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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.)

Pleasant distractions

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I would love to be distracted from my thoughts so here, I’ll spill the beans on my latest distraction.  Noah likes to tell me that the way to get really good at things is to make a lot of mistakes.  So I’m still hunting.  That lets you know how I feel about this process at this point.  I don’t know why in the fuck I am beating my head against this wall.

Only I do.  I’ve kind of abandoned all of the truly casual possibilities that appeared immediately via the internet already.  I’m not interested in that and I know it.  I want to have an affair.  If I could logistically make it happen with Noah I would, but I don’t see a way to find that kind of time.

I really want to feel exciting and interesting and seen.  This really isn’t healthy.  It makes me so sad that I want this so much.  If I’m honest with myself what I want is to go break my heart.  I want to have a relationship that reminds me of how awesome Noah is.  Because I think I’m taking him for granted.  I feel like I’m not seeing him.

I don’t see people very well unless I see contrasts to them.  And even other casual friendly interaction is just not the same.  I want to have a reason to really appreciate the fact that I can whisper a few words: youngish but not innocent, she really wants it, out in the woods, three boys… go.  He will then improv a whole story for me.  He only has to think for a minute or two.  And sometimes it feels like Noah can read my mind.  He just knows what to say.  I don’t need porn.  I have Noah.

And as of last night, Calli is sleeping in Shanna’s room.  I can’t arrange an affair, but we can have sex in our bed more.  That will be nice.  It will be nice, but it won’t be an affair.  Because we will be here and trying hard to not talk or make noise.  We will be trying not to be interesting because then the kids want to join in.  Ah, parenting.

In the meantime there’s this guy; I’m not going to post a link to his profile because even I’m not that crass.    I asked him to have an affair with me and he’s trying to decide if he wants to.  From the heart-stoppingly-awesome emails I can tell that he is a lot more interested than he wants to be.  That’s interesting.  According to okcupid we are a frighteningly good match.  I don’t think he is Noah competition because he sounds too cynical.  But he sounds really really fun.  He sounds like someone I can fall in lust with and then be stupidly wistful about.  Kind of like Chris.  A different Chris than the last time I said Chris.  I  kind of love being a slut.  It’s frightfully useful at times.  Anyway this new Chris and I had an on and off affair for multiple years before I had kids and now we are very cordial when we run into one another without wanting each other.  I think.  Err, he lost a lot of weight.  I feel really self conscious when I outweigh someone.  I’m … ok that’s a different ramble.  Back to the hot guy.

So he’s uhm a lot more conventionally good looking than I am generally willing to hit on.  I don’t know where I found the nerve.  On paper I sound like his dream girl err, or I would if I was single with no kids. Ouch.  The thing is, an awful lot of guys have thought I sounded like their dream girl on paper.  That just kind of happens when you are poly and kinky and you want to get married and you want to have kids.  It sounds like the holy grail to an awful lot of guys.  They don’t recognize that I’m not just those labels.

So really what I’m saying is I think he’s a Bonder and I’m feeling kind of guilty about the fact that I might be jaunting merrily towards breaking his heart.  And if there is a shred of honesty in my soul… I’m not sorry.  I’m nice to my exes!  I really am.  Well, no… I’m not.  Shit.  Mostly I am?  When they deserve it I am?  Oh that sounds awesome.  But it’s true.  I will only say something rude to you if I think you deserve it.  Uhm, or I’ve gone absolutely off the bed and then I will apologize profusely.  It’s not actually charming.

Really I think it is the caption on the early-morning-need-coffee-picture.  Yeah.  I think I could handle looking at that first thing in the morning.  He really has a beautiful smile.  I think that’s my thing.  If someone doesn’t have a compelling smile, it’s over.  I like one that is full of mischief.  Oh shoot.  I’m totally trying to find out if there are actually men other than Noah in the world who will really find me interesting right now.  That’s a damn dirty lie.  I want to be seduced by someone who is really sexy and smarter than me.  That’s fucking hard to find.  I want someone who wants to learn me.  And oh shit do they need to be smarter than me.

I feel really sad about the fact that one of the reasons I’m upset with my friend about the unfun sex is that in between eating lunch and getting back to sex he turned the tv on and watched appallingly bad television for about fifteen minutes before telling me to put my mouth back on his dick.  I want to prove to myself that there are people out there who want to be nicer to me than that.  Who might believe I deserve better than that.  I’m scared.  I fell off the horse and I want to jump back on.  But oh god this is complicated.

The days are counting down fast to NaNoWriMo.  I really do need to spend more time running than I am.  I’m doing a fuck ton of walking and only a little running.  I’m having a hard time with being in the in-between space of waiting to work on the book.  I don’t want to over think it.  I feel like I’m settled on what I’m doing.  I’d really like to have an affair while I’m writing the book because I’m going to want someone with a bunch of Bright New Shiny Stories to excite me and bring me back to the here and now.  I feel really bad for thinking about doing that away from my home.  But if I’m going to do it I’m going to talk about it.  The only sin is something you are ashamed to talk about.

I’m pretty sure that this psychiatrist today insisted on labeling me as bipolar because of my promiscuity.  She asked a lot of leading questions about it.  I am more incensed by the hour.  That fucking bitch.  Like, when we were in Paris and London and I wasn’t sleeping because I was in near constant panic attacks and I was a nervous wreck she asked me if I started acting out sexually then.  I said no.  I barely even had sex with my husband because we don’t do that in the same room with our kids unless we are really really really desperate.  It squicks me the fuck out.  And Shanna is starting to get old enough that it’s going to bother me more.  So no, we weren’t having much sex.  And I didn’t have sex with anyone else.  She grilled me for multiple minutes about how intrusive my sexual thoughts were during that period.

I’m sorry lady as I paced the garden of the hotel in Inverness and beat my head against the ground to get the terrible feeling that I was a despicable terrible person who did not deserve to live out of it… I wasn’t trying to pick anyone up.  Fuck you too.  With your smug little grin telling me you know all about the neurochemistry of trauma victims.  You’ll bring me in line with the norm.  You’ll give me this nice little pill (but I have to stop breastfeeding because after all at this point it’s only comfort for me anyway–right?) and all of a sudden I will be TOO FUCKING SLEEPY to go do anything inappropriate.  How lovely.

I can’t help but think that if I found a relatively sane guy to have an affair with for a few weeks who would pat me on the head and let me go my way by the end of November it would do just as much to calm me down as that pill.  And I wouldn’t be asleep.  But that coping mechanism is bad.  I’m bad if I do it.  There are whole diagnostic manuals that say I am bipolar because I think it is perfectly ok to break my cycles of irritability with sex.  Well God Damn Me.  There is this vast societal wide conspiracy that says it is far far better for me to take a pill every day and go through life like a zombie than have sex with someone I’m not married to.

Really people?  Those are some fucked up priorities.  No, I’m not even supposed to need the pills.  But I’m allowed the pills if that is what it takes to get me in line.

I hope he decides to say yes.  I want him so bad I am weak in the knees.  He is sarcastic.  He likes bitchy snarky strong women.  He likes women who argue with him.  We have a startling array of similar interests.  He clearly wants to save the world.  He likes women who are emotionally variable.  I swear to God his whole profile is littered with catnip.  Catharsis through motorcycling or sex.  (I’m letting Noah get a motorcycle again some day when the kids are older.)  He wants people to message him if they are very serious or very casual but nothing in between.  And be specific about what you want.

God I want him so much.  His profile is wickedly good.  Do you know why it is good?  He represents himself as a challenge.  He’s really specific about who he is.  He just rambles about himself.  He is good at representing his voice.  He sounds moody and broody.  He correctly used the word boorish, what is not hot about that?  Heh.  Do you know what he sounds like?  He sounds like he would be perfect for me if I really and truly wanted monogamy.  I don’t.  So he would be a shitty primary for me.  Ha.

I’m going to have to let Noah have an affair some year.  It’s going to suck.  Ah well.  I made my bed, right?  That sounds more bitter than I really mean it.  If Noah didn’t insist on that right he wouldn’t be so hot, would he?  I absolutely love knowing that other women lust after my husband.  I’m a total bitch.  I think that’s fucking awesome.  Ha ha I got him.  That’s one of those things you aren’t supposed to admit, right?  It’s weird to admit out loud that I feel really proud of myself for having landed Noah.  I managed to get this very good looking, well positioned career-wise, rich guy who is happy to treat me like his high priced mistress in terms of indulging my little fancies?  Oh man.  I fucking win.  I really don’t know how this is my life.

And I want to fuck it up by having an affair.  But if I didn’t have the affair I wouldn’t really work like a high priced mistress and it would all be a sham.  I have to keep up my sexual skills.  Sorry right wing people, if you want to actually be a good lover you have to work at it.  Sex is a physical activity.  Like every other physical activity, you get better at it the more you do it.  I really can’t make space for more of what I want to be practicing in my house.  And it’s hard to do it with Noah.

Party sex is different.  Party sex always involves the dynamic of acknowledging the crowd.  That means it is about showing off what I know, not really about struggling through the rudiments.  But the thing is, the slow struggle through the rudiments is what is so enticing.  Learning.  Growing.  New.  Shiny.  Shit. It really does have to be a new person.  This is much more complicated than I should be thinking about right now.

Bah!  Humbug.

This is why I don’t work with psychiatrists.

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Well, my local medical office now has me diagnosed as bipolar.  I feel that is the wrong diagnosis.  I have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder.  I’m not saying I’m not crazy.  I’m saying I don’t think I am depressed and no I don’t want you to put me on an anti-depressant.  After 26 years of therapy and many long-term therapists agreeing with me.  I was told that I have an omnisciency problem when I said that I don’t appreciate her putting an inaccurate diagnosis in my medical record.  She told me loftily that here at (medical office name deleted) they only use things that are evidence based medicine.  I asked her, “Like transfusions?”  She said they only work from studies.  I asked her if she was aware of the massive problem of study bias and how it is well documented.  I don’t think she is right just because she has decided she is.

And I have to wean and stop smoking marijuana this week or she won’t work with me.  Those things are “outside the norm” and she won’t deal with them.  She lectured me extensively on the marijuana and expressed shock and disgust that the pediatrician didn’t turn me in.  I asked her if *she* has read marijuana studies and she went back to that… she is only interested in evidence based medicine.  Because obviously there is no merit to marijuana in any way.

All of my problems are because of my parents.  Nothing else that has ever happened to me matters.  I am *only* acting out those relationships at all times.  I said, “Really?  The fact that I was repeatedly raped and attacked by animals and not allowed to bond with people in normal ways and… everything is just my parents.  Sure, why not?  It’s easiest to blame them.

She told me that the fact that I went to college proves that I have an omnisciency problem, because I think I can control everything and make anything happen.  That kind of bothered me.  No, scratch that, I’m really upset.

Thank you western medicine for reminding me of how very broken I am.  I think I was coping better before I saw her.  I have an appointment next week with a psychiatrist who works with my therapist at the Harm Reduction Therapy Center.  I’m pretty terrified at this point but it really has no way to *not* go better than today.

I just had a really funny thought about this exchange.  She left off the meeting saying, “You have to do x and y in a week or else.”  At first that terrified me.  It really did.  My first instinct was full fledged fear.  I am going to get in trouble if I fail.  And what she asked me to do is a big fucking deal.  I don’t think it was a reasonable thing to say to me.  But at the end–when I’m really scared–I get angry.  I get so fucking angry that I want to hurt someone.  I can feel my eyebrow go up.  “Or else, what?”

No, I can’t work with this woman.  We do not have compatible approaches to care.  But there are other people in the world who are not raging assholes.  I’ve heard.  I’m not sure if I believe it.

Rape Culture

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Often I do not get along with rabid feminists on the topic of rape culture.  The reasons for that are myriad, but mostly revolve around the fact that I think most feminists are too sensitive.  I think a lot of women cry rape when they are stretching.  I think we need another word.  I think that there should be some commonly understood word for coerced or unwanted sex that the woman never actually refuses.  I think there should just be a way for women to talk about it.

“Yeah, last night he totally ______ me.  It was ok.”  I don’t know what this word should be.  There is something missing in our language.

I have a hard time asking my casual sex partners to not choke me.  Do you know why I have a hard time with this?  Because I was brought up in a family where sexual assault was as common as dirt.  Anything short of penis in vagina rape isn’t even worth talking about.  I have had members of my biological family tell me that because my father and brother never had their penis in my vagina that I shouldn’t complain.  Orally raping me with a gun to my head doesn’t count.  The fact that I had to physically fight my brother off of me over and over and over… doesn’t count.

I have a hard time believing that I am allowed to feel good during sex.  I’m going to tell you a secret, oh open internet.  That whole “being trained to orgasm on command” thing?  I actually don’t like that about myself.  I feel pretty disgusting.  But it’s a really good trick for when I am in a lot of pain and I’m not enjoying the sex much.  I can whisper in someones ear that this works.  And it does.  Hypnotic suggestion is awesome.  An orgasm involves vaginal muscle spasms.  It’s more complicated than that.  But the vaginal muscle spasm part can be triggered.  It’s enough to keep the endorphins up in my brain to numb the pain so I can get through the experience.

I’m also going to tell a secret, I mostly only do this with men who are physically too large for me.  I don’t need to resort to this “trick” when I am sleeping with someone who has a smaller dick.  Which is why I prefer sleeping with men who are not that big.  I don’t like having to use over ride tricks to talk my body out of throbbing pain.  It’s not very fun.  It feels like cheating.

It feels like cheating that I can’t depend on my partners to only do nice things to my body.  It is a rape culture adaptation.  I know that men are going to be doing things to me that hurt.  When I was younger I was smart enough to have an overly endowed partner figure out how to make sex with him bearable.  It’s a good trick.  But it’s a trick.  I always know later that my body didn’t want to be there.  My body didn’t want that experience.  It hurt.

I lost my ‘virginity’ when I was 12 and I asked a 25 year old to fuck me.  He did absolutely no foreplay.  He spit on his hand, wiped it on my cunt, and started fucking me.  That is still how I have sex.  These days it is better if he grabs me by the head and has me suck him hard first.  A lot more saliva is deposited that way.

No, sex isn’t about orgasms.  I have learned how to have sex with my husband that feels nice and makes me feel like a whole person instead of a hole.  I rarely orgasm.  If I need to get off, if I physically feel that ache… I need to feel like a hole.

I don’t like that I have become so thoroughly part of rape culture.  I am the byproduct.  If it doesn’t feel kind of like rape it probably isn’t going to get me off.  But I’m honestly only kind of willing.  It hurts.  It makes me feel bad about myself.  That I need to be treated like that.  That I’m not very interested in sex with people unless they hurt me.

If I swear of masochism I swear off orgasms.  I don’t want to say that out loud.  It’s not completely true.  But my days of numbering my orgasms in the hundreds are over.  I can’t do that without someone hurting me.

I get off because someone else is using me to pleasure themselves.  Because they want me that much.  I don’t orgasm because things feel good.  There should be a word for that.  There should be a word for this feeling of needing violent sex but not enjoying, kind of.  Yeah, we mutually got each other off.  It was kind of emotionally uncomfortable.  Yeah, we exchanged a little light-hearted sexual assault.  Yes we totally _____________.

I need a word.

more on casual sex

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I am no longer on the verge of bursting into tears.  I’m going to call this progress.  I am thinking really hard about whether or not this casual sex thing is a good idea.  I have been uhm, ridiculously dramatic after doing so.  The first time I didn’t get upset until he showed up and started chit chatting with my kids.  I think I was fine before that.  I got upset with the more recent event because I’m not good enough in the moment at saying, “Hey you know how I used to let guys nearly kill me during sex because I thought it was hot? I no longer things that’s a good idea.”  That’s my fault.  In talking to him afterwards it sounds like he’s not thrilled with me because I kept my mouth shut.  He’d like to sleep together again.  I can’t handle it physically.

I think I feel guilty that I am not interested in now trying to meet all of his needs forever and ever amen.  My stupid little competitive, “I want to be the best fuck ever” tends to mean that people ask to do it again.  I’m sometimes really bad at holding my boundaries during sex.  I go along with whatever feels good in the moment and I ignore that little voice in the back of my head that reminds me I won’t enjoy it later.  I think that I have also forgotten how to watch some of my physical boundaries because it has been a long time since I’ve done pain play with anyone but Noah, not like that.

I feel responsible for not having a perfect, only good, time with my friend.  I feel like I didn’t hold up my end of being a sexually adventurous girl.  I feel like I am obviously an unstable loser who should never do that again.  But if he hadn’t spent so much time choking me until I had problems nursing my daughter I don’t think I would have been upset at all.  No really, I consider a cheese grater to the perineum to be the price of admission.

I’m taking responsibility for too much, again.  I should have communicated better, but I was not telegraphing that I was having fun when he choked me.  And the push that did the damage was later in the sex play.  I hate Monday morning quarterbacking.  How else can I find a way to be mad at myself for my actions?

Maybe I should start stating up front that I’m not interested in being choked.  I know I’m hot when I’m choking and all, but uhhh I don’t care.  Not my kink.  I find I am inordinately fond of breathing these days.  When I used to date Tom he had a standard line, “Breathing is optional.  My option.”  Before he put something over my face that wouldn’t allow me to breathe.  Being choked is not new.

I kind of wonder if I’m just hitting the brick wall where my psyche is fucking done with everyone choking me.  I swear to god everyone wants to choke me.  It gets old.  It makes me angry.  It makes me sad.  It makes me feel like just about everyone would rather fuck my corpse than me.  Ugh.  I’m not betraying the cause of slut-dom if I have learning experiences that are less than perfect.  Heck, sex with Noah isn’t perfectly consistent.

I feel like this is too much work.  I’m going to need to stop actively hunting for a while.  And I’m feeling afraid of following through again.  I’m afraid that even if I express my boundaries firmly, they will be ignored.  Because apparently I am mostly attracted to men who have little respect for my boundaries.  They think I will either stand on top of them with a 2×4 at all times beating them away… or it doesn’t count as a boundary incursion.  If I don’t stand at the front door and tell you to get the fuck away from my house, you haven’t broken a boundary.  If I don’t physically have a chastity belt on, I should tolerate uncovered genital rubbing even though the guy likes to brag about how many women he has knocked up when I am desperately afraid of the fact that my midwife told me another kid may well kill me.  Obviously these are all my issues.

I pick these guys, so maybe they are all my issues.  They are awesome guys, until they don’t like being told no.  Then they just haven’t heard it.  It’s not their fault.  They are still being nice.  They didn’t know it was a boundary.  Or they didn’t know it was that important.  I was told recently, “God.  It’s not like I would have actually fucked you without a condom.  I had more condoms, obviously.”  That you were repeatedly telling me you didn’t want to use because you got these as freebies and most of them were too small therefore uncomfortable, and man couldn’t I just let you get one off without.  Maybe in my ass.  Even though the hemorrhoids are such that I’m not having anal sex with anyone.

I’m feeling kind of upset by the idea that I did something wrong.  I’m the only one accusing me of doing anything wrong.  It still upsets me.  I feel like it is my fault if sex doesn’t work out perfectly.  I feel like obviously *I* failed the experience.  If I had better stated my boundaries (maybe the right answer was to not mention my actual limits to a guy who says, “Anything you tell me not to do is at the top of my to do list.”) if I had just said, “You know… I think I should only have sex with men who respect me.”  But what does respecting me mean?  It seems to alternate between meaning that men are going to be too nice to me, so no sex, or that I only have sex with my husband.  Monogamy has undeniable appeal.  If only I weren’t so bad at it.

I go through many year periods when no one hits my radar.  Usually around the time I start to feel really like I shouldn’t sleep with anyone else anymore… all of a sudden I feel like I will lose my mind if I don’t find someone to sleep with.  It’s this weird compulsion.  I start to feel like I am out of practice and losing my touch for pick up sex so I should have more of it and get past the awkward stage again.  I’m not sure why I have picked this as a skill I must have, but I have.

Heh.  Why do I feel like I have to have sex with people?  Stupid question.  But it’s not stupid to wonder what to do about it.  I’m not sure.  I don’t know.  I don’t know who is safe to have sex with.  I’m not even sure what safe means.

In casual pickups what I want is: rigorously willing to listen to directions and believe me when I say I have a boundary.  I generally have boundaries where I do because I have spent a ridiculous amount of time trying to figure out where I get triggered and avoid that problem.  I know a lot of my triggers.  I try to spare other people the pain of dealing with them.  Really, folks should believe me when I say not to do something.  I’m not wishy washy.  Not really.  Even if you can get that boundary incursion in because I’m feeling guilty about being such a bitch (that’s how I feel about myself for having limits) I will eventually come back with fury.  Because you found me in a weak moment and pushed.  That means you are no longer safe to be around at all.  I can’t have weak moments in front of you.  And that makes me so very angry.

I’m done with being lied to.  I’m also very amused that all of the guys I think of as assholes hotly deny that they are.  This feels relevant.  Seriously?  You don’t think you are a total dick?  Wow.  That says a lot about how you think human beings deserve to be treated.  I’m bailing.

Surely there are men out there who both have casual sex and are not raging assholes.  I just don’t know where.  Or how to attract them.  Maybe I’m too crazy for them.  I worry about that.  I worry about maybe I just only attract assholes because only an asshole would want to sleep with me.  This life business is complicated.  I don’t actually want to be monogamous just because everyone else I sleep with treats me suboptimally.  I want to be monogamous if that is what I want.  Not because otherwise I’m mistreated.  I want to stop being mistreated.  And I want to sleep with other people.  How the fuck do I accomplish that?