Diary of a Darklady: Dating, Booty Calls, and the Beauty of Masturbation

Diary of a Darklady
Dating, Booty Calls, and the Beauty of Masturbation

I need a booty call. But I’m not sure how to go about it. Not because I don’t know that nearly any reasonably good looking woman can go to nearly any bar and find at least one man willing to be her cock in shining latex for the evening. Not because I don’t have an Inbox and a Palm Pilot full of names, numbers, and email addresses belonging to men and women who’d happily satisfy just about any carnal itch that I could articulate a need to have scratched. Not because I haven’t had an assortment of awkward dates with perfectly nice but wholly inappropriate men who eagerly offered me their sexual services. And not because I don’t know that if push came to shove, I could pay for a nice, anonymous encounter with a professional who’d do pretty much anything I’d pay him or her to do.

No, my dilemma exists because my heart keeps getting in the way.

Things seemed so simple back in January, when I learned that I needed to go in for surgery. It was just going to be a quick in-by-lunch/out-by dinner procedure to remove an ovarian cyst that had gone bad. It wasn’t until they’d poked me full of little holes that they learned precisely how bad it had gone. It had gone biker with a homemade tattoo across its forehead bad. In fact, it had long ago stopped being a cyst and had become an impressively proportioned endometrioma with a complex vascular system. Suddenly my discreet laparoscopic scars were traded in for a bold Caesarian slice from the bottom of my navel to the top of my pubes. As I told my surgeon when I regained consciousness and learned the news, “There goes my porn career.”

I’ve got other scars that are as long or longer scattered throughout the surface of my body, so I’m not too traumatized about this latest one, although I do look forward to the day when it fills out. Currently my tummy, which isn’t the flattest on the planet, has a strange crease running down its center. I find it a little disconcerting and admit it’s not something I’m in a rush to share with brand new lovers. Alas, things between me and my previous and quite accomplished lover are a bit complex right now, making him a less than ideal candidate for the aforementioned booty call, although I came seriously close to requesting his services recently. Thank goodness for the healing powers of the Hitachi Magic Wand that I won during a Good Vibrations’ (http://www.goodvibes.com) anniversary party a few years back. In spite of hosting multiple Masturbate-a-thons (http://www.masturbate-a-thon.org) I’ve never been a very accomplished masturbator, but sometimes it’s worth the effort and makes more sense than the alternatives. I wouldn’t win any awards for style or technique, but once I placed the vibrator back in its storage place, my previously complaining genitals were much happier and I was able to think more clearly.

It’s possible that the sudden urge for a booty call is partly in response to my newly installed Marina IUD. Unlike some other IUDs, the Marina releases hormones directly into the uterus, thus lowering the risks of side effects that sometimes accompany birth control pills, which release hormones into the general blood stream. Since the cure to my previously undiagnosed endometriosis is pregnancy or menopause, the IUD will trick my body into thinking it is pregnant, thus denying the endometriosis an environment that would promote its development. I had my tubes tied years ago and have always had something of a prejudice against IUDs, so there’s a psychological change involved in going through what was, for me, a fairly uncomfortable installation process as well as adjusting to the idea that there’s something inside of me.

But the scar, its accompanying crease, and my new IUD aren’t the only things complicating my ability to feel comfortable procuring booty call assistance. Not even the fresh bruises on my heart from the abrupt and rather tragic end of my recent relationship fully explain my reticence. To be honest, after three months of celibacy inspired by the fear of unspeakable pain, major surgery, recovery from major surgery, and dealing with the fairly catastrophic household, romantic, and financial upheavals that awaited me upon my return home, I’m not sure how my body or my emotions will react when it comes time to frolic once again upon the carnal shores of shared physical intimacy. I feel like a nervous virgin selecting the first man I’ll part my trembling thighs for. Given that I have more than two decades of sexual experience, that’s a surreal landscape to find myself inhabiting. Yet there I am.

There’s a strangely and, in my case, most decidedly secular-spiritual feeling of being “born again” after having left the hospital and entered a world so unlike the one I lived in before my surgery. Although I still rent the same large and lovely old house, I do so alone now and with three times the household debt load. I still have the same work, and except for the now-ex roommate, I still have the same friends. But everything else has changed. I’m interviewing prospective clients, prospective roommates, prospective consorts, and, in my own way, prospective booty calls. In order to make wise choices, I have to reassess and reevaluate who I am and what I want, and that means getting in touch with both my fears and my dreams. What kind of work do I want to do? What kind of sacrifices am I willing to make along the way? What kind of household environment do I want? What kind of partners will make the best companions? What kind of interim paramours will be most likely to weather the choppy waters that I tend to paddle? The answers to these and the many other questions related to my new life require a clear head and a steady heart, which means more thought, more reflection, more dates, more time – and a lot more masturbation.

Who knows? By the time I finally figure out what I want to be when I grow up and find someone who isn’t afraid of the high weirdness of my life, I may be an expert masturbator, as well as insufferably enlightened. If nothing else, I’ll burn out a few motors, go through a lot of batteries, and have a fat Little Black Book to share with my friends when they are in need of a booty call.

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