Archive for April, 2009

Crazy Moment #647

April 27, 2009

I have a friend who shares a lot of my psychological profile. We are remarkably similar in a number of ways even though we are definitely separate individuals. He and I have decided that those moments of insane insecurity that consume our brains when we’re dealing with boys are The Crazy. We have both taken to saying “I understand where you’re coming from, but you need to reign in the crazy.” or “Your crazy is out of control.” It acknowledges the basis of the insanity and also says “Please stop before you ruin this.”

Crazy Moment #647 was after World Class Cuddles had left and we texted a bit the next day and then he stopped responding. For three (four?) days I have slowly gotten more depressed and angry and hurt, thinking of ways to force him to reply to me. The worst part was that he left some things at my apartment so I knew eventually he’d have to get back to me. What it comes down to is I had no idea why he wasn’t responding, and my Crazy came out to tell me all the ways I wasn’t smart enough, wasn’t hot enough, was too weird, too awkward, wasn’t tidy enough, that I wasn’t good enough and that I had scared a human being SO BAD that he would abandon PJ pants and DS games at my apartment.

All of which is patently ridiculous, if you objectively review World Class Cuddles’ behaviour. All of which is ridiculous if you objectively look at me. Total nonsense.

But The Crazy? It knows none of this. It just knows the fear.


World-Class Cuddles

April 21, 2009

Sunday night was particularly shitty for me. A date I’d been on and had a great time on apparently was not a mutually enjoyable experience since he stopped replying to my texts after I’d told him I had a great time on Friday. Cue me being over-invested and crying and gratuitous ice cream purchasing.

Monday night was a vaaaast improvement. I had a guy over, and the original plan was to stay up all night and play card and board games. We stayed up until about 2 and then went to bed. I invited him to sleep in my bed since we had talked about the benefits of cuddling without the expectation of sexual activity.

Wooow. Wow! He was warm and smelled amazing and I felt so cozy and frankly I felt cute as hell cuddled up next to him all night. There was one moment in the middle of the night where I kissed his cheek, and he kissed me, and there was sleepy-passionate-grunty making out in our pajamas and then we went back to sleep and did it again when we woke up.

My day has started off much improved for all of this, thank fucking god because now I have to take myself down to the DMV.


April 12, 2009

Cold linoleum floors are awful, but I usually jump right in the shower so it’s no big worry. Last week as I took off my robe and glanced in the mirror I felt an extra chill of..insecurity? Anxiety? A feeling of  being unsafe, unguarded. Vulnerable. It was so hard to pin down because I so rarely feel that way. I haven’t felt that way in a long time, since high school.

The night before this I got home late, about 2 AM from a date. A date that hadn’t gone very well, in my opinion. Particularly after we’d gone back to his place where conversation and making out took place. Good kisser, decent conversation, no particular inspiration to see him again. I have this a lot. Perfectly nice guys, smart, funny, I don’t want them. I have a very specific idea of the kind of treatment I want to receive, and the kinds of thought patterns I want to see evidence for. 

As we were kissing I felt his fingers run through my hair and abruptly my head was pulled back and his hand was curled up, pulling my hair and my head. I was so surprised and stunned that I don’t think I even recognized the fear I felt when he kissed me again.

Standing in my shower stall, clumps of my hair falling from the buzzing blades of my clippers. All I could think about was how I never wanted anyone to grab my head that way again.

Later when I stood up to grab my things he rose and kissed me. And shoved me onto his bed. And lay on top of me. All I could think was “Please stop. Please stop or I’ll hurt you.” When he leaned in to kiss me, I planted my palms on his shoulders and pushed up with all the force I could muster and said “I’m going home now.

After I got out of the shower and put on my clothes, I realized how close I had come to dismissing it as a bad date. As a mistmatch, poor chemistry. But the hair swirling down the drain and through the pipes, the warm clippers in their case, my cold ears all tell me that it was more. I was scared. I felt threatened. Boundaries had been crossed, boundaries I didn’t even realize the importance of until I clipped a 5/8ths inch comb onto some metal blades and ran the buzzing machine through my hair.

It’s About Love

April 12, 2009 is full of epic fail. Amazon Rank my ass.

When children ask their parents, “Why did you get married?” what do you want to bet that 99% of heterosexual people don’t say “Because I wanted to fuck the same person for the rest of my life.” When children ask “What’s it like to be in l ove?” what do you want to bet that 99% of heterosexual people don’t say “Well it feels like your father’s/mother’s penis and/or vagina and my explosive orgasm.”


Why is it that when so many people think of gay, lesbian, trans, genderqueer, genderfucked, questioning, queer, or just plain kinky people the only thing they can think of is the sex? Is that why when kids ask about gays it seems so hard to explain?

Look. Don’t explain anal sex to your toddler. Don’t explain cunnilingus to your grade schooler. Don’t explain strap-ons, vibrators, cock-rings, lube, or a sling to your kids until they need to know. When your kid asks,”What does Aunt Mary do with Aunt Heather?” or  “Why does Uncle Rob live with Uncle Tim?” or “Is cousin Sean dating a lady or a boy?” or “Is my brother gay?”  don’t think about the hot, sweaty, growling, gentle, tender, loving sex that those people have. Think about the warm smiles, and the loving looks, the tight hugs and the quick pecks. Think about birthdays, graduations, hard nights, and glorious days, fights and making up. Explain that it’s about love. It’s all about love.

That other stuff? They’ll figure most of it out on their own, and if you teach them not to be ashamed, to be strong and safe, and to know that it’s about love then they’ll be okay. If you can’t tell them about that stuff yourself, that’s what all the books are for. At least, if they can find them.

April 6, 2009

When I needed a sense of self, I built one out of words. Words make me who I am, I think about my world largely through words – how do I label this, how do I define that. Instead of seeing words as limiting I see them as offering a great means to explore the truth of what I see around me. If there isn’t a definition that fits the thing I wish to name, I give it a new name with a better explanation. That’s how we get lovely words like poly, kink, cisgender. We take a word, make it mean something new, and then we get to explore it.

But I very rarely trust the words that other’s give me. Especially relating to love. Some of the best writing advice I’ve ever gotten was, “Show me, don’t tell me.”

Show me that you love me, don’t tell me. Show me with the way you treat me, let your actions back up the things you say. Show me that even when you think I’m not watching you that you’re still the same person. Show me there’s no duplicity.

It’s easy to say and do the things I want to hear and see when your dick is straining against your jeans to press against my hand, my ass, my thigh. It’s easy to acquiesce and agree with what I say and want with a distraction like that. Show me that I don’t have to get you hard to get you to be the man I want you to be – and that getting you hard doesn’t change who you  are.