Willin’:  A Post-Divorce Series on Dating & Life.  By Ida Clare

Willin’: A Post-Divorce Series on Dating & Life. By Ida Clare

. 13 min read

Willin': Rich Guy.  By Ida Clare

Finally dating the wealthy guy of her dreams, one PrimeCrush writer learned some valuable lessons.

“I want to date a rich guy,” I remember asking the universe. I had a rich uncle who was my godfather. When I was a kid, he always bought me the best presents. He was loud and funny, drove a Porsche, but was really kind of an asshole to the adults. Some backstory: I got married young (from the rural South, it’s what you did) and so I didn’t get a chance to experiment sexually as a young woman (or travel or have a home by myself…). I stayed married for 16 long years. Sex in the marriage was boring…but how would I know? I really had no previous experiences.

So about four years after my divorce, I met this guy on a blind date set up by a colleague. Let’s call him Al and let’s call her B. When I asked why she didn’t date him, she said he was great, he just wasn’t her type. (More backstory: B had been Al’s dead wife’s best friend.) Al wasn’t very good looking, he was about six years older than me, he drove a Corvette, was kind of funny, loud, but not somebody I would be immediately attracted to. However, he took me to great restaurants AND after a few dates, he told me that he really loved performing oral sex…SCORE! (This was something my ex-husband hated to do).

The first time we slept together, the foreplay was so amazing and exhausting, I thought I would expire. I repay my debts, I reached for his dick AND… I could not find it!!! You know that other voice in your head who comments on the present circumstances, what we actors call the observer? She was freaking the fuck out. I had never before reached for a penis and not been able to find it! I panicked! She counseled, “Move down there so you can see what the hell is going on!” When I did…I was confronted with my very first miniature penis. Listen, I am a nice person. I never mentioned or kidded him about his “tiny penis,” that’s what HE called it…often… And he compensated…REALLY well…and he bought me things and took me places…so I continued to see him.

But…he was also, really, down deep, kind of an asshole.

I discovered as time went on that even though I wanted the experience of dating a “rich guy” and all the trappings that includes, it isn’t what drives me. He was consistently disappointed that I wasn’t fascinated with his material stuff. One time, he said dejectedly, “You really don’t care about money do you?” The observer thought, “Am I supposed to?”

Right before Christmas, he told B (remember her?) that he thought he was falling in love with me. He told me that she drove him to his wife’s grave, made him get out and stand in front of it, then asked him if his wife would really want him in love with anyone else. The observer and I were stunned into silence.

He dumped me on New Year’s Day. It hurt. I got over it. Later I realized, B used me to see if he was dating material. See, all B ever wanted was a guy with money. And all Al ever wanted was a woman who was impressed with his material stuff. They are married now. I vowed then and there to NEVER use a woman like she used me. We have to protect each other… even through Corvettes, new experiences, and assholes.

Willin’: Size Really Does Matter. By Ida Clare

Willin'** is a new series from an adventurous writer out of Charleston, South Carolina that begins with the painful tale of how she learned that size does matter—and too big can be a painful discovery.

I've been single a long time, a really loooooong time. And in my singleness, I've had long dry spells…loooong. When this particular event occurred, I was well into, but not through, menopause. I met this man online. He was hot, intelligent….and foreign...yum.

We had lunch, then he asked to see my house because he…ready?...restored historic homes in Charleston. He began that vocation by restoring historic homes in Europe. Listen, I’m an educated, progressive woman who lives in rural South Carolina. Any man who can use the English language correctly, with an accent no less, and form cohesive thoughts, turns the “you might want to think about this” part of my brain to mush. Long gray hair, olive skin, white teeth, hazel eyes…a dad bod (I love that)…great hands…hot.

When I unlocked my front door, the first thing he did was brush past me and walk straight into my home looking at the ceiling while explaining what the house looked like originally. He walked me around my house and showed me where the hallways were and where the parlor used to be. My day job is as a theatre historian…I’m all about it. He told me my house had good bones, “like you, dear…” (Holy shitballs). After much kissing, which was uh, freaking amazing (imagine a hot Jacques Clouseau from The Pink Panther, only Chilean, and hot) and then heavy petting, we moved upstairs to the bedroom. “(Kiss!) You know dat dese stairs (Kiss!) are no original? (Long kiss, shirt flies off…) Dis was merely de attick (Kiss!).” I thought, “thank you…finally…a hot, intelligent, Latin (bonus)…Oh MY GOD…Hooray….”

Except, suddenly…

Spinning red lights. Alarms bells. Slap in the face. Full STOP!

He had THE BIGGEST DICK I HAVE/HAD/PROBABLY WILL EVER see EVER! It was otherworldly, alien, colossal, uncircumcised…and terrifying! What was I supposed to do with that? Let me digress for a moment, you know how you have that other person inside of you that we actors call the “observer” commenting on the action, but objective and distant? She totally kicked in. I had seen an uncircumcised penis before, but I had never handled one. And this one was…vast! I handed him a condom, which he had problems wrestling onto that massive thing...no shit… After more hot action, when he slid it in, it hurt like a mofo…a gigantic uncircumcised mofo! Then the whole thing turned…awkward.  Again, that observer: Pain had never happened during sex. What. The. Fuck. Per my observer, as a side note, in my limited experience, it seems the bigger they are, the less they know about pleasure. It’s like a jack hammer…But this guy, thankfully, not so much… I really felt like he felt as uncomfortable as I did.

Regardless of the awkwardness, he stayed the night, held my hand while we slept, made me breakfast, then had to drive back to Charleston for work. After that he called daily, wanted to know when he could see me again. I left for an extended summer trip three days after our encounter. He continued to call.

Do you know that if you don’t use it, it closes up? I didn’t either. Vaginal Atrophy. I felt as confused and self-conscious as I did my first time. At my in-the-middle-of-menopausal age, he was my first one-night stand… See, I can count the number of men I've slept with on two hands. I'm a Scorpio sun/Cancer moon/sex has to be a spiritual experience. Plus, being raised in the rural South, it has taken me a long time to manage, and I say manage not conquer, that whole guilt about sex bullshit. For a split second, I thought maybe I deserved it because it was a one-night stand. I thought and thought and obsessed and then…I got angry. My various fucking GYNs never mentioned this possibility. It’s not like they don’t ask you at every appointment if you are sexually active. You would think vaginal atrophy would be something of interest to an aging, single, sexually active-in-spurts woman! So, I had to educate myself. I didn’t know about lube (never needed it). There are even dildos, for lack of a better word, to help expand what has contracted…didn’t know that. “Back in my day” we were worried about “stretching out.”

Oh, and hot Chilean, Jacques Clouseau? Never saw him again. Absence does not make the heart or the big dick grow…fonder…or more comfortable.

**The title for this series was inspired by one of Little Feat's greatest songs:  "Well I've been kicked by the wind, robbed by the sleet / Had my head stoved in, but I'm still on my feet / And I'm still, willin'". (Willin' Little Feat)

Willin’: Divorce the Feng Shui Way. By Ida Clare

In the second story in her Willin'** series, Ida Clare shares her story of how feng shui and an unshakeable sense of humor got her through a really ugly divorce.

I got divorced a long time ago. And it was messsssssssy. I got married way too young (I am from the rural South, it’s what you do). He was/is a narcissistic, alcoholic, cheating, domestic abuser…aaaaaand his family was/is a very prominent political family in a southern, very red, state…so court (along with property, cars, and my son) was bought and paid for. For any of you that have survived a narcissistic, alcoholic, cheating, domestic abuser, you know that they drive you literally (I’m using this word correctly) crazy…you are looney tunes in the throes of it all.

Disclaimer 1: Though this is a VERY serious issue, you have to have a sense of humor about it, not only after the fact, but right in the midst of it. Humor is my blanket and my weapon. Hear me out. Disclaimer 2: For those that are currently in this situation, GET OUT! GET HELP! I love you. It gets so much better.

On with the story…

Because I was pretty looney (still am some might say), I looked for anything that would get me through the day. I am pretty inherently woo-woo (Reiki master, I read cards, I play with plants), so I feng shui-ed our house. It motivated me to clean and organize, as well as provided much needed distraction. And if you know about feng shui, you know that besides arranging, there are other practices that might help with specific areas of life. One of these is tying red ribbons on all pipes, anything that carries water out of your home. It is supposed to keep the good energy from draining away.

Because he was so controlling, his plan was to transfer all our joint property to his name, put me in an apartment of his choosing, I would take care of our son, and he might throw in a little money from time to time. Uh huh…no—all except for the having our son. A little more backstory: he couldn’t keep a job, or money, and was an absent father. I did everything.

After a round of marriage counseling, he came home one afternoon and announced that we were going to a mediator. Now, ordinarily, I think mediators are the best choice, BUT not if you are married to someone like him.

First, she asked why he wanted a divorce. He told her the story of my life. He never really answered the question. And then…he said, “And besides, she’s a witch.” The mediator’s eyebrows went up even further. He said, “She is doing weird things! She went around and fing shooey-d the whole place!” The mediator said, “I beg your pardon.” He said, “Fing Shooey. You know where you do spells on stuff? She moved all the furniture without asking my permission [I couldn’t leave shoes out without his permission] and she tied these red ribbons on all the pipes! She’s a witch!” At the “red ribbon” phrase, her eyebrows travelled up over her scalp and met at the nape of her neck. She choked a little and had to compose herself. It all just went to hell from there. When he proclaimed quite loudly that “she will do what I say she will do, by God!” both the mediator and I gave up. I stood up, thanked her for her time, and left.

On the way down the elevator, through the halls, and out the front door, my anxiety skyrocketed. I was mostly worried about our son. I knew he would go after him for spite. I felt like the world was against me. I’m not a fainter. As a matter of fact, I viscerally hate fainting women in scary movies. You know the ones who trip and fall as the monster chases them, then the hero comes and saves them? Yeah. I’m probably just envious. I felt like I was going to collapse. As I rushed out the front door of her building, I turned the corner and froze…ready? There was a red ribbon tied around the downspout. I ran around to each corner of her building and there were red ribbons on every downspout. SHE HAD FENG SHUI-ED HER ENTIRE BUILDING! I sat down on the curb and laughed and cried hysterically at the same time. Then I went to my car, got my camera, and took a picture.

Sometimes when all seems lost, the universe comes through for a girl. I framed that picture and it hangs in my office to remind me that I will never be the girl that falls down when the monster chases her. Moreover, I don’t want to be that girl. I am the girl with the knife in her teeth fighting for herself and others who are being threatened by narcissistic, alcoholic, cheating, domestic abusers. GET OUT! GET HELP! I love you. It gets so much better.

** Inspired by one of Little Feat's greatest songs:  "Well I've been kicked by the wind, robbed by the sleet / Had my head stoved in, but I'm still on my feet / And I'm still, willin'". (Willin' Little Feat)

Willin’: Bloody Good Sex.  By Ida Clare

In her ongoing Willin' series, one PrimeCrush writer shares her first sexual encounter post-divorce and it was, well, messy at best. Here’s her story.

I have always felt that I rode the line between the generation that avowed a woman should get married, have children, defer to her husband; and the generation of “make your own life”, which can include the aforementioned things, but only if you want them. Thus, I got married young and so I didn’t get a chance to experiment sexually as a young woman (or travel or have a home by myself…). I stayed married for 15 long years. Sex in the marriage was boring…but how would I have known? I really had no previous experiences.

My very first sexual encounter post divorce was with an older man who I had dated three times prior to this story. During the heavy-petting portion of the evening, in my head, I was weighing my options about how many dates should pass until “doing it”. The old generation voice warned: “Don’t be a bad/whore/get-the-milk-for-free girl or no one will EVER want you.” But then the new equal/assertive/independent/I-am-woman hear-me-roar voice countered: “If I’m horny (and after a long marriage of mostly bad sex, of course I was), I can damn well do what and who I want!” So…we move into the bedroom. Turns out, this guy was well-versed in the oral arts. THAT was fabulous because my ex-husband haaaated that. I thought, “Thank you, Universe! This was a long time coming! Oh, and I was “coming” several times.

Right in the middle of a particularly enjoyable segment, he stopped abruptly, screamed, “AHHHHHHH! OH MY GOD” (and not in the good way), jumped up, started feeling around on his own body like he’d been shot. I sat up, looked around, and the sheets were spattered with blood. I thought: “I’m not on my period. Maybe he IS shot. Is he having a heart attack? Can a man hemorrhage from a tongue cramp?”

He ran into the bathroom, grabbed one of my good towels, and starts wiping himself off, all the while less loudly raving like a maniac. I said, “It’s not me. I’m not bleeding.” He screamed again, started rechecking himself, then ran to the mirror in the bathroom, mumbling. Then, silence. He comes back out into the bedroom, looks at me, and then all at the same time, he puts on his clothes, mumbles, looks around like a madman. He finally spits out, “I gotta go. I’ll call you.”

TIME PASSES.

I was calm during the commotion. I’m the oldest in my family and so when there is a catastrophe, I get very quiet, deal with whatever it is, then fall apart later when I am alone. I sat there on my bed, naked, for what seemed like an eternity. Then, as I am wont to do, I fell apart mentally. I actually said out loud to myself: “What the fucking HELL?! Did my vagina just murder a man? Is this an omen? Am I being punished for enjoying myself? Will I ever see him again? What did I do wrong?” See how I quickly went from new generation to old generation blaming bullshit?

The guy called. Turns out, he had had a nosebleed. Hmmmm. How hard many of us are on ourselves. How often we immediately blame ourselves. I called my best friend and told him the whole story. He calmed me down and showed me how ridiculous I was being. Because of this experience and my reflection on it, I learned not to panic and beat myself up.

And I’m sharing this now in alliance with anyone who hits a few road bumps—or nosebleeds—on their way to shedding old skin, old ways, and old relationships. No matter how free we feel, it’s a process that requires patience and kindness. I’m grateful for it all—even if I never did get the stains out of my good towel.

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