the opposite of mirth

So I wake up this morning and it’s March.harlequin

Which means it’s spring.

Which means it’s time to get chased barefoot through meadows by strapping men again.

(sigh)

I know, right? Already?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m in good shape. I’m looking forward to emitting some frolicsome cries. And I’ve been practicing slowing down without making it look flat-out like I want to be caught.

But truthfully? I’ve gotten a little gun-shy.

And by “gun”, I actually don’t mean penis. The penis and I are doing great. Better than ever. It’s the men attached to them of which I’ve grown wary.

After my debacle with the professor, I took a voluntary hiatus from l’amour. It’s not as if the experience with him was that terrible. More than anything, it was like a winter cold that I couldn’t shake. But it reminded me of a lesson that I never seem to learn, which is:

Not every man is going to leave me alone just because I have clearly communicated that I want to be left alone (not by a long shot, baby).

So I took a month to let things settle.

That’s right. A month.

Of my life.

During that time, I sought out the advice of my most-trusted exes. I know that might not sound like a good idea, but aside from the vampires, I have dated some really kick-ass men. I have. And they know my habits better than anyone and probably have my best interests at heart at least part of the time.

When I explained the problem, each one insisted that I am not a total fuck-up, which was incredibly sweet. Then they generously volunteered their own preferred methods for eradicating needy women. Oddly, some of those methods gave me a real sense of deja vu. Nonetheless, I listened attentively. And later, reflecting on all of the strategies, I tried to piece together something that would work for me and my own signature style.

Here is the conclusion I reached:

You know that lesson I was supposed to learn? Not every man is going to leave me alone just because I have clearly communicated that I want to be left alone.

That’s a stupid fucking lesson.

And I don’t even want to learn it.

Truly, I don’t.

Furthermore, I hope  that my obdurate refusal to learn it forces me to ovary the fuck up.

There is some rompy fun to be had this spring.

And I’m going to be brazenly rollicking through that meadow in my sundress any day now.

So catch me if you can.

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