I’m glad its over, but I dont regret it. I feel more connected than ever to this little community of ours.
I’m wishing everyone a wonderful time in London this weekend!! Of course I wish I was packing tonight to leave on my Transatlantic flight tomorrow like some of you are, but I’ll be doing just that one year from now, so no need for tears of longing right now.
And I’ll probably be glad that February is over, too.
On the night of our second date when I asked him if he’d like to come up to my apartment and have a glass of wine Rex paused before answering.
“I’d like to talk to you about that, actually.” I waited as the city skyline shrunk behind us and lights blurred by. “I’ve been thinking and… I don’t want to be a part of your ‘story’.”
I sat there dumbfounded. What?? And what did that even mean??
We’d been texting all day every day for a week; he’d call me in the mornings on his way to and from work; send me sexy pics. We’d just had a terrific date and my offer for him to come up was just to talk more. I wasn’t ready to have sex with him.
What ensued was a long talk outside my building where I tried — and probably ultimately failed — to convince him of my sincerity about finding a beautiful relationship. My penchant for large penises loomed large in our discussion on his end and he was very clear that he didn’t want to be “one of many” with proof of my seeing other men on the internet for all to see.
We parted that night with a sweet kiss and a hug and then I shut my front door and cried.
I was serious about opening up, loving someone, bringing someone into my life and this man didn’t believe me.
I knew before we sat in his fancy car that night that it would be a struggle for any man to date me while knowing about the blog and I had given it much thought. How could I keep writing and be myself while also protecting my privacy and that of the man who was involved with me?
I found the solution: Just like how I am discreet in real life about my dating affairs, so would I be discreet on the blog. In other words, I wouldn’t write about anyone else I was dating while we were.
He worried that it might not be authentic for me to do so, but nothing could have been further from the truth. In fact, it felt exceedingly authentic. I wanted to make this as normal a dating experience as possible for the both of us.
We kept chatting for two more weeks, met up once more, and then we had pot roast, a meal I find generally distasteful; it’s dry, uninspiring, and not the least bit nostalgic. He loved it — practically licked his plate — and then told me he wasn’t feeling it for me.
I cried that night, too.
And then he disappeared for the weekend which gave me the opportunity to clear my head and figure out my next move. He was tremendously polite and whenever I’d text he’d reply, but I felt like I was keeping myself on his radar. When I finally heard back from him it was from my initiation, but then I let it alone. I wanted to see what he would do without my constant arm waving.
By the following Thursday (a week after I’d made him dinner) our conversations were pleasant but lasted only 5 or so lines a piece. Friday he was silent and so was I. And Saturday and Sunday until 9 days later when I texted him this:
So, not to state the obvious or anything, but it’s been a week since we chatted. Fair to say we’re not exploring options with one another anymore?? Or am I somehow mistaken?
Three days later — today — and I haven’t heard back. I think it’s safe to say we are no longer dating and I am now released from my self-imposed censoring. I will begin again to track and share my life until the cycle starts anew with someone else. If it ever does.
What started out as something promising — checked nearly every box I had — has now devolved to a man in his 50s ghosting me.
I don’t regret one second of this little exercise, though; I learned a lot from this affair of two spirits.
I learned to allow someone else’s inertia to reveal their feelings; to believe someone when they say they don’t want me — a lesson that was nearly impossible for me to grok with The Neighbor because he never left me alone. I learned that sometimes people’s desire for politeness over conflict will keep you spiraling a drain; I learned that when things are tough you can determine a lot about a person and how they communicate about it. And I learned that no matter how skilled I am in the kitchen I will never, ever like motherfucking pot roast.
So a friend from California is staying at an Airbnb here in town and we were chillin’ and drinking and were trying to figure out who Katelyn the renter was and did she actually live in the condo or not.
We looked at books, pictures, in her closet. We found her rolled up dollar bill for cocaine and her ciggie stash in the kitchen drawer.
Finally we thought to look for a vibrator and we got pay dirt in her bedside table.
Miss Katelyn not only has a fancy dildo/vibrator, but she also has half a dozen varieties of condoms.
Verdict??: She definitely lives here and SHES A MOTHERFUCKING BADASS.
H.H. and Lola sent me her pics for today on a year old email thread this morning. On that thread was the link to the article I wrote about in my February, 24th, 2016 Boobday post. I reread it in the early light of dawn and I felt all the same anger and disbelief exactly as I did a year ago. My post response was filled with why I do this meme and why I show my body. I’ve written about it at length for years now and even have it in a stand-alone sidebar link.
To show your body is an act of power.
We know this in its negative form because we criminalize the act itself when the viewer hasn’t consented to see. It is an assault, a visual one. It’s a move of power over an unsuspecting victim’s visual space. Flashers* know it – they get high off the rush – and everyone else knows it, too: to bare your body to someone is an act of power. To forcibly reveal someone else’s body is also an act of power. Exposure, whether done to you or by you is not a neutral activity.
Remember back to the first time your lover laid eyes on your body in all its nakedness. Hopefully, you felt their wonderment at your shape, glow, and glitter. Their pleasure. That’s power. Think of the time you first laid eyes on your lover exposed and vulnerable, yet trusting you with their personal canvas. How lucky did you feel that they chose to share with you? That’s power, too.
When a woman chooses to remove her clothing and allow others to see it is a statement of jurisdiction. She controls the image, the time, the place, all the hows and whys and whens. Her reasons for doing so are her own and the effects are based on cultural filters and beliefs, but so long as hers align that’s all that matters. Whether we agree with her or not is immaterial. She can do whatever she wants with her body.
Which brings me back to that blog post. I’m paraphrasing here from what she wrote — and the 96 comments under it — but the gist is those bloggers who “rely” on showing off their tits instead of working to be better/excellent/outstanding writers are ruining it for everyone else, that we’re turning back the clock on feminism and female empowerment (and also being paid to write).
She and all the others who think we are sad, pathetic, rabbit-hole-falling attention whores are saying there are only very narrow definitions of what it means to be a feminist, a writer, a self-respecting woman, only one way to be nude (that’d be with someone very special, natch), that there are narrow guidelines to what a healthy relationship with self and others look like, and that is complete and utter bullshit.
My writing is outstanding all by itself**. I don’t need to post a single picture. Not one. I know that and am proud of it, but do it anyway because I love it. It’s odd to me that there was this idea that just because writers can’t get paid for what they do that somehow the hot topic became about how those of us who show our tits are the bane of feminism. (I’m not making this up.***) And to the rest, well, every person gets to define what is healthy for them. Or the DSM-V. But that’s a discussion for another day and not something others get to determine.
Lastly, to all the bloggers and writers who don’t show their tits and who have decided that those who do devalue their writing and womanhood:
The validation you receive by blaming immodest women for the disenfranchising of women is fleeting and as flimsy as the 0s and 1s you wrote it on. It comes from a place deep inside of you, a place thoroughly indoctrinated, since you were a little girl or boy, into believing that a woman may expose her body only in certain situations under the auspice of certain kinds of approval. That nothing is of higher value in a woman than her modesty. That is not freedom. That is disempowerment.
And you have been brainwashed.
So, here’s to yet another incredible (and late!) Boobday and all my warrior sisters who have taken control over their bodies and decided for themselves what is right for them. Here’s to the tatas!!
*I am in no way saying an exhibitionist sexual assault is real power, though the flasher himself (or herself) will feel a rush of power or feel powerful for sexual pleasure. Our laws substantiate this by viewing it as an assault, a powerful act. Women (and men) who reveal themselves in their own spaces where viewers are consenting to see are not in a class with those acting upon a disordered sexual compass.
**I sincerely hope.
***It appears she’s not well at the moment and has either stopped blogging or is on hiatus since November, 2016. Linking to her now would be weird, especially since she may not currently be at the helm. If you’re dying to read what she wrote, you might have to turn to Google.
My life is so blissfully peaceful and slow these days. My phone lays just like a lump of metal and glass and gadgets rather than a hyper doorbell.
I have nights alone with The Great British Baking Show and This is Us and I waffle between urges to try my hand at homemade croissants or curling up into the fetal position and crying because life is just that beautiful.
And I love it.
Love it, love it, love it.
I can’t believe I’m saying that, but its true. I love the stillness and the quiet.
My own shock about it is rather deafening, really, and that’s the loudest thing in my life: the boom of my disbelief.
A fine looking, grown ass man — who’s also looking for something serious and whom I met on AFF — grilled me yesterday via text.
“How many guys are you talking to these days??”
I was taken aback. Prior to this question he’d asked me how my day was going.
“My day is going alright. And why do you ask that?? That’s sort of out of left field.”
He insisted it wasn’t. “It’s just a question.”
I was honest with him and said I was, though I use the term “dating” only to mean I’m chatting with and occasionally going for dinner or drinks. There are no feelings involved or sex. I’m browsing. Then he called me a “serial dater.”
I didn’t know what that was so he clarified that it’s dating more than one person at once.
I was confused. Isn’t that the definition of dating?? Then he explained his opinions further.
“It’s harder to get to know one guy when you’re dating several don’t you agree? Nothing wrong with it, it’s just harder in my experience to get to know someone when my time is split between multiple people.”
I pointed out that clearly I don’t agree and he went on to say it one more time for good measure: you can’t successfully date if you’re talking to more than one person.
And maybe that’s true for him because he’s a man and he doesn’t get a dozen incredible emails from a dozen great women a week like a woman might (like I sometimes do). How can I possibly decide who to invest my time in if the criteria are first come first served?
So whoever sent me the email first gets the girl?? I don’t think so. I think we all have to earn someone’s time and being first in line is hardly considered doing any work.
Likewise, he clearly doesn’t want to be one of many and this was his way of strutting around the coop. And I can respect that to a degree, except we’re not meeting people in grocery stores, dances, and shopping malls anymore (I heard that’s where it used to happen prior to the internet, anyway). We shop online with endless choices.
Today women are inundated with suitors and men are put in the undesirable position of having to stand out and they can do that in one of two ways: complain about the game or pretend it doesn’t exist.
You can guess which one is more appealing.
No one wants a man who gripes that there are others when it’s the very nature of what we’re all doing. I’ve thought a lot about what he said and I keep returning to the same conclusion each time: Until the cream rises to the top, you keep on churning. Eventually the right person will show himself.
We stood in the parking lot with another car’s lights shining on our legs. The restaurant lights cast a shadow on his face, but I still saw his smile. I closed the distance and stood on my toes to touch my lips to his.
Instantly I knew our kisses matched. A nibble here, a nip there, a chuckle. I felt his smile against mine.
He made a pleased sound. “Mm, I think we’re going to have some fun.” I giggled and kissed him again, let my hands roam up his broad back and to his neck. He smelled good, too, this big, brawny man.
I flashed back to the night I kissed Bones for the first time and that pleasant surprise at being kissed expertly. It’s so rare, that perfect kissing match.
I don’t put too much stock in it beyond the pleasure of the moment, but a good kiss is something special. It feels like catching a glimpse of the first firefly light or seeing a shooting star streak across a dark night sky. It feels lucky.
The date had been pleasant, but the kiss instilled a sliver of hope I hadn’t felt as we talked over dinner. He was outgoing, bold, sexy, confident, very successful, a father, and filled with stories to share. I shared my own stories, but not because he asked. He never asked.
He texted later to say that he’d checked both chemistry and communication off his list. I have only checked chemistry; date #2 will help decide the communication box.
Earlier in the day my mother asked me if I was going on a date for my dinner plans. “Yes,” I said obliquely.
“Ooh! Who is it?” She tried to sound casually interested, but didn’t even come close.
“He’s just a dude, mom.”
“Oh, ok.” She sounded hurt, but there’s no other way of describing him. He is just a dude I met — on a sex site — and I knew very little about him beyond one pleasant late night phone conversation.
My sister called minutes later and also inquired about my evening plans. “I’ve got a date.”
“Stay home and talk to me,” she said.
“No, I made a commitment!” I laughed.
“You’re such a Golden Retriever, Hy. You say yes to everyone.”
I didn’t like that she said that and don’t think it’s true. “No, maybe he will be someone worth knowing,” I said, “and I won’t know unless I go out with him.” I hung up and drove to the restaurant thinking about what she said.
I’m the first to admit that I might give a man more chances than he deserves, but can you blame me? What if someone is spectacular on the 3rd date? The 5th? I suppose if there’s nothing by #5 it’s a pretty done deal and even sometimes I know by #1.
It’s the repetitive nature of the whole ordeal that gets tiresome. The date, the kiss, the processing. Wash, rinse, repeat. It’s like a tedious chore on the one hand and a meditative practice on the other. After all, everyone loves to slip into a nicely made bed.