They’re just not that into me

There is something wrong with me, I am now sure of it. If I cared about sports, my stats would show a plummeting batting average, striking out more often than not or being run out at first. My dating life has passed the comical let’s regale my friends with funny stories stage and instead is just pathetic. My choices seem to be getting worse instead of better. Despite every possible caution, I still end up being duped by some guy who just wants a fuck. I am utterly blind to their deception until it’s too late. Or so I thought.

I have come to the humbling and sad realisation that it is just me. Men want to meet me. They want to fuck me. What they don’t want is to stick around for dates two or three. What they don’t want is to text me after the fucking is done or hang out with me after they’ve cum twice.

I am great on paper. Great on the phone. Great in bed (perhaps not, but I think this blog supports that I’m at least pretty good). But I am not great as a prospective friend, hang, partner, or girlfriend. Men just do not want me after the fun has been had.

Is it something I say? Something I do? Is it the sight of my arse in the morning light? The smudged mascara under my eyes that you didn’t give me a chance to wash off the night before?

I could drive myself crazy trying to work out what it is that is wrong about me but of course, it will achieve nothing. But that there is something wrong seems pretty conclusive at this point.

I am exhausted, completely and utterly spent. And frustrated. Not sexually, although obviously during lockdown I was. But frustrated because this seems the one part of my life I can’t get to work.

My job couldn’t be going better. I just received another significant pay rise – unexpected, out of the blue, my second this year – because my bosses are amazing and they in turn love me. I’m looking to sell my house and buy a new place, closer to the beach. Yes, great time to sell, shit time to buy, I know, I know. But, I have more financial freedom now than I have had in my entire working life, earning more than even in my highest management position without the burden of supervising a team. My dog is great. I am exercising every day, fitter than I’ve been in years. Things are good.

But. That fucked up shitty little “but” is dragging my emotional space into new lows. I am crumbling into bed at 7pm alone, the silence of my life echoing back at me from the walls of my bedroom. But why now?

This year has been spent cutting ties with men who think they can slide into my DMs after three years with a “hey there”, men who lied to me after pretending to be my best friend, men who make me feel bad about myself, men who need to grow up, men who can’t communicate, men who ghost, men who don’t believe COVID is real or question vaccination based on a YouTube video.

There was a lot of toxicity in those messages, those Snaps, those phone calls. They had to go. But it means the distractive placeholder they had in my life is now empty. The placeholder is now a void and that void is black and silent.

We’re out of lockdown now and things should be getting back to the new normal but in many ways, I feel more alone now than before.

I need a fresh start, a new beginning. I need out of this house bought on impulse and which I never liked. I always knew this was not my forever home. Perhaps I’ve inadvertently absorbed an air of the temporary and like a cheap motel room, I’m easy to leave.

Oh yeah, and I deleted my last post. He wasn’t worth the trouble of writing about it turned out.

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