Sexual Self-Sabotage

I'm not talking about the big O... I'm talking about something a bit more complicated than those battery-operated companions. I'm talking about FOPO: (Fear of Putting Out) the paralyzing fear of looking like a total clown!! I ain't been getting no action, and it's all mental.

Now, I'll acknowledge the fact that there is a lack of suitable candidates, but that's not my problem. I can snag one. Hell.. that's a layup. I’ll have a man gawking, laughing and asking for my digits before I lose the rhythm of whatever I was doing when he approached. Have him wondering what I look like in all white A-line dress...

But we don't make it nowhere near being married, cause I'm going to dip on dude as soon as he tries to get some. And you know what I'm talking about. Y'all, I been reading the books, taking my Maca Root, breathing right, submitting to the soft-girl era... But I'm still going to hit that good Shacarri Richardson when it's time to do the do.

I'm not afraid of the sex; I'm afraid of the post-coital narrative. We don't want to be the girl in the group chat who has to type, "Yall... he hasn't texted back," or checking his Facebook to see if he is with somebody else, that brush off is B R U T A L. I can't deal. The bedroom has turned into a high-stakes poker game where the other person might be holding a "Never See You Again, " card.

So now, I'm hitting a sub-four-minute mile the second a guy I actually wants to start unbuttoning his shirt.

We talk a lot about "Fear of Rejection" in these newsletters. We talk about the guys who break our hearts. But we rarely talk about the "What Ifs"—the ones we actually WANT! The ones I get, the fine fine ones. Tall, handsome, brown-skinned, strong arms and legs... where's my fan?!! The ones who lived in the penthouse suite of our daydreams... and the ones we left standing in a cold room because we suddenly remembered we had to go home and... fold socks? Or stare at a wall? Anything but be seen. I didn't have nothing to do but regret what I just did.

Here's the cold, hard truth though: You cannot "play" someone who is just there to enjoy themselves. The fear of being "played" stems from the idea that sex is a transaction where he "wins" and you "lose" if he doesn't stick around for a relationship. If you're having a good time, getting your needs met, and enjoying the fireworks, no clown. But if you're using sex to lure someone into a relationship that hasn't even been talked about... well Bozo here's your nose. When feelings are involved, it goes from "carnival game" to "Super Bowl Halftime Show."

That's why I don't experience this with the guys I know damn well I'm too good for. The guys I should have run past. The seemingly homeless guy, the convicted "of many" felons, the tramp, the three pump maximum dude... You know the ones: the guys with enough audacity to fill a stadium and enough persistence to wear me down. They don't even count! Yet I was able to stay in the room with them, because the stakes were zero. I wasn't obsessed with them. I wasn't protecting a dream; I was just passing time. I let the "audacious" ones in because I wasn't afraid to lose them. BINGO! 

But the greats... the guys I’ve spent thousands of hours mentally creating a life with while staring at the ceiling. These feel like "missed connections"; these were open invitations, like I had the keys to the kingdom until... he reached for a zipper or dimmed the lights, my brain didn’t see romance—it saw a crime scene, and I was the getaway driver.

But the truth is subtler.

It’s easier to keep him as a perfect, untouchable daydream than to risk him being a real, flawed human who might see my flaws. Rather than he turn out to be someone who snatched me out of my daydreams or fell from perfection. Running to the door wasn’t about him rejecting me; it was about me rejecting the possibility of being truly known, or possibly even better: discovered.

Now, if the anxiety is so high that you can't enjoy the reward, then you aren't ready - and that's okay. Period!

But if you’re a fellow sprinter, here is what I’ve learned: The "What Ifs" are the heaviest things we carry. They weigh more than any number on a scale.

If he's going to play you, he was going to do it anyway- whether its three dates or three months. Whether he knows your mama and daddy's social security number, or your sister's Wi-Fi password. Delaying intimacy as a "test" is a game that you started. If he's a clown, he's a clown. Flat out.

The ultimate move is to decide that you're doing this for you. If you like him and you want him, take the power back. If you decide, I'm doing this because I want to feel good, with him," the even if he pulls a disappearing act, he didn't "take" anything from you. You had the experience you wanted.

So, the next time a Mr. Fine Fine, gets me behind closed doors... whip out the prophylactics.

Stay tuned.