12:17 AM |
It was my birthday. 51 years old. My sister and my ex-husband texted me. That was it. So I decided to have my own celebration.
I bought a cake. A really sugary disgusting no-taste supermarket cake. I opened a bottle of good wine, the kind that someone has given you and is so insanely expensive you were saving it for a special occasion but would probably go funky before you drank it, just for myself. And I planned to drink all of it. This is a bit of a risky behavior for me as I hadn't had much to drink in the past decade. Wine with group dinners, and more wine if we wanted to get a little nuts, or if we were on the possessed porch.
My almost-real imaginary boyfriend called. What're you doing? Eating cake. It's my birthday. I didn't know! It's of no consequence. But of course it was. I drew myself a bath and lit the candle that's been sitting there for some unknown future event. And I drank the entire bottle. And I texted. I texted a lot. I'm not sure what the etiquette of this is. I am not of the texting generation.
I was really drunk. I started with the virtual tease, and before I knew it, it was virtual sex. And I liked it.
I eventually fell into bed. I sat bolt upright when some addition came to me, and added that to the communication. I guess I was pretty good at it. You know what? I was sexually aroused and had the physical proof. I'll be damned. And this was before I asked for hormones. I think this is why I am so attached to my almost-real imaginary boyfriend.
The next morning, I was so embarrassed. I admit here that I download my texts for posterity. I had to delete them all. Sheepishly, I asked if he would ever speak to me again. Yes, he would. Little did I know how frustrating this flaky interested, not interested stuff would be.
My imaginary boyfriend is much better. He's always interested, always listens, and never leaves me hanging. That's why I'm so attached to him.