FEAST OF MEN Read online

  Previous to our meeting, I kept having a dream-like memory that I was an American Indian woman sitting cross-legged near a pond. I could feel a man on horseback approaching from behind me. Then during an afternoon together, after napping, upon waking Richard shared this exact memory—stating that he’d been having it for several months before our meeting—that he rode up to see a beautiful Indian woman with long dark hair sitting facing a pond with her back to him. He now knew this woman was me. We couldn’t believe that we both had this same dream—remembrance—memory or whatever this magic was that was being shown to us. In his ‘dream-memory’—the Indian woman rode off on the back of a horse with another man. The extent of my memory/image was only that I could feel the energy of his presence coming from behind me.

  Richard had homes in both in Boston and Boca Raton, while I was in the middle America. I adored his son and him me. But Richard sometimes unable to reach orgasm became terribly frustrated and even a bit annoying in bed. I knew in his frustration that he’d probably try other sexual conquests, if only to try and prove himself. Always traveling the world in search of something—he couldn’t say exactly what, while displaying an underlying sense of torment.

  Wealthy playboy, Richard, wasn’t able to acknowledge what our love meant to him, until it was too late. He’d push me away then try to get me back, until I was worn out with the emotional ride of his approach—avoidance roller coaster.

  So even though I was attracted to him more than any man ever before, after my first husband’s indiscretions, I wouldn’t knowingly put myself into that hell again. Therefore, I broke my heart to take care of myself and went on with my life. Knowing, I must be fully conscious and smart about my next marriage.

  Eventually in one grand gesture, Richard tried to entice me back by a proposal of marriage along with the offer of every material and financial thing. I could ever desire. Too late, I’d endured enough of his drama. So even though the lifestyle would’ve been exciting and I’d not have any financial worries. Desiring an honest, intimate, fully emotionally committed relationship, I ripped my heart apart and declined his offer. Observing my parent’s marriage, I knew that no amount of money with a cheating man could make a joyful marriage. I needed to make the wisest decision the next time—should I ever even choose to marry again. I was fearful another failure might kill me. I was hoping for a solid man without addictions or weirdness waiting in the wings to destroy.

  Anyway, by the time Richard truly recognized his love for me, I’d grown past his scenario and was in preparation to marry again. Therefore, our current interaction played out like his past life memory—I went off with another man.

  Paul wasn’t exciting sexually or otherwise, had moderate income compared to Richard with little romance in his spirit, but was successful, a family man and didn’t drink much. With him, I thought I was finally breaking my pattern. After reading many psychologist self-help books and desiring the stability of a nice quiet life, I decided to choose someone different than the men, I’d dated previously.

  In the year and a half, we dated, we spent hours talking about what we wanted in life. My emphasis on honesty, security and no chemical dependency—with his on love and family. He’d convinced me there was no weirdness in him. We had fun traveling—went snow skiing several times, which I enjoy. He enjoyed various activities—movies and the performing arts, was generous with gifts and going out for fun evenings. He sent me flowers every week.

  Laughing hysterically now, in my recall—Paul actually wasn’t physically attractive or all that stimulating to me, but I thought he was the answer based on the information in all those psychologist’s books. Consensus being to marry someone you felt affection for and a friendship more important than passion. So, I married a man whom I thought was honest and capable of making a nice life. By now, I was so unsure of my choices, I even contacted psychics and astrologers. A psychic predicted that if he could overcome his past, we’d have a great life. Laughing, I guess, yeah, that’d been the best outcome, but what a joke! This man wasn’t releasing anyone or anything past or present. He turned out to be control personified.

  Shortly after moving to Texas, I found Paul had in some ways misrepresented his finances and lied about not smoking. He became verbally and emotionally abusive, criticizing everything about me, while having an overly close relationship with his daughter. At times, he treated her more like his significant other. Me—he treated as if I was a nanny, housekeeper or some non-sexual caregiver wearing designer clothes. His raging anger came out of nowhere in the middle of the night holding me hostage in fear. I found myself married to a house full of abuse, a lovely house indeed that I furnished and paid more than half the tariff on.

  I came to love his spoiled brat seven-year-old daughter. We became emotionally attached, but clearly Paul only wanted a facade wife to create an ‘Ozzie and Harriet’ type existence behind which he could hide his insecurity and emotional depravity. He took his frustration out on me daily at his not being able to have full custody of his daughter and his inability to control every aspect of everyone’s life. He threatened to kill me, if I divorced him. I can chuckle now at the control-freak, insecure narcissistic idiot, but it sure wasn’t funny then.

  No ‘Harriet homemaker’ am I. Although, I do love to cook and to create a wonderful home, I need and want sex, intimacy, love, fun, passion and adventure. I had fooled myself into something worse than I could’ve ever imagined because nothing about that marriage was fulfilling. Paul’s controlling and fear that he would lose me, temporarily succeeded in isolating me from the world.

  The more he thought he was going to lose me, the more controlling he became. He didn’t even want me to go to the gym to workout. I felt like a trapped animal and became full of anger while enduring a cancer ordeal and living off my small trust and savings, while he paid hefty child support and private school tuition. He was a Disneyland dad while my resources dwindled. Large amounts of money went to lawyers in his attempts to take his daughter away from her mother. Paul’s motive was to get his child and myself under his exclusive control. I found, I was married to a non-sexual dictator and I became concerned about what was really going on between him and his daughter. He’d begun sleeping across the house from the master suite in a room near her bedroom almost every night. Putting his emotions onto her, since it was impossible for him to communicate with a grown woman in anyway other than control. Once again, I was living a nightmare behind a facade of happiness and respectability in a lovely house. The difference was no alcohol, but his erratic controlling behaviors were the same, if not worse.

  Geez, why’d I ever marry that creep? Only answer, I became unconscious once again in my hope to have love and a family. I stupidly believed psychologist written self-help books, psychics and astrologers. My own instincts were fractured because of my past and it seemed no one could help. At least, this marriage got me out of the state where my family resided, because being around their poisonous sphere of influence any longer—I really probably would have perished.

  This marriage turned out to be a horror and for anything to be more awful than my first one was a real feat. Able to do so much damage to my spirit because of the ones before it, while my ability to muster up hope was beaten-up, devastated beyond anything I could have ever imagined and left me searching for answers. The horror of this revelation threw me into the worst emotional wasteland that I’d ever been in and I didn’t think I could pull out of it—much less survive.

  After the divorce, I assisted his ex-wife and her mother in freeing my stepdaughter from her twisted controlling father. I protected her as if she were my own or as if she were me. Perhaps, that’d been the reason for the marriage—to protect this child. I wish someone had been there to shield me from the insidiously addictive, emotionally-void, mentally-ill and cruel influence of my parents and family.

  I shiver on this sunny day, as I decide not to think about all this any longer, while walking in the beauty of Manhattan Beach. Enough rehashing
of my horror-story marriages—but my mind won’t allow me to stop.

  All of my husbands had their own agendas and major obstacles wrapped in false intentions. Except, how could I’ve be so blindly stupid and for three times? Why did I keep attracting hurt instead of nurturing and love? My intentions were honorable and pure. Why were theirs of control and devastation? Was it because I was blinded then sucked in because of my deep longing for love and acceptance? None of them loved or supported me emotionally or even all that much financially. After they won my love, it appeared they went out of their way to hurt and negate me.

  Therefore, I’ll analyze. Unable to love their self, they couldn’t/didn’t know what loving a woman was even about. They were damaged, addicted and lost with no awareness or ability to see themselves and to heal their wounds. Overly self-centered, the complexities of a relationship eluded them leaving no ability to create a stimulating sexual communication and certainly no real emotional or intellectual connection. I’d always felt so sexual in the beginning, while all my husbands turned out to be pretty much sexual bores, if not actually sexually crippled. Men pursue sex with so much emphasis and enthusiasm, but are there any of them really sensual and sexual enough for me and who know that body, mind and spirit go together? Why can’t I be a mistress to a man, I am married to? That’s what I desire and isn’t that what many men desire, too? I burst out laughing in my pain—and if there is a man like that—why can’t I meet him?

  It’s as if what I want the very most in this world is being held just outside my reach. I laugh a bit uncontrollably and feeling childlike, I skip down the road towards ocean. I feel playful in the sun as I try to shrug off my remembrances of pain.

  My father telling me how stupid I am and by his words and actions treats my mother and all women like they’re idiots. Another misbegotten belief, I’d taken in from my father with my mother with the world’s collaboration in it. Brainwashed into a pattern that I’m aware of, and now must shift out of to get what I desire.

  Reviewing these memories has brought another level of clarity just as the ocean waves bring in a breeze that gently blows my hair away from my face and I continue my rambling thoughts.

  Love and marriage have become synonymous with suffering and oppression, but even though love has been betrayal with happiness being elusive, I desire to try it again, until I get it right because it feels as if I’ve never really experienced love at all. Surely, God must have something better for me than all this pain.

  What a nightmarish walk through masculinity, dating has been these past five years. Married men misrepresenting in efforts to extort sex, ones obsessed with their own importance—even talking on cell phones during dinner in an effort to ‘appear’ important—boasting continually about their finances and accomplishments—most exaggerations, if not total fabrications. Ones who continue to eye every babe walking by—display their longing through their insecurity—doctors, attorneys and judges who seem to think their station in life, education, title, or whatever—gives them privilege to a woman succumbing to their advances—no matter their character or motives. Overly proud dads living vicariously through their children as extensions of what they’re not, or wanted to be—boringly talk on forever about their offspring. Ones who expound about how good they are in bed espousing on what I’m missing by not partaking—definite exaggerations—like I would ever lower myself to be with them. Ha! Men who offer massages—gifts—even a Jaguar—trips—even to Europe, and invitations to all varieties of hot tub scenarios trying to achieve their goal, which is to ‘score’.

  Cigar and liquor bar men trying to feel important utilizing the current fad addictions of the day. All things fun occasionally, except becoming enmeshed into a man’s identity suppressing their emotions, while thinking they enhance become too tiresome for words. Handsome GQ types knowing how easily their looks can turn a woman’s head, while most of their focus is really on their ‘image’, abs or sports car, instead of any development of their humanity, personality or intellect with certainly no awareness of their soul. They must think it’s in the engine of their car, boat or Harley. The worst male representative being their older unattractive counterpart with all their looks and attraction definitely located in their vehicle. The ones who pull out all the stops with their facade of attention, money, interest and faked sensitivity, until realizing in a few hours, especially after an expensive dinner that they’re not going to get what they’re after. Some then become impatient with their real personality emerging. Some even become verbally abusive and must think I didn’t see right through to their game from the beginning. It’s all about their ego and what it takes to stroke it. The penis is the neediest thing on the planet and the men attached to it are at times pathetic when it takes control.

  Why can’t or don’t they realize that the way to a woman’s heart and to achieve feminine closeness is to focus on her, share their heart and take the time to really get to know her? Some use this tactic as their con with only a few having the capability of being sincere. Then the spiritual types—the ones so full of new age guru or ‘godly’ wisdom—making sure to let you know that they’re really in touch with their feminine side—deceivers automatically lose out, but of the ‘sincere’ ones—none appear manly or sexual to me. Can a ‘spiritual’ type even wonderfully ravage a woman’s body? Then there are the Bible-thumpers using ‘the word’ as their dominating control and rule over others. While sometimes, they are the worst of the sinners. Then those pasty vegan types—do they even have the energy for sex? And can a man really be trusted if he doesn’t enjoy a fairly rare steak? To be spiritual, must men lose their masculine good stuff? To me most appear emotionally vacant along with being sensually and physically dead.

  Sexuality’s basic nature is spirituality because it’s the most creative force in the universe. After all, spirituality is expressed in the physical form on earth, not up in the air or heavens somewhere.

  The men I meet appear to hide behind a variety of facades, trying to avoid revealing who they really are and escaping onto find fresh prey when realizing they show any vulnerability. What a man fears most is being found out. Their egos must be protected as if kept under a glass cover like some fragile flower.

  Their main motivations seem to be fear, dishonesty and manipulation—more trying to diverge into escape for the moment; such as sex, liquor, power, money or excitement than for anything genuine or authentic. It’s all so confusingly stupid. It’s a miracle I still believe in love, men or that there’s anything sincere in the world going on between the sexes. Except for some hopefully strange reason, I still do. Even when I don’t—I do. So, I’m going to figure myself out along with men and my relation to them. It’s my life’s research project.

  Ya know, whomever the current fad of self-help guru is—before I’d ever heard of you, I could eat at restaurants and go to movies alone. Take vitamins, workout, mostly eat clean and balanced and have always been able to stand nude in a full-length mirror while looking myself straight in the eyes—exception only after eating a whole pizza. I’ve been a homemaker, career woman and done both together—stood by my man and left him too. I’ve read multiple self-help books, gone years without dating while reveling and enjoying my solitude. I can be my own best company, but am socially outgoing and enjoy people. At times, it seems like I dated almost everyone and other times, I enjoyed being alone. Men—it seems are always around and in pursuit. So why can’t I connect with a positive one for me?

  I’m most always full of hope and joy, actually only losing it during the horrible times brought to me by the men I thought I loved and who professed love for me. I’m one magnificent woman and a survivor. I’ve walked through my pain and continue to do so. I love myself and want to stay in joy. No matter how many men I’ve got to go through, I want to experience the magic—the magic of true love.

  It’s as if life’s propelling me—relationship to relationship without much choice—compelling me to experience the maleness, the dynamics and the ful
lness of the pain on my quest for love. The energy of the chemistry strong enough, the pattern so set that I’d have no other direction to go, but to reenter the suffering that guides me along to find another piece of myself.

  Looking back now, I can’t imagine why I was even attracted to anyone of those men. Interesting how time and circumstance change perspective. I feel blessed that I didn’t mix my blood with any of them. Sometimes, you can’t really realize how bad something is, until you get past it. Okay so, am I excavating my past today—spinning it all about me so I can wash it all out?

  Again, back from my reverie, I continue walking as my anticipation accelerates; I’ll be at the ocean just over the next hill. Breathing in the fresh air, I feel like dancing. The sun’s warmth is healing me and bringing me closer to God as the white light glares into my eyes and the ocean breeze refreshes and cools.

  Gazing towards the ocean, I pray silently. “Okay God, I’m asking now, once more while standing in your magnificent splendor. Where is he? Please, magically present my male counterpart to me. This is Natalie Ann Duncan asking you for my true love.”

  Dancing a bit, I turn into the wind and strangely, I feel him near. But why—when I’m visiting a man who’s definitely not him? Strange, this feeling, or is it that I’m addicted to the search—the process of becoming, examining the maleness—my opposite? Addicted to meeting, experiencing disappointment and pain, then going on in search of something different, more or better. Instead, I keep finding worse. So, it must get better eventually—right? Achingly, I laugh out loud. It just must—with the law of averages and all.