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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.

So, gorgeous friends, my life is changing at such a rapid pace it is hard to even keep track of what’s going on anymore. As I mentioned in my previous post, J will no longer be living with me. That’s the biggest change–and it will take a lot of getting used to. I will have to become comfortable with being alone at night, in the dark–sleeping alone. That will probably be weirder than I can really anticipate. But I’ll get used to it. And no, I’m not currently taking applications for other-side-of-the-bed occupancy. 

Another equally large change, which is related to the first one, is that this is the first time I’ve been entirely single since late-1996, when Adolf and I got back together. J and I have been in an open relationship for almost the past year, so I was kind of single for all intents and purposes when it came to dating. But this is single-single–like I am on my own right now–and I’m not entirely unhappy about it. 

Sure, I will ALWAYS love J forever and completely–but this year seems like an excellent time to work on getting back to me. I have to figure out how to reconcile the single me with my entire reality–things like depending on only myself to make sure that things get done. Before, I always had resentment and blame to fall back on when certain stuff didn’t get handled–now, it’s all on me–and I am really excited about the challenge.

So, yeah, it’s been a while. Sorry about that. 

Well, gorgeous friends, first things first. J is no longer living with me when I move into the new house. His alcoholism finally destroyed what was left of our relationship–left meaning, what was still there after I caught him cheating last fall. We split off everything last Thursday night. Although it was already an open relationship, J got really drunk, got angry with me and wanted out. So, I got the door for him. 

Ordinarily, I would have been very upset, trying to smooth everything over, regardless of how ridiculous his questions and accusations got. In the past, I would have said whatever it took to talk him down. 

Now, no. I can’t take it anymore. I can’t take the uncertainty, never knowing what I’m coming home to–a raging drunk, a relatively sober guy or someone who I won’t see until midnight because he will be passed out until then. Some of you knew this, and some of you didn’t, but now you do. That’s all that I really want to say about this, because it’s not just about me. J deserves his privacy. 

As for everything else, it’s about the same as it’s been since I moved into my parents’ guest room–except that the water bill is 20$ higher than before I moved in. Never mind that my mom waters her gardens every day with a sprinkler in each garden for about an hour. I’m sure that’s not contributing to a higher water bill. It’s all me. I confess. 

With that, I’m off to bed–well, to watch Pulp Fiction in bed. Laters. xo

So, it’s the evening of July 5th–and the holiday weekend is officially over–which for me, is really no big because I have nothing to do tomorrow anyhow, except pick out paint colors. It’s not as easy as it sounds, given that my designer’s primary job seems to be bringing me back to Earth when I get too outlandish in my selections–and my job seems to be making ridiculous, colorful choices. 

In this instance, I want very cool blue-whites all over the upstairs, except maybe a soft pink white in the bedroom, closet and main bath. I know that my designer will say no to the blue white because it’s so cold, but that’s exactly how I want it to look–spare, arctic and icy. The furniture and art can warm it up–but I want to look good in my own home–which means the cooler the better when it comes to shades of white. 

It’s Monday now, and things are only as they can be in a life as odd as mine. The doorbell woke me at 730am with a bunch of parcels–most likely of items that I ordered while under the influence (not alcohol) during the holiday weekend. Shopping while intoxicated has become a fun, but expensive, hobby wherein I order things while inebriated and then try to guess what will be in the packages that arrive. Today, it was tshirts in a small parcel–ones that say, “#Imnoangel. I have yet to check the larger box–but the return address says, “Feminist Apparel”, so I can only imagine what I ordered. You’ll know when I know. 

Another development is the return of a friend who wasn’t a friend for a while and who was the subject of an earlier article. I’m torn as to whether I should be friends with him again, given that he hurt me really very badly–and that he’ll likely do it again. The problem is that during the time he was gone–I genuinely missed him and probably will again as soon as he dumps our friendship in favor of pursuing a relationship with some rando. They will always come first for him. I know that, but I hate it. 

Somewhere, somehow, my life has gotten a little off track. Sure, I made a huge career change when I went back to school, not for the LLM in Taxation at Wayne State, like I had planned–but for the MSW that I had always wanted to pursue. 

I am more temperamentally suited to be a social worker and therapist–or so I thought. Once I had gotten into the swing of classes, although I loved it and felt like this is where I finally belonged, if I were being honest–I’m more temperamentally suited to be a litigator–even now. And I am fine with that. I have to be–it’s who I am. Why is this relevant? 

Because, while I have more than enough love and empathy for anybody who wants some–I run into problems–interpersonal problems–when I let my inner litigator take control of my brain–especially in the this-is-what-we’re-going-to-do sector. To understand this and me, you should know that my litigator writes these posts, my social worker edits and makes sure that they are kind. My litigator drives, my social worker navigates. My litigator is a shark, my social worker is the dolphin that chases the shark away. It works–most of the time–until I decide to let the litigator crash through what should be the domain of the social worker–and I am still cleaning up that mess. 

A few weeks ago, I began the process of writing the book that I’ve always wanted to write. The topic is covered in depth in the post about Jack, if you care for a more involved treatment. In a nutshell, I set out to find a few men to interview about their sexual predilections to explore how misogyny is expressed within the context of Internet anonymity. Which brings us to my current predicament. 

You know how Chris Martin writes massively popular love songs for public consumption? Well, somewhere, there is a woman who inspired him–she hears, “A Sky Full of Stars”, and probably swoons or something. Well, she gets a sky full of stars–I get an inbox full of dicks. I am a post-modern muse (according to a couple of friends), and sadly, dick pics are de riguer. I wonder if this would have happened if I had let my social worker write my bios, my intros and my chats? Probably not. Despite the dicks, I still think I made the right choice about doing things as I did. I’ve found several worthy interview subjects–and currently have enough material to start writing–which was the goal. But how do I let the most current subject down easily? He has made it pretty necessary by being somewhat of an ass–but I still feel pangs of guilt about using another person this way. This guilt exists in spite of his willingness and eagerness to use me for sex. And I guess that this is part of what the book is about also–the idea of feelings like guilt–is there a place for it in anonymous interactions? Should there be? Here is a man who is happily cheating on his wife, in her home and in her bed–should I feel guilty about telling him to get lost now that I have the material that I need from him? And how do I get him to stop sending me so many pictures of his dick? xo