’t eat the strawberries I bought on sale, so am I really the target audience for watching kitchen-gardening hacks? Scrolling for dick and psychoanalytic talking cures, however, are right in my wheelhouse.
I’m coming to realize that, as my age has risen and my neuroses have hardened, my personal tastes have morphed from looking for who is available to fuck right now to who is emotionally available to tell me that I am not completely insane and then fuck. If you can recommend a pertinent Ted Talk upon orgasm, I favorite you afterward.
I came to therapy late in life and fell in love with analysis. I have an unerring desire to please doctors, and I have always found myself eager to overshare the minutia cluttering my perspective. There is an ersatz sexual release in opening up to a calm listener. I found myself leaving sessions spent and gasping for breath, my mind wiped and numb, and the overall calm was long-lasting and tingly, because there’s no better load to shoot then a mental one. Naturally, this escalated to include major life changes, and I had a very caring, supportive therapist to monitor the personal upheaval. Subsequently, that upheaval also affected my ability to pay said therapist, and he was downsized right along with my yoga classes. That was fine for a couple of months: I rode a euphoria brought on by taking my life back, doing things my way, and making new connections with beautiful new people.
But cognitive dissidence is a fickle bitch, and I found I have some issues that I need major work on. You’d think that living in a polyamorous arrangement would mean always having someone to talk to, but the perspective is too skewed — and frankly, they can get sick of my bullshit pretty quickly.
Never more so than when that bullshit is my jealousy, as it turns out. Last week, I pissed off both my lovers by pouting over some side action they were getting. As a boy who has never met a double standard he didn’t jump on, I found it hard to reconcile that I take full advantage of our open relationship yet feel the need to monitor theirs.
“Stop freaking out! Sex is like exercise to me. I do it when I am bored,” one partner told me. I wish I could accept that for the transparent answer it was, but I found myself wallowing in pity instead.
The ruminating ended abruptly when Scruff pinged on my phone. I had met this particular suitor at a party a few weeks earlier. He was a dom, and I had flirted with the idea of him putting me to the test. He was available, I needed an escape, and a quick douche later I was en route to his place. Why flog yourself when you can have it done for you?
He greeted me with a comforting hug and took me into his room. As I entered, I found myself shaking. Low-level anxiety hummed through me, and after the spat at home, I realized I was grateful to be in the presence of a neutral party. I stripped, fighting back nausea. He asked me how my day was, and the dam broke. I talked about everything: the fight, my jealousy, my love for my partners, my fears for the future, my regrets of the past, and how I knew this wasn’t what he wanted me here for. He listened without response, then gently bent me over and started to whip me with a riding crop.
I’ll be honest. I didn’t know if I was actually up for sadism, but I sure as hell was up for a cry. As I closed my eyes and grit my teeth, I flashed back to times in my life where I harmed relationships by holding people to standards that I would have rejected for myself. The tears came easily and they came hard. After half an hour, he quietly held me and let my mind quiet down. Was there a breakthrough? Maybe not, but I was eager to apologize to the boys at home, and I would like to think Carl Rogers would have approved.