My NEWFOUND Vow of Celibacy

It Ain't Easy Taking an iPhone Photo on an Angle While Still Ill

"That's it, Maura. You're never allowed to date ever again," yelled my close friend, Laslo. I was flat on my back from the flu, trying to understand what he said on the phone. Between my neurological deafness, his thick Hungarian/Swedish accent and fractured English plus my feverish hallucinatory state of mind, the entire conversation felt surreal.

He sighed. "You're a really poor judge of men." Laslo has known me for over a decade and party to some of my hijinks and several of my successes. I commanded his respect until now.

"No, I'm a great judge of character." That's quite true. I continued, choking and wheezing from the flu, "However, I'm myopic when it concerns men upfront close and personal." Ever since I became a published author, the caliber of men in my life plummeted to new depths. Before I met the last ex-boyfriend, I scratched the bottom of the barrel. I found him when I picked the barrel up to see what crawled underneath.

Laslo ignored my statement. "I couldn't finish the first video," he admitted. "It was too poorly made, too stupid, too gauche." He referred to a free online video of my ex-boyfriend and his wife where she performed sophomoric torture on his genitals while he was tied, gagged and bound to a machine. "What the fuck's wrong with these people? To start this shit while middle-aged?"

I cleared my throat. "Actually, in their thirties."

"With those bad bodies? Whoa... Even so, something's wrong with them to start filming porn at an older age. Sick. How fucked up!"

I take what he has to say to heart as he's a voice of reason. Laslo's a worldly man and quite liberal despite how he perceives himself. When the man says, "fucked up," it's quite fucked up. It's good to reality check with him as lately my reality needs to be checked.

"Tell me," I said. "I'm still coming to terms with the whole thing." I don't know how I did it, but managed to see almost every porn movie for free that my ex-boyfriend was in. Despite a highly touted and effective method to kill whatever positive emotions one may harbor, it killed my libido for perpetuity.

Yes, dear Reader, for the past few weeks you've read my different takes on a romance gone sour. It's definitely not the romance, it's the companion part I miss. These guys will never qualify as 'friends' because they never fulfilled the simplest tenet of friendship: having my back. Backstabbing me quantifies as their #1 priority in life, especially the last boyfriend who really had it in for me. Which is why I wish him testicular cancer, among other things.

In hindsight, almost all my 'relationships' begin as good on-going casual conversations and then catapult to what they should never have been - romantic and sexual.

These guys possess a weird concept of what's romantic. Most of the time, I either scratched my head in puzzlement or raged like a wounded buffalo due to their intentional slights. Although, in whatever galaxy they're from, they may be the most romantic single-celled ectoplasmic three-dimensional organisms in town.

Truth be told, the sexual aspect... I'm trying my hardest to be diplomatic... Let's say the WORST sex I ever had was with 'boyfriends' and the BEST sex I ever had was with my lovers. No fucking way that twain shall ever meet.

My 'getting over the boyfriend' blues boils down to missing close personal interactions on a daily basis under the guise of care and concern. For that, I should get a dog - at least the animal would express true love and compassion unlike the boyfriend.

Meanwhile, I managed to get out of bed after nearly a week downed with this strange flu that had me gacking, coughing, wheezing and choking nonstop 24/7, delirious, feverish, chilled and weak. I rarely get ill and whatever this bug was, it knocked me out. So much so, I didn't extol the beauty of my brand new tattoo (paid for by my ex-boyfriend no doubt to bribe me from blogging about him) which I got while coming down with day one of the flu. Cookie, my tattoo artist from Pop's Tattoo Emporium in Kingston, New York, created a sprig of cherry blossoms to wind up my right arm, up the bicep to the top of the shoulder. (See above photo.) It's stunning and Laslo agreed the best of all my tats.

Yesterday, I struggled into my clothes and went into town. It's no secret in my small village I'm a free agent again. The local gossips burnt up the phone wires two weeks ago for, in nanoseconds, the FedEx guy came to my door. That was a nice last dance for I ended it with him as well.

Now, ill, I look as yummy as roadkill. Yet, that doesn't deter the new residents. At the local cafe, the first time in a week, these men on the prowl turned to me, a pretty middle-aged novelist, like the frigging undead. Incidentally, there're always new residents in town for I live in a summer resort where tourists fall in love with the rustic beauty and quaintness of us locals. Little do they know that 99% of us locals are former NYC residents. HOWEVER, for a remote and isolated location, there's quite a social life going on with suitable fuckable men.

Nevertheless, I'm NOT interested.

This is the special blessing the last boyfriend gave that no one else ever did: a sense of finality. It may've taken 40 years to recognize that I sought the Holy Grail of my life, namely love. Fear no more, I'm done. All it took was bestowing love and respect onto a man who was a video bondage sex slave, wearing pleather face masks, ball bearings in the mouth, on a leash for 17 years and tortured by a morbidly obese, fanged, pleather-wearing granny pantied poor excuse of a Dominatrix for me to wake up and smell the roses.

There's no more of how low can I go. I went the full distance.

I implored Laslo and my other friends to club me to death should I weaken in a moment of loneliness or horniness to even contemplate consorting with any man ever again. They didn't have to agree so readily.

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