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Matthew Hussey, Mansplainer or Romance Guru

July 18, 2017

I have 92 minutes left on the dryer and this has been on a loop in my head all day so …
let’s see if we can get this done shall we?

I am pro Matthew Hussey.

But after posting a few videos of his to my page and my profile I am realizing not everyone is.

So be it.

 

 

To be fair, this was posted by one of the strongest women I know. Who also has no interest in a relationship. So really, these aren’t the droids you’re looking for.

And there’s that word again…Should.

Ya, a lot of us should be able to do a lot of things. And yet, here we are. Lost and confused as a whole.

Some things that are blatantly obvious to some of us are not as obvious to others. Experience or ego gets in the way.

I picture myself like her when I get older. She is single, ferociously independent and happy as is. I don’t expect to find one person to live happily ever after with. I am 43 now, I am happy, I have my dog, my life, my words, my son and my friends. I am fulfilled. And yet, I do keep trying with men. I like them and I love sex.

The second coming comment reminds of this “so he can make you cum that doesn’t make him Jesus” Tori Amos

Which lends itself to “little girls shouldn’t treat little boys they happen to meet like little gods” Voice of the Beehive.

And yet, we do. I do anyways. I give control of my happiness and self-esteem over to men who can’t even handle their own shit much less me at my best or worst. Or I used to. I am getting better. A lot of that comes with finding joy in being alone. But that is another post for another day.

Another opinion on Mr. Hussey Media usually placates to the lowest common denominator. Agreed, woman need to take more control, but personal accountability isn’t something our government/society encourages. I’ve never met him, he might have his heart in the right place, but his biceps and hair…..? Anyone that tries to explain a formula for finding love has to be digging for gold. There isn’t one.

Valid points. There is no formula for something that is as varied as our hearts and life experiences.

And yes, this is a different time for women. It’s so hard to find a balance when any show of strength gets you labelled a bitch and any show of open sexuality gets you called a whore.

But if you listen to him, he talks to women like people.

It’s not the biceps or the hair, nor the accent, which by the way has been scientifically proven to put us both at ease and under the assumption the bearer of an English accent is intellectually superior and trustworthy. Weird right? England had a long standing tradition of invading other countries and fucking shit up…but maybe that’s why it’s both familiar and authoritative.

Nearly naked girls sell products, British accents sell ideas.

The world has pretty much figured this out as a whole and I cannot see it changing anytime soon. I personally like to fall asleep to David Attenborough’s snake charming grandfather timber, so there is that then.

I cannot remember the first Matthew Hussey video I saw. I think it was the one about unrequited love being worship.

Thunderpunch to the heart chakra. Here I was thinking it was romantic and pure and a testament to my piousness and devotion. Nope, nuh-uh. We shouldn’t worship people. Relationships are partnerships and when they are one-sided, it’s just sad and a waste of perfectly good effort and emotion.

I felt liberated.

I have since added this to my life practices when assessing romantic situations and writing about them. I mean I was kinda there, but the way he said it, made it click home, hard.

And therein lies the secret of his success and why I find him both refreshing and useful.

When he speaks, to me, things click.

I don’t equate this with mansplaining. Mansplaining to me is a ‘not all men’, ‘but what about men’, ‘this goes for guys too’, and the worst offenders the men who speak overtop of women and just say exactly what the woman just said and all the other men in the room all suddenly agree.

Matthew Hussey doesn’t do that.

And yes, sometimes he is Captain Obvious. But so is Dr. Phil and errrbody eats his condescending circus shit up with a spoon. To me Dr. Phil isn’t any kind of therapist, he’s just more logical than most people.

The reason for both their success?

No, not Oprah…

It is because logic becomes gospel. It’s rare.

The most commonly asked question I hear from women with man problems is “Well, what did he mean?”

To which I invariably answer, “Well what were the words he used? He meant those words in that order.”

It’s a good rule of thumb.

This isn’t always true exactly. Fuckboys speak their own language, which Matthew Hussey and I both have covered extensively, his stuff gets more hits but it’s not a competition.

Women, as a general rule, are emotional and complicated thinkers. Men as a general rule are more logical and simpler creatures. Unless it comes to building cars because heaven forfuckingbid they put them together so you only need 3 tools to fix them, nope, 27 different screwdrivers, torque wrenches, regular wrenches imperial measurements, metric measurements all on the same damned car. The fuck guys, it’s almost like you don’t want us to fix our own vehicles.

Where was I? Oh ya. Emotion versus logic and simple versus complex.

Now. When dealing with human beings in general we all carry the narcissistic trait of using our own base of emotion and experience to assess any situation. It is unfair to say its narcissistic actually. All we have is our own viewpoint and reality really. But where the problem arises is when women expect men (or vice versa) to process information, events, tasks etc. the way SHE would.

Ain’t gonna happen. Again, generalization. Some men have more empathy, have been raised by women/around women and can thereby ‘get it’ a little better than others. Same scenario with women. But for the intents and purpose of this article I am speaking of the average cisgender, sexually mature male and female human. Factory default settings I guess.

I know plenty of women and men that are terrified of the opposite sex. To the point where they will have a crush and go months without saying a word or approaching this person.

Personally? I’m not like that. If I want you, you’ll know. But, stepping outside of my own viewpoint, I can see the use for people like Matthew Hussey and other life/relationship coaches. I’ve been to therapy, I needed and adultier adult with a fresh perspective. To me, that is what Matthew Hussey does, just gives a fresh perspective to those who NEED it.

Don’t need it? Don’t watch him.

I don’t care for wine so I don’t drink it, leave it for the wine drinkers to enjoy. I don’t complain about it, I don’t question the existence of wine. I simply don’t imbibe.

I said earlier I don’t remember the first Matthew Hussey video I saw, I think it was the unrequited love is bullshit, but again, I can’t be sure.

I do know the last one I saw and I’ll post the links at the end.

Thunderpunch to the heart chakra.

He equated being in love, and losing that person, to quitting an addiction.

Fuck, yes. That is exactly what it is.

And me with my graveyard of zombified ex-lovers who just love love to randomly pop into my inboxes. I can testify it IS a rush, it IS a fix.

Hello, my name is Sarah and I am an addict.

Those messages send an opioid rush through my system, feels like sunshine to be remembered. And since I loathe unanswered messages, and I want to get high, I always message back. Usually within minutes.

He went on to talk about how healing and potentially getting that person back being the same process. If a man feels he has nothing to lose he will keep putting in the bare minimum to keep you around, after all, you are his fix too.

I have moments of awakening. At least 2 in the last few months have been because of Matthew Hussey. For that I am grateful.

I can dole out good, sound, responsible relationship advice to everyone on the planet, I’m really good at it. I rarely follow it. So I am one of those people who needs to hear what that man has to say, because for whatever reason…I actually listen.

We need more love in the world. Less fear, second guessing, less confusion and heartache.

I am behind anyone who tries to make it so.

To me he is just another logical light in the chaotic dark.

 

http://www.howtogettheguy.com

 

https://www.facebook.com/pg/CoachMatthewHussey/videos/?ref=page_internal

 

 

 

 

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Shatter Your Delusions of Love, Lol.

July 15, 2017

I have to go buy black dress pants and a black shirt and I don’t want to.

It’s not for the funeral. I am not going to the funeral.

I am cooking for the barbecue tomorrow after the funeral and I am happy about this because Jesus Christ I need a job. When something like this happens I need a job. I need something productive and helpful to do.

Not just when something like this happens, always. I always need to feel useful.

My inner 50’s housewife has been in hyper drive lately and I can’t shut her off. Like a Stepford wife on Adderall and lithium batteries. No rest for the wicked.

I am buying black dress pants and a black shirt because I am taking a bartending gig tonight and the woman in charge hates skirts. Even though it’s 90 degrees I will acquiesce to her request because I want this job. Even though I can cut and stack firewood, cook, clean, change a tire, mow the lawn and do pretty much everything in a skirt, I will abide this woman in charge.

I want this job so bad.

I want this job because I want to be normal.

I don’t want to be the ‘did you hear he’s dating a stripper’ girl anymore.

It’s not who I am, it might have been who I was but it isn’t who I am.

I don’t want to be disposable anymore because of what I do.

It’s not who I am.

I am learning I have value.

I am having a funeral of sorts in my head. For that girl that I was, for finally getting to the end of my fantasyland fairy-tale bullshit delusion I had in my head about happily ever after. Because there was no happily ever after.

I acquiesced to his request and he said lol.

No the end. No horse and carriage no marriage. No good girl or my girl or okay baby.

Just lol.

The shutdown ‘word’ of all fuckboys and men.

The ‘I don’t want to deal with your feelings and I can’t be bothered to type ha-ha so” lol.

Lol = I don’t care enough to respond.

The international word for ‘just kidding’ when we all know there is a whole lotta truth behind every just kidding, like if I gave permission he’d say okay.

But I am not giving permission.

What we allow is what will continue.

We are in charge of our own fate and our own fairy tales. We get to write the ending however we chose and when the prince reveals himself to be a fuckboy in tinfoil instead of a knight in shining armor then we get to say, this isn’t how this ends for me.

Next chapter.

And we will hold tiny funerals in our hearts and our girlfriends say nothing because they tried and tried and tried to tell you that you were a side piece but you couldn’t see the color red until it was all you could see.

I am not coleslaw.

I ain’t even mad.

I did this to myself.

I had a cabin in the woods in my head and I lived there with someone who didn’t make time which is why I had so much time to make these stories up in my head.

And when I told him he just said lol.

It wasn’t a no, so I ran with it.

Straight into a brick wall because I was blind and I couldn’t see.

And he said he would turn my imaginary hammock into a sex swing and I said I love you.

I fucking love you.

After months of tasting blood in my mouth from keeping it off my tongue.

I tell my friends every day that I love them, but with the men in my life it’s been harder to say. I hold it back. The last 10 years I have said it 3 times and only once was it returned.

But it wasn’t with him.

He said I wasn’t allowed.

No lol.

A full on nope.

And it still took me days of denial and a harsh text about something else before it hit me.

He doesn’t love me.

He is never going to love me.

The imaginary cabin in the woods burned to the ground.

Nature will take it back.

That burned black space that was left behind when the fire came and took away any idea of home and comfort.

Then something else can grow there.

Something real.

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Queens and the Fools who don’t even Try to Love Them

July 13, 2017

PIC is home, maintaining, with ALL OF THE DOGS. Angelface is at work, heading to Hawaii shortly. Manda Bear is sleeping and getting her hair did and only had one breakdown yesterday. Panda was in bed with RuPaul, but she ate finally. Kidlet ate too and listened to polka with me in the car.

Okay, I can breathe now.

I still can’t remember what we all did on Sunday. I feel like we were together and it was good, amen, that will have to do.

Then life happened. More specifically death and cheating.

Wish we could turn back time, to the good old days, when the mama sang us to sleep but now we’re stressed out. 21 Pilots

We are stressed out.

When something happens to one of us, it happens to all of us. It’s not my pain, its hers but it hurts just the same.

It’s been a calendar year since the boyfriend of one of us went on a 5 day bender, sent himself into a cocaine psychosis, attacked the girls in the car and landed himself in the hospital. Almost a year to the day since he sent her life into chaos, and just as she was getting it back together, he died.

She knew it was coming. Just like meteorologists know these super storms are coming, but it doesn’t stop the devastation.

He loved drugs more than life and finally got his wish to be free of the mortal coil.

Death doesn’t stop the pain, it just transfers it to someone else.

I wish he would have realized this.

There were no words or quotes or actions that could have stopped it.

Kidlet lost a friend the same day. 2 weeks in a coma and he finally let go.

Panda found out some bad news as well, and after she laughed, she cried.

We are all in varying stages of grief over varying scenarios and for each other.

I feel like I jinxed us. Like I thumbed my nose at fate. We were all on an upswing, all adulting and I said so, out loud.

“No stress, I feel light as a feather right now.”

That was Monday, before work. Before the bad news.

We got together Tuesday morning and spent the day with each other.
We swam, they drank, I fished, we ate. We laughed and cried and on the way home 2 of them screamed NOOOOOOO emphatically in the back of my car.
It was a wonderful horrible day.

I finally crumbled late Tuesday night after playing strong all day. East side Mario’s parking lot, 9:30 at night. All I wanted was a chicken Caesar salad and some normalcy.
He asked if I was alright, I gripped the steering wheel so tight I could have broken it in half and said no.
“What’s wrong?”
These are my best friends, amazing women all of them, and they deserve better than this life and these men that die, lie, leave, beat, steal and cheat.
That’s why I cried.
That and for my son’s friend and his hardened heart, that growing up a city kid, it’s normal to lose multiple friends by the age of 21.

These women of mine are Queens goddamnit! Where the kings at?

So far it’s just been jokers and fools and little fuckboys refusing to grow up.

I weep for their parents. I thank god for my son and the luck that has gotten us this far.

I weep for my girls, and for me and I thank god again that we found each other in the dark.

Can we just take a good long look at how we treat each other? How we drop everything to be with each other. How we hold each other up and love each other. How we can say ANYTHING without judgement or repercussions. How even on our worst days when one of us is being a total cunt muffin we still love each other. Can we please realize that this kind of love exists? That we deserve nothing less from Anyone we let into our space. Men included. I fucking love you bitches with my whole heart. I don’t have room for any man who can’t keep up, show up and man up.

I say I don’t. But it will be my turn to cry soon enough. Or maybe it won’t. Maybe we can wake up one morning and decide to change.

I told Panda not long ago, “if he spent every minute of every hour for the next ten years trying to man up and be what you deserve, maybe then I could forgive him. But he just wants to throw phones and tantrums.”

Step up or get out.

That goes for all of them and all of us.

I don’t have much money, but boy if I did, I’d buy a big house where we all could live. Elton John

With a big sign on the front gate.

QUEENS ONLY, NO FUCKBOYS ALLOWED.

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Unrequited Love and Funerals for the Living

July 13, 2017

Authors note:
I wrote this on Monday for publishing on Tuesday. Woke up at 8:49 am, walked to the porch for a cigarette after I’d put the kettle on. Just like every other morning. But unlike every other morning Panda opened the door and said “___ died last night, I am on my way to Manda Bear’s”.
Her face was swollen from crying. I opened our group chat and saw the texts. My heart broke.

I am currently wracking my brain trying to remember what we did on Sunday, but I can’t. And maybe that is some bliss in itself.

I know Tuesday by 11:30 we were all gathered on a patio, just to be together. I had more bad news, but that can wait for another post.

I am telling you this because I rushed this post. My girls wanted something to read and distract so I shoved it out of the nest without spellcheck etc…

So here is the revised version.


I Walk on Water by Kaleo YouTube, that is what I was looking for.

Actually looking for Peter Gabriel singing I Grieve, which I found, then Kaleo

Because I grieve, I grieve for you and you leeeeeave you leave me…

And also I do walk on water…

Except when I don’t.

I sink and I swim and I float.

Had a good float going.

But Nooooo YouTube is trying to kill me, Explosions in the Sky, the album “Those who Tell the Truth Shall Die, Live Forever” (the album) just came up.

Fuck you YouTube. I didn’t need reminding, I never forget.

That’s I all I ever do.

Remember and tell my truth, the whole of it and nothing but the truth so help me god.

Help me god, seriously. Need a little help down here.

I know I’ve sinned, it’s what I do but I cannot abide a lord who would give me a body like this that does the things it does and then says ‘nay Sister Sarah, deny thine fine self.’

I’ll make my own kingdom of heaven here just in case I’m wrong and I don’t get in.

Heaven once was Black 19/Moonface or picking up take out and coming over for couch cuddles.

“I miss the way he talked” Panda said.
Me too baby, me too.
And him cutting his eyes at me while we were watching a movie because he knew I wasn’t paying attention to anything but the curve of his top lip, and how it curled when he knew I was looking.

I sent the bulk of this post to our Sara of Lords. I was in the car on my way back from a bar.

Not a fan of bars.

When did I stop dancing and singing and smiling? Who told me my teeth were ugly and my voice unpleasant and my dancing awkward?

And why did I listen?

I know who…Varying exes and toxic friends. My sister mocked my singing voice until I just stopped. For like 30 years I didn’t sing. Now I sing in the car, alone. One person has heard me, once, because I didn’t care.

And I know why. I didn’t love me. I didn’t love me because I didn’t know me. I am still learning.

I’m getting better, in this circle of friends I have. I don’t have to care about what they think because they love me, tone deaf derpy dumb girl that I am.

When they hurt, I hurt. And some of them are hurting right now. These mens of ours are not doing right by us.

I can sit here like some wise woman on top of a mountain doling out wisdom about heartache and how I’ve overcome losing men I’ve loved.
How I survived being the girl you fuck but never marry. but I gotta tell you a secret.
It could be 2am or noon and sometimes it’ll just hit me that one or all of them or gone and it’s a sucker punch to my heart.

It fucking hurts.

I dread running into Giant and his traveling waitress because I know I’ll time-travel back to the girl who ugly cried and chain smoked in her bedroom begging for another chance while Panda and kiddo pulled their hair out trying to pull me out of my heartbreak funk. I don’t think the hurt would last as long as the first time, but still. Wounds reopen and you never can tell.

Every breakup is a loss.

You have to mourn.

It’s the same as death.

And we have to get up.

Someones gotta buy the milk and walk the dog.

You force yourself.

You baby step and purge. The time spent not crying starts getting longer like the days leading up to summer.

Then you start deleting messages and pictures like pulling out splinters so your body can heal itself.

My girl sent me pics of her ex.

So she ‘knows they exist somewhere’ before she deletes them.

I wish I was so brave

My inboxes folders and archives read like war memorial. Date of birth, date of death, pics and screenshots.

They have to exist somewhere just in case I start feeling crazy, like it was always unrequited and maybe I was just too blind to see. But I open them from time to time, I wasn’t blind, they said those things.

I know this shall pass.

But right now I am thinking about the Muay Thai Fighter and his face when he opened the door and saw me in the red dress, or when the Hulk saw me in the other red dress.

Red dresses instead of black.

Funerals for the living.

Those whose eyes used to light up when I walked in the room turning to cold, dead stares.

I remember when I lost my joy, just like I remember every kiss every hit.

When my Jeep got plowed into from behind and we rolled and skidded for a mile all my muscle memories were lost on impact. I barely remember learning to walk and talk again, but I did it. I am here.

I still get jolted awake in the night remembering the accident to but I got behind the wheel and drove. I got back on stage with knees made of jell-o and agonizing pain and I did it. I moved.

Bravery is movement anyways.

It is dragging yourself out of bed with a broken heart, crying in the shower hoping no one and everyone hears you, but you have to get it out because it’s killing you.

It’s waking up one morning down the road and not crying first thing. Its moments of forgetting that stretch into hours and eventually days.

Its seeing punch buggies and not cringing, its hearing that song on the radio or smelling that cologne and not having the sting of tears breach your ducts and hit your cheeks.

You think you won’t live, but you will.

And scientifically speaking, 7 years from the last day they touched you and it burned like a hot stove that you couldn’t keep your hands off, your body gifts you with regenerated cells that they haven’t ever been privy to.

Memories fade. Time moves forward whether we want it to or not.

And at least we have each other.

 

dancing girls

No Rules

July 12, 2017

PIC loves to say ‘no rules’. She usually has a drink in her hand and is about to get up to some kind of mischief. But we love her.

I once called her a balloon. We just hold the string and keep her away from sharp things as she floats.

It’s a good analogy. I occasionally hit one out of the park.

I called Panda’s ex ‘human margarine’. He is. No substance, just a grease stain on some white bread offering nothing but empty calories in paste form. A barely edible oil product.

Speaking of which, there are some rules.

Human Serotonin remarked the other day “I don’t know how you and Panda can live together, no one can live with friends and stay friends, but you two make it work.”

That we do. I stay home, she goes out. She takes me out and I keep her home. Yin and Yang baby.

I also follow the rule of 5.

If it’s not going to bother me in 5 hours, 5 days or 5 years. I keep my motherfucking mouth shut. Ya, she gets ready in a rush and leaves her creepy as fuck hair extensions on the bathroom floor and I hate it. So I pick them up so my dog doesn’t pee on them, my dog thinks she is people and has to pee on the bathmat. Both irritating things, but this is life.

She is my sunshine my only sunshine, she makes me happy when skies are grey.

We used to Tinder together, scroll scroll swipe swipe oh hey look at this one.

She’d turn her phone to face me, showing and telling and my invariable reply was “He’s not my type, but I get it, go git it girl.”

And vice versa. She can usually find something endearing or understandable about the men I bring home. Like referring to the Hulk as ‘the guy who reminds me of my dad.’ Or about Moonface ‘he was really hood for you, but I liked the way he talked.’

We balance. I don’t want to wear her clothes very often and I don’t care if she wears mine.

We have different styles and tastes in men and everything. This is why we work.

My shortcomings are her strengths and her strengths balance my bullshit out.

And deep down at our core, we share a moral code.

Even if she paraded some Adonis through the house with angel wings and the body of a panty soaking Greek god, I wouldn’t blink. I shall not want. My friendship with all of my girls is much too valuable to me to trash it over some boy who is probably gonna end up trash anyways.

I have a few posts fighting it out in my head right now. Moonface is among them, which leads me to another tale along the riverbank.

Once upon a time in a strip club not far away I saw a boy and I liked him. PIC saw him too and liked him too. But I saw him first and after talking to him I was smitten. Now normally I would take one for the team and hand him over on a platter, but I didn’t. That one selfish bone in my body won the day, or the night really. PIC was pissed, fair enough. She said as much but I already knew it and I had a good idea about what it was about. I waited. She waited. We both waited until the situation had diffused enough to talk to each other like grownups. I apologized sincerely, she accepted it. She wanted me to be happy. We moved forward.

And in the grand scheme of things I did actually take one for the team because he borrowed money and disappeared. Better me than PIC. I got this, it’s in my wheelhouse to just take the pain.

So what happens when someone outside of our group starts seeing the ex of someone in the group?
And what if said ex happens to be the big bad, aka human margarine.

Well, we rally.

We were already pre-rallied so she was surrounded by a protective circle of women as the news came out of my mouth. She howled.

We warned the outsider that he is bad news. It is our obligation as women to point out red flags to the colorblind. The question remains however, how much loyalty is to be shown by someone who was never one of us? There is a girl code and this is pretty bad.

Nothing is ever good with that fucker. For someone I have met three times he has caused an awful lot of chaos drama and pain in my life.

I have a bad feeling shit is about to hit the fan again and he is the one with his pants down.

So be it.

My girls are my heart.

I will never take their men, I will always take their side and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I have a feeling I am going to walk into the drama den aka work tomorrow and crucified, and I have hit this point beyond caring. I did the right thing. Anyone would have done the same in my shoes, anyone worth knowing anyways.

I told the truth. It’s what I do. Tried to keep a girl I don’t even like from getting hit and tried to keep Panda from getting hurt further. I’ll take that bullet, thanks.

We need to shrug off these chains we have been given, that women should compete with each other. It is only serving to hold us down and keep us controlled. When what we really need to do is rally around each other.

Women need to have each other’s backs like we do when we are drunk in bar bathrooms.

Those are the only rules.

 

Uncategorized

Love and Funerals for the Living

July 11, 2017

I Walk on Water by Kaleo YouTube, that is what I was looking for.

Actually looking for Peter Gabriel singing I Grieve, which I found, then Kaleo

Because I grieve, I grieve for you and you leeeeeave you leave me…

And also I do walk on water…

Except when I don’t.

I sink and I swim and I float.

Had a good float going.

But Nooooo YouTube is trying to kill me, Explosions in the Sky, the album “Those who Tell the Truth Shall Die, Live Forever” (the album) just came up.

Fuck you YouTube. I didn’t need reminding, I never forget.

That’s I all I ever do.

Remember and tell my truth, the whole of it and nothing but the truth so help me god.

Help me god, seriously. Need a little help down here.

I know Ive sinned, it’s what I do but I cannot  abide a lord who would give me a body like this that does the things it does and then says ‘nay Sister Sarah, deny thine fine self.’

I’ll make my own kingdom of heaven here just in case I am wrong and I don’t get in.

Heaven was Black 19/Moonface picking me up from work, or picking up take out and coming over for couch cuddles.

“I miss the way he talked” Panda said. Me too baby, me too. And him cutting his eye at me while we were watching a movie because he knew I wasn’t paying attention to anything but the curve of his top lip and how it curled when he knew I was looking.

I sent the bulk of this post to our Sara of Lords. I was in the car on my way back from a bar.

Not a fan of bars.

When did I stop dancing and singing and smiling? Who told me my teeth were ugly and my voice unpleasant and my dancing awkward?

And why did I listen?

I can sit here like some wise woman on top of a mountain doling out wisdom. About heartache and how I’ve overcome losing men I’ve loved. How I survived being the girl you fuck but never marry but I gotta tell you a secret. It could be 2am or noon and sometimes it’ll just hit me that one or all of them or gone and it’s a sucker punch to my heart. It fucking hurts.

I dread running into Giant and his traveling waitress because I know I will travel back to the girl who ugly cried and chain smoked in her bedroom begging for another chance while Panda and kiddo pulled their hair out trying to pull me out of my heartbreak funk. I don’t think the hurt would last as long as the first time, but still. Wounds reopen and you never can tell.

Every breakup is a loss.

You have to mourn.

It’s the same as death.

And we have to get up.

Someones gotta buy the milk and take out the trash.

You force yourself.

You baby step and purge. The time spent not crying starts getting longer like the days leading up to summer.

Then you start deleting messages and pictures like pulling out splinters so your body can heal itself

My girl sent me pics of her ex

So she ‘knows they exist somewhere’ before she deletes them.

I wish I was so brave

My inboxes folders and archives read like war memorial. Date of birth date of death, pics and screenshots.

They have to exist somewhere just in case I start feeling crazy, like it was always unrequited and maybe I was just too blind to see. But I open them from time to time, I wasn’t blind, they said those things.

I know this shall pass.

But right now I am thinking about Muay Thai matt and his face when he opened the door and saw me in the red dress, or when mike saw me in the other red dress

Red dresses instead of black.

I remember when I lost my joy, just like I remember every kiss every hit.

When my jeep got plowed into from behind and we rolled and skidded for a mile all my muscle memories were lost on impact. I barely remember learning to walk and talk again, but I did it. I am here.

I still get jolted awake in the night remembering the accident to but I got behind the wheel and drove. I got back on stage with knees made up jell and agonizing pain and I did it. I moved.

Bravery is movement anyways.

It is dragging yourself out of bed with a broken heart, crying in the shower hoping no one and everyone hears you, but you have to get it out because it’s killing you.

It’s waking up one morning down the road and not crying first thing. Its moments of forgetting that stretch into hours and eventually days.

Its seeing punch buggies and not cringing, its hearing that song on the radio or smelling that cologne and not having the sting of tears breach your ducts and hit your cheeks.

You think you won’t live, but you will.

And scientifically speaking, 7 years from the last day they touched you and it burned like a hot stove that you couldn’t keep your hands off, your body gifts you with regenerated cells that they haven’t ever been privy to.

Memories fade. Time moves forward whether we want it to or not. We move ever upwards on onwards.

 

Uncategorized

Butt Stuff (exactly what it sounds like, you’ve been warned)

July 7, 2017

 

 

This is the story of how our friend became known as Pink Starfish.

And also butt stuff.

But first.

Two stories.

I actually popped my bootyhole cherry before my regular one. Sixteen years old, drunken fumblings, rain soaked and kinda drunk in a tent with a boy I barely knew. I wasn’t just wet from the rain, had no idea what I was doing and…

Slip

Scream

And I ran, I ran so far away.

Popped my actual cherry a few days later and by comparison it didn’t hurt one bit.

One would think I would have been scared off butt stuff forever, but with patience lube and foreplay, I actually really like it. Not all day every day, actually absolutely no daytime anal ever, but for funsies, it’s a treat now and again. It’s the luxury of having actual time to spend, effort with reward and I get opiate like orgasms with these amazing warm rushes of awesome radiating out from my core.

Cue the bootyhole memes.

Sounds almost cute when you call it a bootyhole.

Human Serotonin is ‘dating’ this colossal giant of a man. She has stolen the Queen Buttstuff Champion title. This dude is ginormous. And I haven’t even told her about the Robaxecat trick. Just take one or two half an hour before butt stuff, possibly with a whiskey chaser.
Someone remind me to tell her, so maybe she can start sitting properly on chairs again.
I get it though. That want and need. The fullness factor. I am just not sure if I could handle it from a literal giant.
But I’d try.

Angelface put it best “it made me feel like his good little whore.”

Ya, that.

Then there was that time I got adventurous and threw a leg up over his shoulder just to see how deep the rabbithole goes and ended up stuck on the Skybridge with traffic down to one lane and sex cramps like I have never felt before, cranking music to drown out my moaning.

So there’s that then.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was getting a blow out yesterday with a new hairdresser and we did the chit chat thing. She told me some pretty personal stuff and kinda winced like I was going to judge her. Like a dog that’s been kicked too many times you know? Fuck I remember that feeling all too well, biting my tongue till it bled because I was afraid of judgement and ostracism by my peers.

I got shushed on a first date because I spoke openly about sex. I stopped walking and said ‘if this is going to be a problem take me home.’ He didn’t.

I finally found the golden key to freedom and enlightenment.

If I have to watch my mouth around people…

THOSE PEOPLE ARE NOT MY PEOPLE.

My PIC drunkenly wandering into the Playboy sex store on Bourbon Street in NOLA and buying a black, bedazzled princess plug. Our girly Sunday brunches where we ask to be put in the mezzanine away from other people because we know how we sound. Honest and crass and happy. They are home to me.

7 of us have a group chat where we talk about everything from boys to brunch to butt stuff. Holding each other up and together as a collective of awesome.

I am wondering if it’s just us that talk like this.

I hope not. This is the light and the way…

Me: So, I need permission to pull a couple quotes out of here for an article, everyone gets a nickname so it’s anonymous

Angelface: oooh what’s my nick name!

Me: Angelface

Angelface: Omg I love it. Yas permission granted

Me: Also, I haven’t written in like a month and it was killing me. I am fucking grateful for this convo and some inspiration finally. Love you bitchez

PIC: I’m excited to read the article

S______: Permission. Do I get a nickname?

Me: Your punk starfish shit dick comment in there but no names

*Pink starfish

Oh fuck. I think your nickname is pink starfish from now on. Sorry bout that

Conversations varied yesterday from ‘should I get that tattoo’ to armpit hair, to Angelface needs to get laid something fierce.

Later that same day…

 

Panda: Every now and again I get to that perfect drunk where I wanna get fucked hard…”PUT IT IN MY ASS” usually comes out…to which I immediately retract lmao

Manda Bear: I don’t like it hard necessarily. But I want to know you’re a sexual animal beast man from time to time. Butt stuff after wild rose cleanse and spicy food, Not the best idea I have had

Pink Starfish: OMG HAHAHA this is the best conversation ever!

PIC: I love getting fucked in the ass

Pink Starfish: I don’t see the appeal

PIC: It’s sooooo good

Me: Different kind of orgasm

Pink Starfish: It doesn’t do anything for me except give me anxiety that there will be  on his dick and stretch my little star fish out.

PIC: Well I mean… shit happens.
Everyone knows what the possibilities are.
They are aware.

AngelFace: My ex used to have a dick like a golf pencil and couldn’t use it. But he was amazing fucking my ass. And I felt like his good little whore after

Pink Starfish: Pencil dick in the ass. I’m okay with that.

Manda Bear: I’ve done it a few times, I’ve never liked it I don’t get it doesn’t feel good, it’s more of a mental thing, like look at me I’m a big girl I can take a dick in the ass!
Although having my ass licked is a whole new game

Pink Starfish: Tossed salad alllll day!

PIC: Yes!!!
Do you lick your guy’s ass?
Fingers?

Manda Bear: I have done many bum things to a man. I have done more bum things to a man than a man is done bum things to me

Me: My ex used to like it up the butt but he also had some fairly gay tendencies, like kissing dudes when he was wasted, so there is that then.

 

I do so hope and pray that it isn’t just us that talks this way.

I want to invite the hairdresser out to brunch and show her a whole new world. Too many girls out there lying back and thinking of England or using sex as a dangling carrot to modify their partner’s behavior. I pity them, I truly do.

Once I found people I could talk openly to, my sex life opened up too.

I got more comfortable with my body and her wishes and wants.

And sometimes, my body wants butt stuff.

 

dancing girls

Things I’ve Learned about Men (and myself) in Strip Clubs

July 6, 2017

This isn’t going to be what you think. Or maybe it will be…keep reading.

Once upon a time I dated a pro football player that I met in a strip club. I was 24.

After a few weeks of talking it was time for a visit. He came to my house, brought me flowers and took me out for dinner.

He was not the quickest bunny in the forest but he was chivalrous and HUGE.  Big fan of huge.

We got back to my house and cracked a couple beers whilst sitting on the couch, an attempt at extended foreplay I guess. We were both a little shy.

The subject of blowies came up as it often does, and he said “I can’t wait for that part, you must be really good at it. “

I said “Ya, I am but why do you think that?”

He replied “Well you’re a stripper so you must have had a lot of practice.”

I choked on my beer, not on his dick.

Wait, what now?

There’s a few things wrong with this story.

Number one, it was the 90’s in Ontario there was no contact, it was all air dances. He was from Buffalo and again not the sharpest knife in the drawer so I can understand not being well versed in geographically specific bi-laws, but still. You professed to care about me in spite of the fact that you think I’m sucking off random dudes in the back room 5 nights a week?

I still don’t get it.

Mind you I hadn’t thought about him in a decade and a half until it came time to sit down and write this, so there’s that then.

I was friends with a few porn stars back in the day and realized they are human and need love too. So that I get.

I could not wrap my head around him not asking me about it, just assuming. Head pun intended.

I showed him the door and never talked to him again.

333 words into this and I haven’t come close to saying what I want to say. You might want to grab a coffee, this is going to take a while.

That lil anecdote was put there for 3 reasons.
To keep you interested in what I have to say.
Admittance that I have indeed dated men I met at work.
And to point out the stereotypes that exist.

If I meet someone new and divulge that I am a dancer, as long as they don’t assume that I am some kind of mega whore because of my vocation, the first thing out of their mouth is usually ‘you must meet a lot of creeps’.

No, I actually don’t. There a few for sure, but there’s creeps at the coffee shop, the bus, the bar, the post office, the laundromat and I don’t have bouncers within 50 feet at those places. I feel safer in a strip club to be totally honest. I have been aggressively groped more waitressing at a regular bar than in my 19 years in strip clubs.

For the record my mega whoredom is my own and has nothing to do with work. But we’ll get to that.

Last night I was the one girl that approached the ‘hot’ guy that wandered into the bar. I asked if I could sit, he said yes and we talked about physics, the universe and a few conspiracy theories for about an hour. Which of course sent all the other girls into a fit because not only was he cute, he smelled good and had a brain. Personally, he didn’t seem that hot to me but it was nice to have an intellectual conversation to pass the time between shows.

The creeps are almost always the Brock Turner high school jock types that don’t understand the word no. They tend to come in on Fridays in packs of douchebaggery and Affliction t shirts. Not the older guys or the blue collar dudes who just want a beer a chat and to look at some boobs after work. I have met a ton of nice young ones too. Wolfling for one. Giant and Black 19 too.

I’ve also had a man say to me that the appeal of stiletto shoes is because “Y’all can’t run away.” Creepy.

My point here is you never can tell. Strip club patrons and their reasons for being in the bar are as varied as strippers and our reasons for being there. Which is to say very.

So moving on.

I have a group chat going with 7 of my best girls. It is my happy place, except for the googly eyed dick pic which I am probably gonna have nightmares about, thanks a lot.

The subject of butt stuff came up.

Actually it went from big dicks preferences and how to handle them (or not) to butt stuff.

One of the girls expressed concern for stretching out her little pink starfish and getting shit on her man’s dick. Legitimate fears.
But…and here is where the title is finally going to make sense men don’t care.

Me: I’m seeing a lot of sexual insecurity in here

PIC: Guys aren’t complaining they’re happy they’re gettin some

Me: PREACH.
Guys don’t care if your panties match or if your eyebrows look right or if you have a pot belly or get shit on their dick because you let them in the back door.

They want Pussy and peace. Bring those things to the table and you’re golden. Well…Pussy Peace and some butt stuff

We worry about how we look. They don’t. End of discussion. Sex without giving a fuck is bliss. No fucks. No rules. Smell nice and be nice. Anything beyond that you’re doing for yourself.

This is the gospel truth.

I get dances because I ask guys how their day was and I listen to their answers. Not because of how I look or dress. I wear t-shirts and boy shorts for fuck sakes.

I’ll tell you a secret, guys don’t care. I have seen women with atypical body types kill it at clubs because they are approachable and kind.
Me? I am 43 with crooked tits and a body full of tattoos. I am not everyone’s cup of tea. I am not blonde and blue eyed, my stage show isn’t anything special, but I still make money…with my mouth.

No, not like that, see the beginning of the article.

I used my words.

I get guys for the same reason.

I give good relationship advice because I realize the fundamental truth about the majority of men. They are simple. If they are hungry feed them, if they are horny fuck them, if they are sleepy let them sleep.

Your girlfriends are the ones to vent to, ask advice about butt stuff etc.

I have realized also, with this last thing I’ve been in. He’s not perfect, but my eyes gloss over the occasional pimple or neck scruff because he is more than those things. I am happy if he smells good and is being nice.

We live in a world with showers, get a little shit somewhere? Wash it off and move on.

Stop overthinking, I can guarantee he isn’t.

He wants pussy and peace, and maybe a sammich.

 

 

lost boys

Hearts and Moons

June 25, 2017

 

One of the more liberating things I have ever heard in my entire lifetime is that I am allowed to feel more than one thing at once.

I think I had the same sense of relief way back when I realized that bisexual was a thing I could be and was.

Still am to a degree. I admire and celebrate my girls girly bits a lil more than is normal I suppose but Manda Bear has got the butteriest-butter skin, Panda and Shae have got the booties like pow pow pow…and honestly, I think every stripper after a time learns to appreciate the female form in a way most women don’t. Naked is our normal.

I haven’t slept with a woman in years. Sisterwife kinda beat that want out of me. But hey, moving forward.

Where was I?

Oh ya. More than one thing at once.

Story of my life.

Double edged epiphanies. For the first forever of this blog I always started out “So two things happened”…because that is just how it is. I don’t tend to catch on the first time so I get two earth shaking signs from above, or below, depending.

I gotta try things more than once, reread books, rewatch movies because I might have missed something.

I am Jacob Two Two, forever repeating myself because I feel/felt unheard.

My newest noticeable MO/ blog phenomenon is writing an article, hitting publish and realizing I have WAY more to say and then writing part two.

To be totally honest all my articles have sucked donkey balls the last little while. Why not suck twice as hard in twice as many words…

I admit it. Massive drop in quantity and quality.

I used to have this schedule. Tuesday Thursday Sunday. Write for 3 hours or so, sometimes 16, sometimes the piece would just fall out pretty perfect in under an hour. But lately, I am of two minds about everything. My schedule has gone to shit. I need some structure and discipline dammit. I need to decide what I want to say before I say it. But alas, this is going to be yet another bit of free flow drivel.

I write better in the mornings and I have been sleeping til noon. Not okay.

I need to be a little bit easier on myself. I realize now, when speaking of newer boys or situations, I did not yet have all the facts, or their true nature hadn’t revealed itself or shit just changed as it always does.

Fuck, I used to write nicely about ex hubby. Can’t now really except to say he still continues to be a better father figure to my kid than my kid’s actual dad. So there’s that then.

It’s been a year and a day since Panda and I made our first pilgrimage to the beach and found me exactly what I had asked for the night before.  A nice and easy summer fling.

And for a time it actually was.

Just like for a time everything else was good.

Until it wasn’t.

I posted to Facebook a year ago today  “I do so love it when they open their mouths and by speaking become exponentially hotter.”
I read that and grinned. T’was the truth. Just because he is gone doesn’t make it less true.

I was never overly smitten with him. He was just a band-aid. Did his job quite nicely. I found out 6 months later that he had been engaged the whole time, but if I put on his giant size 13 work boots and walk a mile…I wouldn’t have said no to me either. Who wouldn’t want dinner and a good fuck after a 16 hour work day a million miles from home.

I don’t hate him.

 

 

 

I don’t hate much of anything. Never have. Pineapple on pizza, but I will pick them off and not make a fuss over it, it is pizza after all.

I have been accused of reading too much into things, thinking too much so I suppose that is a sort of fussing and possibly over analyzing. But that is kinda who I am as a person.

I can be happy for them moving on and forward and still be sad that they left me behind.

I end up alone with gaping holes in the landscape of my life, the spaces they used to fill. It’s a matter of time really. Suddenly I have more of it and less of him.

My heart looks like the moon. Craters everywhere from being smashed into. Hard to walk around sometimes. Everyone leaves a hole I gotta navigate around. And sometimes I fall back in.

Uncategorized

Sarah Needs…Rain (the sequel)

June 21, 2017

When any of the women in my old subdivision were pregnant and getting close to giving birth my dad would invariably grab his car keys and do this ridiculous dance on the beach. The Baby Bringing Dance I guess. I was embarrassed by this as a kid, now I find it hilarious.

The women would always say “Be careful Jon, that looks like a rain dance.”

Then the babies would come, and sometimes the rain.

I remember being able to calculate how much longer we had to play at the beach b y watching the clouds coming over the lake. Those slight puffs of cool air whispering “not long now”, and begrudgingly packing up our things and heading home before we got soaked.

Things change.

I find myself praying for rain.

And the gods see fit to manifest my prayers in thunderstorm risks, watches and warnings.

They have been plentiful, the watches and risks anyways. But, I want a warning, gimme an alert. High winds, torrential downpours and the sky cracking open with thunderous roars and big badabooms.

Mama Nature has seen fit to bless us with spectacular light shows in the evenings when they are of no use to me other than lulling me to sleep or making it unpleasant to go out for a smoke break at work depending.

I’m fucking freezing today.

I shouldn’t be, but I am. Funny how the body gets used to something and how cold it gets when that is taken away.

Everything is a metaphor, always.

It was 30 degrees for two or three days. Nice and hot.

We found a new spot to swim. A quarry 45 minutes away.

To get in the water you gotta jump.

I’m not a jumper, I am a walker inner. I grew up on a lake with sandbars. That is how I do things. Slowly then all at once.

Letting my lower limbs become acclimatised to the temperatures and only after this can I dive in.

To put this in perspective I live in Canada and we got from 30 below to 30 above depending on what equinox is closest.

Summer finally came after we skipped over spring entirely with snow days in May.

February was downright balmy, but we paid for it.

But enough about the weather.

I did that thing again where I posted something without thinking it through. The last something, about the nothing I am feeling.

I am uncomfortably numb.

Swimming last year, that was the terminology we used. “You can be in for 2 (or 10) minutes before you numb out.”

It was like that from June to July. The lake never flipped like mine used to. Storms and waves would roll in and the water stayed cold. Storms are supposed to push the surface warmth to the shore.

Then there was the Lion’s Gate night in August, full moon, skinny dipping in water warm enough to just float like we were still in the womb. No numb, just soft wet caresses, belly laughs and happiness.

I can’t get happy right now.

That is the first part of what should have been one long babbling post.

It is eluding me right now. I know I have been there but I can’t remember how to get there.

The beach we frequented last year is gone. Like totally gone. Dunes sheared in half and then just water. Nowhere to sit and bask in the sun before running in to cool down.

That stretch I walked along the beach one warm day in February with Lumberjack is gone. Doesn’t exist.

But there were swans and ducks and we walked. I know we did.

I drove by that pier every day for work and I watched the water rise.

If I put my mind to it I could feel the cold concrete pressed against my back and his colossal warmth pressed against my front. And put my mind to it I did.

“And in this moment, I am happy, happy…I wish you were here.” Incubus

I was happy. I might well get that happy again.

 

 

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