Archive for February, 2012
There is, sometimes, a subtle difference between want and need.
I don’t need to spend idle time fantasizing about an hours-long romp with the person I spend an hours-long romp with every couple of weeks or so. It’s just that I do sometimes harbor such singularly base, almost bestial thoughts about him. Or parts of him anyway. I don’t have any need to consider the placement of his body parts, body parts that I hadn’t otherwise given much thought to beyond their function, body parts that I’ve suddenly come to believe might fit perfectly and exquisitely inside my…. well, you get the idea. Toes, for instance. And elbows. Who wants to think of toes and elbows in such a way? I do, it seems. Want to, that is. I don’t need to.
I just … do.
One can’t control one’s dirty little mind sometimes, and perhaps one does not want to when one’s mind is having such fun designing decidedly delicious ideas to nosh on.
And while I don’t need to apprise him – this man who is the delightful focus of my mental machinations – no, I don’t need to apprise him of my fantasies, since delivering such insight might inadvertently appear manipulative, I often want to. And so, occasionally, I do. Only sometimes, mind you. And I don’t do so in the hopes of receiving similar words back, no. Nor do I alert him of my prurient visions in an attempt to provoke erotic reactions. Truly, I don’t. No, I have moved beyond simple strategy in this instance. Here … in this place I sit with thoughts of carnality (a place I am accustomed to, as you know… I am a lustful, libidinous lass, to be certain ) I want to, no, I need to say what I envision.
I need to say how badly I want for him to sneak silently into my bedroom where I lie sleeping peacefully, wake me up with a start and begin, quietly, then forcefully, to do dirty, disgracefully delectable things to me.
I need to iterate how the simple idea of tying his arms taut to the bed and insisting that he watch me play with myself gives me such intense gratification that I almost don’t need to do it. Thinking about such naughtiness is almost enough.
No, I don’t need. No. I want.
Yes. That’s it. What I need is to say.
What I want to is to do.
Despite the fact that occasionally I feel as if I am being held underwater, being forced to adjust to that which such duress activates … my mind is actually, on the whole, quieter these days.
I’ve taken note of the silence while I’m driving around in the car, where I might discover that I’ve propelled myself for miles without even so much as radio accompaniment, yet without thinking much about anything beyond an acute awareness of what is happening as I drive. Downshifting as I’m approaching an intersection. Signaling left. Turning my head right, towards the car next to me where I might watch a young girl with content eyes, her lips quietly mouthing words to a song I cannot hear.
In the kitchen this morning, while making breakfast for my daughter and her friend, I realize I’m moving through my morning without the usual discordant chatter that usually takes up residence in my head. And when the waffle maker putzes out, completely ceases operation, and I open it, fully expecting to behold fluffy, golden goodness but instead I discover cold, gooey, drippy batter, I surprise myself when my mind simply responds, Huh. Oh well….
English muffins? I ask the girls. They accept the sudden breakfast shift without a dash of hesitancy. Children are so fucking zen. When does the shift away from that occur, the one that exchanges acceptance of what is for expectation of what should be?
When did I stop being zen?
Once upon a time I would have been, at the very least, annoyed at such a deviation in my plans. In fact, I might have quite possibly be driven into a fit of anger. The meaning I would have once attached to my waffle maker deciding to die, after I’d righteously admonished it with widely cast aspersions – you motherfucking piece of shit waffle maker, how could you do this to me, NOW? – would have activated what I’d have decided to be a pure, unabashed reflection upon me; a critique of my inability to get the simplest of things done the right way.
Okay, I might be exaggerating a little. But just a little. My point is that I am learning to relinquish. To let go of my need to control even the smallest situation like a shitty kitchen appliance fritzing out. But I am figuring out that, truly, while I can get myself to my next destination, whatever and wherever that may be, the only control I have over the outcome of what happens when I get there is, well … none. I can’t make it be. I can certainly make the room for it to play out in a way that feels desirable to me, but that’s all I can do – make way for it. Create a clearing. But that’s about it. It’s all just going to play out the way it plays out.
And so I think that knowing this inside of my body, where my wisdom really resides (I should probably listen to it more often, yes?)… I think this is why I am having longer stretches of time where I am not worrying so much about my future, or fretting about what I could have done differently, or over-thinking how I am reacting to things. Or not reacting to things! Glory fucking be. I am still doing this shit, of course, to some degree. I suspect I always will. But the quiet moments I am becoming aware of – the ones where I am finding myself free from contemplation about why, devoid of consideration as to how things could be better, empty of absurd designations that they have much at all to do with me … those moments I am enjoying immensely.
Downshifting. It’s good for the soul. Maybe I will find the child-like zen again.
In the meantime, I will go get a new waffle maker. And this time? I will spend more than $12 on it … which will hopefully create the possibility that it won’t be a motherfucking piece of shit.
Photo courtesy of Penny
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A Great Fuck
all my weight on her
a Masturbation Story
Having him in my mouth
Kiss Me There
Sodom: Enter the Fist
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Attraction, Rejection and Uncertainty
Bad Vibes, Generally
Fluidity: Growing-up Poly Part VI
Never Pinch a Sadist
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Since it’s love day I am contemplating the word and its meaning. It has been painful to do, since I am in a place where I am re-assessing who was once, in my romantic mind, the person I considered to be “the love of my life”. What did I think that meant? And how do I feel now that this was clearly not true? Certainly I can’t hold on to that particular notion, or even believe in its existence any more. If I ever truly did.
I was the recipient of this particular sentiment just last week~
“You know… I haven’t been in love with you for many years”
These words were delivered, earnestly even, in a conversation held over the phone; the distance between us serving as a delicate buffer of the intentions behind them. They hung in the air only momentarily. I was startled. Although not so much by the fact that they were said, or even how they were said, but why they were. I surmised that they were meant to injure. Or maybe it was his way of taking one final, independent stand against me, a last-ditch effort at asserting autonomy. Or perhaps it was both.
We had been enmeshed, after all. It makes sense that he would want and even need to substantiate some sovereignty.
But these words have been rattling round my head ever since - I haven’t been in love with you for many years – and not in the way that some words do, where they sit and fester, taking up space where too much time and effort is spent extrapolating meaning from them. Meaning that threatens the psyche. No, these words are in there, processing, culling, asking me to analyze, construe, bring healing … they are begging me to unhinge them from their messenger so that I can unhinge myself from him.
The fact is, and I told him this, answering his words more readily than I would have liked after being completely caught off guard by the tone of their insistence… the fact is that I haven’t been either. In love with him, that is. Whatever that means.
I think we do ourselves a disservice by assuming that continuing to be “in love” with someone will sustain a relationship, or that its presence or absence should be noted. Or that such a thing as being “in love” actually even exists. For very long anyway. The feelings of being “in love” are hormonally induced. They are physiological. Being in love is determined by the brain flooding with chemicals, inducing a pleasant and stimulating reaction that we mistake for love. We like how this feels and so we want more. And when it goes away, as it invariably does, we miss it. We call this feeling falling in love, being in love, loving someone.
I was beyond surprised that someone I had shared almost my entire life with had come to believe that because he didn’t have those feelings any longer that he wasn’t in love with me. That the feelings of contentment and respect and the concept of commitment didn’t have any place in his relationship equation as they had been in mine for so many years. And this was a man who had told me just the night before -as we sat on a restaurant patio in the cool-crisp air and ate a nice meal and discussed our separate futures and how we could work collaboratively together to ensure their success- this was a man who said that he loved me. And that he always would. Yet, he wasn’t in love with me. “Hadn’t been for years”.
I suppose that was the point.
And so I am attempting to resist the urge to own that hurt, to assign the fact that I was un-in-loved to my character as an acute indication of my love-ability, or lack thereof. It’s difficult, I must say. I am, without question, in the most raw and vulnerable and strange emotional/psychological space that I have ever been. Ever. And while I recognize that I am here and that it is difficult, I also know that it is serving a purpose, to make me stronger and to give me a place from which to grow, to find wisdom, and develop a higher purpose.
And I also know that there would be no point in hurting me with words if there was no love attached to them to begin with.
*I have been accused, periodically, of “airing my dirty laundry” on the internet. And I understand that by posts such as this highly personal one, I might be fulfilling that particular designation. In response to this, I would like to simply say that I write stories of this nature because I know that some of what I say is relate-able to others, which I believe is important. And also because this is my blog, and I can do and say whatever the fuck I want to.
A couple of my last posts were stories about recent encounters I’ve had with men who were both, shall we say … stupid.
It’s okay to be stupid. We are all stupid sometimes. Yes, even me. Stupidity is Sadie’s surname on regular occasion but at least I will be the first to admit it. Okay the third. Fourth then. Well, I will admit it eventually.
I take issue, however, with stupidity that results in treating people poorly, or stupidity that manifests in manners of intolerance. The law student I met in San Francisco and ultimately hooked up with is stupid, 4.0 grade point average notwithstanding. He is stupid in the sense that he hasn’t learned how to treat people. Women especially. But I suspect he never will. Because he has instead discovered that, for whatever his debilitated reasons, he enjoys being manipulative and duplicitous. It has probably served him well. Perhaps it gives him a charge. Gets him off. I could, if I were generous, attribute his ignorance to his age (25) but I am not feeling quite so charitable this Sunday evening as I lie in my bed and ponder the sheer number of men I have allowed into my life and my bed who were so VERY undeserving of being there. Stupid, stupid me.
But back to the law student – Manipulation and pathological lying are not practices that are inherent to youth. There are plenty of young men who know how to respect women. What the law student exhibited are (in my view) maladaptive behaviors that were programmed in his childhood, to be certain, where he was likely taught that he wasn’t good enough so he has since spent his days exhausting his relationships attempting to prove otherwise by marginalizing the women involved. I suspect that the law student boy will grow into a deceitful and pompous old man. Which means he will probably make a fairly decent lawyer. One thing I did not mention in my story was that, when I questioned him about the fact he added me as a friend on Facebook the very day that I arrived in San Francisco – the very city in which he lives – he assured me that it was sheer coincidence.
Sadie’s stupidity showing – I believed him. Now I wonder how long he had been Facebook stalking me.
And then there was the fucker who referred to my friend Janet as a whore because she likes sex. Where to begin on that one?
Manipulation and lying are shitty behaviors. They are direct and derivative and are therefore worthy of reproach. But intolerance of such regard? Where one automatically ascribes a label to someone else, someone whom they don’t even know, about whom they have only ONE piece of identifying information no less, and that information is that the person LIKES SEX? And, the assumption is that, because this person is a WOMAN, and this woman LIKES SEX… the designation whore, delivered with utter disgust and incredulity, is deemed appropriate?
No. It’s not appropriate. It’s not any more appropriate than me calling him an asshole because he has an asshole. He isn’t an asshole (or maybe he is but I don’t have enough information to discern.) What I do know is that he is stupid. And that is simply because he, for whatever reason, was not given enough information about the concept of a woman’s enjoyment of sex. He was not told enough times (if at all) that it is perfectly acceptable for a woman to LOVE sex as much as men do.
In fact, it’s encouraged! Or, at least it should be. ALWAYS!
So what is a woman who likes sex? Umm… she is a woman who likes sex! She is not a whore. A woman who performs a sexual service for money is a sex worker (not a whore) and if she enjoys the sex that she has while on the job then she is one lucky and fulfilled woman. But this classification – sex worker- doesn’t carry much capacity for contempt, does it? This is why words like whore and slut have endured – they act as quick, convenient verbal transmitters of misogyny and hostility.
Misogyny and hostility. Stupid, huh?
Oh, and, unsurprisingly, before I Facebook Blocked the law student, I perused his Wall, wherein I found a plethora of similar misogynistic missives – mostly directed at the cheerleaders of his college team’s rival school. And while that, too, is stupid, I think can conjure up some generosity and say… this can be attributed to his youth.
However, you can’t always fix stupid… and not everyone grows up, do they?
He was cute even though he had sort of a frantic demeanor, as if he had perpetually failed to remember where he’d put his keys.
So when he came over to our table, the one where the three of us ladies sat in the dimly-lit corner of the not-crowded-enough bar, we obliged, unable to predict that we would encounter the ensuing conversation ~
What’s up? he nodded upward as he spoke. Ugh. We should have known to say goodbye right then.
But no. We answered him. Nothing. What’s up with you? the three of us responded in tandem.
Nothing. I’m here with my dad, he pointed towards the pool table where an attractive man stood holding a cue.
Oh really, he’s your dad? No way! He’s pretty cute! And his dad certainly was. How old is he? Gen asked. He’s fifty, the dude responded.
Is he single? Gen asked inquisitively. No, he’s with that woman next to him. Why? the dude wanted to know.
Oh, I was just thinking maybe I could set him up with my friend, but never mind, Gen offered, bored with where the conversation was going.
But now my interest was piqued. Who? What friend? I wanted to know. Janet, she announced. Oooooh, Janet, yeah! I smiled broadly at the thought of our lovely friend Janet with the hot dad over at the pool table.
The dude wanted to know why I was smiling. Because Janet is fun! I told him. Now his interest piqued, Fun how? he asked. Well, fun meaning…. she likes sex.
And do you know what he said to this? He said…
And then he continued.
So she’s a whore?!
I swallowed hard and managed to resist the urge to punch this little fucker in the throat.
Um. No. No. No, I spit. She is most definitely not a whore. She simply likes sex. Do you like sex, little man? I asked him.
Yes I do, he said, sniffing upward towards the ceiling.
So, does this enjoyment of sex, does that make you a whore? I peered at him through squinted eyes, my friends leaned into the table, prepared to pounce.
Well… I’m actually married. He seemed to be pleased with this answer.
Oh, how fantastic for you, I noted. Does your wife leave you a payment on the bedside table after you’ve fucked her, then?
Always, he said.
Goodbye, we said… nodding upward.