So I made it until about 9:15 last night, doing reasonably well, but, at that point, I started to get restless—I’d already had two ginger ales, so a third wasn’t going to do much. So I decided I needed to take a hot shower—and reconsider whether I was going to try and watch more TV or not. So I washed up with soap and water and a rag at the sink, to get a better idea of what that was like, and then I took a hot shower, and I felt a little better—it was past 9:30, then, and, I didn’t think I had any more TV or soda pop in me, so I thought I would use my showered state to help me read—to see if I could read a little. I would have like to read longer—and I was restless while reading, but I made it for about 20 minutes, or about ten pages, and then it was about 10:00, so I made it, and I turned out the lights, and did not sleep great, but slept better than I did the night before. Got my clock around 6:30 or 7:00, listened to it and gathered my thoughts until about 7:30, and got up, so, all in all, last night went much better than the night before—and I just figured—maybe I just can’t stand to watch more than about two episodes of a show after dinner, up until around 9:15, and then I need to shower and practice getting used to reading again—maybe I can train myself to read for a longer period of time, and really enjoy it. So my plan was to try that, tonight. About two shows, shower, and read until about ten, and hopefully longer, if I can relax enough.
So I think it helped, to say to myself, this is more about my relationship with Jesus than it is about my sexuality—to stop overthinking my sexuality and whether or not people accept me and whether or not it bothers me if they don’t, to ask myself, really, do I, and did I ever, give a fuck? I might have been angry for a while, knowing that a huge number of women would have nothing to do with a man that was attracted to men—angry that I was forced to go without a woman, and that I probably would be forced to go without a woman, indefinitely, but being angry about that is different from hating myself for being attracted to gay sex. I’m not sure that I ever hated myself for being attracted to gay sex—I think, on the contrary, I hated my fucking situation, and the probability that I would never find a woman I was compatible with, a woman that was both bi and a good person—a nice looking woman that I could really connect with.
If I’m accepting something, at this point, something that I’m wrestling with, I think it’s more to do with the idea that a little pornography and a lot of imagination is as good as it will ever get for me—i.e., I’m 48, the walls are closing in, and the future, pretty much, looks increasingly settled, increasing like this—the way I’m living, right now. That kind of sucks, but if my relationship with Jesus is good, it doesn’t have to—Jesus can take the place of everything that I’m missing—that’s what He does. That’s the nature of being a Christian—He makes you whole. Now, can you be whole, if you’re not a Christian? I think, if we’re really honest with ourselves, even if we have a partner, we’re always missing something, whether it’s to do with work, friends, or family, or what, and we do whatever we can to fill that in. Christianity is the path I choose—since, as it happens, every other path looks worse, to me. Maybe some people can be an atheist, or choose not to commit one way or the other, and find peace—I guess some people can. Well, I kind of take that back—I honestly think that, if something is missing from your life, and it always is, you either need to tune that out, or you need to believe that, at some point, you get what you want, i.e., if not in this life, then in an afterlife. If you can tune that out, in a healthy, constructive way, a way that builds upon what you do have, then maybe you don’t notice what you’re missing so much, and you’re at peace, but, I think, deep down, you’re always thinking . . . if only this, and if only that . . . until your dream would be realized.
Well, I felt a little better—it seemed that four and a half hours of TV a day, for me, might be as much I as I can really expect, out of me—more than that, when it comes to other people, seemed a little unlikely. I don’t know about retired people—if they’re not active in retiree organizations and book clubs, etc., I don’t know what else they have to do, but, somehow, I think people manage without watching TV nonstop. They find things to do. And, besides, if I didn’t have this neck injury, I might be watching about an hour and a half less of TV than I am, anyhow. Once my parents passed away, and I was living on my own, without taking up an hour for dinner and family time, that would be an additional hour to occupy—but, I figured, by then, well, for one thing, I wouldn’t have a neck injury, and, for another, I might find something else to do, I don’t know what, but it’s possible, and, finally, I might have a better relationship with Jesus, and, as such, find myself entertained by an additional hour of TV, as if I was spending time, that way, with someone I love. If you’re with someone you love, time flies, so, I thought, once I have a better relationship with Jesus, He will assume that role, and time, then, will pass more easily.
But with all this shit going on with me—the walls closing in, realizing that my life, from here on out, probably wasn’t going to change that much, that I was settling into a routine that would define the rest of my existence—I’d hardly spoken to my Ursula. Now, I kept her on the line—so all of this, no matter what I was talking about, was inspired by, and included her in, the conversation—but I figured I should listen for her voice, and see what, if anything, she has to say . . . now that you’re watching pornography, I’m pretty enough; it was funny that she said that, because, generally speaking, you’d think that a woman wouldn’t want you watching pornography because she could never live up to the woman in the video; but, when it comes to free porn, and even porn that you’d have to pay for, it becomes increasingly obvious that porn actresses are imperfect, too—that your idea of pornography, and the women that are in it, is a fantasy that gets replaced by imperfections when you engage the real thing. This isn’t heaven, so there’s always something wrong with someone, but, when it comes to porn, and the people we settle with, with or without getting let down, one way or the other, sex is sex, they’re good enough to turn you on, and, ultimately, that makes you realize that you can get there without perfection, and, suddenly, real people, that have clothes on, look increasingly viable.
It doesn’t matter—and it doesn’t bother me—I’m pretty enough to engage the right person, and, once you love me, you will see, then, the person that I will become, in heaven. And that was pretty much how my philosophy worked out. So I was really listening for her voice right now, something I hadn’t done in a while—she had such a distinctive voice. I cook. Well, if she didn’t cook, that wasn’t such a big deal—I never really wondered about that when I imagined a girlfriend—but, considering the fact that when I try to cook I feel like I’m losing my mind—I get excruciatingly uncomfortable without alcohol and music, for example—I don’t know how I expected myself to get by if my partner didn’t cook. But I never thought of cooking as a prerequisite—I never thought about it at all. But I guess, when it comes down to it, I don’t like the idea of a woman always cooking for me unless that’s what makes her feel normal, so, I expected, then, that once my relationship with Jesus improved, he would do, for me, what alcohol might, if, that is, I wasn’t a raging alcoholic, and I would be able to share the responsibility. That, with Jesus, I would prepare meals, and eat well, at least from time to time, even if I went, for a period of time, without a partner. I expected Jesus, then, to do all the positive things that alcohol once did, and, furthermore, I expected that, once in heaven, when you could drink without negative consequences, such as being an asshole and or an addict, cooking, for me, wouldn’t be a problem. Maybe I wouldn’t want to do it all the time, but I could do my part, happily. So if Ursula cooked, well, that was great, and I was happy about that—but it was a perk, not something I expected. Did it make me love her more? Did it make her more desirable? Yes, in the long run, it would. But did it make me more interested at first? Not necessarily, because, like I said, once I had a better relationship with Jesus, I didn’t think cooking would be so excruciating for me, and, furthermore, it just wasn’t something that I prioritized—I was looking for other things from a woman, i.e., a woman that was bi, a woman that loved the fact that I’m bi, a woman that liked the arts, that liked to read, that liked my work, a woman that I could have a real conversation with—not necessarily an uppity, intellectual conversation, but an intellectual conversation nonetheless. I have to admit, too, that I also wanted a woman that believed in God, and an afterlife, and so on and so forth. I wanted all this, so I thought, naturally, that I might not get other things—that other things weren’t necessarily so important. So it was great, if she cooked, but only if she was already compatible with me in every other way.