I continued mulling over my life, convincing me what was not true, was. I was a bitch, whore, worthless, good only for sexing and believed it.
Iím no different than the Asian bar girls dancing naked on a stage, selected by number. My stageís different but like them Iím called by number, my phone number. No, they dance for survival, facing the horror of what they must do to survive. Me, I dance because I want on the stage. Thatís who I am, a dancing whore who belongs on the stage.
Convincing myself I was just a sex object, my esteem plummeted to teenage years, no lower, at least then I had innocence. My esteem reached its nadir.
Williamís love is right; Iím a bitch whore, used for screwing then dumped. No man loves me, none ever did.
I sobbed my revised history alone drinking, to numb the pain of her virulent poisoned dart. I got a prescription for sleep, another for anxiety.
After a week of wallowing in
worthlessness Paul called at the office. He told me to meet him at Jeeper's in
Spanaway a country western bar catering to the big wheel truck crowd. I told
him I would think about it. He replied there was nothing to think about, to
meet him at 8 and hung up.
In the evening alone, my husband
gone again, drinking wine, watching banal TV images flicker, and thinking of
life, at 7:30 I left to meet Paul, to learn who this bold young man was.
He obviously wants to sex me like the others, whatís the difference now?
Meeting at Jeeper's was appropriate.
It fit my Tropicana Village roots. Like Erica, I was a country western bar fly,
meeting a younger Alpha male.
Thatís why Erica and I got along so well, we are alike despite my uppity pretenses.