I’m kind of a weird person. I both love being the center of attention and hate it with a fiery passion. Tonight many of my men will be in one room. I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude that my friend will be there and I can shove a bunch of attention in her direction. She’s already one of Noah’s play partners and… quite frankly… if I could play matchmaker with her and Deity it would be hilarious and wonderful to the end of time.
Age appropriate! Live super near each other! Single! Poly! Kinky! Wants kids!
I’m like a dating service. In another venue someone else I was talking to referenced this other couple and I managed to refrain from saying, “Yeah I set them up.”
I like hooking people up. I can’t have everyone. I want everyone to be loved and happy. Let’s find you someone better than me.
Strangely, this is the part of poly I do the best. I want the people I like to be happy with other people because good golly I don’t have enough time free to center you. You should be centered. You are wonderful.
If it means you move on from me and are no longer a partner, I’ll just barely sigh a few times. Mostly I’m going to be so happy for you.
It’s ok. I won’t pine away. Ain’t happened yet and unlikely to start now. I’d love to visit though.
I feel like I am doing both a good job and a bad job of keeping in touch lately with people. I’m renewing a bunch of old connections and I’m letting some younger ones sit and wait. Maybe they will be worth coming back to? I don’t know.
Right now I’m feeling pretty fantastically good about staring into the eyes of someone who has loved me for fifteen years. I like that. I feel appreciated.
I don’t know what I want. But I’m enjoying feeling adored. I’m enjoying how often folks are telling me that I’m a good girl.
Deity suggested that he should coordinate with Noah on some protocol to keep me behaving “good”. Noah suggested that standing right in front of the two of them is not when I’ll be a problem.
I guess that decade of marriage was educational.
On one hand it feels intensely transgressively hot that Deity is speculating about coordinating with Noah about controlling me. On the other hand, in the community I grew up in you don’t do that much shared protocol and it is just kinda taboo. Thus it feeling transgressive.
Relationships are very rarely more complicated than a dyad. Doesn’t matter how poly you are. Rules are between two people unless they are general for a house. It’s rare to see two dominants coordinating to control a submissive. (I know of Leather Families where that happens but I’ve never been even a little bit close with them.) Co-topping happens… but that’s different.
I think I’m getting closer to the time when I’ll be able to write Part 2. I feel like hanging out with that crowd again, and seeing how different it is is helping me understand the educational environment I had on offer from 18-23.
I think there is a big difference between being sorry I did something and being sorry something happened to me.
Michael in Texas. My first non-family rapist. I’m not sorry I befriended him. I’m not sorry I spent time with him. I’m sorry he raped me. I’m sorry I hurt Anna by screaming at her that she is killing herself and she needs to get a new dream. That was wrong. That was so fucking wrong.
Even if I was right.
There are things you shouldn’t do.
I’ve been poking around on Fetlife reading older pieces of writing from folks I respect. I was… directly called on something I did even though the person didn’t know they were talking to me. I haven’t done it a lot but I’ve done it and I needed to be called on that behavior. I was wrong and I need to stop.
I repeated a joke that involved racial elements. I shouldn’t have. I was wrong. It was bigoted, inappropriate, appropriative, and I violated the trust placed in me by the person who shared the joke with me.
Oh fuck. I didn’t do it many times. I didn’t make it casual. I picked who heard the joke carefully. I was 100% wrong anyway. I shouldn’t have repeated it once.
I am sad that I continue to need these smacks in the face to remind me of boundaries. I am so grateful that the universe puts these things out there where I can run into it of my own free will because I need it.
I am white. That needs to color my choices about my behavior. I need to choose limits so that I am not one more white bitch. I can’t ever do anything and just be off that hook forever. I need to choose and choose and choose again. I need to act right in every situation or… I’m just one more white bitch.
Because that is how reality works. I don’t get to do the right thing once or twice and call it good. Nope.
I… fucked up. Shit. Well… let this be a lesson to me. See, we never stop fucking up.
Hopefully I won’t ever make this same mistake again.
I need to grow past this yucky part of my personality.
I’m not good at jokes. I don’t have great timing. I don’t remember them very well. I only remember a handful well enough to tell. Unfortunately some of the race based ones stick in my memory a little too well.
That’s not a good enough excuse. It doesn’t matter that I will have to deal with a little more social awkwardness for not having a joke to exchange. I can go back to my dead pan, “I’ve yet to hear jokes that aren’t degrading so I’m opting out.”
Except our favorite: Why can’t a bicycle stand up by itself?
Because it is two tired.
I can learn to be ok with that being the one joke I get in this lifetime.
I’m really sorry. That doesn’t mean anything but it is true. I need to do better on this one.
I’m not always good at looking before I step. So I hit toes. Even in areas where I should god damn know better without having to be specifically told.
Unthinking rude bitch.
I’m not looking for forgiveness or exoneration. I’m too old to put this kind of burden down. If I stop carrying the guilt for my wrong actions I will err again. I need to be done with this mistake.
If a joke is not yours don’t tell it.
I think I understand “appropriate” just a hair more. (As in stealing culture–not as in being correct.)
I think the difference between guilt and shame is: guilt is knowing I fucked up and trying to learn from it and not repeat that mistake and shame is hiding at home because I’m afraid my friend will be mad at me.
I don’t need shame here. I’m not going to hide from this fuck up. I did it. I was a fucking asshole. I’m sorry. I’m going to keep walking though. This is not an end-your-life-mistake.
It’s just a fuck up.
How many fuck ups should be forgiven?
No one ever ever ever ever gets to define that for you. You decide how many fuck ups you want to forgive.
It is an inalienable right–how much forgiveness we have on offer. No one can tell me I have to forgive my family. I don’t. No one can tell me I have to forgive my rapists. I don’t.
I don’t have to forgive people who tell rape jokes in front of me.
My friend doesn’t need to be my friend if they feel I am a racist bigot.
All’s fair in love and war.
We get to pick our friends.
I don’t know how in the hell I lost this lesson. I feel like this is one I should have deeply ingrained long before now. How in the hell did I get casual about this boundary? It is so disrespectful. I wasn’t thinking.
I’ve been told to my face that I don’t have the right to tell redneck jokes. I’m not really a redneck.
I… think I should give up on jokes. I’m not going to be that kind of funny this lifetime. Instead I’ll just hit you in the brick with a juxtaposition that makes you cringe. I’m not funny. I’m something different.
You have to work with what you’ve got.
I want to be less of a fucking asshole.
I can be funny in pointing out how ridiculous life is. But I suck at jokes. It’s a thing.
Ok. I should stop typing. Ow. Today a friend comes over with her small to help with tile de-backing. I should work on the tree then. Ow.