Monday, February 20, 2012

Toilet humor ...

First job of the day? Investigate the smell of "flower-scented death" in one of the bathrooms downstairs. I am only grateful I was not the one to have to scrub the tagging off the toilet paper dispenser in the men's room. The staff outside my office asked for Glade plug-ins, because the men's room - upstairs - smells like urine, and the ladies' room smells like G-d only knows what.

And speaking of going down the drain, my love life took a nose-dive this weekend, which - all things considered - is really saying something.

I suppose it could be that the Frenemy and I got together for the annual audit - the yearly tradition during which he plies me with alcohol while I go through a printed out (in color, with pictures) journal of his previous year's sexual exploits. It is typically a grand tour of all the men from various websites (e.g. Craig's List, adam4adam, Grindr, etc.) that turned me down and happily hooked up with that fat, aging whore.

It is that typically; however, this year was a bit different. I am no longer on those sites (having turned my tastes toward bisexuals with mental disorders and/or looking for love on and Compatible Partners), so I didn't find myself drawing comparisons, and coming up short. This year's journal - though fraught with fornicatin' and bamboozlery - read like a twisted Twilight, a sad exploration of codependence, abuse, and desperation. And those were the good parts.

I would say that I found myself wanting more - but more would have only been more of the same, and - frankly - after the second bottle of wine, I have very little recollection of wanting anything at all, other than sleep.

And so it was that I awoke, hours later, and - after a conversation with Ova the Top re. getting peed on in the dark back-room of a New Orleans gay bar (he's into that sort of thing), I texted the guy with PTSD - who is only bi when drunk or high. Thankfully, he was drunk - so, he rushed right over.

We wound up cuddling in my bed, and though the chemistry was great - none of that awkwardness about where to put arms, legs, or what to do with that erection when you're spooning with a straight guy - it did leave me wanting more, both an orgasm, and a partner who is not too straight to give me one.

But those are the breaks when dealing with bisexuals.

And maybe that's the place from which came the dream. I woke up crying Saturday morning, having spent Friday night sleeping fitfully and suffering through a dream in which I cashed in my 401(k), had a sex change, and went to Planet Fitness for a Body Pump class - all in the span of hours. One of my more hateful acquaintances wisely suggested that I was crying because I went to the gym ... but, all kidding aside, the feeling of worthlessness lingered with me all weekend.

It felt as though every choice I made for the past 15 years - since I stopped living as a woman, and including the cosmetic surgery 7 years ago - was the wrong choice. Jail, rehab, et al. notwithstanding, I don't believe that, but it seems my subconscious does.

Dreams allow us to work through, if only in obscure and occasionally deeply disturbing ways, the things we do not take the time or have the perspective to analyze in our waking worlds. So, that dream was, pardon the pun, a wake-up call.

Meanwhile, it's another day at a job that poses challenges and opportunities for growth every single day ... the toilet in the break-room is broken, and someone clogged a drain downstairs.