A Bad Review and a Glimmer of Faith, Part 2

The next day was Thanksgiving Eve. I’d expected to wish EG well on his trip to see family and spend the evening cleaning up for Thanksgiving with BFF. I had a dystopian audiobook ready and everything! 1984 from Julia’s perspective!!!

But EG wasn’t leaving til 10 that night and was determined to wedge in some sex, in-person or virtual. I told him I was in chore mode but I’d see him after the holiday, but send cute pictures! I meant, like, what’s your Thanksgiving dinner sweater like, but he said “No promises, I’m sharing a room with my brothers.” I guess there was only one kind of picture he was interested in sending.

And he wasn’t backing down on the before-he-left sex. “How about fifteen minutes going down on you and 15 minutes penetration?” He typed, after I’d said no.

Is this what I’m supposed to be? A sex app, ready whenever you need me, no basic courtesy required?

I again should have blocked him but I tried to be cute instead, sending back a Ma’am-ish “You need to learn to take no for an answer.”

“Forget I said anything, Ma’am.”

“Forgotten, (kiss emoji)”

But as I folded clothes and swept up, I realized this wasn’t a thing I liked.

“Are you looking for strictly just sex?” I typed. “I tend to like chitchat no matter what kind of connection. I understand if you’re looking for something more casual.”

And then Entitled Guy was pissed.

“After one night of terrible virtual sex you ask me this?”

The difference of perspective about the night before was jarring—where I’d experienced playfulness, openness, so much hopeful hotness, he’d found something lacking. I had let him do most of the work (those <3 lovely! <3 voice memos!) but that seemed in line with him wanting to be a Good Boy in the first place!

I guess maybe the “terrible” was because I didn’t want to Facetime? To have been un-terrible, would I have had to do what he wanted, when he wanted it?

Am I just playing an entirely different game from everyone else? Is it time to put away the Ma’am/Good Boy part of what I like?

Thinking back to my beautiful 2022 Good Boy, I hope not! Though that connection was fleeting and didn’t really have a real-daily-life potential, he was so cute, playful, and fun! (Pardon me while I pause to compose an opera to his dick, too!) And there was so much adorable chitchat in that dynamic! I remember the passion with which he told me why Sunkern is the worst Pokémon! (He said it with such contempt! Sunkern!) I remember him singing along to Carly Rae Jepsen’s Boy Problems! I think, I hope, The Good Boy felt fully human and fully celebrated—I know I did!

Ugh this year of dating! There have been some real gems, and like three or four languages I started learning, but my heart hasn’t moved forward as much as I’d hoped it would. If I’m honest, my heart spent most of its time this year mourning and still loving The Shy One. It’s so annoying that he set me free to find My Person and this is the dating year I’ve had!

I can always keep trying, can always keep hoping that someone will sweep me past that memory and into a new swirl of emotion. But also, if that’s what I needed this year for, okay. I’m in a process and I don’t think a cute shortcut is coming to speed things along. It’s okay. I have time.

Snuggles in the Time of Kavanaugh: Part Three

Once I had tied Gilmore Guy up, my self-consciousness about giving blow jobs faded a little. I started to remember the rhythm and taste, to settle back into those sensations. I felt like I could trust him to tell me if I was doing it wrong. He tentatively and gradually worked out how to be forceful with his untied hand, pulling my hair and pushing me to take him in deeper—gagging is a nice expression of affection sometimes.

(It’s hard not to think about porn when I’m doing this, though. I hardly ever indulge anymore, but the images of wide, overly-made-up, tear-streaked eyes are burned on my brain. I wish I could go back in time and rescue during-blowjob-eye-contact from its awful fate.)

Next, I decided I needed to be spanked, so I lay across his naked lap and untied his wrist. Oh. Yes. He’s such a natural at this: the smack, the giggle, the squirm, the relief.

“You can hold me down while you do that if you want…”

“Okay. Umm..how do I do that?”

(OH MY GOODNESS WHAT A GOOD QUESTION-SQUEE!)

“Just put your hand near the top of my back and press down.” I took his hand, put it into the right place, and let him take back over. He did as he was asked.

Oof. Aaah. What a relief to feel the submissive switch flip, to feel all of the tension leave my body and my soul, to be held and mastered and cared for.

But not too long after that delightfulness, the tension came back, and not just the good kind. P.I.V. sex wasn’t coming together, and I could see him getting nervous and frustrated about that. I think maybe he’d bought too-small condoms or maybe just the mood wasn’t right for that part. This was a problem for me ONLY inasmuch as it was clearly making him feel bad. As a queer kinky person, I see intercourse as one WONDERFUL medium in a vast palette, but it scares me how much meaning (and maybe even self-worth!) some guys attach to hardness.

I feel very hesitant to talk about this because I can only imagine how vulnerable this aspect of things is (I can hear Charlotte York going on and on about “We don’t want to upset the penis!” as I type. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sXsNgkZCUs8 ) but I think it’s important to think about how objectifying this focus on performance is for both of us. I wouldn’t blame any individual man for this fixation—as with so many sex-troubles, I think it comes from the deep, rotten heart of heteronormativity.

For a while, the worry didn’t overtake the pleasure. We played, we snuggled. We layed around looking like a painting with our fancy wine glasses. He called me “Titianesque” and I was impressed with the art history reference.

But eventually, it wasn’t okay, and I’m going to give myself time to breathe before I write about that part. I’m okay, he did nothing wrong, but that fixation needs to go.

Gilmore Guy, Part Two: I Let My Pants Decide

This Lorelai quote isn't QUITE how I feel (the phrase "that couple life" kinda gives me the heebie jeebies) but this DOES become a story about what I really want. Just...not yet.

Gilmore Guy has a Gilmore Lady, a long distance but primary partner. Although I don’t fit the poly mold these days (if I ever have), I wouldn’t have ruled him out for having a partner, though the hierarchy in the word “primary” did raise a flag of hesitation. But the appeal of connecting with Gilmore Lady, whether in friendship or otherwise, was also a factor.

As Gilmore Guy and I walked along in the woods, we talked easily and flirted gently. He told me about the cocktails he’d designed based on Star Trek, (How is Deep Space Nine anyone’s favorite, BTW?!) I told him how much I’m loving my job these days, we talked about how much we both hate fascists, normal 2018 stuff. Things were so easy and fun and he looked so dapper, I was inspired to have him pose for a picture in front of a nice stretch of creek.

When I asked if I could post the picture, there was hesitation, and my heart dropped. Gilmore Lady is looking for a job, he explained, and they couldn’t be as out as I am. They’d agreed not to have other partners on their social media accounts, which just made me sad. I mean it’s kinda like, love me, love my Instagram, even though of course I respect people’s right not to have their pictures shared. Still, I hadn’t asked to tag him or anything, so the closety-ness didn’t sit right.

(I also realize that this is exactly what someone would say if they weren’t in fact IN an open relationship, at least not one the other partner knows about, but I’m doing my best to take him at his word.)

We kept happily walking along making plans for that evening, but I kind of knew it wouldn’t work. To have something intimate in my life I couldn’t document and share felt lonely and sad, felt like an artistic limitation, and I told him so. Maybe that’s not fair, but it just didn’t feel right.

“I’d better not come over tonight,” I said, much to my own chagrin. I told him I don’t feel comfortable in hierarchies, shared a little bit of the solo-poly chip I still have on my shoulder while trying not to sound bitter. I probably sounded bitter.

There were still 30 minutes of hike back to the car, and much of it was in painful silence. We walked in frozen awkwardness as I tried to buoy the conversation, talking even more candidly since it wasn’t going to work out.

I’m sure it was partly just me wanting to take care of his feelings, but there was something about him that still made me curious. As the conversation shifted to kink (always an ice-breaker when confronted with a taciturn man…) I could feel a playful power dynamic between us.

“I have to admit you’d be fun to boss around,” I said. The conversation and my body rallied to make me want to forget his closet-y stuff, made me wonder if taking pictures is really that important. (IT IS) As we (ostensibly about to say goodbye) talked about the things we like and I told him a little about my adventures (this consisted mostly of sighing about ropes) sex came into the conversation like a benevolent pink force that lifted and carried us along. I was happy to let it.

He told me some more of his submissive fantasies and between the woods and dropping him off at home, I had talked myself out of telling him no.

“Can I wear pajamas when I come over?” (Remember when this option was my requisite for going almost ANYWHERE?)

“Of course, wear whatever you want. Wear nothing!”

A few stoplights later, I harrumphed “Do I have to SHAVE anything? I mean, not that I would.”

“No, I actually prefer hair, though it’s none of my business.”

Gold star.

(Side note: I also stopped shaving my legs a couple of years ago and I hope to never go back. Hope there are guys out there who think fuzzy legs are cute, ‘cause that’s what I’ve got.)

By the time I dropped him off (I had some afternoon work to do, we agreed to meet up later) I was wet and glittery with anticipation. I wondered how I would concentrate all afternoon, with Gilmores, mojitos, and HIM to look forward to. I was glad I’d let my pants decide—I’ve gotta do that once in a while.

A 2017 Heart Wish

I don’t hate 2016 as thoroughly as some, but it did so a lot of damage to my already-pretty-broken perception of men. The Bernie Bros seething misogyny was painful, but finding out during primaries which of my friends are more subtly sexist (or Stockholm Sydromey) was even worse. It was a tough year to fight the tide and hold onto the insistence that women are people, and of course it ended with the election of a child rapist. I’ve never been that awesome at trusting men, and during this time of election grief, it’s even harder.

My experience with Mr. Makeout Music made me realize that as much as I enjoyed the awesome spinster part of my life, I have a deep need for male friendship and affection that I don’t want to ignore anymore. Greeting them with defensiveness and fear, while it seems pretty reasonable most of the time, runs counter to my deep need to connect. Defensiveness has always been one of my worst qualities, and I know it’s partly responsible for the vast gulf I sometimes feel between myself and men. The gulf is heartbreaking because all separations-by-category feel heartbreaking, but also because I long for a male partner and my own family much more deeply than I’d like to admit.

But “fall in love and have him love me back” isn’t a goal one can reasonably work towards, so I decided to get closer to men in as many ways as I can think of. I’ve been scrolling though OK Cupid for 20 minutes every Friday evening, but more importantly, I’ve set the goal to call a guy friend once a week and catch up. I want to see men as themselves again, not just as The Patriarchy or as part of the Hillary-trolling nightmare. I want to remember how to be openhearted to the whole person, not just frustrated by the part of all of us that’s enslaved by gender.

The first time I tried calling was yesterday, and it felt very jangling, partly because the first voicemail I left was for Mr. Makeout Music, about whom I’m still hurty but hoping to let the friendship take care of things.  I left voicemails for three other (less fraught) guy friends, and even making those calls felt foolish, vulnerable, woozy. I felt like I was setting myself up for humiliation and loss. I’m still, after all these years of therapy and adventure, afraid of men. After I left those four voicemails for perfectly kind and lovable guys, I started to cry. I miss them. I miss all of them. (Okay, especially Mr. Makeout Music…)

The first to call me back was my dear and very lovey friend Angel Face, and then a poet pal I haven’t talked to in years. The poet told me about Marie Kondo-ing the kitchen with his wife over the holiday, about jobs and the silly day-to-day, about how awesome it is to make breakfast for dinner. Friendship is one of the most resilient and trustworthy forces in the world, and I’m happiest when I let myself depend on it.

If I’m honest, I know I’m still heartbroken about not being a thing with Mr. Makeout Music. I’m doing my best to take my time, not to push myself, to set aside time at night to miss him. I still love him so much, I still don’t quite understand why we’re not together, but we had a nice talk before Christmas and friendship doesn’t seem so far away.

Most of my other nine goals are about going places and doing things, about artistic indulgence. I’ve named it the Year of Sparkles and vowed to let in all of the queer, poly beautifulness that I can. Being generous with myself seems like the best way to heal, especially since part of that generosity will be finding a therapist and/or support group.

If you’re a man I used to know, send your number to thekittencalendar@gmail.com. Part of the joy of this year will be in your details.

Big Therapy Project, Week One: Telling the Bad Story

***If you get triggered by images of sexual assault, definitely skip this series. Plenty of kittens and snuggles to come, I promise. ***

This past Sunday, my therapist helped me to begin the process of confronting the teenage trauma that’s unfortunately one of the defining factors in my psyche, in the hopes of making it perhaps less so. After I told her the story, she tasked me with starting a dialogue with my sixteen-year-old self, with the goal of reaching some kind of…forgiveness isn’t the right word…acceptance, understanding, amends? Maybe embrace. Last night after I wrote the story on paper and put it in the Box of Things to Be Worked Out Later By Unseen Forces (What, you don’t have one?), I actually could feel my young self, ragged and feral, holding onto me for dear life. Maybe I can write her to safety, since I couldn’t fight our way there.

It’s possible that such a process might repair some of the holes inside me, break down the walls of anger, defensiveness, and detachment that come between me and self-love.

Before I can start the dialogue with the girl (Let’s call her S.) I have to tell you what happened. I’ve written it here before but I think it’s important to tell it from where I am now, from a place of processing rather than panic. There are many echoes of the story in the present-day one—sometimes I’m very proud of the ways I’ve relived and rewritten it, how I came from a place of helplessness and shame and somehow became a person who wins at parties, gets rescued by the Cutest Boy, who smacked the shit out of the guy who put an unwanted hand over my mouth before I figured out I liked it. But before all that, there was this. If you read it, thank you in advance—you’re easing the project along and easing the burden.

One spring when I was in high school, my body woke up and made me antsy. Because I didn’t count myself among those who could have relationships, I opted for quick and anonymous sex with any good-looking man I could get my hands on. The basketball court, conveniently located in the park three doors down, was an easy place to pick them up, and I still kind of envy myself the ease with which I took them home, fucked them, and sent them on their way.

I’m not introducing the story of the trauma with the fact that I was slutty in order to suggest any cause and effect relationship (though I admit, for years I did) only to give you an idea of what people thought I was, what I kind of thought I was for in a situation where it might’ve been helpful to see myself any other way.

My best friend told me that her boyfriend had a friend who’d fuck me, so we set it up for a Saturday night. We did the classic thing of telling each other’s mom’s we were staying at another friend’s house and went to meet the guys. They picked us up at the grocery store, of all places.

They took us to a park on the outskirts of town. My friend stayed in the car with her guy and me and the friend hiked up a big hill that overlooked the lights of our suburban town—I wanted to leave on my glasses to enjoy the view, but he didn’t like the way I looked in them, didn’t really like the way I looked at all, I don’t think, but he fucked me anyway, doggie style, maybe so he wouldn’t see my face. I enjoyed letting out yowls that echoed through the hills, felt both pleasured and degraded, mostly kind of coldly successful at life.

When the guys were all done with us, it was only 12:30 and we’d told our parents we were at Kristi’s house so we really didn’t have anyplace to go. We sat in the little park by my house, thinking about falling asleep on a park bench, when a pickup full of whooping partiers stopped to see if we wanted to join them.

I felt absolutely no hesitation, enjoying the idea of how horrified my mom would be if she knew I was riding in the back of a pickup. They drove us to a nice, neat apartment complex with “green” in the name.

I can’t say for sure that I was drugged, but I do know I was way more drunk than the number of beers I had. They were drinking some Cisco and could have slipped that in, too. We were sitting around playing quarters and I was barely able to sit up when the ugliest, most snaggle-toothed of the men said “So, which one of us are you gonna fuck?”

I said nobody, that I’d had enough that evening, but they kept pushing and said I had to pick someone. They kept insisting and I did feel like it was who I was, like it was something I had to do, like I couldn’t escape them or my slutty self. So I picked the cutest guy there, who I also figured wouldn’t do anything because his girlfriend was with him. But he sent his girlfriend home.

He took me in the bedroom and closed the door, made me strip off all my clothes. I was kind of a sex robot. I lay beneath him and tried to do my job of making noises, but he put his hand over my mouth. I don’t remember what the sex felt like, really, just remember scrambling around after my clothes because he left the door open after so anyone could see in.

I did get most of my clothes on but after that I couldn’t really move and I started throwing up everywhere. I passed out and when I came to, everyone was hitting me, atleast 5 people including one girl, with what turned out to have been tennis rackets, blows coming down everywhere in the pitch black and I still couldn’t move. They were all calling me names, yelling at me for throwing up, telling me I was a stupid slut and in between saying “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” I was screaming my head off so that some blessed person heard and called the cops. Otherwise, those might have been my last moment on earth.

The next thing I remember was seeing my bloody face in the bathroom mirror, the girl who’d been helping to beat me up was making soothing sounds and cleaning me up. My favorite shirt (a bright mod swirly thing in the manner of De-Lite front woman and my style-hero, Lady Miss Kier) was spattered with blood.

As the police put us in a circle and questioned us, it dawned on me that my best friend had been in the front room, all of this time, standing by while those things happened, that she had let it happen.

I refused, no matter how many times they asked, to tell the police or anyone the sex part of the story. In no way did I think it wasn’t my fault for being drunk and slutty. I’d never seen The Accused, but I’d seen a review of it on Siskel & Ebert and I knew well enough who the accused would be. The not-telling is the part I feel most horribly ashamed about, the guiltiest. Some of them did go to jail for what happened, including the guy, but not for rape. I’m very, very sorry for not having done what I could to try and protect other women from that experience; I wish I could go back and do the right thing.

The following weeks were a family nightmare. My mom, horrified that I’d chosen to dye my hair the same purple as the bruises beneath my eyes, upset that it made her look like a bad mother, held my head over the tub and tried to bleach it out with Clorox. In the culmination of a fight with my mom, my dad pushed me down to the floor a week after the incident, kicked me and punched me, called me the same names the other people had and blamed me for bringing this violence into our family, though of course it had always been there. He pushed my mother down the stairs and the next day, she had bruises to match my own.

A newish friend, an artsy dykey girl I totally had a crush on, came and rescued me that night, but there wasn’t anyplace safe to be until I was shipped off for a few weeks that summer to my Catholic aunt’s house in the Maryland countryside, which had always been my favorite place in the world. I learned how to make homemade pop-tarts and fell in love with a boy from her church, who’s as gay as the day is long, but that didn’t stop us from kissing in the waves and whispering sweet nothings with the wild ponies of Chincoteague island. I took comfort in his innocence and it took me through that horrible year, but the wall of refusal and dread inside me was otherwise insurmountable. I’d already been a damaged girl, but now I was very often nothing but fight.

Heartbreak With the Mystery Family, But Two Wonderful Valentine-Guys

I deserve someone who wants to be in the same room with me. What a crazy thing to have to declare, but here we are.

After the Mystery Man officially entitled me a “Keeper of His Heart” and a member of his family, I’ll admit I was a little hopeful/vulnerable about wanting some Valentine’s Day attention, but what I got was him disappearing mid-conversation before we’d made our date. Earlier in the week I’d gone right out on a limb and asked them all if I could have some time with him during Valentine’s weekend, and though they all said yes, of course, had to ask three times before I even STARTED to get a time. Soon as I was supposedly officially a part of them, I saw myself slip through the cracks of their schedule, just like with the Steampunks. I have to make myself stop loving overbooked guys.

Lacking information or a goodbye before he disappeared for the weekend, I did maybe more Twitter-reading than I should have and found out they were having a party that night, which I hadn’t been told about and definitely hadn’t been invited to. I physically ACHED to be at that party, dancing and hugging and really seeing them. That yearning opened up the cognitive dissonance that made me take the blinders off and start to realize that their version of me being in their “Family” did not necessarily include me ever being in their presence.

So I was hurting but that hurt was ameliorated by a wonderful surprise—Mr. Shiny Eyes! After I called him Friday evening to touch base after our conference adventures, he decided on a whim to drive over (from, it must be said, the same VERY close city where the Mysteries live) and jump into bed with me for Valentines. I was so touched and turned on by the gesture and I loved the visit, especially our morning. We cuddled in bed talking so long before jumping on each other again, it was so intimate, such a time-luxury compared to the (also fantastic) festival sex we’ve enjoyed before.

There was no way, after a gesture and a morning like that, to pretend that I was okay with someone who claims to love me but doesn’t want to see me. After Mr. Shiny Eyes headed home, though I assumed the Mystery Man was busy with some kind of Valentine’s fun, I tried to ask him about the implications of me not having been invited to the party. I thought the problem might get bigger in my head if I waited until our not-really-set-yet date.

I tried to write it as a letter, but probably should have asked (through the cloud of interrupting-shame) for a real conversation—a real 10 –minute talk could have solved the problem, if the problem could in fact be solved at all.

Instead of reassurance, though, or an invite to some future party, (I mean, COME ON, even the most elusive of casual guys invited me to parties at his house!) I was told that the “online contingency” aren’t usually invited and that I would’ve run the risk of making people uncomfortable. This was followed by a litany of things that were higher priorities to them—that old bottom-of-the-pile feeling. I told him I was hurt by that, that I didn’t like being on the outside looking in, that I needed to know I could do normal things like be near the people who purported to love me.

The “online contingency,” fucking OOF.

I didn’t hear from him again and imagined that he had gone back to whatever lovey-dovey permutation of entanglements I was being left out of that day. It was only by chance that and secondhand I found out he’d melted down about what I’d said, and that made it even harder and guiltier to try and communicate.

I did try (on open Twitter, since I felt like I wasn’t being heard on the private channels) but all I got back was an “Are you leaving me?” and no further communication from him. I tried talking to the Lady whose time I’d unwittingly derailed, but it really was moot, since he’d rather break up than face the prospect of having me over.

I really do love him, and it was never just him. I loved the Ladies first and I always wanted to just arrange the whole family in a pile and dive in. More importantly than the sexy stuff, though, I wanted to be their friend, to feel their warmth around me in ordinary, everyday ways. The concept of “online friendship” makes absolutely no sense to me. My love and friendship are physical, even for people I’ve never met, and loving without face-to-face contact is unsafe and ungrounded.

I shouldn’t be in the position of feeling like crazy stalker girl for wanting to included by people who’ve used the word “family” or for wanting to be physically near someone I love. I shouldn’t have to convince anybody that my presence is awesome and should be welcome and encouraged. And (typing this for maybe the millionth time, maybe I’ll learn it) I shouldn’t have to feel like a burden or an interruption every single time I need something. I deserve to be a clear priority, even if my role is smaller than others’.

The ironic thing about this situation is that if somebody else were treating me this way, this family of readers would be the first to get up in arms about it, telling me to get out and that I’m amazing and strong and wonderful and deserve so much better. Without them to tell me that, I’m trying to tell myself.

This “online relationship” business is just complete nonsense, especially from someone who lives two hours away.

Last night, while my nerves were still jangled and my heart was definitely breaking, Mr. Sweetface made it over for our long-awaited play date. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to pay him the proper attention, but it’s amazing what bodies can take care of all on their own. The smell of him, his big pretty eyes, his beautiful naked self across my knee all subby and soft—how lucky am I? When it was his turn to spank me, I cried a little at the end and he gathered me up and told me I was beautiful, told me I’d be okay. The generosity of that easy gesture, the sound of his heartbeat, his strong arms as he wrapped me in the blanket, that’s what I need. That’s what I am.

A few months ago when I was panicking to the Lady of the House about the Steampunks, she said, not unkindly, that I seem to find myself in one crazy story after another, that it might be beneficial to look at the pattern and figure out what attracts me to unavailable people. Since then, I’ve tried to be mindful of only making choices that wouldn’t lead me back to loneliness and panic, so I’m sheepish and sad to have chosen a constellation that, however loveable, has infinitely more barriers up than the Steampunks did. I love them so much and sometimes they’re all I want in this world, but I ignored a million red flags and broke my own very good rules to love them. I don’t know what makes me do this, except that I needed the words “love” and “family” so badly that I would’ve given anything. That’s where I am right now and I’ll keep trying to be careful with it.

Single Life, Week Six: Antsy But Enjoying the New Goals

Last weekend, I told my therapist that sessions might be boring for a while, and that’s how it might be with the blog, too. (Though adventures must not have been particularly unboring when I was hitting the same patterns again and again…) Anyway, I’m supposed to be mostly taking a three month break from sexytimes. In a way, it’s liberating, not having to worry about making plans or scheduling dates, and maybe letting the (already pretty lax) shaving routine lapse a little bit.

But since even in this hard transition I am still my horny, half-extroverted self, I feel antsy. The adrenaline of the past couple of years, though not always healthy, kept me fueled and inspired most of the time, and now I have to look for quieter, more sustainable forms of inspiration. I’m a little afraid that if I let myself rest for these few months I’ll suddenly wake up 60 with no one but cats. It’s the stupidest of tropes, but there it is anyway.

I know where the next adventure’s coming from: there’s a big poly conference coming up soon. And I don’t think I’ll be away from the dungeon forever—I’d thought I was probably graduated from there, but this morning when I saw the invite in my Fet inbox I felt a little surge of joy—right before I RSVPed no. In pursuit of this break-taking goal, I now even have a friend who’ll text me a gold star any time I RSVP no or just stay home in my PJs for any reason. It’s nice how the right influences tend to come along.

The story now is about self-care and about slow, safe progress. One big obstacle-removal is that Sweetie got a promotion and now works closer to home, allowing her to fully take over the car payments so that I can save up for a car of my own. Yay my future little red car! Trading the car back and forth has been a too-often chance to see each other, and that’s getting dicey. Plus, pretty soon I will never again have to drive the car that I jumped out of.

In some ways, it’s getting harder to let Sweetie go. Now that she’s free from her terrible commute and the job she hated, she’s getting frustratingly appealing. I’ve had to stop having her over for TV because the other night I got the biggest urge to hold her hands during some Community reruns. As the pain of the bad parts starts to heal, all I can see it the love and it’s hard to move on, even though it’s paradoxically the moving on that brings the appeal. It makes me both reluctant to and impatient to get further and further apart. Sometimes we still do groceries together but it ends up feeling like a date, so I guess we’ll have to knock that off too.

The big excitements of the past week or so have been little acts of self-care: staying late on Friday to give my Monday-morning self a break by getting the homework packets ready. Remembering to buy batteries, adding DVDs to my Netflix account so that I can have better movie nights. The big social adventures have been after-church brunches that have made my heart so happy and full. (Resolution with the Cute Church couple: “Waffles in ‘014!”)

Slowing down has given me the chance to do what I always wanted to do: feel all the feelings. I feel sadness at letting go of Cute Master and Pretty Slave, but a happy hope that I’ve left a pattern behind. I feel nervous excitement at making new neighborhood friends and navigating social situations at which I have pants on. I feel frustration, of course, at being away from sex adventures, but pleasure in knowing that I’m the only one I have to please.

I vacillate between shyness at the year’s goals and wanting to show them off, but I like the way you guys help me keep myself accountable. The theme of the year is kindness to myself, which I know will make some friends and readers (and also, me) sigh with relief. It’s fun thinking of new ways to care for myself, to reach out to people closer to home, to look for magic in the world, to try (though I’ve always had a nice time keeping it at arm’s length) to embrace my faith.

I’m still smarting from everything I’ve let go, but sometimes when I’m washing the dishes or making the bed or cooking myself breakfast for dinner, I feel the odd sensation of liking myself. It’s a real thing and I think I can learn it.

A Bittersweet Breakthrough “No”

I was over the moon. It was finally going to happen. Cute Master and Pretty Slave were

planning to come over Saturday night for dinner and a playdate and he was excited to be my (at long last) first ass guy. I’m super tired of that storyline, but because this quest is riddled with a Three’s Company level of misunderstandings and pratfalls, a six-letter word had to get in the way.

Day after yesterday, he was sending me a series of exuberantly smutty texts about how hard he was going to fuck me, and I was getting happier and happier. Turned on and glowing, I wrote their names on the calendar and added a cute little Snoopy sticker marked “sleepover.” And then he said this:

“I’m going to make you cum from raping your ass.”

*record scratch…*

What…huh? Raping? I thought we were friends? Doing this together for…fun?

We had a nice text-conversation about why not to use that word, but really, should this really be a thing I have to tell people not to say? What kind of a WORLD is this? I didn’t want to call off the plan but the trigger was triggered and…I just couldn’t. It hurt my heart to say no to a fun night with favorite pals, but I did. I don’t really know what it means for our friendship and I’m really hoping that Pretty Slave isn’t mad at me. But even if she is, I know I did the right thing.

It’s not that using the word in a sext means he’s likely to do it, in spite of rumored allegations to that effect, my body’s always felt mostly safe with him. It just represents a worldview that I just can’t be okay with. To me, using that word meant that we wouldn’t really be in it together, that one of us would get to be a person and the other one, just a thing. I don’t think that was his intention in saying it, but it’s the feeling I got.

I’ve always felt out of sync with the way people joke about rape and throw the word around, like it’s nothing, like it isn’t a deep horror. This is why watching a Seth MacFarlane movie feels more transgressive to me than, say, getting set on fire. To me, lighthearted use of the word "rape" feels contemptuous not just to rape victims, but to humanity in general. It’s a vicious and untenable thing that feels impossible to fight, pervasive as weather.

Because this attitude that the word “rape” is no big deal is so pervasive and rape culture is so much the norm and on the surface in my local BDSM community, I’ve tried to adapt and make peace with it. Because being a rape victim has caused me to overbuild my defenses, I’ve tried to be a little bit less dogmatic about how people speak and act when it comes to matters of consent. There’s the dungeon owner I really like but who regularly dispenses the advice “Don’t go over to someone’s house unless you are ready to have sex with him.” as if driving over there is somehow an implied yes. There’s the way even some of my favorite kinksters often dismiss rape accusations as “drama.” And of course there’s the Scary Party staff treating its patrons like an all-you-can-take-advantage-of buffet. None of it is okay at all but I’ve played happily right in the middle of it for a couple of years. So what does that say about me?

It’s complicated because parts of my inner fantasy life isn’t super-consensual, but I guess what I’m realizing is that that doesn’t mean that I have to accept a guy for whom rape is part of the fantasy. The idea of sexytimes in which one of the people isn’t enjoying it makes me sick, and I don’t want a partner who’s turned on by that, even as a casual playpal.

From a vanilla standpoint, most of this seems like, yeah, duh, but it has been a boundary that is surprisingly hard from me to draw. I have had this semiconscious compulsion for a couple of years that rape culture is something I need to accept, something I need to compromise with in order to move forward. Because hating it sends me to such a dark place, I thought it would be better to love and accept it, and I have loved a few embodiments of it (though this is not that) but it doesn’t make me any less dark. It tunnels the darkness down to a pinpoint and makes me blind to everything else.

I’ve sometimes grabbed myself by the metaphorical hair and shoved myself into unsafe situations because if I could learn to love the dark things that have happened to me, if I could desensitize myself and not wince at little everyday cruelties, I could somehow reclaim the dignity I’ve lost. If I could love it, then I could make it my fault somehow and just say I’m sorry and move on. But I can’t get the dignity back, I can only hold onto what I have now, which is a choice every time somebody gets in my space.

All of this is a lot to get from one hapless and essentially harmless text, but I’m exhilarated by the breakthrough of it. Saying no to him because he used that word, even though it breaks my heart and makes my ass mad at me, means that I’ve stopped trying to compromise about this. The only rape I have to accept is what’s already happened to me. There’s never going to be a way to swoop in and save myself from the past, but I can do it in little calm ways every day in the present.

When I’m triggered, there’s a little voice in me that says I’m worthless, that if I say no to this person who made me feel yucky then I’ll never learn to be part of the world and I’ll never be loved, that I’ll never go to a party or have any friends. The little voice says no one will want me unless I can be exactly what they want, which sometimes means being nothing. As my readers well know, that voice has stopped me from taking care of myself too many times. I’m glad I was able to slow myself down this time, to see a choice instead of a catastrophe.

Today I kicked the bad little voice’s ass and closed the door on a whole set of compromises that I just don’t want to try and force myself to make anymore. Once the fear simmers down and the horizon widens out again, I think the world will look a whole lot brighter and freer. Welcome to me just not liking the stuff I don’t like. Personhood, huzzah.

A Little Metablogging: Toward More Private Play

I felt the same way last year around this time, maybe it’s a hibernation thing: the urge to experience my adventures without blogging all of the details right away. I’m going to keep posting and writing, but I think I’d like to keep some things to myself for a while. Processing all of the emotions and details of scenes with you has been productive and fun, but at the moment I feel protective of my experiences, like I need a little more time and space to take them in. Transparency is a wonderful thing, but one-sided super-transparency is quite a leap and a little too vulnerable for where I am at the moment.

I feel so deeply grateful to those who have opened themselves up to being written about. It’s been so generous and trusting, and I’m sure I’ll ask it of them (and of myself) again in the future.

I’m curious to see what will happen if I let my feelings develop without giving everyone involved access to them, if I let my mistakes go undocumented for a while.

Maybe it’s the new bed or the excellence of my time with Mr. Sweetface last weekend, but I’m having a taste for private play as well. This is not to say I won’t play publicly a million more times or on New Year’s Eve, but there’s something about the safety and comfort of home, of bed. I want to explore that for a while and see where it goes. Playing privately seems like a nice way to let in some more (or just a different kind of) intimacy and affection, to make room for more expression and trust. Just another way to practice, to get my feet under me for whatever adventures come next.

Single Life, Week Two: Welcome to District 14

“There is no District 12.”

I am certainly no Mockingjay, and my cute, overheated, modestly Christmas-decorated apartment and tough-but-fulfilling job are not quite a bombed out dystopian village, but I related to Katniss at the end of Catching Fire. She’d done what she had to do, she’d been brave and good, but the woods that gave her comfort were gone and she was headed someplace she’d previously thought was a myth.

I only had to save myself, and there’s a lot left that gives me comfort, but my marriage is behind me, my family feels like a death-trap thanks to the looming presence of my creepy mother, and the social cushion I tried to create within the poly and kink community isn’t really making sense.

It may be heartbreak making the Regular Dungeon feel like the Scary Party, but I suspect it might be something else. I fit within the ideals of poly and kink, wherein it’s supposed to be about expression, honesty, and communication, but the way I’m finding it actually practiced doesn’t exhibit those ideals at all. Thought many of my experiences this year have been life-affirming and good, I’ve seen so much (unintentional, I think) cruelty, judgment, carelessness, and emotional perfectionism that I don’t quite see where I can fit.

After that conversation with my mom where she berated me for not “behaving correctly” by having emotions she didn’t approve of, I realized that that’s what a lot of my relationship experiences have been about—trying to correct my feelings so that people would think I was nice enough, detached enough, openminded enough, that I wasn’t a threat to people’s narrow expectations or (apparently fragile!) relationships. I had to ask one lady to stop reading me because she just couldn’t stand the moments of frustration and would send me paragraphs of emotional correction until I felt like I might lose my civility. The worst mistakes of the year were made when I tried to tamp down my emotions but they just kept pushing to the surface like demanding sidewalk dandelions.

It’s not just the negative or “needy” emotions that have been met with fear, it’s positive, playful emotions too. Look at the way Fireguy scrambled to control my writing about an amazing, life-changing scene because he was petrified of his submissive’s jealousy, at The Man deciding I was a Glenn-Close-grade-stalker because I was nervous about meeting his wife, at the Steampunks making being excited for a playdate into something shameful and threatening.

Even the functional playpal situations only work as long as I don’t write too rhapsodically about people. Being able to keep people in perspective is a wonderful skill that I may never master and that I’m very grateful to have practiced this year, but it’s kind of sad knowing that playing with Old-Timey Guy has only worked for all this time because I’ve never gotten excited enough about him to get Punk Rock Girl’s hackles up. Pretty Slave and Cute Master, wonderful as they are, would ditch me the second I fell for one of them. Which would make sense, actually, in the monogamous world, but feels hurty in one where I still sometimes kiss them. I do know it’s a real friendship, but one that comes with its own guillotine.

As the judgy voices of blog-reading not-quite-metamours simmer down, I think that openheartedness and enthusiasm are two of my best qualities. It’s just that I keep putting/finding myself in scenarios where they’re not matched or welcomed, and that’s when they start to feel like crazy. According to one of the many, MANY How I Met Your Mother episodes over the weekend, the “Dahmer/Dobbler divide” hinges only on whether the feeling is mutual—what looks romantic in requited attraction can certainly start to look creepy when the feeling isn’t returned. So I guess if I want to value my romantic side and not keep feeling grossed out by it, I need to get rid of unrequiteds before they become a thing—like, three texts in if possible. It’ll be hard but probably worth it.

So I’m not sure where it’ll leave me, but I want to stay out of situations that call for the artificial tamping-down of emotions. There’s enough of that in daily life, why opt for it in relationships? More than anything, I want to find myself in situations where openheartedness isn’t met with fear and distrust.

Anyway, so my therapist, who maybe doesn’t have time for dystopian young adult novels, suggested that we make a plan to get me to District 13, but I explained that the residents there are very guarded and conservative from their years of subsisting underground.

So here I am in District 14. So far its accomplishments are modest: A small but very sincere Christmas tree, getting the bills sent on paper because I like paying them with stamps and envelopes, trying to figure out a holiday that won’t be too much pain to take. It will take a long time to build something stable, authentic, and unoppressive, but this is a start.

In the meantime, two gold stars:

1. That night the dungeon didn’t work, I left. I didn’t force myself to stay and keep being a sparrow bashing into the plate glass window of them. I had a bad feeling and (with the help of my super adorable friend) got the heck out of there. That is always to be rewarded.

2. Saturday I got asked out (actually, asked in) by a tall, beardy Beatles fan (“I spend my time thinking about…What I would say to Paul McCartney if I met him.”) and I asked him if it could wait until after the holidays because I’m having a spate of introspection. He said sure and I was so, so proud of myself for slowing down and taking the time I need. I did have all of those very urgent sitcoms to watch!

There’s still the matter of what to do about Christmas. I don’t want to make the 5 ½ hour drive to my sister’s, but I’m worried I’ll miss my niece and nephews too much if I don’t.

Yesterday Sweetie and I were in the Target picking up nonperishables for the food drive at work and we strolled through the Christmas section. I got the most AWFUL feeling in my gut and lower back until we walked out of that section. Day to day, I have a fair amount of Christmas spirit going, but something about the day itself is making me sick and afraid.

Is It Weird That I Asked My My Ex-Wife to Pick Up My Christmas Tree? I Don't Care

I used the snow day today to start making next year's goals and to tackle two tasks that were giving me single-girl anxiety: dying my hair (next time going to a salon like a grown-ass woman) and putting up the Christmas tree. Those things done, plus a nice talk with Pagan Boy, helped soothe some of the sting and worry. On to the next things!

Single Life, Week One

That janky dungeon night was just a sliver of what the first week of single life was like—although at the moment I’m still feeling dark and soul-separated, most of the week was fine-to-lovely. Sweetie finally moved out the Sunday before last, and that was such a wistful, sad, nostalgic night. That night I took the opportunity to finally watch Blue Valentine (I’d always joked that if we watched it, we’d have no choice but to get divorced…) and feel all the sad things, but I also felt like we were much more awesome than that couple—that bar’s not superhigh, but still. After that, I cleaned my apartment and listened to Minx and Lusty Guy’s handfasting ceremony on Poly Weekly and that gave me something to hope for.

The week was stressful because I’m going through a series of evaluations at work, but that gave me something to focus on besides heartache, and the evaluation went okay. The woman whose maternity leave I was covering came back and moved all of her stuff into her new classroom, so it was a week of making myself at home and gaining closet space.

I love the feeling of getting the apartment arranged just for me. I’ve been settling in, decorating, and moving furniture around, putting away reminders of the relationship and getting ready for the new. By the way, artsy types, if you have any artwork to lend or donate, I’d be much obliged!

And then there’s the new bed. All I want to do is be in it, and sometimes I fantasize about getting somebody (or somebodies) to come over and break it in, but I think that might be a while. I’ve spent many a content hour wrapped up in my new comforter reading library books—that’s actually what Saturday was about, before that other stuff: home. Nesting and snuggling in here, I get a deep and true sense of well-being. Maybe the key to surviving the bad parts is to draw inward for a while, let it be about just me, not worry where I’ll fit in in the world, try not to be scared that it’s all gone. I think that’ll help. I’m almost certain that the world and its parties will still be there when and if I can heal.

How much should I be allowed to hang out with Sweetie? Yesterday it was so snowy, and I was so tired, and I had to get the groceries and go to the laundromat so I called her for help. We had a very pleasant afternoon slip-sliding to the Target and reading magazines while the clothes dried. I don’t know if this is allowed but it made me feel better. Maybe I don’t have to be all the independent at once? I don’t know, but I know I’m doing my best.

Oh Wait, It Wasn’t My Drama

I’m sorry to revisit the same stupid playdate-that-wasn’t over and over again, but it’s still weighing on me and it’s still taking away my fun. This seems to be the month of unpleasant conversations that give me lots of insight—this morning, when I touched base with Steampunk Girl to apologize for not saying hello and tell her that I miss them, I found out the truth about those cancelled plans: It wasn’t my expectations and drama that he was aggravated with, it was drama and expectations that she invented and projected onto me.

It turns out that she was upset that I hadn’t cancelled after she explained that I would need a more loving situation for my first ass-time. In fact, I had cancelled, but then I uncancelled when I realized that we weren’t the same person and didn’t need the same things. I felt perfectly capable of doing the gentle breaking-it-in parts myself (I think we’ve established that I’m awesome at that!) and taking care of the emotional parts on my own too. There are many other valid reasons besides love to play with somebody, and in this case I chose him for competence, chemistry, and release. And also because (I thought) he was my pal. I think I’d have rocked at that playdate, if the planning process hadn’t turned crazymaking.

She was then bothered when I declined to have my first anal time with Cute Master, which she’d deemed a more loving situation. Actually, it probably was, and CM may still get the honor, though it would only be in the most casual and matter-of-fact of ways. But even if CM WAS the better choice, who in the world was SHE to decide that? Whose asshole are we talking about here?

It was also her issues causing the schedule mess—she thought I’d have all this “aftermath” that he would have to deal with, even though I’d already taken responsibility for that part and asked him to just tell me when he was expected home. All that I’d really asked for (besides wanting to make him cupcakes) was a time-margin away from the school week so I’d be more relaxed, a high sex-to-snuggle ratio, and to be treated gently about the scheduling part.

I did romanticize the friendship, but that doesn’t mean I expected more than friendship. Regardless of my feelings, I never asked him for anything that went beyond the bounds of an FWB or play partner. And even if I did, all he had to say was no, there was never any reason to put me down and e-yell at me about it.

All this time I’ve been feeling like I failed to be friends with them, especially with her, but they were the ones who dropped me over one mismatched set of expectations, most of which they’d invented. They were callous, mean, and defensive all along. It if weren’t for something she decided I needed and shouldn’t have, the plans would probably have come and gone, a nice story and a happy step along the way, and I could have kept my muse and friend. But I guess if he let all that happen to me, then it was never really a friendship to lose.

I wish this had been a conversation with him and not a way-after-the-fact whisper-down-the-lane with her and more stupid paragraphs. I wish he would have acknowledged that I deserved better, that I had the right to prefer whichever partner I preferred, that just because her first time meant “loving” and “aftermath” didn’t mean that mine had to. It’s helped to realize that for all of my mess, I’m actually much more self-contained than she is, and certainly less insecure.

Of course any good poly reader could say that all of this would have been avoided through direct communication and a more transparent approach by all parties, but I knew those things weren’t there for them from like the second date and I proceeded anyway. I hope that I can treat myself more humanely in future partnerships—how many times have I said that?

As for the dungeon, TPG was so sweet and posted pictures of her bruises just as if I were a real Dom. Hopefully Old-Timey Guy will forgive me for running out, I’m sure he had a million other fun things to do. I may not go back for a while but when I do, I hope that I can find the brave person I used to be there, or at least find myself able to cry soulful tears.

Divorce Times: The Holidays Are Bearing Down

Full disclosure: This post was partly precipitated by a touching scene in the new Bridget Jones novel. That’s how girly I am.

Things are happy and friendly between me and Sweetie. I still call her at the end of most days as she’s leaving work. I still high-five her over smutty achievements. But it’s over soon, and I’ll be alone.

She’s supposed to be moved out by the end of November and I have no idea how we are going to get to there. Free and self-actualized as I’ve been in the past few months, I suddenly don’t want it to be over; I don’t want to let it go. She’s been my best friend and my love for all these years. She’s been my family.

And I don’t know how to make it on my own. I was hired this year to cover a maternity leave and though I’ve been told I’m keeping the same position when that teacher returns in December, I don’t feel like I’ve been earning it, so I really don’t know WHAT is going to happen. Even as I’ve grown more confident and person-like, everything in my life feels more fragile and more precarious. I wish I knew what to do to get through it.

I’m trying to bring dungeon-confidence into the rest of my life, to plant my feet and smile big and know I’m worthy, to ask for what I need and scroll past rejection with grace. But after a lifetime of being apologetic about existing at ALL, none of this comes naturally, and the stakes are much higher at work than at play. Learning to fight the reflex to apologize and make myself small is rewarding but taxing. Mostly I just have to go to bed early a lot to give myself time to grow.

In a few weeks, the holidays will start. I’ll do my yearly Black Friday shopping with my sister and come back to the house with my holiday-themed Real Simple and one eggnog latte, not two. When I made my goals for this year, this is not where I saw it all going.

I’ll probably still ask Sweetie to set up my Christmas tree, and I’ll help her with hers as well. It’s tempting to skip Christmas altogether, but after all the years of assuming we didn’t deserve one because we didn’t have children, I am never going to unperson myself like that again.

We split up the decorations months ago, but how could we really? For years, our hobby was birdwatching and so people bought us bird ornaments. None of those birds could be just mine or just hers. It will take so much more work than I’ve yet admitted to take it all apart.

I need to both find some serious inner resources and also just give myself a break. I feel the way my special-needs students must feel sometimes—I’m trying to give life what it’s asking me for, but I don’t have all of the tools I need yet. I’m getting all kinds of accommodations and modifications (My therapist makes housecalls, for crying out loud!) but everything’s just hard and slow. I think this is why I over-identify with my students.

For all I love the future I’m doing an awesome job of building, I’m slowly mourning the family I made with Sweetie, the household rituals that have left us one by one. In a few weeks, friends will start disappearing into their own families and I am afraid of how alone I will feel. It’s all part of learning to love myself, but I don’t know how to face it.

Roadblock # 10: Calendar Fuss

Sometimes friends who are also readers express worry about having to change plans or other logistical stuff they think might not be up to my exacting specifications. I always feel so sheepish when that happens, nobody should have to feel self-conscious like that, and I and I don’t ever want anyone to think their OWN logistics don’t matter to me. Besides, purely platonic situations are never what triggers schedule-related panics, at least not lately.

Okay, so I really, really love to plan. I don’t just make my schedule, I curate it, and I do cling to it for comfort. Part of that’s just being poly and being a busy teacher lady, but also, I just spent a lot of years not doing what I want to do with my time, so I want to make sure I’m using it to get what I really want. Because, like most grownup people, I have such limited time for social stuff, any item I’ve written on the calendar is special and there for very specific reasons. I’m starting to understand that it’s not that deep for most folks, and that’s probably okay.

Part of calendar fuss is just good old-fashioned existential angst. Since I was about seven, I’ve been preoccupied with the finiteness of life. Nonetheless, I managed to, even after I remembered I was bi and realized I was poly, put off dating for about five years. I threw myself into work and poetry and art and expected those things to fill the holes left by missing relationships, by ALL OF THE VERY MANY missing penises. I avoided myself for so long, afraid to risk humiliation (at least that’s decidedly behind me), afraid of losing Sweetie, holding on to her for the safety when really we were the most unsafe thing.

It is my fault that I left the best parts of myself off the calendar for so long. I think that’s why I have the ongoing fear of the people I’m attracted to forgetting me—there’s such a bigbig part of me that I forgot, that I willfully ignored for so long.

Like all of the roadblocks, this one is about grief and being angry with myself. When I got explodey with Mr. Sweetheart over the summer for forgetting it was Wednesday, when I was overly vehement with Mr. Shiny Eyes for even flirting with the idea of switching to another Friday, it was partly from knowing those relationships couldn’t give me what I need, but I think I was also giving voice to the parts of me that are angry at being pushed aside by me and Sweetie for so many years.

Also there’s the more literal fact that I forget to give myself enough time alone. I’m half-introvert and I’m surrounded by people almost every minute, and it’s nobody’s fault but mine when I don’t make time to read magazines, hike, or just go to bed early.

But mostly, there’s this: I really do think that people might forget me, that I’m so unremarkable that I might just slip through the cracks of everyone’s full lives. With platonic friends, there’s an easy fix, I just pursue plans tenaciously and I’m as flexible as I can be. Noreally! Just ask Angel Face—he’s been in NREtown for a while and it sometimes takes several false starts until we have plans—this doesn’t stress me out at all.

But with sexytimes or romantic interests, it’s harder to fight the conviction that there’s always somewhere better to be than with me, the idea that they don’t think of me at all unless I’m present. This is why god invented pressing “like” and why I enjoyed the Cutest Boy so much—his texts were so constant that I barely had a chance to worry that he’d forgotten about me—and he was happy to tell me I was unforgettable any time I needed. A recipe for addiction, but still.

If I really like someone, a day on the calendar makes me feel more anchored to them. It somehow means that they are less likely to find something better and drift away. Writing a name on the calendar is like tying one end of a string to the balloon of them and tying the other end to my wrist.

For the years when I forgot/tried to squelch my guy-liking side (and all the kinky stuff that emerged along with it!) when I tried my heart out to be gay and monogamous, when I left entire body parts unexplored and neglected, I think I owe myself an apology. How’s this:

Dear Self,

I’m sorry that I took so much away from you and that you’re only beginning to find out how much you’ve been missing. I’m sorry I shamed you and let you be shamed, treated you so narrowly, harshly, and judgmentally. I’m sorry that I marched you through so much unhappiness when you could have been yourself and free. I’m sorry I defined you by tragedy, by defensiveness, by the things your stupid mother told you. I’m sorry I deprived you of all the penises for so many years, and I promise you they’re not suddenly all going to disappear again. I will try to never take away another thing because of meanness or fear or overprotection.

I’m going to do my best to try and get you everything, so I need you to just forgive me, chill out, and have a little more faith.

Love,

Me

As for the part where I think people will forget me, I’m trying to note all of the evidence that the best ones haven’t and won’t so that I don’t freak out when a cutie misses a call or doesn’t agree with me on the definition of “a couple of weeks.” Though it sometimes weeds out things I feel lukewarm about, I’m not going to let calendar fuss take away the stuff I really want. Lately I’m forced to admit that some of the best stuff can happen without planning, provided that I’m wearing cute underwear and/or am willing to grab someone’s hand and pull her into a parade.

But I’ll always be impressed as all getout by an asker-outer, by anyone who’s willing to be written in ink. Like reading me or “good girl,” it’s just another way to my heart.

Best of a Happy Fat Girl

Thanks, #FatShamingWeek, for inspiring me to a. Leave the gym early and b. Spend 15 minutes ogling myself and making a "Best Of" collection from the past two years. Wish I could show you the smiles that come with all these pictures.