Author Archives: Krissy Gibbs

About Krissy Gibbs

Just your average hippy white trash incest survivor stay at home mom. Is there an average for us? No? Oh well.

You’re up then you’re down

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I’m feeling very emotionally volatile.  Between writing, this affair, and Occupy Oakland I have a lot inside my head that feels too big to be felt and understood.  I’m feeling like there isn’t enough of me to go around. I feel conflicted about what I should be doing and where.  What is actually a good use of my time?  Ugh.  So tired.  Emotionally tired.

I’m having a hard time finding balance.  I wish that I could manage to get the grief struck look off my face. I’m not thrilled with how deep the lines are.

It’s kind of hard to donate money to the Occupy movement.

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This morning I went to the Mayor’s office and I requested an appointment.  The kind gentleman who forcefully told me to go away and someone would read my letter some day was really a sign of things to come.  I then wandered off to my therapist’s office for that appointment.  When I explained to her what I was doing her eyes bugged and she actually said, “Give the money to me!” It was hilarious.  In the end she said she understood why I felt compelled the way I do and if it really isn’t a financial problem… she totally supports me.  That was nice.  She almost choked on her drink when I explained Noah’s salary and why I’m not worried about $20,000.  It is very uncomfortable for people when I talk about money.  It’s a hard thing on pretty much everyone.

I wandered back over towards the encampment.  I spent a while sitting around and feeling awkward.  I’m good at that.  Eventually I found the morning meeting.  When I asked if I could speak the facilitator first tried to tell me no but I interrupted and blurted, “I want to donate $20,000.”  He blinked hard and added my name to the list.  He had me go last.  I did my little blurt thing, not the letter.  I was too chicken shit.  Gah.  But I blurted something that was less than eloquent and I was somewhat surprised to have people muttering about how I should go buy some blankets.  I responded that I’ve already donated multiple tents, sleeping bags, blankets, air mattresses, several food drops, and other items.  No really.  I’m giving.  She looked down and kept muttering.  Ok.

I had an earnest conversation with a few gentlemen who gave me a little bit of their perspective and that was interesting.  The big sticking point seemed to be finding someone on the finance committee to talk to.  I wandered around a bit.  I met JP Massar, who decided to mention me on dailykos, thanks.  Another gentleman thanked me for being so generous.  It was really sweet.  Other than that… folks didn’t talk to me.  I wandered around.  I read.  I typed a bit.  I watched the large group of Muslims praying.  After a while one of their members started uhm, it sounded like preaching.  Am I allowed to use that word for Islam?  I don’t mean to be an asshole.  Anyway.  That was nice.  I liked what he was saying.

After a bit I went and sat in the Tully’s and managed to hook up with a few more people who had heard of someone on the finance committee.  I talked to a woman on the phone even!  It was exciting.  I did not manage to run into her later.  I wussed out on being on site for a bit and had to run away.  I felt lame, but I just had to get my anxiety under wraps.  I was shaking and hurting.  I came back in time for the General Assembly.

I asked around about speaking.  When I finally figured out who the facilitator was and asked him if I could speak he told me that was a bad idea.  It would create a shit storm of controversy.  He’s not wrong.    I did manage to give one check away!  I felt so proud of myself.  One man used his rent money to cover the buses used in the General Strike.  I didn’t think he should have to carry that load.  He has enough of a burden.  The joy on his face was the highlight of my day.  That was a real thing to do.  It’s not what I mostly want to do with the money, but that’s ok.

I haven’t heard back from anyone connected to the city.  I’m less than shocked.  I think that instead I am going to ask Occupy Oakland to think of me as a fairy godmother.  I would like to know what their needs are and I will decide what I want to fund.  It’s my decision.  This is my money.  It probably is going to piss off some people and that’s ok.  I will be giving a high priority to any project that is designed to increase the positive relationship with the city of Oakland.  I think the city is bearing an unduly high cost for this protest.  That’s my opinion and I don’t care if anyone else agrees with me.

By the end of the night I finally met a few people and exchanged contact information.  I hope they will contact me tomorrow because I am a lazy bastard.  But I’d really like to give them some money.

Open letter

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Hello.  My name is Krissy Gibbs.  I was at the General Strike.  I was among the first two hundred people to arrive at the port.  What I saw there changed my life.  I am part of the 99%.  But I am also part of the 5%.  I believe in the Occupy movement.  I think that it needs to continue and grow.  I think it needs to be done through peaceful means only.  I grew up in extreme poverty.  I was homeless.  I stole food to eat.  I am a survivor of incest and rape.  I had a very hard life.  I moved more than 50 times before I was 18.  I went to 25 schools before dropping out of high school at 16.  I went to graduate school and I taught high school for three years before having children.  Now I’m upper class because I married someone who is the son of the 1%.  My life was changed because of an accident.  When I was five years old I was attacked by a pit bull.  The money was wisely invested because my lawyer was the father of my life long best friend.  He knew my mother would have wasted the money.  He put it in trust for me until I was 18.  Then he gave me $1200 every month between the ages of 18 and 30.  I turned 30 this year.  On my 30th birthday I fretted and fretted about what to do with the money.  You see, I got the last check.  $35,000  It’s a lot of money for someone with my childhood.  An insane amount of money.  An amount of money that could have made every dream I had then possible.  Because I was that poor.  My needs were that simple.  Now, I had to try to come up with some ridiculous over the top wasteful way to spend it.  Because all of my needs are met.  I have extra.  I don’t know what to do with it.  I want to spend this money on something that is just for me.  I’ll tell the truth and say that some of it is gone.  My best friend got married in Scotland and that was not an opportunity I could ignore.  I have $20,000 left.  I want to use that money to repair some of the damage done by vandals in my name.  I am Occupy Oakland.  I am the General Strike.  I apparently fucked up and broke something.  I’m really sorry.  I didn’t mean to.  I hope this is enough to cover the damages, and if it isn’t, I’ll ask some of my friends if they have any I can borrow.  I think they can.  They all have enough too.
Krissy Gibbs
PS: I will be emailing this to the Oakland Mayor, Oakland PD, Well’s Fargo, and Chase.  I am not sure to whom I should address the check.

Some notes on the General Strike

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I spent yesterday at Occupy Oakland participating in the General Strike.  I know a lot of people who are dismissive of this protest and I want to write about why I went and what I got out of this experience. 
I spend most of my life feeling like a dirty little street kid who should shut up and disappear.  I feel invalidated and disenfranchised and invisible.  I feel like I am nothing in the grand scheme of things.  I’m not alone.  I have much more concrete reasons for feeling this way than most people.  I can point to a long history of inconsistent housing, poverty, hunger, sexual assault, bullying, etc.  I can say, “See!  I feel this way because of all of these real things.  Most of the people who were at the protest with me felt the same way.  They don’t have the same history though.  I find that curious.
How has our society morphed into this bizarre consortium of unrelated people brushing past one another without dependence? How did we come to a place where people feel like they don’t matter?  People matter. 
I arrived in Oakland around 12:30 and got off at the Lake Merritt Bart station.  I wanted to walk in and see how much of the city was taken over.  It wasn’t much.  Mostly there were people leaving because the first march was ending and people had other things they had to do.  The first thing I was struck by was the fact that everyone looked elated.  Everyone looked like they felt good about themselves and what they were doing.  I don’t see large crowds of people who look happy to be alive very often.  As I approached the main camp area I felt nervous.  I felt like I am such a small person, what do I have to give?
I arrived with a grocery bag full of supplies to help deal with police brutality because I live with a Greenpeace person.  I was elated to discover I only saw a handful of cops in the first several hours.  Most of them looked pensive or they were smiling.  They didn’t look like the enemy.
I wandered around the plaza by myself for about an hour and a half.  I sat down and talked to this really wonderful man.  He is out here from Atlanta because he works with an organization that is promoting alternative discipline models in schools.  They want to work towards restorative justice.  The conversation with him was inspiring.  He has done so much to help so many people.  He is truly an activist.  He is compelling and charming and very well educated.  I felt ashamed to tell him that I stopped teaching because I couldn’t handle being a parent and teaching.  Both jobs take too much of me.  There isn’t enough of me to go around.  He smiled and told me, “You are just working on a different part of education now.  You’ll figure out later what you’re supposed to do next.”  I felt seen.  And valuable.  This person I will never see again told me that if I feel strongly about helping children I am valuable and I should not give up on myself.
I went to the protest at least in part because I object to the police trying to evict the Occupy movement.  As a taxpayer I think that I have some say in how public lands are used.  If people who are very upset want to camp in fairly miserable conditions in order to raise public awareness of serious issues I think they should be allowed to.
I posted continually yesterday about what I was seeing.  One friend was dismissive and catty about how there wasn’t a unified message so he wouldn’t take it seriously.  I feel like that summarizes the problems in our country perfectly.  If you can’t summarize your discontent in a thirty second sound bite it isn’t really important.  Really?  Since when?  This is a complicated issue because there are a lot of people involved and influenced. 
If you go back and read Revolutionary War era public discourse there wasn’t much of a unified message then either.  But we still fought the British off and declared ourselves a separate country.  Even though we didn’t know how that should look.  Even though we didn’t know at the beginning what the unintended consequences were.  I think as a country we made the right choice.
The Occupy movement is fractured because right now there aren’t enough people upset.  In my opinion.  As long as the Occupy movement can be dismissed and ignored then it will be.  I think that the Occupy movement needs to grow until so many people are inconvenienced that even Joe Schmo who “doesn’t understand the movement” wants to give them their reasonable concessions already so we can all move on.  I think this needs to grow. 
Yesterday I was in the first 200 people to arrive at the port.  I wanted to be there.  I stayed at the first gate and held hands with my muse.  We watched the crowds pour in.  We listened to the music.  We watched people be excited about the fact that they were courageous enough to say, “I am allowed to express my anger”.  Because that is what I saw most.  People were angry and upset.  They had a lot of anxiety about being there.  They didn’t know what to expect.  Everyone seemed to be delighted to find that being angry and upset just means you are like all these other thousands of people.  None of us are alone.
I climbed up on a scaffolding and watched thousands of people pour into the Port of Oakland.  I cried.  I was overwhelmed by the strength of my fellow humans.  I was simultaneously part of this movement and separate from it.  I am still the dirty street kid in my heart.  I watched all these people and I gloried in their beauty and I felt like I sullied them because so many of them have strong beliefs that I completely oppose.  And yet, I want them to be allowed to have those opinions.  Whatever they are.  No one has to agree with me.

My opinions are the result of the unique set of circumstances involved in my life.  That is true of every one.  In this way it is nearly impossible to ever understand someone else’s perspective.  But as I watched all of those people I was so glad that they had the courage of their convictions to march to the port and shut it down.  I was so proud of my fellow humans.  We are here.  You cannot ignore us.  Whose streets are these?  Our streets?  Whose port is this?  Our port.  If we want to shut it down to prevent those rich people from processing more commerce, we can.  We can make it so fucking uncomfortable that you can no longer pretend we don’t exist.  None of us are invisible any more.
When I left I was exhausted and drained.  I was emotionally spent.  My body ached.  I felt this simultaneous let down and building up.  I’m not sure where to go from here.  My first step is that when I finish this essay I am going to go work on NaNoWriMo more.  Telling my story is part of my life work.  That is the work I am doing right now in this stage.  I think I am going to be going back to the encampment.  I will be bringing my children over the protests of my co-parents.  I believe it is safe enough. 
I was standing there watching when the anarchist group attacked banks.  There were a few people who had their own agenda.  I do not identify with them or their methods, even though I understand them.  I’m not even angry with them.  I think they are misguided, but not evil.  Not bad.  They are willing to be the far end of the bell curve giving me the illusion of being moderate.  I’m kind of thrilled by that, actually.  That doesn’t happen much in my life.  They were arrested last night after scaring people and giving the news a reason to rant about how of course the protests ended badly because activists are bad people.
100 something people.  Out of at least 7,000 but probably more people.  Really?  That is what people are going to remember?  That says a lot more about the people remembering than the protest.  This was a beautiful peaceful protest.  There were fringe assholes acting on their own agenda at a similar time.  Please do not confuse the two.  And yet, it’s the same thing.  Those anarchists are so fucking angry that they are willing to take the courage of their conviction and say, “You are bad and you should go away.”  I can’t disagree with that sentiment.  I think the huge banks are pretty evil as well.
In my opinion one of the rallying cries of the Occupy movement should be to remove person-status from corporations.  Corporations should become third class citizens.  I’m sure people will say that will drive business away from our country.  To that I laugh.  Have you seen our country?  We are beautiful and wonderful and strong.  Even if our corporations made far less money, we’d be fine.  We have all these wonderful people.  We can do anything.

For the record, I release this into the creative commons.  Please give me attribution: Krissy Gibbs

Life is weird.

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I’m not writing this on my computer.  I’m still at my muse’s house.  I suppose I could go get on bart right now while he is still asleep, but that feels kind of weird.  He is expecting to see me when he wakes up.  I have kind of a weird mixture of anxiety going right now because I feel like I am doing an awful thing to Calli by being here.

I like being here.  It’s hard to like it this much.  It’s hard to be in this place in my head where I know that no matter how much I like him this relationship is in a little box.  I like him a lot.  We are doing the toast phase with great speed.  (For those not in the know, the toast phase is when you are experiencing N(ew) R(elationship) E(nergy) and you walk around comparing stories and everything feels like, “You like toast?  I like toast!”  It’s silly and exuberant and fun.

I got a bit weird and sad last night.  I think it was the fact that the march/protest was really intense and I walked I don’t know how many miles yesterday.  Probably at least seven or eight but I’m not sure.  Maybe more like ten.  I started walking at around noon and I didn’t really stop until after seven.  My hips hurt.

I don’t know what to think about this man.  So far I’m just trying on eleventybillion different ideas and seeing if they fit or not.  Mixed results, but that’s for the best.  He can’t be everything.  But what he is, it’s really nice.

To do!

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– Paperwork so Sarah can take kids to ER if necessary
– Documentation for D so she can get food stamps
– Talk to the company my accountant recommended
– Pay D for the week and set up autopay going forward.
– Acquire foam mats for under the swing
– Post pictures of desk on craigslist
– Disperse shit hiding under desk.
– Go to General Strike
– Fuck my muse. (Left undone because honestly we didn’t fuck.  We did have really nice sex though.)
– Talk to my muse.
– Eat his tasty brain.

Dear internet,

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In the first 24 hours of knowing Torrid Affair we had sex for six hours.  Not straight through.  We took a lot of breaks.  We spent at least five more hours talking.  I like him.  I like him a lot.  It’s not very often that I come across someone who fucks like a porn star and reads Derrida and religious texts for fun.  Twitterpated.  This is going to be a good month.  Ok, book calling.  TTFN

Hunh.

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Noah and I have been doing a lot of that needy clingy “Nooooooo! Don’t Gooooooooooo!!!” lately. We are both insecure. I wonder if part of the transference was simply that it was transference. I’m used to feeling that during sex lately. Hm. Maybe?

Objectification

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Objectification is when one person consents to be an object that meets the needs of another person without pissing and moaning about their own needs.  Err, what is not hot about that?  No really.  What is not hot about that?  I’m a big fan of mutuality and everyone getting their needs met, don’t get me wrong.  To me the problem comes when you refuse to meet their needs, not when you simply don’t do it today.  That’s life.  Not everyone gets all their needs met every day.  Ok.

For me this kind of short-term relationship is interesting because the early part of any relationship is all about objectification whether people want to admit it or not.  When you are first talking to someone you are talking to your projection of who they are.  You don’t know yet.  I like objectification as a specific sexual fetish because it involves heavy communication of expectations.  Even if those expectations are silence and compliance as someone else does things to you.

A lot of the reason I am as excited right this minute as I am is because there is a lot of mutual objectification going on.  He is requesting behavior from me and I am doing the same.  We are communicating like crazy about what we want, what we think about, how we like to be touched.  We are writing a script together.  It’s hot.  In order to really do objectification well in an emotionally healthy way you have to be willing to be vulnerable about what you are up for and not.

That’s the crux.  That is what life has taught me.  The difference between an abusive relationship and a D/s relationship is that in a D/s relationship there is an off switch on the abuse.  There is a mime show of abuse projected on an otherwise reasonable interaction.  That’s how I think of my relationship with Noah.  We make a lot of jokes about my Stockholm Syndrome.  How we are deliberately working towards that kind of intensity of near-abuse.  He has raped me.  I think I love him more because he did.  That’s probably not healthy.  I certainly have masturbated thinking about it dozens of times over the years.  I would honestly much rather masturbate thinking of my husband raping me brutally than my father.

Why is that so terrible?  Why does the goal have to be that I never fantasize about being raped again?  Does that really have to be how sex works for every single person on the planet?  I think that rape fantasies are common enough that I can be forgiven for liking the idea of being over powered.  I think that given that I was taught to think I should be available for sex… I want to be available for sex.  It’s normal for people to act out on what they were taught.  How many people put their children in private religious schools because they want to indoctrinate their children to grow up a certain way and have a certain kind of life.  Some people leave the nest, most don’t.  The norm throughout all of time is that people do what their parents do.

My father was a fucking pervert.  He was a disgusting man.  Do you know why he was a disgusting man?  No?  Me neither.  But I have some projections.  He wanted sex.  He didn’t know how to be honest about it.  It went to bad places.  He didn’t have positive outlets.  They were simply not available to him.  My mother was brought up Mennonite and I have heard enough from her over the years about her condemnation of me being a slut.  There is something wrong with me.

Yes, there is something wrong with me.  I like sex.  I like laying down while a gorgeous big man holds my wrists and forces my knees apart because he just wants me so much.  I like having Noah wake me up by rubbing some lube on my cunt before abruptly fucking me in the middle of the night.  That is when sex feels the very best on a purely physical level.  My body just knows that it is doing exactly what it wants.  It’s amazing.

Objectification is like that when I’m awake.  It works better when it is at least somewhat mutual.  By which I don’t mean switching.  So far TA has put a fair bit of effort into learning my preferences.  He is choosing what he says carefully.  He pretty clearly has thought about his effect.  He is trying to be my torrid affair.  That’s so hot I can barely breathe.  He wants that part of me.  Oh sweet Jesus.  He’s like Noah.  I am in so much wonderful, glorious, delicious Trouble.

The reason this is so hot is because this kind of intensity of sex exchange isn’t something you can sustain.  I can’t with Noah.  The awesome thing is it comes and goes and then comes back again with great intensity.  I’m not worried about Noah being boring, but he does want to do things with his life other than have an affair with me.  That’s hard.  I have all this time and emotional/sexual energy that I want to use.  It’s not a good idea for me to spend my time being angry at my kids for preventing Noah and I from having all the non-stop hot sex we used to have.  (Ten times a week in the first year.  That is the best year of my life.)  We will do that again some day.  Because we want to.  It’s a goal.  But not yet.

For now I am allowed to go have this torrid affair with this increasingly-good-looking-with-each-orgasm man.  I have a funny confession.  I have never stared at someones picture while masturbating.  I mean like a head shot.  It was intense.  It felt scary and vulnerable.  He has a pretty intense head shot up.  I can’t wait to find out what it feels like when he stares really hard at me.  I like the bumps on his ears.  Oh put a fucking sock in it Krissy.

The only thing that stays the same is that everything changes.

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October is over in ~20 hours.  I went to bed at 7 last night and Calli woke up at 2.  Festive.  It’s going to be an interesting night tonight.  I’m meeting my TA (torrid affair) tonight at a sex party in San Francisco.  Plan A is for him to fuck me without saying a word.  I’m nervous.  I really wanted NRE (new relationship energy) and it’s happening fast. I spent all day yesterday talking to him.  Mostly we are talking about sex, let’s be clear.  I’ve been looking at his profile pictures a lot because I’m trying to get a sense of what he is going to feel like in person.

I’m being pursued.  And I’m pursuing. I haven’t had this… since … Daddy?  I think that was the last time I was really pursued.  Puppy and Spot were both guys I pushed.  Neither of them really wanted me in the same way.  I started dating Daddy on October 1st 2004.  It’s been a while.  Of course I’ve had Noah for most of this time, but it’s different feeling.  I’m really glad I have Noah.

He asked me what kind of D/s I like the most and I soaked the chair.  I told him that I probably want something that feels kind of Daddy/little girl but I’m not interested in the direct incest play right now.  I want to be coaxed into doing all these hot, dirty things I want to do anyway.  I really want to be taunted with how very very very very much I want to fuck him.  I really want to be taught how to properly suck his cock.  Preferences vary and I want to figure his out.  He really likes pushing girls around until they stimulate him properly.  I can’t wait.

He has no interest in hitting or choking me.  I feel this odd mix of relief and disappointment.  I feel nervous and timid.  Will I be interesting enough if I’m not putting up with that kind of play?  Will he be impressed enough for a torrid affair or will he fuck me once and leave and that’s that?  Butterflies.  Scared.

Either way will be ok.  Truly.  I’m enjoying my last morning of not writing the book.  If he decides to bail I have queries out to friends to spend some time together this month.  We’ll see how that goes.  November is ridiculously scheduled.  It’s ridiculously scheduled so that I get to do things like go out on Saturday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday of this week so that I can have some fun.  I miss fun.

I really miss getting to know new people.  It’s so exciting.  He’s a music teacher.  I can talk shop with him.  That will be really fun.  It’s going to be thrilling to fuck a teacher.  After the sex party tonight (which I am technically going to as Noah’s date) I have a date with TA tomorrow.  We are going to Occupy Oakland together.  He wants me to make sure that my inner most layer is extremely slutty and will make him want to fuck me.  I think I can work with this.

Instructions.  He said that he likes to control speech.  He likes to only let people say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.  I think that’s hot.  I think that’s hot because he is interested in reading my journal.  So he wants to get to know me and control how and what I say at the same time?  That means he will let me speak when it matters.  Which means it’s a pretty safe bet to trust him this way.  I miss those kinds of rules.

M/s rules I miss and don’t talk about: I miss having to ask permission to sit on furniture.  I liked sitting on the floor at my Owners feet.  He gave me a pillow to sit on because he was magnanimous.  I miss having to wait for permission before I began eating.  I miss being slapped in the face with a hard cock.  It’s not really Noah’s thing.  It doesn’t hurt.  But it’s hot and dirty and slutty and fun.

He says he doesn’t orgasm during sex much.  That’s an old hangup.  But he likes coming on people.  That’s going to be new.  I’m… timid.  I don’t know what that will feel like right now.  I know it was hard with Tom.  (Tom didn’t come *on* me much.  He just didn’t orgasm with me in almost any capacity.)

I don’t want to stop thinking about him.  I have a month.  I don’t actually want to record every idiotic emotional surge so this may be mostly the last I write about him.  Unless he tells me to.  We’ll see.

Letters to my Daughters.  I’m trying not to really get started today.  I want to.  But I want to be mostly true to NaNoWriMo. 🙂  I’m thinking about it.  But that’s ok.

I actually went off and wrote about something else for an hour there.  But I stopped and came back because I had an irresistible urge to look at pictures of my TA again.  (that sounds like teachers assistant and creeps me out)  He has distinctive hair I’m not allowed to describe online. I just noticed randomly that he is “less aggressive” than the guy I met at Mission Control (with whom I did not have sex–just sayin’).  That’s probably a good thing.  That guy was uhh intense in weird ways.

This is a different kind of anticipation than I have had recently with the friends I have slept with.  With both of them, I knew mostly what to expect.  That’s good and bad.  It’s good because there is increased comfort and safety and it’s less scary.  It’s bad because I already decided they were not good on-going partners for me.  Mostly I stop sleeping with people when it starts to seem like it’s not a good idea anymore for a myriad of reasons.  Those reasons often don’t go away.  So the whole repeat partner thing is complicated.  Most of those reasons are basic compatibility things, not huge You Are A Bad Person things.

The thing is, I do kind of fall in love easily.  I love a lot of people with great fervor.  I don’t know what that is going to mean this month.  I still can’t have a boyfriend.  I need to be paying more attention to Calli than that as pissy as that makes me.  I get a month after four years of no new people.  My husband is a generous man.

You know how magazines sometimes have those weird fold out pages in the middle and it’s usually a big picture?  Like centerfolds.  I feel like this affair is one of those.  It’s this weird awkward fold out thing in the middle of my life.  It is only supposed to take up two sheets of paper but really it’s like six.  I hope that is how it turns out at least.  I hope that by the end of the month I will be very sad about the ending of my TA.  I hope I maintain a friendship with him.  I certainly have with Daddy.  That was a three month relationship.

Affair.  Just the word is tantalizing.  Affairs “don’t mean anything” only they do.  They mean that I am alive and full of energy.  They mean I am exciting.  They mean that someone caught a glimpse of me out of the corner of their eye and decided to look much more closely.  And liked what they saw.  Liked what he saw so much that he wants to touch me.  And kiss me.  And lick me.  And fuck me.  And teach me how to fuck him.

I really like the word fuck.  It’s one of my favorites.  Sex is generic.  Ok fine.  You had sex.  I don’t know if that means he climbed on top in the missionary position for three minutes or if you fucked for four hours straight and he came in every hole.  Kind of different.  The phrase making love is strangely growing on me.  I outright refused to use it when I was younger.  I was aware I wasn’t doing that.  I do with Noah.  It’s kind of neat how sometimes when he makes the shift to thinking about sex.  His eyes start glittering and his face goes soft.  I like it when he gently strokes my cheek before kissing me.  That’s making love.  He sees me and feels love and wants to touch me.  He is making his love for me manifest. It’s wonderful.

But I want my TA to fuck me six ways from Sunday.  Who knows, maybe the last time we have sex there will be some serious emotion present but I’m not going to count on or worry about that.  Tonight he is (hopefully) going to fuck me.  It will be emotionally messy in the sense that I’m already obsessed with him.  He knows to alternate calling me good girl.  He figured that out already.  He can taunt me about being such a dirty little whore and follow it up by telling me that I am good.  Dangerous.  Dangerous.  Dangerous.

I don’t know why I love the word whore so much.  Say it out loud a few times.  Whore.  Say it in an exhale of breath with very little force behind it.  Hiss it.  It’s gorgeous.  That’s an awesome word.  It’s almost as evocative as fuck.  Whore makes my cunt throb.  It reminds me that not only do I have a lot more sex than most people but I really really like it.  I want more.  I want more of this feeling.  Yes.  I’m a whore.  But only for the right people.

This uhm, isn’t one of my standard operation sex tactics.  It’s pretty rare to find someone who wants to play like this.  Someone who wants to talk about how much I am enjoying it in great detail while they fuck me.  Someone who wants to tell me explicitly how to move my tongue.  I win.  It’s not that I never take initiative during sex, far from it.  I’m not really a pillow princess.  But I only want to do things to people who really want me to do things to them.  And I don’t know what people want unless they tell me.  Bossy, controlling, dominant men tell me what they want.

It’s time to masturbate again.

This is why I do this.

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The man I was panting over let me down gently.  He wants to have an affair, but he just doesn’t have time. It was nice of him to phrase it that way.  Last night Noah and I  struck out hunting at a party.  We were not bereft though.  Luckily being married means always having someone to fuck.  Yay!  Three times.  That’s not so bad anyway.

And then I opened up my computer today to a message from someone else on okcupid.  Someone who read all of my profile.  Boy howdy is he compatible.  Date scheduled for Tuesday.  He likes fucking with peoples heads but he’s not that into hitting them.  And he’s big on talking dirty.  Lots of it.  So far it seems like a torrid affair is going to happen after all.  A very very torrid affair.  Oh my.  Either he’s talking a good game or he genuinely understands the difference between pain and intensity.  And near as I can tell he’s really interested in me.  He’s paying attention.  To a ridiculous number of words.

And, he’s already reading this journal.  Dangerous.

Very. Very. Dangerous.  Butterflies.  Hot.  I’ve masturbated several times today.  I uhhh don’t do that much any more.  He’s crawling into my head already and I like it.

Monogamy is sounding better.

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The lovely boy from okcupid is too busy, but he sounds sorry about it.  I’ll take what boost I can get from that.  We went out last night and tried to hunt.  Both of us came up empty.  I don’t know how to do this any more.

I feel like this is such a stupid waste of time.  Ugh.  I mean, Noah fucked me three times last night.  Why do I need to hunt?  It’s just adding angst as I get rejected.  It is feeling increasingly like rejection is the only option.  I have past the point where I am interesting to new people.  I’m too complicated.  Or maybe it’s just time to realize that only damaged people are interested in having sex in the first five minutes of conversation and given that I’m avoiding those folks I should probably change my approach.

I feel like I should stop talking.  I had a couple of weird interactions with people last night.  I’m energetically off.  I’m too invasive, I guess.  I guess I’m not supposed to ask people for verbal confirmation of the emotions I am reading on their face.  It’s intrusive.

I feel too broken.  I feel too weird.  I feel like people either need to be in my life already and willing to put up with how awful I am or I am doomed.  I no longer know how to be a normal or nice person.  I feel alienated and alienating.

I know that I am capable of finding no shortage of people who want to tell me that it is fucked up that I want to have sex with people I don’t know.  The thing is, I’m not sure it is.  If someone is willing to trust me enough to have sex with me right away then I feel like they have opened the floodgates for as much intensity as I need to unleash.  When someone is afraid to have sex with me fairly quickly (err, I specifically mean at *play parties* where people are ostensibly open to such queries) I feel like it means that I am … I don’t know.  Untouchable?

In most of my life I am not ok with people touching me.  I have too many startle issues.  I get my touch needs met through sex and cuddling my kids.  That is how I can touch people.  Otherwise I have to sit on the other side of the room.  I don’t like it.  I can barely stand to have a conversation with most people I know because I feel so uncomfortable.  I feel ashamed of that.  I feel ashamed that I so badly want to have sex with someone because I want someone to touch me.  I want to feel like there are still new people in the world who don’t think I am too dirty to touch.  I feel so scared.

I want to have sex with new to me people who are nice and gentle because I want to have some freaking memories of people being nice to me during sex.  I want to think that people might be interested in me even if they can’t hurt me.  So far I’m not seeing that as likely.  Well, obviously I have friends who do not have sex with me who are perfectly fine with not causing me physical pain.

I was taught from when I was a toddler that if I loved people I was supposed to have sex with them and that they were going to hurt me while they did it.  When people turn me down for sex it feels to me like they are rejecting the primary thing *I* am supposed to offer as a human being.  Not everyone.  Me.  Because this is what I was trained for.  This is my skill.  But it’s a useless skill.  No, not useless.  Thank god for Noah.

Today it feels like the part of me that yearns for this should be packed away.  This is too hard.  Too scary.  Too intense.  I want this too much.  It hurts too much that I am not wanted.  It means too much to me to be told no.  That means this is too much of a risk.  I hate feeling this needy.  I hate having this kind of need that is dependent on other people.  There is nothing I can do with this ache other than ignore it and pray it fades quickly.  I will eventually be able to kill this wanting.  At least for a while.  Until I can’t help but beat my head against this wall again.

I think the real answer is to go to a lot of events and make some new friends.  Stop asking for sex.  Some day someone will be interested.  I’m not good at being a pursuer.  I act desperate.

The outliers

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I was asked about those people who came into my life outside of the groups and communities I loudly claim.  Oh, I wasn’t directly asked.  But it was mentioned.

I have been through a lot of different phases.  I know people from different times in my life.  In almost every time in my life I have acquired a close male friend.  How that relationship goes depends on which man from a community takes an interest in me.  It’s really interesting how that goes.  Mostly I am only picked up by guys who are socially extremely aggressive.  Once in a while I find an honest to god nice guy.  Amusingly enough, I have found them nearly exclusively in English departments.

There are two in particular, J and P.  I worked with J when I was a teacher.  He had the classroom next to mine.  He was my buddy.  I met P in my first semester of graduate school in a writing class.  He gave me writing feedback on my porn with a straight face.  He’s a keeper.

I haven’t seen J much since I stopped teaching.  I miss him.  He and I traded stories of way back when and reminded one another that even though we felt boring right now, we really aren’t boring people.  He was able to talk shop with me about my job and yet I told him really private things.  He was the only coworker I let myself get close to.  He was the only one emotionally available in the way I needed.  I’m hoping that some day we will get to go out to dinner and hang out for multiple hours.  It would be nice.

P has stayed.  That’s been interesting.  He is the only one of “my boys” that isn’t an asshole.  No, that’s not true.  But he is the only one who has stayed and been a really consistent part of my life who isn’t an asshole.  Most of the other nice guys fall away.  I get the impression I intimidate them.  I don’t mean to.  But I don’t intimidate P.  Or at least not enough so that he minds.  Do you know why I got P in my life?  Because he had no choice to talk about the things I wanted to write about and he was positive towards me.  That doesn’t happen very often.  Very few people talk to me seriously about what I write.

Let me give you a tip.  If you want to give me a metaphorical woody, talk about my writing.  It means you are seeing all the secret hidden backways in my brain.  Knowing that people care enough to look at that is very uhh rewarding.  I don’t understand neutralish but positive feedback.  It bewilders me.  How can you read what I write and feel neutrally towards me!?  It’s a challenge.  It makes me want to win you over.

Do you know why I have so much more sex with assholes than nice guys?  Because the assholes ask.  The nice guys aggressively stand still near me.  It makes for really good friends and not helpful lovers.  I need my lovers to ask.

I think I am undesirable.  I think I constantly need to work harder because whatever I am, it’s not desirable enough.  It’s interesting to me to look at the outliers because it shows me different things about what I am interested in.  Near as I can tell the fail mode of my interactions with P is for him to get frustrated and shake his head.  He is very gentle with me.  There is a part of me that has wondered for eight years what he is like undone with passion.  I’m not even sure I can do it.  I’m not sure if I would be able to get the rhythms right.

I don’t sleep with nice guys because I don’t have the courage to ask (rejection sucks) and I’m afraid I wouldn’t know how to be a good lover anyway.  I hunt for the kind of men I hunt for because I know what to do.  Whether men like to admit it or not there really are categories of sexual interest.  I’m good at a couple of categories, but certainly not everything.

You see, the outliers help me understand that having sex is a physical activity.  Physical activities take practice and can become skills.  I more or less got a PhD in sex, but I had a very narrow concentration.  I feel like sleeping with a nice guy is taking someone with a Marine Biology PhD and asking them to write a 1,000 page book on the history of China from 375AD-450AD.  They will probably say, “Uhhhh not so much.”  They aren’t stupid though, right?  They just don’t know this subject.

I don’t know nice guys.  Do you know why sex with Noah is so consistently good?  Because he’s a pushy asshole who bodily shoves me around so that the sex feels as good as possible for him.  Yeah, that’s going to get me off.  No really.  One of the very hottest feelings is when he manages to make it feel like he is using my cunt to masturbate his cock.  I’m not even going to bother with the whole “I don’t know why I do that” thing.  He’s objectifying me.  Noah is happy to objectify me for sex a couple of times a week for the rest of my life.  While handing me ridiculous amounts of time and money and telling me to go be whatever kind of person I want to be.  I already won the lottery.

Where do the outliers fit into this?  I sit around and think about them.  I think about what it would be like to be in a relationship with someone who was simply not comfortable ever objectifying me.  Would I be ok with it?  What would sex actually be like with someone who was so… passive.  Would we ever actually get to intercourse?  How in the hell do people manage to have sex anyway?!  This is all very confusing.  I don’t think I would have been able to do nice girl dating.  Either I want to have sex with you or I don’t.  And if I do, right now is as good of a time as three weeks from now.  This isn’t entirely true, of course.  I’m moody.  But anytime I’m in the mood is a good time.

The outliers are safe fantasy material.  I can beat my head against that wall for years and years and they tolerate me.  They (both P and J) often looked kind of bewildered by things I say, but I get the impression they like the titillation.  I never know what to do with being liked by people who don’t want to fuck me.  I feel this constant tension of… I have nothing to offer you.  How in the world could you like me.  But they do.  And eight years in I have consistent fantasy material about P and he’s a close friend and some day when Calli is older I may have to risk rejection and find out what it’s like to have sex with a nice guy.

But the outliers aren’t casual.  Once someone is in my inner monkey sphere… it’s different.  It can’t be casual.  Sex becomes dangerous because I don’t want to emotionally damage my people.  I worry about the structural integrity of nice guys whereas I don’t worry about assholes.  I find it interesting that all of the assholes deny that they are assholes.  (Except for Noah!)  I worry too much about whether or not I am responsible if the nice guys feel emotional pain.  Honestly, I expect the assholes to handle themselves.  I get codependent and wishy washy with people who appear “nice”.  I need to know that someone can handle the full intensity of my tactless communication.  I don’t know very many nice people who want to sign on for that.

J, my coworker, was different.  He is an intensely quiet man, which I find kind of hilarious from a high school teacher.  I have kind of this weird thing with him.  I think he is the only guy I know that I would describe as, “I think he has thought about me really intensely for a long time without ever picturing sex with me.”  I very rarely feel like that happens.  If people are going to think about me intensely, they add in the sex.  If they aren’t interested in sex with me, I feel like that means people won’t bother to think about me.

Sex is a way of increasing the likelihood that someone will think of me, even when I’m not there.  I feel more alive.  I feel like part of my spirit stays with the people I sleep with and then, forever, I have the promise of immortality.  I have touched them and something of me changed them.

Without the sex that feels impossible.  But then there are the outliers.  I guarantee you that P has thought about sex with me (yay!).  I have no actual idea about J.  I’m not going to be tacky enough to ask any year soon but maybe some day.  And yet, they both think about me a lot.  Without me having to fuck them.

That’s why the outliers matter.  Because maybe it’s all a big lie.  Maybe I don’t have to fuck people in order to be important.  Only it’s not a big lie.  Sex is important and it does change things.  But it’s not the be-all, end-all.  I need the random people from random groups who decide to pay attention to me because it gives lie to “I only appeal to ‘x’ kind of people in ‘y’ small subgroup.  Obviously I am a mutant who should be rejected by ‘normal’ people”.  BS.  I’m not because if anyone is not kinky, it’s J.  And he likes me a lot.  He thinks I am inspirational.  I don’t know whether or not P is interested in anything “kinky” but he’s interested in me.  He’s interested enough to read a torrent of words year after year.  Even though I’ve never gotten him off.

Interesting.

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“There are two major ways you deviate from the norm.”  Heh.  Bullshit.  I think there are way more than two.  Hell, you can’t take one fucking look at me and know I deviate from the norm?  And that I’m pretty obviously not trying to fit back in?  By the way, we are buying bleach this weekend.  I still haven’t been told no so just in case I manage to stumble into an awesome affair magically… well hey.  I wouldn’t want a couple of inches of roots across the top of my head… I guess?  I’m never actually sure why that matters.  It’s not like my hair looks natural anyway.  I think the only reason I care is because of a girl I knew in high school.  She had white blonde hair but she dyed it black because she was a goth.  But she could only afford hair dye every 4-6 months.  She looked like a skunk; it was really funny looking.

Trying to steel myself for a let down

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I think that the okcupid boy is going to decide I’m not worth the fuss.  Which is fair, I don’t think I am either.  Uhm, yay for confirmation?  I am asking for a ridiculously specific thing that isn’t very fair.  I feel weird saying it, but I’m kind of sad.  I think I added him to my mental script of November a bit fast.  It would have been a very exciting month.  It was a nice dream.

Instead I will work a lot harder on getting ready for the 5k and I’ll write the book and I’ll try to settle into more peacefulness in the house instead of trying so hard to get out of it.  Apparently right now I’m not meant to be getting out.  That’s ok.

That means that some of my friends will say, “Hey come to Friday Night Waltz!” or (insert event here).  You guys don’t understand the energetic cost to me of getting out of my house right now.  Large group events suck.  They aren’t worth the price of admission.  When I went dancing with my friend, ok that was worth it.  He was a good friend-date.  That was nice.  Those still don’t give me that big jolt of energy that I want.  They make me tired.  Those are work.  They aren’t building me up in the same way.  They are a much more pleasant diversion than most of my life, I’ll say that.  But they are a physical cost. I can’t do very much of that.  I can’t get consistent enough child care and I don’t want to be away from the kids every night.

I am really sad that I don’t get to have an affair.  I honestly think it would cause a few unfun conversations with Noah because I would neglect him.  Only I wouldn’t.  Because I would come home every night and he would wake up with my mouth on his cock.  He would miss me a lot.  Heck, I think the fucker could stand with a little missing me.  It might increase his enthusiasm during the time he has me.  We are so tired.  Uhm, I say “the fucker” with great love and affection.  Just so it’s clear.

Noah has made great strides in his career during our marriage.  I have given him a lot of time and space for that.  That is something that builds him up and makes him cocky.  I like that in him.  He likes me to be built up and cocky.  I haven’t felt that way in a very long time.  I feel beat down and exhausted.  I feel worn out.  I feel fucking boring.  I feel awkward.  I feel unpleasant.  I feel like no one will ever want to pay a lot of attention to me again.  It’s existential angst.  I know.  It’s pathetic.

That’s the problem.  That dismissal right there.  I have a lot of this because of the repercussions of trauma.  And when a doctor prescribes a drug intended to cure mania, what that means for me is the medical profession thinks I need to stop working so hard.  Because I don’t think there is a reasonable way to describe me as truly manic.  In times of crisis I work a lot harder than most people have any interest in working.  I’m not manic.  I don’t fit the diagnostic criteria.  Unless of course, you count my promiscuity.  Which uhm, yeah.  Or the fact that I did have that lovely drug experimentation period.  Uhm, only I’ve never done anything that has harmed my life.

That’s the crux.  I like my life.  I think I have made mistakes, yes.  But I wouldn’t take any of them back. In my opinion mania is reserved for when you impetuously do a whole bunch of things that are really bad for you.  When I was a small child I engaged in a lot of sex play because I was surrounded by sex and I was acting out what I had been programmed to act out.  It wasn’t mania.  As I got older it got more complex and emotional, but I don’t allow my sex to negatively impact my life.  I’m not riddled with disease or unwanted children.  I have *also* had a lot of really fun sex with some interesting people.  I’m glad I’ve done that.  I’ve gotten the affair thing right a couple of times and it’s been life changing.  I have fucked up in looking for what I want and I’ve had a lot of bad days dealing with feeling bad about how I didn’t negotiate properly.

This is why the doctor says I have an omniscience problem.  Because I believe it is possible for me to negotiate well enough to get exactly what I want.  And I’m ok with fucking up along the way as I learn how to do it.  She seems to think this isn’t a good plan and she was constantly trying to figure out how my “sexual acting out”, seriously–she brought this up at least three different times during the hour we were together, “And did you act out sexually during that time too?” whenever I talked about other major symptoms of anxiety.  She’s trying to figure out if I go fuck people every time I get upset.  No, I really don’t.  Bitch.  That kind of judgment pisses me right the fuck off.  I’m friends with the vast majority of people I have had sexual contact with.  Of the people I no longer know, only one is actively acrimonious and that’s a joint issue.  I have been very safe in terms of disease risk and pregnancy… what’s the problem?  Oh wait, I forgot.  I’m just not supposed to do those things because they are amorphously bad.  Well fuck you too.

Err, anyway.  This is my long rant about why I’m not interested in an affair because I’m manic.  I’m interested in an affair because I’m really bored and I don’t know another way to get that really intense bonding and attention I want.  I’m doing it in a way that is entirely on the up and up with everyone in my life.  Why is this a problem?  Who will be harmed?  Why do I need to be medicated away from this?  No.  This is not the approach I want.  I learned a lot about what I need to say on the next visit.  That’s good.

But what I really want is a month of sneaking out after hours to be the crazy super hot girlfriend.  I want it so bad.  I want someone to be obsessed with me.  I do I do I do.  AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH  He’s not going to want me.  *beat head on floor* (I’m kidding Ali!  I won’t do it.  I’ll just shake my fists in fury.  It’s… not the same.)