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!!!

Oh, Comedy Guy. (Part Four)

After a break and more episodes, I got attracted to him for another while. I put the makeout mix back on and went all in. I feel guilty about that since I think I knew it wasn’t going to work out, but it felt good to give in to my body’s leadership. I took him to bed for a bit, but after we both came, I just wanted him to be gone. (If a man wrote that sentence I’d think he was garbage. Sometimes I am a toxic bachelor.)

Not knowing how I would get him out of my apartment in the triggered early part of the visit, I’d offered him a ride home, 38 minutes according to Maps. (Okay, look. Cars are destructive and selfish and apocalyptic, but I really want my next guy to have a car. Or just live a few blocks away like Gilmore Guy did.) I was exhausted, not in the blissful, fizzy, satisfied way. I wished I was alone in the car, felt like it was falling apart under the weight of my sad heart.

(A big change since this blog first started: I used to not mind driving to the suburbs! I even kind of enjoyed it because it was always easy to park! Now I just get the sick, soul-rotten feeling of driving a car with ALL of the liberal bumper stickers through Trump territory. Another Twilight Zone-but-not-in-the-fun-way sensation.)

Outwardly, I stayed cheerfully in reference mode with him—reciting the opening disclaimers from My Brother, My Brother and Me for no reason, singing beautifully along with Wonderwall on my Oasis-heavy Happy Spring Mix.

“Said maybaaaaaaaay…you’re gonna be the one that saves maaaaaaaay…”

I’m not sure why it was such a heartbreaking moment, but the beauty of our singing voices together juxtaposed with the ugly sadness in my heart just made me wonder how anybody dates anyone ever.

After I dropped him off on an ominous, anonymous, winding street, my heart felt lighter. I thought maybe (maybaaaaaaaay) I should wait until morning to see if I still felt bad about him. But I knew what I knew, and as I drove along I composed in my head a break-off text and listed all the ways I needed to block him. At a stoplight, even thought it was almost midnight, I texted Sweetie to see if it was too late to call. I’m so, so grateful to have a loyal and very-judgmental-of-men best friend to call in the middle of the night.

Oh, Comedy Guy. (Part Three)

He just looked so beautiful sitting there on my couch. His eyes were radiant with sadness, sincerity, mischief. He wrapped me up in his arms, and when we kissed, it was easy and soft. I turned off Bob’s Burgers and put on my Dreamy Music mix, which has far, FAR too much Radiohead—must remember to fix that!

I had been literally soaking wet for him for days, my body just gushing affection before we ever met in person. That, in addition to the pretty new pink underpants, was why it wasn’t too long before I sprawled myself across his lap.

“Okay, let’s see what you can do!”

It had been SUCH a while and they were good spanks, firm and kind, assured in a way I didn’t expect—I was surprised and delighted. I love, love, LOVED the feeling of him pulling up the back of my dress, smoothing my undies just so before striking. “You have an amazing ass,” he said and I fully, fully believed him. With his left arm, he held me down in a wholehearted way that brought immediate and near-existential relief.

But then, after just a few minutes, something in my brain shifted and I felt darkness descend, felt myself freeze up with fear. I climbed off, asked for a break, gave myself plenty of space, turned off the Dreamy Music and put Hulu back on.

In addition to warmth and hope and general horniness, Comedy Guy gave me a heartache I couldn’t quite place. It came and went throughout the evening and would eventually become an insurmountable force. But first, I wanted to try and surmount it.

Happy Friday from Sex Pajamas!

As always, wish you could see the smile that goes with!

One of the joy-sparking things in my life are the pajamas (and other lacy things!) I have just for sexytimes with myself. Just thought you might enjoy a peek.

I haven't taken very many sexy pictures since I gained a bunch of weight, but I see no reason for that to be so! I'm even flirting with the idea of booking a photo session with Fireguy, or at least getting a tripod for my iPhone...

I have a lot more to say about my warm relationship to the camera, but for now, enjoy some nipples. Happy Friday!

Oh, Comedy Guy. (Part Two)

As he was getting acquainted with my couch and my one cat who’s interested in visitors (The other was likely to have been hiding in the back of a closet or behind the dryer.) it somehow came up that he’s on the outs with the Maximum Fun crowd. I’m only obsessed earswise, but lots of people go and hang out with the podcasters a few times a year.

“It makes me look bad…” he cautioned, but I persisted and got the story out of him, mostly just for the sake of curiosity.

I paused Hulu and sat down to listen. I’m going to write his story in quotes, bearing in mind that I’m quoting imperfectly.

“A few years ago I had a text-thing with one of the women in the scene, and I guess I went too far. Then, instead of coming to me, she called me out publicly on Twitter. This just happened a couple months ago. Now people are talking about me—the word “creepy” has been used—and I’m not a part of it anymore. I looked back at the chat thread and I just don’t see what the problem was. It’s a big feeling of loss and grief.”

I don’t think an Aziz-Ansari-level #metoo story is necessarily a dealbreaker. (However, AZIZ, devoting huge swaths of comedy special time to R. Kelly IS. Ugh how did I even ever.) I felt sympathetic towards Comedy Guy in some ways—groups, especially scene-style groups, can be terrifying in the way that they close ranks. I also wondered if the lady might have been predisposed to find him creepy because of the fat—though who knows what his Twitter avatar is…)

I tried to listen without judgement--we’re all going through a process and I certainly don’t put myself above it. I have a couple of nondefensive apologies on reserve in case the people I’ve harmed come for them. But the more he talked, the more it became clear that:

1.      He saw himself as the victim in the situation.

2.      He expected me to take care of him about it, even though MAYBE he knew that was wrong.

But despite my knee-jerk empathy (DON’T WORRY ABOUT ME, HIMPATHY QUEEN HANNAH ROSEN!) for the sincerely regretful guy before me, I knew our focus was in the wrong place. My heart and mind shifted to that unnamed Twitter lady, a lady in comedy on Twitter, such a perilous person and place to be. Even being a lady who likes funny things feels prickly and dangerous sometimes, so I found the Max Fun response in Comedy Guy’s story to be a comfort.

I didn’t tell him to call a Lyft, though. I put Bob’s Burgers back on and moved closer to Comedy Guy on the couch. I fit perfectly next to him and the warmth of his body soothed the triggered fear enough to settle back into the date. It’s hard to stay jangled while relaxing in Linda’s songs and Gene’s inexplicably dated pop culture references.

Oh, Comedy Guy. (Part One)

After the surge of post-museum-visit spring feelings, I decided to give Bumble a whirl. I mostly tried it because I feel like I can’t look at OK Cupid for one more second right now, but I do like the whole “women make the first move” thing—mostly because it’s clear what I’m supposed to do. (Ladies-first doesn’t stop anyone from sending douche-y explicit messages after I message them, but it does center the option to report every time you unmatch. That’s both sad and helpful.)

One of the first guys I matched with was super adorbs. He had big blue eyes with fluffy, sincere eyelashes, a soft, friendly face, and complimented me on my photo with Hillary, which saved me a screening question.

He seemed uncannily right for me: Not only was he sweet, charming, my age, and attentive, but he was a self-described fat guy! I’ve never been able to talk about fat liberation with a guy before! It felt like a revelation! Although I always do feel cute on dates, fat has always felt like something to be ignored or tacitly approved-of at best and something guys feel they can manipulate me into starving away at worst. Post- body-positivity life is truly magical sometimes.

AND! He had a background in improv, including a web series wherein he and his friends RIFF ON BAD MOVIES. This blog REALLY LIKES THAT. I’ve had entire very fulfilling relationships based on MST3K snuggling! He was also amenable to talking about which of the jokes he and his pals made were problematic—maybe the closest to an enlightened white guy I’ve dated so far? Maybe not.

Plus, it felt really exciting to have someone to talk to about my love of The Flop House! Like underpants that go all the way up, I feel like podcasts are this really wonderful part of my life that I’m not really supposed to admit to. It was fun banter about who the best McElroy is (Clearly Travis) and to refer to years-ago Reply All stories without feeling like too much of a dork-o-rama. It would turn out, though, that his depth of involvement with Maximum Fun would be a roadblock rather than a benefit, but first we have to talk about clothes.

A couple of times a year (I think I wrote about this with Gilmore Guy too) I get the urge to spoil myself and treat my body like it deserves to be seen: expand the underpants collection, try on a bunch of dresses, get a pretty new bra and probably some PJs. On the day of my first date with Comedy Guy I did one of those shopping trips. Sweetie came along to politely listen to me blather on about my choices. I found the perfect, PERFECT new pink dress, gauzy, floral, softly fitted. It was practically an Easter dress (okay, it was definitely an Easter dress) but I Nineties-ed it up with a long-neglected pair of black, stack-heeled, patent leather Mary Janes. I felt like a Zen Courtney Love even though I totally forgot my red lipstick.

Somehow in all of his funny-stuff expertise, Comedy Guy had never watched Bob’s Burgers, so I had the perfect excuse to invite him over after our dinner out in my neighborhood. I’d bought new lacy rose-pink underpants (that go all the way up!) in hopes of letting him see them and I already knew, after a non-sexty chat the night before, that he had hands that were ready to spank should the occasion call for it. (What occasion doesn’t?)

The Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow, Part Eight

I’ve read and thought so much about the ways that trauma gets stored in the body, the way that it lives and moves and gets processed in a way that is separate from time and the everyday. Why don’t I know very much about the way love is stored? I’m always pretty dazzled by the way that unexpected things can jostle it loose, can strike a gold vein and expose it, all sparkly and vulnerable and ready for mining.

After the first giddy rush of paintings and artifacts, we got some very strong coffee and sat outside the museum in the chilly sun, catching up. I honestly could have talked to him for five hundred and seventy-two more hours. I didn’t ask him enough about his last thirty years of adventures, I wish I’d talked less and asked more.

In the course of reminding me of my born-again-virginhood at the time we were together (It feels so cringy to even type, I’m sorry!) he said A Thing. It was A Thing that, I’m serious, rewired my entire brain. He was maybe just being campy and probably at least half joking but it hit me right down the middle anyway:

“You could’ve put out more.”

It set me free so much to hear this perfect angel I had idealized for so long just say a horny, jackassy man thing to me. The idea, even the little chance, that he had felt real desire for me shifted my perspective an embarrassing amount, really changed the way I saw myself in the past and present. It was unbalancing and delightful.

As you know if you’ve read this blog in past years, the story I can’t help telling myself about men is, they can (temporarily) want me, but they can’t love me. I believe this even though love has happened to me with men at least three times. I don’t know why the story is so embedded but no amount of paragraphs or therapy has ever dislodged it.

The story I’ve always told myself about The Boy Who Sewed Me a Pillow is that he was an innocent child whom I tried to corupt with my broken and slutty ways. I was a Bad Kid who hurt him. Seeing myself as a threat in general is one of the most annoying ways that rape culture has gotten under my skin, and I am happy to peel away another layer of it.

(Honestly though, writing this feels like I AM being a threat to him, like I’m still a bad influence on his lovely and put-together and situated life. I’m afraid I’m writing him right out of my life, that paragraphs are predatory in their own way, but I’m writing through it. Maybe I can be a good bad influence or maybe not I’m not even an influence at all, who knows.)

Exploring the rest of the museum felt like one of those dreams where you keep discovering new rooms in old and beloved homes. (Writing this feels like one of those dreams where I meet a man I’m fascinated with then spend the rest of sleep tangled up in dream logic trying to find him again. But not in an unpleasant way.) The time just flew by until he had to go meet his boyfriend for lunch. We made plans to hang out in my city next time, at my local museum.

Sweetie had driven me to visit the Boy, so she finished up her time at the local fancy garden and met us in front of the museum. We waved goodbye and then she and I spent the rest of the day exploring and catching Pokémons.

I was crushy, and giddy, and elated, and trying not to be embarrassed about all those things. I had to admit to myself that teenage me, like Rory Gilmore, had had a wonderful boyfriend. (But way better than Dean and without the Donna Reed cosplay.) More vexingly, I had to (for like the millionth time) admit to myself that I still believe in and long for love, that my erstwhile fantasy life of asexuality and spinsterhood might not actually be what I want. Ugh, longing. I guess I was lucky to avoid it for the few months that I did.

The next day, my whole body felt like spring and I made the super most of it. I got naked on the (very private) back patio and made myself a new chalk mural. I danced in the sun like a goof and then went to bed for a very good long time. I want to give you all the details, but it seems like somehow Favorite Aunt would know.

So I’m trying to think of ways to honor my slutty self this summer—I can’t make the Sparkly Festival, but shall I brave the nude beach? I’ve definitely gone back to swiping, and I’m letting myself think that snuggles might not be too far away. It’s nice to be back in the present tense, grateful and glowing.