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I was at a wedding yesterday.

My chosen family made it official.

T’was amazing. Good food good friends good times.

Exciting blog post so far huh?

It gets weird. Promise.

The whole thing took place in a ghost town. Not a real one, just mine.

I keep trying to shake it, but I am seriously ghost-ridden.
I have a young priest and an old priest, but I need them to show up and fuck me harder (jesus), I want this outta me please. Maybe I need to find Constantine. I’m getting lost in this haunted house.

The wedding was in the neighbourhood where I had a date with Young Un 3-point-oh-I cannot for the life of me remember what nickname I gave him, this is a good omen. I got a little verklempt, nothing I couldn’t handle. I am still chuckling over his explanation as to why he went poof. The boy that told me he wanted to jump in the trailer with me and drive to the west coast and just live happily ever after on the beach with me said I was being too intense. He said these things post first fuck (our 3^rd date), a week before becoming invisible. Ima call that irony.

Where was I? Oh aye. Spectacular spectres. Pretty poltergeists.

Ghosts floating about, but only in my own head. My memory is… my memory could solve the energy crisis if I could somehow figure out how to harness an iota of the power of the damned thing. Provide visual stimuli? I am transported to heaven or hell depending.

Once upon a time I had a vision of going to said wedding with Him. The Hulk. The groom was the one who introduced us. It was a good vision as it occurred, it felt solid and real.
It wasn’t, at least not in this universe…parallel perhaps.

In this universe I went alone.

Another wedding guest, a woman who I had met in passing many times, ended the night by telling me she loved me.
Random, but understandable…Love was in the air and she had tequila in her belly methinks so it wasn’t too weird.

She caught me alone on the stoop a few hours earlier and asked about the Hulk, if’n I had his new number.
I do. I think I am 7 of 9 he sent it to.
It occurred to me afterwards, what would have happened if I didn’t, but that was never in her realm of possibilities.
She and I chatted, she asked if I was going to visit. It would have been easy for a normal person to lie, those are the acceptable ones, the lies of “I’m fine”. I AM NOT FUCKING FINE. I chuckled (choked) and said ‘no, I can’t handle it’. I said, “If he needs me he just has to send a distress call and I would go get him. He knows this”. This beautiful red headed woman in a beautiful cocktail dress, sitting on the steps with me outside of the wedding reception held my hand and told me in the most matter of fact voice, “you are just going to love him forever.” She was telling the truth. She also told me it’s okay, this is also the truth.

He and I talked before he left. We went back to the restaurant where we had our first date. I wanted to close the circle. I half-jokingly stated that I would beat up his new girl if she dared hurt him. Bullshit bravado, I am bigger than her. He said no, she was taller, but I am stronger. I argued that she was probably stronger than I as she was probably hauling hay bales yesterday and for me it had been years, he said quietly, with a tiny grin, ‘no, not strong like that’.

Oh.

There it is.

Today?

I’m not near as strong as everyone thinks I am.

Today I am a wreck, and that is okay too.

Being haunted means not being alone.

https://www.facebook.com/SarahChisholmPhotography/photos/a.443995752281120.117113.443977112282984/1159487487398606/?type=1&theat

A boy I went to public school with says he likes the blog, he said “…where you going to take us this time Sarah?”. Just home today honey.

Jesus wept I am weepy this week.
So I guess, Sarah wept.
Except talking about myself in third person is creepy.

Up at 6am to drive home after the craziest of 24 hours. I managed to side road around the road closures and 4×4 around the debris. and find the only gas station in God’s country that had power just as I thought I couldn’t handle the binging of the low gas light any longer.
Had the radio on (and I find this hilarious) “Environment Canada is trying to confirm reports of a tornado in Teviotdale Ontario.”
Well hmmm. I just drove through there and a house was torn in half and the top half was in a field on the OTHER SIDE OF THE ROAD
I’m not saying it was a tornado, coulda been Godzilla.

I wish I had pulled over and snapped a picture, but I am not okay with garnishing attention from the pain and misfortune of others, only my own.

I cried for them, and for the trees snapped like twigs after 100 years of standing watch over these roads.

For the record I am on very little sleep, shark week is upon us, I am coming down off a pretty huge emotional/adrenaline high, and I have had a lot of coffee. I can see sounds right now.
Oh, and I have free time.

The things in my head will simmer down by next week and mewl instead of roar.*

So many things happened.
The creamy filling between the crunchy cookies of the two long weekends of summer has been…chaos.

There was a blue moon and a twister.

I got in a car wreck a few weeks back.
No fussin’ now, I am fine. Jeep didn’t make it.
We should have a moment of silence for Jeep. Poor thing went through a lot and somehow managed to keep running and hold the smell of Young Un. That I won’t miss. But I really liked my sunroof and bucket seats.

I called my sister. Told her the story of ice cube sized hail, trees bent in half and the green sky. I told her where I was and who I was with as it was happening…she said it sounded like a dream. It really felt that way too.

I saw my Grade 8 teacher, she is awesome and she loves me. I cried.
Oh ya, and I lived through a crazy-super-cell-storm-cluster-tornado-inducing mess coming in off of my lake whilst cloistered in a garage with 20 people I hadn’t seen in 27 years (the rest of my Grade 8 class) see photo above.

That happened, on Sunday.

I walked into a home I haven’t been in in well over 25 years and I was greeted with warm enthusiasm and fed really good food.

I felt valued and wanted, which is the polar opposite of how I felt for almost my entire life. I always felt out of place, barely tolerated. It wasn’t them making me feel that way then, it was me (sorta) and that one really bossy girl. We were with each other for a gargantuan percentage of our tiny little lives. It was important. They are important.

I cried while I was folding the blankets I had been given when I was welcomed into my girl’s house mid storm, like I belonged there or something. Her Riddy-dog made sure my face was clean before I left. That sense of belonging in any home but the ones I have built, is a really foreign feeling to me.

All of these feelings of inadequacy from my childhood just started falling away and I let them go.

I woke up at 3am to a cold, wet dog nose, she was just telling me the storm was still storming and reminding that I was, indeed, here. Wrapped in the softest of soft quilts in this cute little house, remembering how many times I had argued saying ‘I don’t care that ALL of the highways are closed. I just want to go home’. I had an epiphany, I was home.

These waves of love emanating from these people who have known me since I was a stupid kid, and some who know me now and somehow managed to accept me and love me regardless.
(Here we go, that one started a gusher.)

I cried when I jumped off the 401 and finally back into the land where I knew where I was. There was an hour and a half of feeling very lost, I had to logic directions, maneuver through ditches, around downed trees and tornado path detours. Proud tears.

I cried when Saint Anthony sent me a link to an 89 diesel Wagoneer for sale. It’s like he knows me or something.

Let’s stop there. So I can bring all of this back around in a somewhat sane manner.
(Because ya, the rest of this is perfectly normal.)

The 6th paragraph* is important.
It means I have a little perspective. I am more self-aware than I was a year ago. When Young Un bolted coincidentally, a calendar year and the truck still stunk, we could use that in an Axe ad.

Speaking to Saint Anthony was also important. Not just because I have nothing to drive.

I realized something.

“Maybe all of these things made me all that I am” (AWOLNATION)

I have been an epic fuck up. I have been selfish and cruel and stupid.
And sometimes people love me anyways.

I am forgivable and forgiven.

I am loveable and loved.

I had no idea.

I am almost happy I never felt this way before.
I can savour this now to the fullest and appreciate it in a way I don’t think I was capable of before.
I am 41 now and comfortable in my own skin regardless.
So this is just icing on the cake.
Home is no longer an address, it’s a state of mind.

The Gods are always smiling at me. Sometimes they look like the Joker and chuckle like Jabba the Hut. But they smile. Sometimes its loud witch cackles, sometimes twittering giggles. They never laugh AT me, only for me.

I am loved, I know this.

I live an exuberant, grateful life. I say thank you often and rarely, if ever, utter “why me”. The why is on its way and will make itself known, I know this.

What gets funny, and I imagine the Gods and Angels sitting back and having a good laugh, is when I think I know what is going to happen. They are just hanging out up there with these proverbial wrenches to throw at me every time I make a decision on how things ought to be.

I had a date on Wednesday. Beautiful man. Exceptionally talented photographer. I wondered what he was doing asking me out. Not just asking me out, but somehow seeing I was in distress and literally offering me a day off from the world.

I have long been fascinated by the idea of Sanctuary. Knock on the door of any church, claim sanctuary and ta da, insta-refuge.

That is what this felt like. Sanctuary.

I went to a strange man’s house on the first date. Never underestimate the drawing power of a pool and a meal I didn’t have to cook myself. I sat down and did the math. It had been 3 calendar years since a man made me dinner, 5 years before that and before that, pretty much never.

I also asked around about him. And lo, the Lord said let there be Facebook so you can see if you have friends in common and findeth out if’n the man is safe and he was and it was good amen.

I tried to walk into this with no expectations. Not even about how he looked, and he looked GOOD in his photos. Kinda like Khal Drogo. Tall, exotic, tattooed, beardy.  I didn’t stand a chance really.

I heard a rumour he was a little man-whorey. Revolving door of women. Girls seem to last a month or 3. I figured alright, I will take a turn. See how this goes. I figured I could win-win it. If he was a douchebag, I’d fuck him and leave, politely shutting the door on my way out. If I liked him? I had to hold out for at least a day, otherwise I ran the risk of him going ghost, and I would absolutely deserve it for being that easy and typical.

Don’t forget, I am a slut. I love all the sluts, whores are people too.

I love sex and I want to have it, it’s not a commodity, it is an act I love to partake in. I was just hoping that were he to be a douchebag, it would not be at such a level as to cause my vagina to slam shut faster than the door on my way out of it.

Turns out the few hours we spent chatting online, he was telling the truth the whole truth and nothing but the truth so help me oh god.

He is a good man, intelligent, single dad, evolved and a damn fine cook.

I tried to not sleep with him when I realized I liked him. Told him why, right before he fucked me, the first time. We had a good chuckle about it, all of us, Gods included, I could hear them over top of me moaning and him growling.

And yes, I am writing this with a bag of frozen peas between my legs.

I float.

I have always kinda floated.

Sometimes in a good way, head in the clouds, free from attachments, wandering but not lost.

Sometimes in a bad way, head in the stormclouds, not feeling attached to anything, really lost.

I went to public school with the same 30 odd kids from grade 2 to 8^th.
There was a girl/group of girls who made me feel like I was always jockeying for a position on the bottom of the totem pole of coolness.

The only way to maintain a space was to be cruel to the other girls down there with me.

I had a chance to apologize to one of those girls and I took it. The Queen of the Wasps? I won’t stoop to even swat at her.

Moving onto high school, I floated. Never permanently affixed to one group or another. Lonely.
There was an entire hive of Waspy Women drones. Making me miserable …barely worth mentioning.
Except to say, I highly value the group of friends I have now. Those who have seen me at my shiniest and dirtiest and just love me as is.

It is with this in mind, and a long history of feeling ostracized, that there is something I cannot abide.

This ‘let me out of the friend-zone’ bullshit when it comes to my man-friends.

My friend-zone is a sacred space, Shangri-fucking-La. Being my friend comes with sooooo many benefits, just not that one.

“Girls are not machines that you put kindness coins into until sex falls out.” Sylvia Plath

Except I am that girl, I am that machine. I love sex. I am also kindness personified and respond awfully well to it.
It’s one of my favorite aphrodisiacs. Strong hands, good sweat and kindness.

What gets my back up 10 ways from Sunday is when one of my man-friends decides he has put enough coins in and that it’s time to take it to the next level. So wait. This entire time you saw me as a life support system for my vagina? You were on some long-term payment plan for sex? That I have no value to you other than providing a warm safe place to stick your cock?

Fuck you. Not literally.

This begs the question…have we met?

I am the Statue of Liberty when it comes to sex. Monstrous, monumental and well lit, VERY liberated. Hard to miss really.

If I want to fuck someone, I ask in a way that won’t make you feel like a walking dildo.
Unless I fuck you on the first date, which means I have no interest in sticking around, which I will say, out loud. I use my fucking words.

I cut through coyness with a machete. I don’t do subtle, I am both crass and honest.

I am also the Statue of Liberty when it comes to my friends, bring me your poor and downtrodden, welcome to the land of plenty.

Trading that in for some (admittedly epic) sex, makes everything temporary. Makes me disposable. Don’t do that. It hurts me.

That being said. I have a few man-friends who politely remind me they want in my pants. There is a way of going about things that sounds a lot like this. “Yes, I am attracted to you, yes I would fuck you if you asked me to, but I want you in my life regardless because you are the sum of all of your parts, not just that one.”

photo by Samuel’s Eye Photography

Wet bus stop, she’s waiting, his car is warm and dry. (The Police)

Okay, I grew up in a town of 6000, we have no buses, ergo no bus stops.

I was walking home in the rain however. You know something, there are quite a few of my stories that contain the phrases “he was standing in the rain, throwing pebbles at my window” or “he chased me in the rain”. I kinda miss that, lately it’s all ghosts, wolves and nachos. The wolves can stay, wet dog smell doesn’t bother me.

It really was raining, he had a sports car, both warm and dry, or hot and wet depending on the day. One of those things I won’t ever forget, the exhilaration of going that fast, in a car with a boy I liked. I had never gone THAT fast before, I had not gone THAT far either. I remember the conversation we had, he got me to name a movie I had already seen in case my parents asked what we did.
We didn’t watch a movie. He was no boy. He was in his 20’s. 22 maybe. I was 15.

Lying liars and the lies I tell.*

Sorry about that, so sorry. Not sorry.

I mentioned him before in that blog post masquerading as a thank you note. I called him my Teacher. It’s a euphemism, he was not a teacher, not a real one. His name was actually Troy. I am naming him, just in case. Haven’t seen him in over 2 decades. Haven’t forgotten a thing he taught me. I have a feeling he hasn’t forgotten me either.

I saw him again when I was 19. I was walking down the street, in front of our decrepit movie theater. My head in the clouds brought back down to earth by the sound of tires screeching, and my name called loud and clear by a familiar voice.

It wasn’t raining. It was about a thousand degrees outside and I was on my way from the lake, my hair was wet, close enough. He got out of the car and lifted me way up in a bear hug I wrapped my legs around him out of habit. He kissed me, noting that I was much more confident and grown up than when he last saw me. I watched him watching me, the look in his eyes screamed approval, hunger, wanting.

He walked me down the block to buy me ice cream, perfectly back to the beginning. We talked about that summer of ours, I mentioned how I eventually lost my virginity and his shoulders slumped. He said he wished he would have done right by me, that he had been brave. I clucked my tongue ever so gently, kissed his forehead and told him it was alright, he believed me. Had we met just then at 19 and 26, everything would have been just fine, maybe even happily ever after fine. But as it stands I was Cinderella for a summer and it took him 3 years to give me my shoe. While waiting I slipped in a big ol’ pile of pumpkin guts, apt metaphor for low I lost my virginity.

He wouldn’t take it because he couldn’t keep me.

Explain this to a 15 year old girl with stars in her eyes, and aching I couldn’t control.

Wait, explain this to a 15 year old girl while she is in your apartment, naked except for her over-the-knee socks, sundress on the floor, panties in purse. Laying back on the ugly but oh-so-soft couch salvaged out of a goodwill somewhere. Squirming in the puddle we had just made. He was kneeling on the floor, head in my lap. I could feel his breath where his mouth had been. We were both sweaty and sated, I was playing with his hair. Play pouting to cover my maddening womanly want and little girl hurt.

“Why won’t you fuck me?”

“Because I love you, but I can’t do right by you. We can’t be together, no one would understand.”

“But we ARE together, and I understand, and so do you.”

“Doesn’t matter.” The tone in his voice was of the ‘case closed’ variety. I didn’t push it. I did push his head back into my pussy and was rewarded for the subject change.

He might have been my first Scorpio, which sounds like the truth, but I cannot remember.

He was stunning. Green eyes and a head full of ink black curls. Taller than the Empire State building, built just as substantial and unyielding. Straight white teeth and one of those mouths that walked the line between soft as pillows and strong as steel, depending.

I was a misunderstood little nymphette. The boys in my town have told me, 20 years later that I was intimidating. Really? I was curious, and lonely. Teacher saw this and protected me, from them and from myself. He showed me what I was worth.

He taught me a lot that summer. Hence the nickname. SO much patience and self-control. I was a rather apt pupil mind you. Lessons in reading and writing body language, tilting my hips/lips ever so slightly this way or that, finding rhythms and how to change them with subtlety and grace. What my body is capable of. What my tongue is capable of, and the power that exists bringing a man to climax with your bare hands and hungry mouth. How to kiss passionately building up to it 101, that those moments in between pulling back just a little and smiling so hard my cheeks hurt were just as good (if not better) that the kiss itself. That theory covered everything like a blanket. Teasing, touching, anticipation.  Building something, like a song with perfect cadence. Orgasms like the wake of a speed boat on a still lake.

How to make everything last, except us. Eventually the ripples stop, water goes back to glass, reflecting.

Paraphrased from the book title Lies and the Lying Liars Who Tell Them by Al Franken

I keep hearing this…

I’m gay* for Ruby Rose.

*you keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.
I think the word you are looking for is

inconceivable

ˌinkənˈsēvəb(ə)l/

adjective

not capable of being imagined or grasped mentally

Let’s reanimate Shakespeare and see what he has to say.
Probably something like “oh look Viola, good goddamn she is hot.”

Bring on the overwhelm.

I have 4 women in my life (more than that, but for this) My Moon, my Stars, my Sunrise and my Sunset respectively. All of them beautiful, but more than that, they have light that radiates out from their core. All 4 elicit emotional responses from me.

My moon pulls me, I gravitate to her. I described her here once as the girl I fell in love with as I watched her walk across a room. She is art, agape and all things good in the world.

My stars guide me, remind me I’m made of stardust, that there is magic in the world. She is my soul sister, my twin. We pull tarot cards for each other. I cry when she cries.

My sunrise motivates me, she is my fresh start every day, calls to mind the potential we have to start over, to let last night go and greet the day as it is, glowing and glorious. She is my energetic self, walking around outside of my body.

My sunset soothes me, she is my reflection and my rest. The comfort of my bed and the satisfaction of a day well spent. She is home and safety and acceptance and rest when the world gets tiresome.

So what does this have to do with Ruby Rose?

There is a sexual aspect contained in my feelings for them.
They are beautiful to me.
Enlightened, evolved, spiritual, loving creatures. They all glow in their own way. Their skin is soft, their embraces are fierce and warm, the bodies their souls inhabit are as marvelous and gorgeous as the spirits contained within. I get dumbfounded by the sheer magnitude of my feelings and whatever cavewoman bits of my brain that still exist think, WANT. My modern brain equates want to a few categories mostly, taste smell and touch. Touch gets exaggerated to fuck and covet.

The natural phenomenon I have likened my 4 girls to are things of indescribable and phantasmagorical splendour.

We, as a society, are inundated with so many images per day we have lost the concept of awe and wonderment. Our eyes are overfed and our thesauruses underused.
Ruby Rose comes along and suddenly women all over are finally having a typical male response to a walking work of art.

We see Ruby Rose in all of her androgynous feral glory and our thoughts turn to cravings we cannot explain, or we could if we just tried but it comes out sounding like “She is so pretty I want to fuck her”.

Look at her from one angle and she is a beautiful boy, look at her from another angle she is a gorgeous girl. Trompe L’oiel. Trick of the eye. Add to this that she is mortal and theoretically accessible. I mean she is easier to touch than say the Aurora Borealis, and she really does ooze sex with every movement. She is confusing, she kinda looks like Leonardo DiCaprio but with a troutier poutier mouth and of course there are the tits.

She is the apex of Ode to Joy, arguably the most amazing piece of music ever composed, she is a Mandala and the Temple of Artemis walking around in human form, balancing the masculine and feminine, strength and grace. Perfectly imperfect. A beautiful conundrum.

You don’t want to fuck her per say, but that is the best your poor overloaded brain can come up with as a comparison for looking on something so wondrous and divine.

If you see her naked, and you will (watch the show) she is displayed the same way ever other woman is presented. Raw, stark, unedited and unapologetic. I had a moment last night during the bathroom scene wherein I realized, that is what I look like naked, minus the hand tattoos. It was empowering, finally someone realistic elevated on the collective sexual pedestal, without Photoshop or airbrushing. Just a beautiful woman standing naked in a dirty bathroom, the juxtaposition was not lost. I don’t look through the veils of how we are supposed to see things. I feel something and ask why.

My hope is this. That at some point all of the women that are attracted to her will realize that they themselves are composed of the same magical elements. That by wanting to fuck her, they themselves are fuckable, desirable and beautiful in their own right. Self-love born of misguided covetousness.

My girlfriend was warned against hiring this woman once, because said woman was a ‘slut’.
My girlfriend responded “I love the all the sluts”. I chuckled at the sentiment. I love them too, they are my people.

That particular slut turned out to be a bad hire, I don’t love her, she’s pretty creepy.
There is a difference between home-wrecking ravenous vaginas that consume everything in their path without morals or prejudice and a woman who simply, wantonly loves sex.

Addendum. I love sluts with soul.

The working title for this was “I have fucked more strippers than you”.

The One Guy who has fucked more strippers than I, pops into my inbox to protest.

I laughed, conceding immediately. This post was always about him.

You see dear readers, someone got me thinking recently on thanking my exes.
I missed a few.

Ahem (cough)

Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to introduce the Stripper Whisperer (SW).

SW:  “I used to think I had a way with strippers, then I realized they had a way with me.”

(It was both beautiful boy, can’t play a violin without a bow)

I’m not saying he slept with hundreds of strippers, but it could have been hundreds.

He is also one of my 4 Horsemen.

I openly admit to my penchant for sluttiness in that blog post, he read it and responded…

“…some would say I was the slut, not you. The truth is unconditional passion, acceptance and friendship without conditions or judgments is what we shared…Moments can be shared with complete passion and not be hindered or darkened by conventional constructions…”

This one has soul.

He saved me you see. He held my hand and led me gently away from the shitty situation I was in. Fed me, loved me, wanted me. I remember being up all night fucking and talking. Gave me something safe and good, as much as he could. I am forever grateful.

There is a group of women aged 30-40 who have a very specific tattoo. Stripper Whisperer is named after the stars and these girls marked themselves with his constellation.
I am not one of them, I already had prominent freckles on my back that line up just so. I was laying on my stomach, sated, his fingers tracing the line of my spine, writing things there. I mentioned it, he jumped up and turned the light on and rewarded me with an extra wicked grin and of course more sex.

He hasn’t laid a hand on me since the year of our lord 1999. Oh those hands. Good god.

The problem with the way we communicate using mostly the written word is I cannot spell that noise I just made, it sounded quite like I had just tasted something wonderful. Mmmmmmmmm, ouf.

Where was I before my mind wandered? Oh yes, that man.

Friends 16 years later. To be remembered among the masses at all is incredible. I am #7 of 9 that made it. I am honoured, truly. That sentiment is mirrored back by me. As much as I adore other lovers. He is what I remember when I transport myself back to that apartment. He is a jumping off point for all of the sex I have had since, the bar is high…clear it.

He told me a story not long ago, he was at a club, one of his friends noticed a girl and thought she was hot, SW walks up to her, lifts her shirt a bit, his buddies think he is going to get slapped and there it is, the tattoo. She squealed and hugged him. We all still adore him, no one has a bad thing to say about him. He never lied. He never pretended he was going to stay. He made it very clear, his game and his rules. Thou shall not covet a Libra. Remember that and win the prize.

He was my 2^nd Libra. (Everyone gets 3.)
The Kings of ‘Come here, Go away’. It’s like Snakes and Ladders, but more confusing, sometimes they take the board and go home without warning.

All things considered, I did well. I had no delusions of locking him down, I think he may have been my first lesson in men meaning the words that are coming out of their mouths, he speaks without subtext.

He was the reason I was honest and continue to be, led by example. He made me brave.

I enjoyed his attention when I got it. And I got it, more than most.
Still do. He is a first responder when the bat signal (aka Sarah got her feeling hurt) lights up the sky/net.
I still find myself squirming happily under his praise, attention and affection.
And I still do not covet. I am so much smarter than that. I just answer the phone when he calls.

He said he would…

I could write novels about the things he said he would do to me and with me and for me.
But they were just words, there was no follow through, I’ll write my own ending.

I lost all the ground I was given until I was adrift on the ocean, again.
S’okay, I floated over to an island.

I float. I send out messages in bottles. They float too. We all float down here (s.k)

I pulled my panties out of my purse and thought of you.

They got lost in a tangle of sweaty sheets between round one and two. When the first hunt for them proved fruitless, I thought to check his pockets. Wondered for a moment if he kept trophies like you. Would have been 2 pairs gone in as many weeks, and I really liked those ones.

The implications of who my thoughts ran to of their own volition is immense.

You said you wanted to round up everyone who ever ignored me and beat the shit out of them so I would know I was worth listening to. Less than a week later you disappeared. Don’t put yourself on that list, you have endured enough beatings and I don’t wish you any more, by your hand or anyone else’s. Your bruises don’t heal.

You said you wanted to collect all of the men who had taught me things and then let me go so you could shake their hands, the hands that molded me, sculpted me into what I am (or did you just want to write Thank You cards, I can’t remember, oh poets and their love of words).
Just don’t.  Don’t write them, don’t sign anything, don’t put a return address, don’t do anything at all. You didn’t stick around long enough to have a full appreciation for what I am, the creature they helped me become.
And besides, it would come off as a written admission of guilt of the pain you caused me, those exes are the law around here. I serve, they protect.

Thank you Teacher* for showing me that sex is a consensual sensual act. That my skin and his are meant to be explored, thoroughly. I am fluent in body language. I have no shame, only lost in lust, passion and play. Bodies are instruments and when played properly makes such sounds choirs of angels cannot match it.

Thank you Saint Anthony for teaching me what it means to love someone exactly as you found them and the importance of coming forward completely. For showing me what is like to be cherished above all things. For providing examples and avenues for exploring sabotage, the importance of being chosen over and over. Lesson learned.

Thank you Ninja for explaining emotional monogamy in a way that I internalized it because I felt it. For showing me that sex doesn’t equal love, I had the hardest time untangling that one on my own. For his strong and patient hands that were so good with all of my knots and stumbling among other things.

Thank you Jesus for showing me it was possible to burst into proverbial flames just by being in the same room with someone. I always knew he was there before I laid eyes on him. He has my gratitude for sticking around after the fire went out. I am the sum of all of my parts, not just the ones that he touched.

Thank you G____ for being so boring that I cannot even conjure a nickname. Thank you Budget George for being so selfish and passionless and blaming the world for everything. Both of them and their Freudian mommy issues are prime examples of things to run from. I see red flags.

You? Oh baby boy, I am grateful. I will keep the things you changed in me that suit me and discard the rest, but I cannot figure out what to toss. Everything washed up on shore with me in a tangle of flotsam and there is terrible confusion.

See? I got this thank you thing down.

Yes, they all hurt me. No knowledge I have gleaned has come without some damage. Moth throwing herself against lightbulbs while hungering for the moon.

I don’t carry pain around. It’s too heavy and besides, I refuse to blame the next one for the ones that came before.
You have built a fortress from your baggage. All must pay for the sins of those who came before. I had fistfuls of gold coins to pay Charon, but the boat never came. I knew exactly where it was headed.
I could have taught you, my palace is built with love, forgiveness and acceptance.
My drawbridge is always open.

I don’t need you to write thank you cards. No, no.

What would be a kindness? A stack of sympathy cards, all signed by you.

Dear ________,

I am sorry.
That woman who just left your bed wasn’t really with you.
She was a thousand miles away, with me.
It was my face she saw between her legs.
My body on top of her/under her/behind her/wrapped around her.
My mouth she was kissing, that is why she didn’t bite.
My voice she heard.
My name she was moaning into the sheets.

She. Is. Mine.
My condolences.
Sincerely,
The Man who mind-fucked Her.

This is what you wanted, for me to be yours, in all ways, no matter where I was, what you did or who I was with.

You are not the ghost of some lover past, rattling chains hoping I will notice, this is full on possession.

You fucking won, and yes I meant that emphatically and yes, I know I owe you a dollar. Fuck you.

*Teacher, was not an actual teacher. He was a 22 year old who found me at 16. Saw me for what I was, this overtly sexual, fragile slip of a nymph girl who ached to try everything. He took me into his bed and taught me things, forged me armor I still wear to this day. He protected me from myself and the world for one glorious summer. The only authority he had over me was what I gave him, willingly.