It’s roughly June…maybe July 2012. I am in my mother’s room on the phone with J, with whom I’d just broken up…but it was during that sensitive and cruelly chaotic confused period of vacillation that has often in the past occurred after I break up with women I care for deeply: I break up with them, then call them back missing them with desire to return to where and who we had been…
But it’s a Closer-style conversation. I’m asking her to share in vivid detail what kinds of awesome sex she has been having while I’ve just been alone. I’m making myself wrong for this AND for what’s been happening with her: The same woman who desperately missed me in her new bed, a few days after we broke up, so much so that I had a dream where she and I kissed that same night (or so I’d later learn)…was being touched and kissed and fondled and…fucked.
That’s what happened. The story that I made up was that: “There’s something wrong with me because I’m not having such satisfying sex. Something terribly wrong. I’m not good enough.”
This incident was the place wherein Casanova was formulated…and it was the creation of a strong suit.
I lived for years within that. Late 2012, Advanced Course was consumed by that. Then SELP: this blog was the result, there.
And now, ILP. I finally distinguished the inauthenticity.
I don’t need love or sex in order to be OK with myself and who I am…I am whole, perfect, and complete. There’s nothing to figure out.