Princess of Livid

Bridesmaid dresses were kind of wild back then!
Or maybe the ladies in my family are just weirdos?

 It seems like the dumbest thing I've ever been mad about, but I think it's important. Week before last, on a Sunday morning, I was figuring out what to say to Mr. Breakfast and feeling jangled about some other stuff, when I heard The Guy Next Door talking in baby voice to whoever his date was:

"...and I treat her like a princess. I treat you like a princess, too. No fetish is ever gonna..."

Now, I'm pretty lucky for someone who lives next door to her onerous unrequited kryptonite crush. I've only run into him once since our break-off conversation, and I don't overhear anything blush-inducing. I almost always have white noise or music on, there's only just a sliver of space where I can hear anything at all. But there he was in that sliver of space. I wasn't eavesdropping, I just heard it.

I'm sure he wasn't saying it for me to hear, he was just saying stuff. I know him well enough that I'm pretty sure he's not treating anyone like a princess, but that's not how it landed.

The message my tangled heart heard was that I wasn't good enough, that other women deserved to be treated like princesses and I'd failed some mysterious test. This is one of my oldest and loudest and most destructive intrusive thoughts: "You're not as good as other women, they know something you don't and can't know."

Why my brain appointed him the designated arbiter of my worth is a question for infinite Codependents Anonymous meetings, but in that moment, I felt like I winked out of existence, the woozy, drowning feeling of being not there. If they were the princesses, if they had somehow gained his fleeting and sand-castle-like attention, then there was no reason for there to be a me at all. 

(How am I ever supposed to date men when I have thoughts like that? Makes me want to get myself to some kind of non-denominational anti-Fascist nunnery where I could garden and call congress and read books and forget that men ever were.)

He wasn't saying it for me to hear, but he knew it was a pet name I loved. I'd showed him my Feeld profile mentioning being a princess. (In fact, when he read the part about me looking for a sweet dom who's good with ropes, he said "Well you found him." That motherfucker could really SAY STUFF.)

Anyway, the morning of the overhearing, I was LIVID. I'M the princess, goddammit, how could he take even that away from me?

(The 30 Rock joke about "sexually transmitted crazymouth" comes to mind, although I guess it was transmitted via weird nebulous friendship instead.)

(Semi-platonically transmitted crazymouth?)

Anyway, it made me want to think about why the word "princess" feels so important to me.

I remember a moment, not too long after my teenage sexual assault, dressed up for Halloween in the above bridesmaid dress and looking in the mirror. The lipstick I'd just applied looked like clown makeup to me. All of me felt false, artificial, foolish, absent. I had some nerve dressing up as a princess, I was barely even a woman. I was barely even anything. I wiped the makeup off but wore the dress.

The next time I wore that dress, I was in my very early twenties and part of an art happening. My project was to create a pink-themed pyramid of everything about me, and let people take home anything that spoke to them. A stranger went home with a box of my love letters and I can't say I regret this choice! My brother got livid with me because I gave away the Barbie he'd given me the Christmas before.

After the show, when most of the pink pyramid was gone, I felt empty but also less alone. If I couldn't figure out how to be close to people, at least I could get them to take a piece of me home.

After that night, the friend who ran the art show started calling me Princess (My Name)--he even wrote a song about me! I LOVED being Princess Me. These were my raver years and also my shoplifting-at-my-friends'-mall-stores years, so I was never without shiny too-short dresses, manic panic hair, and Urban Decay makeup. And glitter. So, SO much glitter. And sometimes bubbles that were also candy. It was a magical time.

One time a guy I flirted with at the coffeehouse told me I looked like I was from space, and that felt like the highest compliment.

Between the mid-Nineties and whenever I made my Feeld profile, the Princess persona got less plasticky, but never lost its glitter. It morphed from a costume to a gender expression, a femme way of fiercely, adamantly claiming womanhood in a world that was never gonna declare me to be womaning properly.

Calling myself a princess was a way to give myself what I felt like no one else was ever gonna give me, a way to treat myself like a magical treasure, the way I saw (or more likely imagined) other, smaller, quieter, more conventionally beautiful women being valued, being attended to. It was a way to attend to myself, a skill I'm still trying to learn.

In the weeks following my unfortunate overhearing, I have been treated so, SO kindly. 

For example:

Sweet Valentine: What song is this?

Me: I Wanna Be Adored by The Stone Roses.

Sweet Valentine: And you are!

I've been treated kindly by my friends, too, and my Higher Power, and by the gently-thawing weather. And most importantly, by myself. People are welcome to join me in my princess-ness, but I have to treat myself that way, and keep doing it.

Right in this moment, I feel the truth: No one can decide whether I'm a princess, or any other pet name, except me. Right now, I feel like I'm up to the challenge of self-love.

Frilly Friday: Hi Barbie! And a New Friend for The Drawer!

 

I made this nightie part of my going-to-see-the-Barbie-movie, along with a turquoise sports bra (This has been my summer of Sports Bra as Shirt! It feels so good, especially the breeze on my shoulders!) and a long pink tutu. Barbie night was one of the happiest nights of my life, one I still don’t have the chill to put into words.

Last night was a happy one too! I was gonna use a picture I already had this week, but the old picture didn’t have the amount of over-the-top femmeness I wanted, so oh darn I had to put it on!

I wasn’t really in the mood for a self-date, I was headachey, pondering a graduation from Summer Therapist (I did it this morning! I’m really proud and it might be a good story for another day!) and I was working on a puzzle that was making my brain itch. (That fucker went back in the box this morning, unfinished! I’ll put a warning sticky note when I drop it off at the Little Free Puzzle Library!)

But by the time I had the picture the way I wanted it (I literally JUST learned how to use the timer on my camera’s phone. In the year of our lord 2023. Better late than never?) the soft lace had worked its magic on me. The push-pull of the day left my body and time slowed down. The power of pink lace got me present.

I haven’t been able to find my rose quartz face roller anywhere, so I bought a new one a few weeks ago—I didn’t realize I’d gotten a vibrating one! I had it on the nightstand waiting for relaxation purposes, so this was the perfect time. It felt like such a lovely release for my poor tense face! And when I got to my mouth, it changed to a different kind of release!

I’m sad that I don’t have anybody to kiss at the moment (Just turned the apps back on Monday!) but it’s cool to think of ways to include my mouth in self-love times! I definitely slept well last night and I woke up full of sass and forward momentum and optimism.

Oh, Comedy Guy. (Postscript: Like Tights in Many Colors That Go All the Way Up)

Way back near the beginning of my Kitten Calendar adventures, in 2012, I went to see fabulous, gorgeous, famous submissive Mollena Williams (Now Williams-Haas: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6NK6CzRSufo)) do a book signing for Playing Well With Others (http://www.greenerypress.com/kink-titles/playing-well-with-others.html) at our local high-end sex shop.

“Your pussy doesn’t care about your politics, “she said, and as a fellow badass feminist submissive (This was before I headed to switchtown.) I loved that so, so much. I still do! But in my life, loving that sentiment strikes me as deeply pre-2016. Who could have guessed that seven years later, I’d have a very political hat named after my vagina, and would sometimes wear it to the grocery store?!

As much as I would still love to escape into the joy of that sentiment, my sex drive isn’t a separate part of me. It’s in my body and soul, and my body and soul ARE my politics. That definitely limits the snuggles, but for me it’s the only integrated and happy way to live, love, and get spanked. And yep, superyep, it gets lonely sometimes.

I’m not sure whether it was Comedy Guy’s weasely mishandling of his Twitter #metoo or just being a bad match that turned me off. I certainly don’t blame him for telling me the story, but I DO blame him for telling me the story and then expecting me to take care of him about it. That’s just gross.

Even after dates that don’t work out, I usually feel energized and inspired the next day—I tried! There was snuggling! I talked to someone new! Gold stars all around! But I didn’t feel that way after my date with Comedy Guy. I felt drained and a little flulike, unsure of how I would stay awake for Endgame with Sweetie. (My hot take: I liked it a bunch!)

But the movie cheered me up, and so did thinking about this: Clothes in my size, whether I was at an 18 or a 24, used to be really, really hard to find. Because of that, I often settled for things I didn’t really want. I hung onto a pair of black leggings that didn’t go all the way up, that fit so poorly that they cut they ass in half horizontally. I hung onto them for the longest time because I didn’t know when I would have another pair. Now there’s clothes my size in most stores, and not just dumb generic ones, but femme-tastic, really specific ones. Now I’m faced with having to learn how to see clothes with a sense of abundance, getting used to the sensation of actually choosing. There’s a reason the rebels in Dietland all wear jewel-toned leggings! In some ways, we are significantly more free.

I realize that my approach to dating has sometimes been like those dumb, ill-fitting leggings. Sex and love are not currently designed for people like me, and I felt like I had to take what I could get. It wasn’t hard to admit what I wanted, but I still struggle to believe it’s possible. I want to realize that I can wait for what I want, that I don’t have to stuff myself into things that don’t fit or dim the colors of my heart in any way. I’m straining the metaphor, but still. So here’s a little list of what I want:

1.      Romance

2.      Freedom

3.      Humor

4.      Consent

5.      Inspiration

That’s a good start, right?

Not a Comedy Guy text. I'm so, so, proud of this one but I'm a little bummed I might have to send a lot like it!!!

Snuggles in the Time of Kavanaugh* Part One

*Gabriel Garcia Marquez was also a rapey garbage person.

Before I write elsewhere about my adventures at the Supreme Court protests last Saturday, (Short recap: Screamed at a couple of Trump supporters, got in a cop’s face when he wouldn’t let me take my sign up the steps, screamed at a Franken apologist, helped take the steps of the Capitol, didn’t get arrested, went to the botanical garden) I want to keep honoring my time with Gilmore Guy, which is both related to and so sooooooooothing about the national misogynist mess.

After our wonderful time on the twenty-first night of September, Gilmore Guy and I set our next date for the following Monday. I was sooooo excited for the date that I even went shopping for cute new PJs, a lacy new bra, and underpants that were decidedly NOT the Bridget Jones kind. It felt wonderful to think about lace and ribbon and general girly adventurousness—I hadn’t felt that way in a long time!

Unfortunately and fortunately, that Monday was also the day of the National Walkout to Support Dr. Blasey Ford. It felt tricky to hold both that massively important moment and the wonder of this gorgeous, cuddly new man in my life at the same time.

I did NOT like wearing black. I would do anything for survivors, but in the future, I may not do that. Without my jewel tones and happy, sparkly jewelry, I felt armorless, marked as a victim for all to see.

I stopped at the library to pick up my holds, and the librarian complimented my NARAL pin that says “feminist” in six languages. She then felt moved to tell me that her brother had been molested by a man in the Sixties while hitchhiking. I felt equal parts sympathetic and annoyed, equal parts solidarity and irked by himpathy.

I text voters as often as I can to support the #bluewave, but I maybe should have skipped it on that day. Or maybe I’m glad I didn’t. Every time (okay it was only two times) somebody told me how undignified the Democrats were being at the Kavanaugh hearings, I came out as a rape survivor and told them why their support was important to me. It was good work, but also so discouraging and WILDLY triggering.

So after that, I was jangled. I was scared both physically and about the election. I also sometimes get a feeling from guys that once you’ve had sex with them once, it’s assumed for the rest of time. That’s maybe unfair, but it’s where I was at. I texted Gilmore Guy all this, and he understood, but wasn’t very wordy about it—taciturn. I felt like I had done something wrong, but I might have felt that no matter what.

Still, I liked the idea of just cuddles and episodes, and he even agreed to bring some Prosecco, my hero. (him AND the Prosecco) The idea of bubbly wine and introducing this cutie pie to Steven Universe got me back to myself and on with my day.

After work, even more of the fear and strain fell away. My job is very restorative these days, thank goodness.

So I got home, lit candles, got happily into my pretty new undies, awake and full of anticipation.  He was a few minutes late but when he got there and popped the cork, it felt like the moment was charmed. Plus, I got to use the fancy champagne flutes that Sweetie and I got at our wedding way back when. I gave him the pink glass and took the green, thinking (BUT DEFINITELY NOT SAYING) oh, heart chakra colors!

It’s a good thing Steven Universe episodes are only like fifteen minutes long, because Gilmore Guy’s arms were so warm around me, and this apartment sure as HECK has an available bed.

Happy Friday Picture: Don and Joan

My favorite episodes of Mad Men are the ones where we get to see Don Draper in genuine moments of friendship with a woman.

Plus, yesterday that the Trans Health Conference, when asked who my femme-spiration is, I said Joan. (Also, Lena Dunham)