Faithful Whiskey Nights

I used to think men who drank whiskey or bourbon on the rocks had an alluring sex appeal. Their sips long and gentle. They never showed any wincing as the burn saturated their gullets.  In my mind, they compared to Rhett Butler and other southern gentlemen who retreated after their meals to rooms where they’d smoke cigars and talk politics.

Today, the smell of Old Crow mixed with an ashy, last hit of a marijuana pipe, and craft beer makes me physically ill. Nauseous. I want to run. Get away from the stench lingering around a man.

The admiration is lost.

Are there gentlemen left in this world? Have they died out in a bygone era? Maybe they were swept away, “Gone With The Wind.”

My disdain doesn’t only come from the putrid odors filling my nostrils. It’s more than a smell. The words cut far deeper. They begin flowing after 4 to 7 whiskey tumblers combined with 3 or 4 beers. There is no smell which can compare to tearing my dignity and self-esteem into confetti pieces.

Hurt. Dreams are taken and shredded on the floor.

I’ve been told how no one will want my words. I’ll never publish a book. I need to be realistic. People on the internet are just there to feed my ego. They don’t really like me. In fact, no one loves me. Everyone hates me. Most people think I’m a crazy bitch. I don’t deserved to be loved by anyone. I’m worthless. I’m an embarrassment. As more tumblers become filled with more Old Crow, the words become harsher, packed with more whiskey-fueled cruelty.

I try and use my words to deflect, to stand up for myself. I don’t want to believe the whiskey words. I just want to sleep. Close my eyes and dream of a better life. I let my head fill with hope. No man can take away my dreams. I may not have much, but I do have hope for something better.

People will tell me I deserve better. I don’t feel deserving, at least I don’t think so. I just have hope for something better.

I have hopeful, loving images and they get me through a lonely, sobbing, snot-filled night.

One day, I will know what it is to be loved. I will sit with a man on a cold blustery evening by a fire, curled up under a blanket together. This man will talk to me. He will love me as an equal. I won’t fear anything when I see his lips touch the glass’ rim. His ability to handle alcohol will be viewed as a turn-on again. I won’t want to run. I won’t want to go anywhere. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else in the world but right there, talking to a good man.

He’ll know I love history, especially the French and English monarchies. We’ll spend the evening on the couch, no electronics in sight. We are two humans conversing, contemplating life until dawn’s early hours. When sleep comes beckoning are heads to pillows, I can finally rest peacefully. I won’t awaken only to listen to apologies, or be forced to apologize, to be ridiculed. Told I deserved the words, how they’re the truth, the real truth. Told how I need to accept his reality.

Yet, I still dream.

I dream about taking unplanned trips. Spending a Saturday driving to a countryside bed and breakfast. We’ve made no plans or reservations. This is a real life spontaneous adventure. We’ll arrive and pickup a bottle of wine. After settling in, we’ll find a restaurant and eat a light meal, before we rush back to our quaintly room decorated with centuries-old antique furniture.

We don’t sleep. We kiss each other up and down. Our bodies sit motionless while fingers run willfully and lovingly over each other’s entire souls. I dream about what it feels like to have a man make love to me. He’d never want to hurt or choke me. I don’t cry as I bury my head face down into the blanket. He doesn’t view me as an object to be possessed.

Together, him and I are two equals coming together in rhythmic unity. All night is spent  in the bed nude soaking up romance. Both of us are grateful we’d found that unknown bed and breakfast with the antique furniture. We’ll live the rest of our lives with the memories made there. The next day, we find a hometown diner, gobble up our greasy breakfast, and return home.

As I am in my current reality, sleeping on a love seat, my mind goes into a panic:

“What if I never know a real love?”

My anxiety is approaching level 8, I begin to pray:

God, please send me a real love. Grant me a way out. I’m sorry, I feel like I’ve failed. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I can’t love him anymore. Please don’t forsake me. I’m begging that before I die, may I have a few good years knowing a peaceful love? Please. This hurts so bad. Please make the hurt stop. Amen

I say a another pray to Saint Michael. I cry, but I still believe.

All I can do is believe.

Have faith.

Have hope.

Know I will come out stronger, perhaps even better. Life will be better. Happier. I’ve only got to walk this road first. Keep walking. Keep writing. Keep praying. Even forever doesn’t last, and knowing those words have proven themselves to be true, my body grants me a few hours rest. My head may even take to me to a dream where I’m embraced by good man.

The wind hasn’t taken all the good ones away. There’s a burning faithful hope inside my chest, there’s still one good man left for me somewhere out there.


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