December 8th, 1977
Quiet weekend at home alone. Wendy has gone with Jamie to West Virginia. Sadie and I loll about to lamplight, opera and ourselves. Mice in a nest.
The phone rings. Having already carried on an hours conversation with Nan. I wonder who it could be. Surprise. It is Tommy. Tommy, sweet baby. What have I been doing? Believe it or not, nothing. Since I was dating you I have only been out twice. Unsaid: I have lost my appreciation for recreational sex (not that ours was). He wants to take me out to dinner. I explain my seclusion and decline. Seclusion. For weeks now I have been holed up inside this house; venturing out only for work and occasional socializing with friends. No nights out. No tricks. I do not have the time or energy to waste on empty encounters. Which is how I have come to view sexual spontaneity. Physical satisfaction is only a side effect of emotional fulfillment. I have perished emotionally. I have become unable to con myself into thinking I like somebody before I know so. And that ability was the sustaining force behind my emotional activities for so long. The cart before the horse. Sleep with them, fall in love with them, endow them with every personality trait you seek, see them as the ideal love and then, realize that it’s all a mistake. Start over. That’s the course I’ve run for years. Prowling the bars trying to find a lover. And, watching my mirage vanish. The difference is that now I do not provoke my delusions. I work and sleep and drink beer and smoke dope and listen to opera and stay home. Deal me out this hand. I’m tired of losing.
Suffice it to say that when I meet my lover, I will know. Until then I am content with getting by with all the other satisfactions of my life (and they are many now).