Ceci Thought She Would Find Love. Ceci Was Wrong.

I hate self-pity. Whatever is wrong in my life, is my fault. Whatever is right, is to my credit. I am going to die without knowing the love of a man. Oh, don't get me wrong, I have had more sex than even I can imagine, but I have never made love. Not once. Oh, I thought it was Love, Capital L, but even the men I married told me flat out that they did not love me. Why did I accept this? Why did...why do...I agree with them? And now, it is officially too late and I have to accept that. It's not easy. I thought I had accepted it fifteen years ago, but I realize now that there's still that tiny seed of hope that even the Multiple Sclerosis virus can't kill. I wish it would.  Maybe I just want to make love once before I'm in a wheelchair. The last time was bad, really pathetic and he acted like he was deigning to give a pauper the Golden Scepter. More like the Plastic thumb, but he made me feel like it was my shortcoming (joke intended). And now, at sixty-one, it IS all lacking, dying, graying and leaving and I can't say it's not. That's what time does and I am proud that I accept it. Men don't have to accept it. They are surrounded by a sea of "extra" women and can pick and choose. I only want to choose Love...but Love will never choose me. Love will be distracted by the sea of "extra' women and I have to learn to accept it and glory in being surrounded by a sea of Sisterhood. As I say at the end of my play "Tourjours Seule"...what the Hell choice do I have?