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Me and Jesus (part 2)

January 15, 2015
I have spoken of me cheating and the clusterfuck that was.
I have spoken of being cheated on and the swamp of sadness I built a summer home in.
Once upon a time, I was the mistress.
I was 24 the first time I slept with Jesus.
Not the real Jesus, everybody gets a nickname.
The sex was mind blowing. Of course I wanted all of the More.
He was my first Libra and I blew it.
I had been seeing someone else on and off for a year. That whole thing was a twisted train wreck. I ran to Jesus for salvation. He had just gotten shredded by some girl and was not ready to get locked down.
Instead of saying ‘okay, I like you, let’s keep things casual and see what happens because epic sex’. I stormed off back to the train wreck, and played among the rubble.
By the time I freed myself from the wreckage, Jesus was in a relationship with a girl my friends referred to as ‘the cardboard cut-out of you’.
I was 26, cell phones were new and Facebook didn’t exist. So it took a week to find him. I “accidentally” bumped into him at a bar and flirted with him like my life depended on it. It was summertime, hot and muggy, I was barely dressed. He drove me home with his hand on my leg.
I said “stop teasing me you are making me wet.”
He said “I think you are a liar.”
We managed to hit every red light between where we were and where I lived. I opened my legs like the whore of Babylon and put his hand where I wanted it. He played for a bit and after he put his hand to his mouth and sucked me off his fingers.
Afterwards I turned to him and said “are you in love with her or something?”
Filter? What’s a filter?
He said yes. My hands flew to my face as though I had been hit. I said “why didn’t you just tell me that in the first place I would have just left you alone”. I lied, for nothing more than dramatic effect. It worked. He stopped the car. I ran. He chased me.
I got my movie moment.
I fucked him after that. I presented my body to him in a thousand pretty ways and my tongue dripped with honey coated manipulations, I let him do all things she wouldn’t and I did all the things she would do, better. This went on for years.
He proposed to her one morning, hair damp from my shower. That is a story all of its own.
It was 5 years before I saw him again.
The next time I was hovering precariously on the edge of single…no, I didn’t go looking for him. He came looking for me. I saw his name on a friend’s notebook and he said “oh ya, Jesus got divorced, he’s looking for you”.
Cue karma.
The one that punched me repeatedly when I said ‘I haven’t cheated yet but I am about to’, ya, I left him for Jesus. I was the Queen of Monkey Bars.
Guess who I left Jesus for? Ex hubby. The relationship wherein I got cheated on within an inch of my life.
Oh Karma, you clever bitch, well played Madame.
Cheating is bad no matter what position you are in, driver, passenger or locked in the trunk. Karma is the cop just itching to pull you over, and yes, that gun is loaded.

 

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Movie Love

January 13, 2015
For 6 months I watched the first two Twilight movies every night and all day on my days off. It was all Twilight all the time. I drove in a blizzard to get to work to buy a bigger TV upon which to watch the Twilight. Okay, a few times I watched Beautiful Creatures and City of Bones. But really…mostly Twilight.
I subtracted the guilt from my pleasure while watching New Year’s fireworks over the ocean last year, but this came close to adding it back. The ocean also took all the fucks I used to give.

I smiled when they smiled, and when she cried, oh god, my heart collapsed every time. Say what you want about Kristen Stewart, she is made of wood and always looks like she has to poop, but she can wail, lawds yes.

I know why.
My heaven is a big editing room and a Choose Your Own Adventure book as thick and convoluted as the Bible, with Pixar CGI so I can have pet dragons. I will sit with infinite coffee and cigarettes edit, splice and replay my life, with alternate endings.
I will go back to 294 Harbour Street when I was 18. We had finally fucked, under the glow of streetlights, in a spare bedroom. Climbed up on the roof, stealing a few more minutes. When he lets go of my hand and kisses my forehead and says “I will see you soon”. I will look him in the eyes and say “No, you won’t. 6 months from someone is going to die in the room right under us and I am going to leave town. A year from now I am going to have a belly full of someone else’s baby and you will be in the mountains on the other side of the country. A year after that we get one more chance and blow it. This is it. I have to go downstairs and punch your crazy girlfriend in the face but you aren’t leaving here without me.” He will believe me.

In the actual movie of my life, we are both 40. Haven’t been in the same time zone in 18 years. 3 kids between us, he is married and we just broke up after 26 years.

24 years later he will tell me that he still has a t-shirt I left at his house when we were 16, and that for years, he slept with it under his pillow. My first thought is just whale noises.  My second thought is, why would you keep my shirt in your bed but not me? Therein lies an epiphany.

See how I might get a little obsessed over this star crossed love thing working out after 2 movies, complete with a magical kidlet, a cabin in the woods and the promise of an actual forever? It took us 4 movies to sleep together, but I didn’t get the happy ending, there was a Jacob, but that is a story for another day.
So why ‘break up’ now? 2/3 of our existence, belonging to each other.
That’s easy. TWICE in this year of never ending Twilight we talked to each other in ways we ought not to have. He is married, I care for someone. As shitty as it is to admit, his wife came second to my someone, and me really. I want a chance to actually love somebody all in. A month ago today I let go.  The week before I almost got on a plane and he almost took a job driving into my time zone. I wanted to say goodbye with a bang not a long distance bill. Not to take him away from his family. Thank fuck we both had a moment of clarity.

Now you mark my fucking words when you try and justify cheating or being a mistress to me. 26 fucking years and we stopped and let go. I didn’t know if I would even exist when I woke up in the morning. That is how much of me was gone. It was a mess. I am a mess right now. But I am a righteous mess up here on my soapbox. I am clean. I feel like I just found out I have (CGI) wings. So NO you do NOT get to tell me your affair is some unique fucking snowflake. It’s not.

I am in possession of my whole heart and good god damn it is HUGE. This is a heavy thing I have in my chest, clumsy and slightly downsy. There are days I have to go for a massage and lunch with a friend before I even think about going near the man, because I need more touch and words than is fair to demand from one person. I know this.
Here is the better question. The thunder-punch-to-the-soul question.
Why did we not get together in 26 years, except that night on the roof? And why did we let go then? There was never one minute where I wouldn’t drop everything and run…
Except the times I didn’t.
I don’t have an answer. He offered to go see a psychic to extract his pre-baby whys.  I already knew mine, they are directly related to his. I was terrified of everything in high school, especially him. To put soul recognition and love at first sight on two 13 year old kids is kind of a cruel trick for the Universe to play really. We thought we had all the time in the world to sort it out. We did, finally, just not together. It’s alright.
Even after the birth of his daughter, I was always waiting for him. In fact, he was on his way back and his daughter was conceived into being before he found a job. I call divine intervention. It’s on us too, I was angry, he was stubborn, I was scared, he was scared. It just seems like dumb kid stuff now, there was never a good enough reason until he married someone else. 
Even then, 5 more years.
I know what love and patience are on a scale that is Oscar worthy. Think Cold Mountain, and this time I am Ada Monroe. Not as satisfying as the Notebook, but I think I am meant for a Silver Linings Playbook love, with the dancing and everything, and at the end we get biscotti.
Better than sparkles, infinite love and the myth of forever.

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All Wrong, No Right.

January 11, 2015
I would like to state for the record I have dated 20 men. 
4 of them have hit me.
Not a good percentage. I did not grow up in a household where this was normal. I still don’t understand it.I have just learned to avoid it.
My ex-husband never laid a hand on me, even when I ripped out a chunk of his beard in anger.
This will be important later.
In my universe, there has been much talk of cheating as of late. I have been in every position, driver’s seat, passenger seat and locked in the trunk of the car.
One of the men I dated punched me in the face repeatedly when I said these words. “I have not cheated yet, but I am about to, we have to break up”. He hit me before that too.
Still felt better than cheating would have.

Nature or nurture, we all lean heavily towards cheating or not. Perfect example, I posted something about putting sprinkles on the shit I did (cheating) and received 2 opposite responses, one woman trying to help me justify it, one saying don’t sugar coat it.
Every cheater and mistress think their situation is a unique snowflake.
It’s not.
I loved the same man for 26 years, longer than his wife has been alive. It still did not make it okay for us to talk to each other the way we did. We had to stop talking. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done, but it was also the right thing.
I was in a situation where I had a sisterwife, Utah rules, so hubby got all the cake. My eventual cheating was still not justifiable. But I did. I slept with a personal trainer, 9 years my junior. See how typical this is becoming? He was an ex from when hubby and I had split for the 50thtime. The worst person I could run to. But I did.

Little Lover had enough about 3 months in and started asking me to leave the farm and move in. I wouldn’t. He dropped it eventually. At least he stopped talking to me about it. What he did instead is ensure hubby found out, indirectly. No honour here “hey, I am in love with your wife, I don’t like what you are doing to her, let her go”. Nope, he told his gossip mongering friend who happened to be an acquaintance of hubby. This started the fight that led to the beard pulling and my expulsion from the farm. Although at the time, I didn’t know it. I found a live-in nanny position instead of moving in with the lover.
There but by the grace of God go I.
Cut to July this year. I am friends with ex-hubby again, and the ex-lover. They still hate each other. I was invited to and attended my ex lover’s wedding. It was awful. I mentioned it to ex-hubby. He says “I know, why would you do that to yourself, are you okay?” I sat in mildly stunned silence. “How did you know?” Turns out ex hubby got a phone call while I was AT the wedding from the same friend who ratted me out in the first place.
Tumblers started clicking into place, painfully slow. I yelled at the ex-lover for letting his friend hurt my ex-husband. Ex-lover threw a tantrum, wherein it came out that he had somehow believed I was being physically abused by hubby.
Okay, wait. You ‘love’ me, but you thought I would get beaten if we get found out, and you made sure he found out. Why?
So I would get hit, I would leave, and be his.
Not bunny boiling, but manipulation on a grand scale.
I haven’t spoken to him since that day, nor will I ever.
I still feel like an idiot. I defended ex-lover and my actions for years after the fact.
I was just a dumb little puppet but I handed him the strings.

Nothing about any of it was ‘right’. It was a whole lotta wrongs stacked up like the end of a round of Jenga all wobbly and full of holes.
No great love story ever contained the phrase, “and then he threw her under the bus”.
I am not a cheater by nature, I am really bad at it. I could say my hand was forced, or my vagina really, but there is always a better way. The only way I can make peace with it is my adamant resolve that I won’t do it again. 
Getting punched in the face for being honest still felt better than the karmic disaster that came from lying.

(authour’s note. upon speaking to ex-hubby the number of fucks given by him in regards to ex lover are exactly zero. there is no hate, only zuul. he is just happy i am away from there with no desire to return)

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Cue the Haunting

January 8, 2015
image by http://danverkys.deviantart.com/
Welcome to my weird, I had a sisterwife. 
Yes, for 7 years the farm I lived on with my husband resembled Thunderdome, if it had a revolving door, a garden and goats. “Two women enter, and take turns leaving”.
I know why my marriage ended.
No, not sisterwife, not exactly.
My ex-husband used to crack my toes while we were watching TV.
No, that is not why we broke up either. 
I found a diary entry yesterday wherein I vehemently believed this toe cracking to be a pure unadulterated act of sadism. “He liked hurting me and watching me squirm.” I laughed at myself. We’ve come a long way baby.
Cut to May the 4th this year. I had been single for 106 days. Ex-hubby and I had been split for 2 years and 2 months. I had an online flirty thing going with a guy from LA, he got vicious. I was in a mall parking lot, kinda reeling. And guess who messages out of the damn blue. Yep, the ex. Wanting to know if I was ‘ok’. I wasn’t, I said so. We talked. He was kind and I responded with kindness.
The end.
Not really, it prompted some soul searching. And this is what I found tucked in a deep dark corner.
I had to stop blaming him and her for 5 minutes so I could see the truth. Our marriage was actively haunted by ghosts of relationships past. There were 4 of us in a relationship built for 2.
Mine was Casper the friendly ghost, only appearing in times of distress, where his was more of a ‘Dementor’ complete with sucking the happiness out of all things. Soulless turbo slut who actually caused the distress that made mine manifest, back to the revolving door. Never liked those things.
I retyped and deleted that last sentence 20 times if once. Forgiveness does not have to mean approval nor friendship. Part of me is still human and baby stepping through this.
The first time I kissed my husband he was on a date with the woman who would become his mistress, then our sisterwife and now his regular wife. I am having a hard time figuring out who the interloper really was. 3 months into the relationship with the man who would become my husband intercepted an email between my ghost and I. It was an open ended goodbye. Emphasis on the open.
Cue the haunting.
I have walked into every relationship with one foot out the door pointed at my high school sweetheart. 26 years this year. Hubby knew it, and I lost him that day. We spent the next 6.5 years breaking up. This is a public apology. I am sorry Anthony John.
My marriage was built on abandonment issues stronger than the foundation we had. We both had back-ups. 
I have now been single for a calendar year, during which I had the grand realization that I was not in possession of my whole heart. A month ago, I spoke to high school sweetheart and we ended things. A 3 week exorcism if you will, complete with puking, crying, screaming and a grand sense of relief when it was over. 5 years after he got married, but that is a story for another day.
I have forgiven all of us. I loved those men, I don’t have an on/off switch, but I have accepted that friends is all we will ever be. I don’t need them with me. I’m alright.
Her? I never loved her, I tried and couldn’t. But very recently I had a choice to protect or destroy her. 
I chose to protect her.
I know, I surprised myself.
Mind, I just called her a dementor/turbo slut in public.
Baby steps.
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Level 4 Push Up

January 4, 2015

I am trying this new thing when it comes to dating.
It’s called being honest and coupled with not giving a fuck. It seems to be working.
Let me explain.

Recently I walked into a well-known lingerie store with the intent to buy matching sets of bras and underwear, gift wrapping for a new man.

I found a lovely pair of panties with a matching garter. I inquired to the sales girl as to whether there existed a bra to match so I could have a trifecta of matchy matchyness.
She lit right up and said “yes,” (deep inhale) “and it’s a level 4 push up”.

(Awkward pause while I try to process that statement)
Me: what the ever loving fuck is a level 4 push up?
Her: exactly what it sounds like, and with your boobs you will look like you have double d’s! (Unsung, but implied SQUEEEEE)
Me: but he already knows I don’t have double D’s (slowly backs away from the confused sales girl and puts the panties and garter back)

I then had to spend a half an hour molesting all the bras to find a level one (they don’t make anything with zero padding are you kidding me right now) and the panties. Because I am the weird one, and also because I said ‘ever loving fuck’ to a stranger who was trying to share some traveling pants secret girl shit bonding moment with me.

We are not peacocks. What is with all the pomp and display, and blatant lying?
He is going to see your boobs right? Kind of the point.
He is going to find out watching motorcycle racing is not even remotely your thing.
Or that you can’t cook.
Or that you were just humoring him with entertaining the thought of a threesome.
Or that you really do love anchovies on your pizza.

I have fake eyelashes, nails and boobs. I also dye my hair and I was not born with these tattoos.
I just say it, out loud, on or around the first date, and it’s okay.
And if it’s NOT okay by them, then it’s broken, I don’t want that one.
Try to follow my logic.

How long can you wear a mask?
More importantly, why did you put it on in the first place?
You are setting this whole thing up to fail.
Don’t you want to find someone who likes the real you?
Victoria’s secret? THAT YOUR BOOBS ARE NOT NEARLY THAT BIG.

You have been brainwashed by article after article and plot line after plot line and airbrushed model after airbrushed model to think that only ‘shiny you’ will land a man. Yes, chances are, if he is a tit man, and you have strapped your girls into a gravity defying holster with more padding than you have actual boob flesh, he is probably gonna buy you a drink.

In his head, before he falls asleep he will be composing a complaint letter to La Senza or Lulu Lemon or Spanx for the deceit he encountered once he got you home, and he probably won’t call you again and you can drown your sorrows in a cosmo and a Cosmo where you will be intrigued by such articles as…

How to make your man love you.
You don’t. Why would you want to make anybody do anything, he’s not a lawnmower or a curling iron. He will love you if you two have physical and emotional chemistry and common goals and values, and you blow him on occasion and make him a sammich.

How to drive your man crazy.
Keep reading these articles that are thinly veiled advertisements selling Botox, lingerie and mascara. They are making you act like a crazy person trying to guess what he is doing or thinking because apparently you can’t use your words or your brain. And that will drive him mental.
Ooooooh, you want to drive him crazy with desire? Tell him you want to fuck him, say please. Then actually fuck him, and after, make him a sammich.
Seriously.
If you don’t want to fuck him, then what the hell are you doing? wearing the wrong pants, go find new pants that fit and make you feel good.

You want to be loved? Love and be lovable

You want to meet your soul mate?
Spend some time alone exploring who you are and figuring out what you enjoy doing. Then do things you like to do and be yourself. He will be there liking the same things and being himself too.

Now the aforementioned statement does not imply that you need to find someone that loves all the things you love and that you need to love all of his things. Nay nay. So boring. Who does this? We are on this planet to learn and experience, be with someone who shows you new things and who appreciates you showing them things. It’s not always going to be amazing, but it will be sometimes. *You really should have your own life, both of you, I mean it.

I am not saying that you should give up and wear sweats because that is “who you are and he should love me and accept me”. No, that is lazy…and comfortable, but still lazy. figure out what you like and what you feel good in and he will always think you are beautiful, if not mildly nuts because your closet looks like the inside of a gypsy caravan. But he knows what is under there so that is okay too.

The place for that level 4 push up bra? Oh it exists, once a year. At his company Christmas party that he takes you to because he trusts you not to be a crazy person and cause a scene like his last girlfriend because you aren’t her.
What will happen is all the boys at the office are going to see the two of you and the optical illusion that is your padded double d’s and think…”holy shit, ted is a lucky fucker”? And ted will hear about it and smile because all men like having something somebody else wants. And if he gets jealous or weird or mad about it, throw that one back. It’s broken and you don’t want it, not enough crazy glue in the world to fix that.

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Fucking Scorpios *a handbook for the criminally insane*

January 1, 2015

I say Scorpio and most people either think or say “ew”.

Except the Scorpios, they say “I am awesome” in whatever alien language it is they speak.

The chosen few of us who have a hand forged decoder ring just sigh a contented knowing sigh because we know what bliss is.

I spent the better part of my morning on Facebook chat talking a girl out of bed. She loves a Scorpio. She fucked up.

When you fuck up with a Scorpio it feels like the end of the world. Because it is. For now. Everything is temporary, but that is a story for another day.

I have done lots of drugs, but as I mellow in my 40’s, I will take romantic feelings for a Scorpio hands down bet it all on black and let it ride. A Scorpio will get you somewhere over the rainbow high, and you will crash.

This ain’t no come here go away Libra, or a Leo all about the chase, or a Gemini who doesn’t know if he wants to be inside or outside or inside or outside.

If you are young and insecure and have never really had a real relationship before, run screaming darling, run now, pull your panties up and run. I know he does that thing with his tongue, but seriously.
Run.

I was 19, he was a Scorpio. Somehow, without being in any semblance of a relationship he became my baby daddy and it took us 18 years almost to the day to be able to be in the same room. It went as bad as it could go before it got better.
I was 36 he was a 27 and a Scorpio. I hurt him. It took us 4 years to get over it and I swallowed pride I didn’t know I had to get there.
I was 40, he was 24 and a Scorpio, he shredded me. This was months ago. I don’t want resolution, the ego boost was enough.

This is the amount of patience and letting go required.

Rollercoaster in the dark, a fairly apt description. If you want normal, or need security. Nay nay. It ain’t here. If you want to be a blissed out puppet at the mercy of a beautiful demon with mild Parkinson’s, then c’mon in.

Here is what your half of the conversation will end up sounding like, both internal and external dialog (until you figure out what you are doing)

“Why aren’t you paying attention to me?

Why are you paying so much attention to me? Do you need attention?

Oh my god this is the best attention ever

That is not what you said yesterday, wait, did you even talk to me yesterday?

Oh my god that was the best orgasm ever

Did you think maybe I would like to read the book myself before you tell me everything about it

Seriously when was the last time you said two words to me

Of course I want that in my mouth, I always want that in my mouth, get over here

I swear to god that is what you said yesterday, I spent yesterday crying about it and you wouldn’t talk to me

Oh my god how do you do that thing with your tongue, what was I saying

Why aren’t you talking to me, am I talking to myself, I think I am talking to myself

Holy shit you can’t talk to me like that

Oh my god I love it when you talk to me like that”

And so it goes…learn to ask direct questions and make sure he knows that there is no wrong answer.

So how do you handle it?
You don’t.
This is not something to be handled or conquered or tamed or even mapped out.

What is the proverbial carrot?
Best sex ever. The desert doesn’t get hotter and the ocean doesn’t get wetter than this.

Their compliments, although rarely given, are custom built out of truth to make you melt and you can stitch a quilt out of them to keep you warm when he is away. He will be away.

The satisfaction of building love with your bare hands in a hurricane uphill both ways.
This is not a love you fall into and simply maintain. Every brick is a kind word, a nod of understanding, a held tongue, a held hand, trust, understanding, acceptance, calm when you want to scream, giving when you have nothing left and you don’t know when you will get more. Without warning walls get torn down and remade overnight, or sometimes over years.

Roll with it or go find a Taurus, I hear they are nice.

You get access to a spectacular alien twisted amazing mind that will show you wonderful and terrifying things and open you up to a whole new world. Oh he is going to open you up, and you are going to let him, welcomed evisceration. This is concentrated passion in its purest most potent form. I warn you, it’s addictive.

You will find within yourself strength, grace and patience you had no idea was humanly possible, and that is yours to keep, forever.

Why do this?
Same reason people trek through the jungle or climb Everest or jump out of perfectly good airplanes. It’s an adventure.

How do you do this?
Love yourself first. He cannot be your everything and you will not be his.

Love all of him. There is no room for conditions here. He is perfect as is. And if you don’t think he is, then leave, someone else will find him perfect.

Love being alone, they love being alone. Ever try being in the same room with a Scorpio that doesn’t want to be there? Their discomfort is palpable, like a giant rotting elephant in the room, and if you are the reason for it, take your elephant and go.
You can see him tomorrow or next week. Bask in the glory that he made an effort.

Love them enough to let them out in the world. Love them in a way that they feel free. Know all the way to your core that they won’t find anyone ‘better’ than you because you are safe warm and you know them, accept them and love them.

Make a distinction and a decision that sex is not love. It’s going to feel like love, but it’s not. You will know when he loves you, trust.

You can be his favorite but not his only. It’s like making a horse walk backwards to demand exclusivity, it can be done, but it pains me to watch. It’s not natural.

The words “I love you”. Say them if you mean it. Don’t ever expect to hear it. But if you do, a choir of angels will sound like nails on a chalkboard by comparison. There is nothing sweeter than love earned.

Realize their backs are scarred with the hurts done to them long before you got there and the only thing that will make them fade is time and patience and not ripping the scars open by pulling the same shit. They will tell you what not to do if you listen.  So don’t do it. They are not good at setting baggage down, just help them carry it. It’s going to be alright.

If a Scorpio opens the door to the inner sanctum drop everything and walk through it, seriously run, get in there, and for the love of god don’t make a mess.

Author’s note.
This advice goes for everyone ever regardless of zodiac, gender, age et al, be kind be respectful and don’t make a mess by being one. Love yourself before you decide to love someone else.

Boys

The Guest Room

December 31, 2014
~my bed~

A very long time ago a boy taught me the true meaning of intimacy.
It is not simply sleeping with someone, but beside them. Holding each other like twins in the womb.
Outside is chaos but in here we float, safe as houses.

Just like any blissful feeling, human nature dictates we chase it, covet it, lock it down, and abuse it until it loses all meaning and the original feeling.

For years I forced that concept  with other partners, never realizing that sleeping next to THAT boy was a warm and lovely manifestation of how we felt. but not the next one, he snored a lot. The one after that made me feel claustrophobic. And the one after that fit all my curves just right and let me be the big spoon so that was okay until it wasn’t. Another would caress my cheek until I woke up at 4 am and we could talk about dreams so I liked being there, but the next one was the filling in a burrito he made of all the sheets…different boys, different joys.

Dr. Suessisms aside, rocket science this is not. So why am I the only one saying anything?

I read an +Elephant Journal article,”why we sleep together” and just the title filled me with a great sense of relief, thank God, it’s not just me, and him and that other lady who thinks I am onto something. phew.

Turns out said article was advocating bed sharing. ugh. Like we need an article telling us that it’s okay to do what everybody does.
I say nay nay.
Time to open a dialog.

The following statement is true.
I love the way he looks, tastes, feels, sounds and smells.
The following statement is also true.
The sheer magnitude of his morning cuteness is enough to make me ovulate.
The following statement is also true.
After our first night together I offered up the guest room should he sleep over again.
He continues to sleep over, and he does sleep in the guest room.

(insert shock and awe)

but but but
But what?
But you said you loved all this stuff about him and he is adorable in the morning.

Those things are the truth…and so is this…

After sleeping with enough Scorpios to write a handbook* I have stumbled on the notion that their night time is precious.
Sleeping next to them is a privilege, not a right. in the past I have earned that privilege SIMPLY BY ACKNOWLEDGING IT, accepting it, not taking it personally and behaving in a reverent manner when it does happen.
I have expanded this theory to include errrrbody (even though this one is a Scorpio too, I have a problem, I need a support group.)

The following statement is false.
I care about him, adore him, respect him, want him LESS because I do not want/need to trap/sleep with him in my bed at night, after we fuck.

Out of all of the men I have slept beside, I have rarely enjoyed the experience, but when I have it’s been blissful (see; tickling my cheek and whispering dreams). my ‘twin in the womb’ was over 20 years ago, and sorry, it’s kinda hard to top. Why sully it by trying?

I have spent the better part of 18 years in relationships and due to finances, living arrangements, convenience (that in retrospect was not convenient at all) always shared a bed. Back when we slept on furs in caves, the conservation of body heat and safety in numbers made sense, but I am not a huge follower of anthropological precedents and I have a guest room with a lovely bed in it. Again, not rocket science. I also made the bed uncomplicated, in the manner of men, and removed the throw pillows. Boys don’t really like throw pillows. they tolerate them.

The following statement is true.
My dogs sleep in my bed.
(insert more shock and awe).

One keeps my belly warm, the other my feet. I don’t worry one bit about waking them up to take back the covers. they know sleeping with me is a privilege not a right.

The new hotness said, when I offered him the guest room citing the (literal) dog fight for sheets and space as one of many reasons for it…”the dogs were here first”  (see why I love how he sounds…he says shit like this)

The door to his room is shut to keep out the dogs and noise, not me. You see dearhearts, I have opposable thumbs and have been successfully operating doors for years now. If I have a bad dream, get cold or sucky for whatever reason, I am welcome on the other side of the door and the bed. Because I ASKED him and he has concrete proof of my respect for him and his space. So he knows if I am climbing into bed it’s because I need to, or it’s morning and I brought him coffee.

(come back for * “fucking scorpios, a handbook for the criminally insane” on 01.01.14)

Uncategorized

The Crazy Quilt

December 28, 2014
 
 

 

I am piecing together what I want from love, into a quilt.
Been saving the prettiest scraps I have found in humanity for years, hoping to make something beautiful and warm.

This is how I love. It’s simple.

I want to contribute to the ease and joy of your existence.

By allowing, acknowledging and appreciating this and me, you contribute to mine.

Your happiness is my happiness.

I spoke to my Guru yesterday. He fixes me when I break. I got stuck in my dark place. Okay, got stubborn and camped there. He saw, brought a flashlight and walked me out of the woods. We spoke of dreams and nice things. I lit back up.

I have to drop this false mantra of mine…”I wasn’t expecting this”.

BULLSHIT, I have been waiting for it…Always.

I’m falling for someone. I am so scared. I’ve been fucked over, proper fucked. Like the rabbits in ‘Snatch’. Like Bridget Fonda in ‘Singles’ I used to have a flowery list of traits for my ideal partner. Hers shrank to ‘someone who says bless you when you sneeze’, mine now just reads ‘Ferris wheel’.
Okay, not exactly.

This new one fucks like my kind of monster. Listens, proves it. He does not believe in one single thing I believe in, but he believes me. He is completely mutable and thereby holds my interest. He is beautiful and ginormous.

Guru: …you’re already scared

Me:  Terrified Daddy-oh. I cannot justify changing that good core I have. I am a good fucking woman, quite literally. I have learned my lessons. I don’t want to fight anymore. I just want to be me and be loved. Pedestals for both of us that let us see eye to eye.

Guru: no argument from me, darlin’… breathe and know you’re loved.

Me: I want love And the ever loving shit fucked out of me on a regular basis, by the same person. Who looks at me and says ‘me too’, or ‘explain that to me so I understand’ or ‘baby, try this instead’. And also takes me on a Ferris wheel.

Later…

Me: Hey great and powerful Oz…Can I have your permission to let go and feel what needs to be felt for this one, and can I have a shiny floaty bubble of Glinda Goodwitchyness to keep me from fucking it up?

Guru (aka Oz): I got a great big goblet of hope that you don’t fuck it up… and you’re gonna feel what you’re gonna feel…just ignore the man behind the curtain… ’cause he’s of no use to the outcome whatsoever.

Me: Just on my knees looking for divine intervention, or a big sign that says Eat at Joe’s.

Twenty seconds later, the sign came.

I AM really fucking amazing. I forgot for a minute. Okay, 3 days’ worth of minutes.

I kept getting the same message from unrelated sources, the last one hit home.

They all read keep being you & DON’T EVER BE SORRY.

They’re right.
My heart, my love and wants are well-honed, reasonable and make a lovely blanket.

men

Triggered

December 25, 2014

Kings are being driven from their kingdoms with allegations of rape and videotapes of wife beatings.

Everyone is running willy-nilly with torches and pitchforks, convicting both victims and offenders in the kangaroo court that is the internet.
I am one in 4.
One in 4 women who have experienced sexual assault and one in 4 that have experienced domestic violence, more than once by different hands. I really should be in my blanket fort built from PTSD colouring until this shit storm passes, every other word is a trigger warning.
But I am not, I am here, I am okay.
I am a submissive. It’s not a cross to bear, it’s wonderful and I love it.
I was beaten and raped. Not a cross to bear either, more like a tightrope to walk, lean too far and splat.
I know why I’m submissive, I was WAY before the rape for the record. The rape had nothing to do with play of any kind, or even sex. But we’ll get there, in probably about 850 words.
I have tried many a thing and I revel in the power exchange and dynamic that exists between opposite sexes. Sex isn’t just sex to me, it is the only time I am fully content…wait. It’s the only time when it is a possibility that I might become completely content. A few other things bring me to this state as well, but let’s stay with the sex.
I love being a woman, and when I am fucking/getting fucked, I want to feel like a woman. Kinda a weird thing to say, but I walk around on guard all day every day, I want to feel safe at home, in bed, with him. Maybe it’s leftover puritanical ideals or 1950’s mindset on what a woman ought to be. Fuck it, I don’t need to dissect everything I like, there is joy in mystery. I like my sex rough and raw. I get off on feeling small, used and cared for…those 3 things can co-exist. They truly can.
I have this nagging sewing circle voice in my head saying ‘this isn’t politically correct you know…” STAAAAP, my blog, my vagina my rules, stop reading if you’re upset, or troll. I’ll be over here getting laid. My way.
I heard a woman say, when asked these two questions “when do you feel the most vulnerable and when do you feel the most beautiful” her answer for both was, “when I am naked in front of a man”. Her words are my truth. To be truthful, I enjoy feeling a little scared.
So, how do I find balance considering I’m a rape victim.
First and foremost, I’m not a victim, rape or otherwise, ever.
Second, I know it had nothing to do with sex at all, nor was he a partner in which I had ever engaged in any kind of sub/dom play. He wasn’t my partner at the time. He simply wanted to terrorize and hurt me and he did. One person did this To me out of anger, I don’t blame others, or myself.
It was 14 years ago. It happened, I lived. It’s okay. And it rarely comes up, except lately.
I have been single for almost a year. I do so very much love fucking. So what is a girl to do? Um, date and fuck.
I have adopted a full disclosure policy. If they can survive the first barrage of bullets, they get to stay.
Bonus round, I say very plainly, I was raped. And watch their faces. 2 outta 2 have had this storm cloud of pain cross their eyes while they digest these 3 words. This is the only acceptable reaction, I hate having to say it, but I love me more.
To be plain I have had 3 partners in a year (gasp). The first one didn’t get the speech, because he was the first and I had no idea what I was doing and also…he showed me so much respect, patience and earned trust during the courting process. Yes, he courted me, twice even, I simply just felt safe.
The new one climbed on me the other day, at his house, in his bed, pinned my arms down and said, ‘you’re trapped’. Time stopped whilst the following happened, in my head.
The Royal We assembled at light speed and assessed. I should been in hysterics, fighting and clawing my way out right? That’s how it goes. But on this day, it didn’t happen that way. Instead there was this
First thought “is this a test?”
“Um. Maybe”
“We told him right?”
“Yes”
Deep breath
“Are we actually scared right now?”
Hesitant “no”
“Was this fear ever necessary outside of the circumstances that created it?
Definite “No”.
Is every other time this has been triggered a shitty Pavlovian response?
“Yes”, except that one time. That boy really was an asshole.
“Does it serve us in any way?”
“Maybe”
“Does it serve us right now?”
“Nope”
“We good?”
“Yep”
“Okay good, as you were.”
All of this occurred in the time it took my heart to beat twice and I was back in the moment, naked and vulnerable under this 6’ 3” Giant of an amazing man and I simply went back to enjoying him.
As I write this I realize, like fucking lightning strike, I have not dated anyone over 5’ 10” since I was raped. I was raped by a big dude. 14 years ago. But, but, I have always liked big dudes, I am 5’8” and like I said I like feeling small. Apparently we weren’t ready, I just stared longingly at the heels in my closet and waited…without realizing I was waiting.
This is the moment where I win. That situation has no power over me anymore, I don’t live there. I haven’t lived there in a really long time.
So, what can we learn from this?
Have I found an ideal partner, well ya, this confirmed what I already knew.
This is about me being better, and by better I mean finally healed.
men

Chivalry

December 23, 2014


I’m dating a new man. I use the word dating loosely, an umbrella-term for any activity wherein two people who might want to fuck go out and figure out if they do indeed want to fuck. Also, the subsequent forays for nourishment or fresh air because you have to get out of bed and stop fucking at some point.

Third date, yes, let’s make with the fucking.

I drive 2 hours into god’s good nowhere…scary. Don’t know him That well, no one can hear me scream, he’s capitol H huge (noms), could easily overpower me etc… welcome to being a woman and dating.

Louis CK does a bit about how brave women are for going out with men because statistically speaking the leading cause of harm to women is men.
Truth. Himself included.

We both knew why I was there, mostly because I said it. I am not subtle. In search of ‘morning after’ coffee, we stop at the grocery store, a man (not mine) subtly yet aggressively gets in my space. Every woman I know has an automated response…big girl panties up, defensive posture, 2 seconds later, we’re on guard. This time something wonderful happened. My date looked at me, looked at other dude and proceeded to put his shoulders back, and move ever so slightly to block me.

His body spoke in a calm, clear tone “I am right here”. I tucked myself into the safe space he made for me, and was overwhelmed with relief. I am the reigning Queen of ‘I Got This’, but do I always have to “Got This”?

We went back to his house and I fucked him, a lot, in a rather wanton manner because I felt safe. Anyone picking up what I am putting down? Trust=sex, and lots of it.

Outside of strip clubs, I cannot name one workplace where I was not harassed or abused in some way. The one I am citing now, the abuse was criminal. I worked with my ex at the time, he left me to the wolves, preferring to ‘console’ me privately and keep me leaning on him. I finally stood my ground, I was fired. He quit in what appeared to be a show of solidarity, but really, quitting jobs was a hobby of his, so the lustre flaked off that quickly. We didn’t fuck for 8 months prior to splitting. Now you picking up what I am putting down? No trust, not interested.

“Well I didn’t know what to do”, seems to be the theme of this latest great Canadian sex scandal.

Do what my new guy did.

The metamorphosis that old school chivalry must finally make.
Stand BESIDE me, not over me.

How do I express the relief in the arrival and actualization of something I had no idea was even possible but that I yearned for? In gratitude I channel my 50’s housewife and make him sweet potato pie and suck his cock like I’ve got the poison and he’s the remedy.

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