The last time I had sex. It was unremarkable, thus the end of that relationship. But it was quite a while ago. I’m sitting in my bedroom in the new (old) house and realize I’ve never “known” a man while living here — or in this new decade. I think it was warm out, or not. But I have such a good memory for random facts. I can remember phone numbers and birthdays of people in high school. I can remember and replay in my mind most of the hurtful things ever said to me. But I can’t remember that last time. Liz Taylor was still alive, of course, but so was . . . Michael Jackson. Oh my gosh, I’m not even sure who the President was at the time. Okay, that means it’s been too long.
You see, the last time was with someone with whom I had a lot in common but who turned out to be very, very wrong for me. I took a chance, ignored my instincts and it ended incredibly badly. I mean — got a letter from a lawyer, sent a letter from a lawyer, blocked telephone numbers and had entire family change Facebook settings — bad.
Is that why it’s been so long? I don’t know. I’m not afraid of getting hurt. He didn’t hurt me. I’m afraid of getting it wrong — again.
Still, I’m also a little afraid of a “use it or lose it” situation. hmmm What to do, what to do?
But in the meantime, I guess it’ll be Just Me With . . . well, just me.