Month: August 2015

So, yeah–I’ve basically torpedoed my life in a few major ways, but in all honesty, it feels good to shake things up and get stuff out into the open. But as always, the bad comes with the good, and I’d much rather see the bright side than dwell on the negative. If you’re still with me, I’m going to assume that you want to hear all about it. Shall we begin? 

First, some of the good stuff–turns out that the tiling in the house will start next week–hooray!!! That means that we are almost there–one step closer to moving in! This news is an intensely bright spot in an otherwise fuck-all week. It saves the entire day, if I’m being honest. I am so ready to leave the guest room once and for all. 

Another bright spot is that my recent drama crap is finally getting resolved. Yay! I’m cautiously optimistic that things will work out as they’re meant to and that all will be well in a short time. Hopefully. I’m still a bit squirrelly, but, there was only one casualty in the whole ordeal–so that’s pretty good, right? I really wish that it didn’t have to be that way, but for now, it does. The most unpleasant part about it is that I really can’t hang out with my friend anymore at shows and after his work. 

Now for a little of the bad. Due to the demands of various friends, I am now having to be pretty careful about what I write on here. Ordinarily, I would be pretty bothered by that type of request, but I suppose that I can try to be more mindful of other people’s feelings when I write–but I’m doing it under protest–at least a little bit. I guess that I’m not used to being asked to alter actual content. We’ll see how that goes. I’d be lying if I said that I wasn’t a little bugged by that. 

If you know me (and I’m assuming you do b/c why else would you read me?), you know that I process just about everything through writing it out and taking it apart. I’m not sure that I can, or even should, censor that to appease other people. It’s my process and doesn’t actually have anything to do with anyone else, insofar as my making sense of things for my own peace of mind. But, I suppose it’s the same stuff (ego bullshit) in different human wrapping, for the most part. People just can’t help but make things about themselves. Even when it isn’t. And that sucks. 

So, you guys may remember a post that I did a while back wherein I mentioned that I was doing a little experiment regarding anonymity and misogyny online. My interest is in how the anonymous environment online makes behaving in an abusive and misogynistic way not only easier, but also somewhat acceptable (and to a lesser extent, expected), given the norms and mores demonstrated by multiple popular sites and demonstrated by the hostility in the comments that follow articles and blogs written especially by female authors. If this were an actual academic paper, I would include all sorts of references that back up my claims–but in this form, not so much. Due to the number of correspondences with Joe, his story will take more than one part. Okay, y’all, ready to meet, Joe? 

I met Joe on an app called, Whisper. This app allows users a great deal of anonymity to post pretty much anything they’d like. Joe responded to a post that I made specifically for this project that asked for anonymous sexual partners. All of our correspondence took place within the Whisper app. 

I never met Joe in person, but am still in sporadic contact with him. There is something endearing about this guy despite the fact that he was basically an asshole most of the time. He was very child-like in that he acted petulantly when he was told no and he behaved as though a child would when not given his way, most notably when I refused to send the pictures that he kept requesting. Eventually, I located suitable photos to “borrow” and sent those rather than send pictures of my own body parts. My deepest apologies if they were yours. You should probably try to get those taken down though. Just sayin’. 

It took a whole bunch of doing, but Joe told me that he lives near Minneapolis in a house with his wife and new-ish child. He said that he is 30 years old and works as an accountant. I question the veracity of his answers for the very obvious reason that we were chatting on an anonymous sex site. Aside from that, I find it strange that an employed accountant would be home in the middle of the afternoon on a weekday. 

Joe informed me that he was planning on being in the FM the following weekend and that we should meet up at his hotel. I agreed to that. The other negotiations of this meet-up were much more difficult–this is where his whiny, bratty entitled behavior really shined. Before ending our conversation, I was persuaded to tell him an erotic “bed-time story” for the obvious reason. Whatever. Writing erotica for this purpose is really very easy (IMHO) and it requires little to no plot and little to no character development. You can probably imagine the minimal dialogue for yourselves. 

Despite this being, basically, the written version of a porn clip, Joe took care of himself within the first, um…, interlude in my improv-ed little story. Poor chap never ever got his pants all the way off in the scene. I didn’t say so, but I suspect that this may underlie, at least in part, his inability to get any from his wife (so he claims). It’s been my experience that the worse the male lover is, the more he perceives his female partner as frigid. As his preferences across the board indicate–Joe didn’t really “get” the concept of foreplay. Joe’s idea of foreplay involved forcible digital penetration both anally and vaginally and forcibly performing oral sex on his female partner (victim?). Now, I understand that this is being presented in the realm of fantasy–an interactive story. But it is rather telling that when asked about details, he described the foreplay acts with great specificity. I could be wrong, but it was much different than the broad, general descriptions that he gave when talking about pure fantasy–which led me to believe that he probably uses these exact foreplay moves in his regular life. It never occurs to these guys that maybe getting freaky with Mr. Minute isn’t really worth the effort for the ladies. Just an observation. Something tells me that his wife (and new mother of his kid) just can’t rally after no sleep and a crying infant if it means being roughly prodded at for a minute or two, tops, and then dry penetrated. Can you blame her? 

**The is the end of the first part of Joe’s story. Part two will be up soon. Thanks for reading! xo

So, friends and lovers, what can I say–the FM was getting stale, and I had been restless, so when I was given the opportunity to leave for a bit–I jumped at it. But first, let me back up–things will make more sense that way. 

If you read me regularly, you know that this summer has been a challenge. My house isn’t finished–so I’m still in the guestroom at 1214. J and I split up after 5 1/2 years, which sucked bad, but I’m adjusting and actually enjoying hanging out with someone who makes no demands on me whatsoever. It feels good to be accepted to that degree–it’s definitely a new experience for me. And he’s nice–like really, truly sweet. Wow. I know, right?! 

Which leads me back to here and now–and how I came to be in Bemidji today–and watching an amazing band right now as I write this. Oh COME ON, people! You should know by now that just about every adventure in my world starts with, “there was this guy…”. And this is no different–well the adventure–the guy is WAY different–unlike anyone that I’ve ever met. He is truly remarkable–in a very good way. It’s rare to meet people like this just out of the blue. And thank God that I did. 

This is for you, assuming you read my stuff. This will be mushy and silly and so frivolous. Kind of perfect for a Sunday night. 

It may be a repeat of things that I’ve already told you–most men would roll their eyes at that, say I’m being redundant and girly. It’s a very good thing that you are NOT most men. 

You find power and strength and mystery in my extreme-ish femininity and you understand what makes me tick better than almost anyone I’ve encountered, and you did so almost intuitively. You are, without a scrap of doubt, my intellectual superior. I trust you without hesitation–and for that, you will always have my attention, my loyalty, a chunk of my heart (figuratively speaking, of course), my ear, my shoulder, my friendship, my undying gratitude–and a place in my bed. 

I want to kiss you. A LOT. Kissing is my favorite. I want to kiss you for hours and hours. I want to kiss you so intensely and for so long that my lips are bruised and swollen. I want to kiss you until I am dizzy from my eyes being closed. 

I want to kiss you while the world disappears and all that exists is the feel of you–the texture of your lips, the taste of your spit and your tongue, the absolute smoothness of the inside of your mouth. 

But most of all, I want to kiss you, secure in the knowledge that kissing is your favorite and that you want to kiss me too.

So, who remembers that very forgettable song from the early-to-mid aughts? “I’ll keep you my dirty little secret, don’t tell anyone or you’ll be just another regret…”. By the All-American Rejects? Yeah, that song–I hadn’t thought of that song for years either, until today. And that sucks, because the context of my remembering it is just as you’d imagine it would be. 

Ladies and gentlemen, I am someone’s dirty little secret, or was (more accurately)–and that point was driven home today, so thoroughly, that it will be etched on my psyche for, at least, the foreseeable future. And you all thought that it was just another Saturday. Let me explain how the not too distant past can come back out of the beautiful, blue sky and wallop the crap out of your happy ass–even when you have completely and utterly moved on from that person (it was years ago, for Christ’s sake).

A while back (not too long ago–I was over 35), I engaged in a sexual friendship with a man who I believed to be someone who I could quite possibly end up dating. I was wrong. Very, very wrong. Sure, he enjoyed having sex with me–more than enjoyed, if I’m being honest, and seemed to value the skills that my past had allowed me to bring to the table. 

He did not, however, have any intention at any time of dating me or allowing our relationship to become romantic. He acted like a boyfriend–he paid for dinners out, opened/held doors for me, held hands, kissed me goodnight after dates, called and texted everyday–all of the things one would expect from a guy who had at least checked out a Dating 101 column in a Men’s Health or something. He was a very good and very proper date–who never once, in all the time we were together, ever believed that I was even remotely good enough for him–not even a little bit. 

Now, I’m not the most beautiful woman in the world, but I’m squarely in the category of beautiful (or so I’ve been told). And because most of you reading this know what I look like–I won’t belabor the point. 

It shouldn’t matter anyway. If you have ever been told that you aren’t good enough, you know what I mean. For real, if you want to feel about as bad about yourself that you can feel–have someone tell you that you are not good enough for them. It will torpedo your day. Thoroughly. 

So, yeah–that happened. I’m officially over myself. Again. Years after the fact. Totally over myself. Thanks for that? 

So, life is funny and all of that cliched stuff–but sometimes you just have to hang with one of your best girlfriends and totally and completely let go. And that’s what I did tonight. It was perfect. It’s really hard to see how wound you’re getting until you unspool and just be unabashedly yourself. 

As some of you know (and may have discerned from reading my posts), it is very, very hard for me to feel “safe” enough to just let go around most people. It’s a self-esteem thing, and I’m working on it. But, the bottom line is that I really don’t open up to too many people, not really–and if I’m opening up to you–by confiding in you, telling you about certain parts of my life/past and/or being myself around you, then you’re extremely special to me. 

And that means something–like a lot of something. And as much as I hate to admit it, I tend to give people more chances than they deserve–and not surprisingly, I get hurt. Often. Which, as you can imagine, doesn’t do wonders for one’s ability to trust–and it just keeps the cycle going–I reluctantly trust, I realize I shouldn’t have trusted, I get worse at trusting people. Great.

So what does all of this have to do with anything? Well, it’s relevant insofar as I need to get out of this cycle–and to do that, I need to start being harder on people who treat me poorly. Harder, like ejecting them from my life and keeping them ejected. Now, I just need to learn how to do that. xo

So, that happened. It’s really no biggie, but still. As many of you know (from my talking about it–pervs), I don’t like to wear panties, but I wear them to keep my mom happy (it’s a very long story). I may be a rebel, but if my mom asks me for something that I can give her–I give it to her. Period. 

Okay, so, there’s a stack of freshly laundered undies with the zebra ones all visible behind my cat in a recent picture. Given how much personal stuff I share online, this is like nothing, but, call me old fashioned–I think that it’s kind of rude to let my undie laundry show on a picture that I’m posting. Because no one wants to see that, right? Yup, I’m a dork. 

This first full week of being truly apart from J has been odd–sad, a little lonely, hopeful and a little angry. Make that just angry. No little about it. I’m mad. Mad that I’ve spent the last 5 1/2 years of my life trying so hard to be the perfect partner, failing miserably, having my heart broken over and over–so many lies, being nothing but a disappointment and knowing that I had, once again, found a guy who will treat me like me father does. By that, I mean, is dismissive of my concerns, desires and questions, acts like I am a pest or a burden or a disappointment most of the time and just really doesn’t seem to enjoy my company. Now, I know, waa, waa waa–call me when you have a real problem. I get it–I do. My life has been privileged–and I do owe that to my parents and their generosity. And on the grand scale of things, I really don’t have much to complain about. 

However, I am finally starting to see and believe that I deserve to have good things too–not just everyone else. My happiness is not the price I pay to live in this world with people less fortunate than I. I have just had the misfortune to have entangled my life with people who saw that weakness and exploited it to the fullest of their abilities. And I was just sitting there, stupid as fuck, because I was grateful, yes, GRATEFUL, that they even wanted me around. It’s ridiculous when I say it out loud–but it is honestly the way that I feel a lot of the time. I am honestly a little surprised when anyone wants to spend time with me. But I’m working on it–and am slowly getting better. 

So yeah, that’s why I’m even telling you this–not to have a Friday-night pity party, but so maybe someone might realize that they can do this too. That they can see for themselves that they deserve happiness. And that sacrificing themselves, who they are and their happiness is not the price they pay to live here either.