A year ago today, I shared my last intimate experience with someone who had become my best friend. Its been 366 days since I had sex, since I last saw a live naked woman, since I had a meaningful kiss.
It would be a month of decreased text contact before I got the Dear John text; another month before I would see her again and six months more of intermittent contact commensurate with being friend-zoned before we got together again, had the conversation we should have had last summer. and I found out what had happened. The contrast between 46 months of being happy for the first time in my life and those eight months was, shall I say, stark.
When she told me, all the stress and turmoil suddenly went way. That's all it took. We're now at the point where I always figured we would be when the inevitable cessation of intimacy occurred (admittedly, being friend-zoned is a lot easier with her now 180 miles away), although getting here was much more painful than it needed to be. She could have handled it better; she admits that.
The odds of finding someone suitable (forget comparable) who can tolerate me in another allowance-based relationship are vanishingly small. So I've contemplated getting back into the hobby. I can continue to address the physical issues myself (being alone 40 hours a week makes that pretty easy, lol). But I can't replace the way she looked at me while I was inside her or looking up at her face from three feet below it; the smile that lit up the entire house when I would walk in; the diner breakfasts; the day-dates go-karting, indoor skydiving, shooting, museums, and others; the sharing of dreams and victories; the recoveries from setbacks; and, most of all, the knowledge that my presence was making someone's life better, not only financially, but academically and in other ways. I watched her grow; learn; set goals, achieving some, abandoning or adjusting others; develop as a person. And I was a part of that.
After you've been to Heaven, being back on Earth just can't compare.
With the changes I perceive as having occurred in the hobby in the last five years, even if I could find a suitable companion in the Western Wastelands, those things aren't part of the hobbyist's bargain. Sometimes I remember what it's like to experience the touch of someone else and yearn for that sensation again. Then I remember how many times I left an appointment with Peggy Lee singing "Is That All There Is?" running through my head and realize that the odds of the price/enjoyment ratio being greater than 1 are probably smaller now than they were then. Even before I left the hobby, it seemed to me as if the number of positive reviews (especially west of 360) was greatly exceeded by those whose general tenor was, at best, and even then infrequently, "met expectations."
The difference between someone who tolerates your presence and can't wait for the timer to hit 60 and someone who genuinely wants you to be there and doesn't want you to leave is huge.
Five years of testosterone depletion make the satisfaction of physical urges less urgent. But they are still there. I suppose I'll yield to the temptation sooner or later -- I believe there are still several places near the office with 40-year-old frumpy Chinese women who can provide stress relief, so there's always that, lol -- if only to do a live-fire equipment check.
I know I'll catch a lot of grief for posting this. Some people can't restrain the hate or their fingers. But I felt the urge to vent a little today, and I have no one to vent to, no other forum in which to do so. I hope some will take that into account before unleashing their vitriol.
And to those of you who say I just got used, abused, and thrown away, that it was entirely transactional for her: There's four years of detail that you don't have. You weren't there.