I was having a fantasy about my friend. He’s a white guy elsewhere who seems emotionally unavailable, but gives sudden lightning strikes of kindness, appreciation, adoration.
He disappears and seems to forget about me. Then praises me in a way that makes me feel faint. I tremble. The unexpected thrill feels amazing. I want his approval, and I think about being healed by his brute sexual force.
It’s confusing–I like him too much. It’s easy for me to get swept up into a fantasy about him. I barely know him.
Mostly I was imagining telling this friend–hey, I have this problem. I keep trying to get emotionally unavailable white guys to love me. It never works, because emotionally unavailable white guys are not able to even see me, let alone love me.
So please, friend. Let me come over–fuck the shit out of me. While your dick is inside of me, tell me I’m good, and you approve of me. Heal me with your body and words–heal the whole messed up thing.
My dad has been dead for four and half years. I don’t know how to get my self-worth out of his hands, his hands which are actually now long-scattered ashes that fell into some cold water off a pier in my homeland.
I don’t seem to be able to heal myself. My spouse can’t do it–he’s not a white guy, and he’s way too kind. You are the right demographics and amount of intelligent, but harmfully random. So, whatdayasay?
I was imagining showing up at my friend’s door, in another state, and the force of his violence coming through his body into me, sexually. He could hurt me in any way he wanted. He could fuck me like he was trying to kill something. That would be ok. Just let me free of this life-crushing dad trauma bullshit!
I was in bed, masturbating, imagining this scenario. My emotionally unavailable friend I barely know, his soft white hair. He grayed early.
Thinking about this guy, showing up at his house, him opening the door and letting me inside. We would hug. I would touch his soft white hair.
That’s when I started crying. I thought I wanted to be acted upon, for the dad-representative to say the right words with the right attention, and his acting could fix my long-pulverized heart.
But when I touched his hair, in my masturbation fantasy–I realized that I want to love him. Being the object is what I wanted, but the surprise is that I want to be the subject also.
I’ve spent most of my life trying to get unavailable white men to heal me of my dad trauma by loving and fucking me. I didn’t realize I wanted to love my dad by touching these men. Closing my eyes, opening my heart, and being who I actually am, my naked self. Letting love flow from my heart to the dad / pretend dad.
Take this tenderness and send it to the dead one you’re representing. Hmm, no wonder I was crying. I had to stop rubbing my cunt and wipe my eyes.
I don’t know how sex got mixed in with it. The powerful dramas played out in the only way I know that’s life-rending enough. The violence of my dad, only represent-able by the intensity of sexual need and force.
The friend is married. I don’t know if he’s the kind of married where I’m allowed to flirt with him. Or arrange to enact weird pretend-incestuous emotional validation through harsh sex. Or even share this blog post with him. I don’t want to de-stablize him, myself, or anyone.
Yeah, it’s the kind of feeling that doesn’t make sense and has way too much badness mixed in with it. I know what love is. This validation desire is not love. It’s sick. I know what a crush feels like, and kindness. This is not happy. It’s a yuck need to be beaten, violated, and left half-dead in an alley. It’s wrong.
I wish something unexpected could happen. The emotionally unavailable friend would help me with this intense work, and then magically turn nice. We could be friends somehow, have phone sex sometimes with the blessing of our spouses, and share a sacred bond from a far ways away.
I hear myself say that and it sounds like a My Little Pony, impossibly silly, laughable dream. Sorry about that. My body wants these things, and I don’t know how to tell her to stop.
When I talked online with the emotionally unavailable friend today, he probably didn’t know I was crying. I checked in, to see if he wanted the silence we were having. I’d sent him mail to his po box and wondered if he’d received it.
I was crying because my body was filled with desire–for him, family, love, safety, to be understood and known.
The huge intense water of emotion was being eked out like a dribble. “Hi, I’m pretending this doesn’t mean everything to me. I am casually asking you a question that means not that much to me. Yeah, your answer is not that important. I am the most appropriate person in the world.”
Desire for my dad. Maybe it’s about forgiveness. Can you lose what you never had?