Fuck, Marry, Kill, Sabotage

snapseed Thus far, we’ve had some giggles with a few atrocious dates, unfortunately I have a bank of them, there will be more tales of the damned. But there have been some really nice guys along the way. Some remarkable men. I’ve thought about this a lot today. I’ll tell you why. I’ve met a good man. He’s smart, kind, honest, and handsome. He’s a single dad – a good father. He likes me, I think. I like him. This is where it gets dicey for me. I have a long history of sabotaging myself when faced with emotionally available, good men. I’m changing this now. Part of doing that is looking at the past pattern – I hate repeating myself, but this, too, is a trilogy.


After my first husband left me for a woman he’d met on the internet (Angel Eyes, bitch, please), I was alone with three very young children – 5, 4, and 6 weeks old. For over three years, I did the best I could to be a single mother to my sons.  I was overwhelmingly busy, and excrutiatingly lonely. I didn’t talk to a man, I didn’t date – I was the superhero of celibacy. The czar of chastity. My sweet, dear friend, Jamie, talked me into going with her, her husband, and a group of their traveling friends to Las Vegas. I went, ready for a break, ready for some fun. I met Ken, he was part of the group. I had isolated myself for so long that it took me half the vacation to realize he was flirting with me. We would talk, and he would listen intently. We laughed a lot. It took me a minute, but I figured out that he was interested, and ditto.  The last night in Vegas, we went to the Voodoo Lounge. I drank a witchdoctor early on. It conjured me drunk. Drunk enough to return the witchdoctor to the Voodoo Lounge ladies’ room.

The before picture of The Witchdoctor

I was out for the count. Ken basically carried me through Vegas feeding me rice and water – for hours. His perseverance and carbs paid off. I came back to life at the black jack table, but before that it looked very much like a ‘Weekend at Bernie’s’. I lost some of his money at the table and we started heading back to the hotel. In the cab, he told me, looking straight into my eyes, he liked me. He wanted this to go somewhere. This was no fling. He kissed me. It was sublime. He lifted my shirt just a tad, and kissed my stomach. Three fucking years. This was a sip of water to a woman dying of thirst. About a little million deaths inside me. We got to the hotel. He kissed me, passionately. He told me he wouldn’t sleep with me until the next time he saw me, and he would see me a next time. My vagina wept as he left with my number. I should say now that Ken owned about 150 franchise restaurants, and had a private jet. He called two weeks after I got back to Texas. He was sending the jet to pick me up to meet him at the Final Four. I declined (again, bitch please). I had met who was to be my second husband the week before. I should have fucked Ken. Had he been the first, after the self-imposed celibacy, Ken would have imprinted on me, rather than a man who made me work far too hard for any of his love. I was scared of what Ken was offering. It was authentic and sincere, and I didn’t know what to do with it or how to feel like I deserved this precious thing. Fear is a prison.


Lee was fun. Tears in the eyes and belly laugh fun. Blade sharp wit. Smart. Wherever he went, a party followed. He would make me laugh so much my cheeks and stomach would burn. He lived in Houston and one night while bar hopping on Montrose, he took me to a place, sat down, and watched. These beautiful women would come up and pull on my hair – and there were only women there, very tall women. One woman walked up and asked me, “Are you real?” Is this an existential question? Am I? Lee laughed. It wasn’t until I went to the ladies’ room with glory holes that I figured it all out. Ohhhhhhhh. When I came out, Lee was lining up shots with the most gorgeous, finely dressed transvestites I’ve ever seen. Before or since. Like I said, a party followed him. People were drawn to his charm. I loved Lee like a best friend. And Lee was in love with me. We were completely platonic, but I knew Lee wanted more. He had asked me to marry him a dozen times, sincerely. I would say I didn’t want to mess up our friendship – a lame excuse, but I was young, and the truth was I wasn’t attracted to him. I equated lust, passion, desire, and sex with love. The fact that he made me happy and we had fun and were best friends was smothered by the simple fact that I didn’t want to jump his bones. Friend zoned the good guy – a tired old tale. We’ve all done it. One day, I was crying to him about a break up with a douche I dated for a little while. Lee told me he loved me. He asked me to marry him, again. He said, “I know you aren’t attracted to me (ouch), but you’ve never tried.” He told me he would love me forever and never hurt me. He said he wanted to spend his life with me. He whispered, “Try”, as he kissed me. And here’s the truth. I felt that kiss like a body slam, it was a very good kiss. Everything became so shatteringly real, so full of possibility, so much promise, and my sabotage switch, born of fear and self-doubt, flipped to nuclear within me. This is hard for me to think about now, harder still to write. But we’ve all agreed to be honest here. I felt Lee’s kisses down to my toes. His hands were on my body and it was electric. I completely shut down. I showed nothing. This good, good man was offering himself to me, heart, body, and soul, and I rejected him because I was so uncomfortable being loved honestly, without reservation. How fucked up is that? He moved on a few months later, who could blame him? I’ve never had more fun with a man in my life. I should have married him.


It all started when I murdered my high school boyfriend. I’m totally kidding. But I like the title, so I’m taking some creative license. This is just a quick tale of my killing another good relationship with my neuroses. I was engaged to a Scotsman at one time. Legit Scot, accent and everything – he called me Lass. This tale is so much like the ones before. I pulled him close and pushed him away like he was taffy. He asked me to marry him just to stop the roller coaster, I think. I’m completely responsible for the murder of that relationship, the poor Scot was collateral damage of my feeling unworthy. He was a good man, and I’m sorry for that.


I have a history of sabotaging the genuine, and embracing the more comfortable, for me, elusive. I’m not alone in this. I know some of you reading now have done the same. It’s a common theme with women. There is a reason ‘Twilight’ made hundreds of millions of dollars. An emotionally unavailable man who glitters – well, oh hell yeah.  I’ll work, sit back and watch, but only to those withholding. If your love is freely given, heartfelt – it kick-starts a flight or fight response in me that’s toxic. Fear is a prison. A counselor told me once that someone given two choices, one good, and one bad, some will choose the bad, simply because it’s a known entity. Familiarity is comfortable, the unknown, daunting. But that’s not the way it’s supposed to be. I know this. I’m ready to stop. It’s time to be loved like I love. I’ve said, out loud here, that I want a good man. I want to get comfortable with honest emotion. I’m working to find that balance of loving someone without losing myself in him, and accepting love offered without losing myself to my own fears. These are early days with the new man. But he’s a good one. He reads my blog, so I’m really showing my dick, so, memo to me- I must have this conversation with him soon. But here’s the thing, I’m ready. I’m all in. And I’m calling.

Go forth and conquer.