Tag Archive: relationships

The Truth About Kinky Women, by Mr Zeitgeist

The Truth About Kinky Women

This was written in response to a FetLife post. The poster was wondering why no one was responding to his profile or his entreaties to be invited to parties.

You want to meet a girl that you can explore your kinky side with. That’s wonderful.

Let me ask you something:

  • Do you have a match.com or OK Cupid a profile that says “I’m a guy. I’m looking for a girl. If you’re a girl or know a girl, would you send her to me please?”
  • Suppose you’re into stamp collecting. Do you go into stamp-collecting forums and say “I’m a guy who thinks he may like stamp collecting, and I’m looking for a girl to fuck and teach me about stamp collecting.”?
  • Do you see a girl at Starbucks drinking coffee and say “Hey, I like coffee, too. Wanna fuck?”

Every time you post on here asking for people to “help you out,” that’s exactly what you’re doing.

You seem to think that just because a woman is into getting tied up, beaten, and fucked in the ass, she’s somehow different from a “normal” woman. You seem to think that just because a woman likes to have sex, talk about sex, and sometimes be naked in front of people, she should want to do that with you, without knowing anything at all about you except that you like women to get naked in front of you.

Submissives aren’t submissive to everyone

You’ll hear submissives say “I’m submissive, but I’m not yoursubmissive.” No matter how many times you’ve read The Story of O, there is no chateau full of submissive women who are available on demand to anyone who wants to use them.

Kinky women are not whores

Some kinky women may like it when their partner calls them “whore,” but they’re not sex workers. They’re not in the business of making sex of any sort available to all comers. (And contrary to popular belief, there is not a rule that actual sex workers have to accept whoever is willing to pay them.)

Kinky women are not easy

Some kinky women have multiple partners. Some women will do some sort of limited play with people they just met. As a rule most women will not get intimate with a guy they know nothing about. Kinky women are no different.

Kinky women are not objects

Sure, some women like being objectified, to be used as furniture, ashtrays, fuck toys, even toilets. But you know what? The women who like that trust the people who do that to them, Do you knowwhy they trust them? Because they know them as people. They have connected as human beings before they connected as kinksters.

Kinky women have feelings

Do some kinky women want to be humiliated, degraded, hurt, and used? Absolutely. This may be hard to understand, but while they may want all those things, they want them in a supportive, trusting, and caring environment. You call my girlfriend a bitch, she’ll kick your balls. I call her a bitch, and she melts in my arms.

See the difference?

( source as also hyperlinked in the title: http://mrzeitgeist.net/post/3899863983/the-truth-about-kinky-women. merci, mr zeitgeist, pour l’autorisation. )


What I Want Even Not I Know

Let it be known that PM is once again a free agent. Little did we know that all those tumultuous feelings would be felt and then shed so shortly after. And so what did we do? We had cyber sex. Twice. Am I full of poor life choices? You bet I am. Do I feel great? You bet I do. Not only did I cum twice, but we were kind and flirty and teasing and then I worked out and felt great about myself.

Yeah, I’m still in love with him. And I’m a little worried if simply bc there is a young man who has invited me to the X[]M (a shwanky hotel indeed, paid for by his company) this Monday night for ‘Netflix, Candlelight, whipped cream, and a steamy bath.’ Those are his words, verbatim. To which I balked and said you are seducing me, sir. And he didn’t deny it. Did I mention this man is an artistic, positive, well hung, less hairy version of PM? I’ve been typed and I’m living it out well. But as long as I’m clear, I’m in the clear right?

I’ve joined fetlife. My mother fears for my future life of sin on the burlesque stage, when really her concern should be the actual naked pictures of myself on the Internet. Not like she’ll ever know. *fingers crossed*

I was reviewing my belt notches earlier today. Two months ago, I had one. Now I have eleven. That’s pretty good. But what I realized in the notching was that of course I’m good at sex. I was good with only one notch. I was good before that notch and then when it happened that hunch was affirmed. So go me and now I get to do it where it feels good and you had better believe having his newly shorn virtual face grinning at me with glee as I lollygag about on my bed, trim and toned and naked as a jay bird, nothing he hasn’t seen before, but certainly what he wants to be holding… That feels good.

The problem is I’ve never stopped wanting him. The problem is I don’t only want him. The problem will be solved either when I get him the way I want him or when I do not want him anymore. Until then, I will take what I can have of him and of everyone else until I am able to figure out what, of what I have, is what I want.

Here, Where the Letters Began

Dear You,

I have decided to write you a letter every time I have something to say to you. I will not send them. They will go here. Every time I would have otherwise texted you something about my life, I will tweet it. It will go out into the ether and therefore no longer be inside of me.

Each and every day I grow a little closer to the day I am a tattoo’d woman, marked and scarred by choice. Something I’ve always aspired to be: a woman with enough of a backbone and hide to do what she wants, even if it means self-mutilation against her mothers wishes. Doesn’t it sound crass if you put it that way? But her philosophy, as you and I are well aware, is why would a person pierce her ears either; “would puncturing holes in your body make you feel you feel more beautiful? I think you’re beautiful just the way you are.” 

But, as Ingrid Michaelson says, “If I was stronger then I would tell you no / If I was stronger then I would leave this show   / And I was stronger then would up and go / But here I am and here we go again” — Except that this time I really have done it. And it is the right thing. Then why why why, PM, am I so devastated?

My heart; my heart feels like it is being encased with lead that is slowly being cranked tighter, with every breath I take, every thought, every image, every memory. I can’t escape you because I let you in too deep and so now you are stuck, swimming in the murky waters of my mental health. I am just as responsible for the co-dependency, perhaps not the emotional manipulation, though. You crushed me all on your own and you are crushing me now.

I must extricate myself from you. And so instead of pouring this intimacy, this mind speak, this utter truth to you, I will leave you to your libido and your narcissism and your self-service and I will be free. And someone, somewhere, I do not know how or who (and I have to find Myself Within Myself first), but someone will love me exactly as I am, including how not only to avoid the triggers but how to soothe them. This person will anticipate my every fluctuation, better than I know my own pulse, because I’ve always been better at watching and remembering than paying attention to my own tides. And so I will carry this person as this person carries me. 

What I am learning is that in order to be happy, of course I must be functional in my own independent right. I never lost that during our time; look at the credentials I racked up. And so good for you for barely scraping through; I understand, finally, that we simply have irrevocably different units of measurement when it comes to evaluating success and purpose. You have been holding me back from one thing (and that is not my acclaim): my happiness. As in, my bliss. 

I have spent too long wanting you to just fucking step one more foot my direction, instead of resisting all the time, ignoring, arguing, sneering, disregarding, sleeping through, smoking through whatever it was. And yes, thank you for laughing, thank you for loving, but now PM I am sure when I say it was not enough. It was more than I’ve received ever in one concentrated stream from one person and being the person that I am I lapped it up.

But what I am coming to know now is that I deserve and will find so much better. Better than you, better for me, better to me, meaning which in turn why will I ever have a reason to tell him that he is inadequate please give me more [ time / affection / focus / space / insight / truth ? ] — Oh god, the questions I have asked of you that you never even tried to consider. 

I have been stunted and I have been manipulated into being ashamed of my self. My reactions, my interpretations, my ideas, and my intensity. I have been cast about as a fragile, melodramatic snapdragon trampled on the sidewalk. Yeah, cool, I can do this fun trick with my mouth but — you didn’t even last to watch the end. 

The end will be my transformation. What I will become even I do not know. 
Did you know that I have managed to still be creating during this intermediate time? Even as I have had to blaze my feelings away, even to write this post. Catharsis comes in billowing clouds of Maine fog that blanket over the frigid saltwater of my Emotional Self. She warms me, the fog, thereby not only lessening the sharp pain in my extremities from how cold this inner hypothermia is but also to shield me from … being seen. I am trying to reach out, but everything is so black sometimes. At least when the clouds come in, there is a plushy sort of comfort, like a down pillow against your cheek. Did I tell you I finished my quilt? It is a masterpiece. 

I can’t believe I’ll never speak to you again, PM, but you can know that in my heart at this moment that is all I desire. Never to hurt. 
I want you to crash and burn a little bit. You are a lazy, manipulative, lying son of a bitch. I hope someone, somewhere inflicts as much pain on you as you have me. It won’t be me though, I have come to terms with the fact that you render me harmless. 

So carry on with your newest fling and may you never get emotionally attached to anyone ever and merely continue on this ambivalent sex accepting half assed life you lead, where you magnetically attract beautiful women and suffocate their independence with your impartiality to her worth. Why must we prove anything to you? You are worth nothing. 

I am worth more than nothing. I am worth something. A whole lot of something.

So fare ye well. May our future contact be brief, such that I may retain my pride and composure and you may suffer for all that you never appreciated before: My Emotional Vulnerability. 

Once Ago With Love,

Nightmares and New Conquests

I dream of many things. The future is a mirage of beautiful potentials. My dreams pour out of fountains, streamers of color, each a different, fully realized possibility.
But I do not sleep. I am exhausted, from all of this inadvertent creation and emotion. 
I understand that it is good to plan ahead, but must I really be as prepared as a Girl Scout on cocaine? 
I dreamed of you last night. 
First I kissed your pillowy lips, gently, lovingly.
You stroked my face, my waist, my ass.
And then I remembered how I feel.
How you make me feel,
When you blindly announce all of the reasons I shouldn’t be with you
They sound an awful lot like bodies, minds, souls, hearts, names. 
And I shove you away from me.
You protest and I attack,
Paddling, clawing, pummeling,
Whatever physical harm I can try to infringe so that you might know how the inside of my emotional body cavity feels, every day. 
But you hold me at bay.
Somehow I am unable to make contact, 
You deflect my attacks and I have to approach with a loving hand in order to attempt a slap in the face.
But in your aura, your ozone, your magnetic field, 
I cannot touch you with harm.
My insides writhe with fury
And still no good comes of it.
I awake with a feeling of dread
When I went to bed with such delight.

I met someone else. 
And last night we had an amazing time.
I enjoyed his company
I enjoyed his attention
I enjoyed his touch
I enjoyed his body
And most of all, I enjoyed his empathy.
Oh, believe me when I say that I am sure he has a whole host of unenjoyables, but for the moment, I am delighted. 
Especially because at so many of my self-announced red flag moments, 
For instance, when I mentioned you,
He shrugged them off, or,
Suggested some sort of thoughtful reason why it was alright. 

I would like to see him again. 
And I definitely do not want you to be in the way,
However subconsciously. 


Who knew that it would take another possible realized potential to get me out of this rut of you?
I need to be careful.
I need some space of my own.
I need space to see other people, remember?
I need to be clear with him. 
And myself,
And therefore you,
That other people I do not believe can include you anymore, as much as it pains me.
Because of course I miss you, 
But as this dream burdens me as dead, rotting weight
In my heart and in my gut
I am beginning to realize that the pleasure might not be worth all this pain
Especially since you do not seem to be able to receive any when I try and dish it back.
I am growing weary. 
In fact, I am exhausted.
Give me back my dreams, and give me back my hope. 



PS – I think the reason I hate kissing with as much tongue as everyone else is that because of my acute sense of smell, I also possess an overwhelming capacity for taste. Which makes saliva a little more potent of a substance than some may think. Breath odor is a real thing, people. Ugh. 

The Dilemma of the Secret Sexy Vid Stash

I am conflicted.

  1. Is it unethical to masturbate to sexy videos your ex once sent you that you happen not to have deleted (yet) from the hidden depths of your computer?
    1. Does the fact that it was the best orgasm you’ve had in three weeks sway the jury?
    2. Is it unethical to impose upon your ex, whom you sometimes want to strangle because he is so infuriatingly immaturely stubborn and self-centered, a request for a strictly Skype Sex scenario?
      1. Does the fact that he may or may not still be in love with you sway the jury?
      2. Does the fact that you may or may not still be in love with him but desperately trying to maintain distance?
      3. Is it unhealthy to continue sleeping with individuals in the real world if you are not as interested in them/attracted to them/turned on by them as you are by this ex?
        1. Does the fact that the whole point of desiring this separation was in order to make a more educated choice in whether PM was the one for you make a difference?
        2. Surely there must be someone else in this world as sexy and magnetically attractive as he, right? This city holds thousands.
        3. Why am I so afraid to be alone right now, when that is all I truly desire?
          1. I was thrust into overwhelming compulsion for alone time after a last minute, flaky self-imposed booty call arrived at my house in time for hurricane quarantine. This meant he certainly overstay his welcome, although royally failed to pick up on my persistent hinting that maybe he needed to go.
          2. He will now probably not return, at least in the same capacity. He is a lot to handle, but I’m not compelled to step up to the challenge.
          3. Is Boxer Boy (another OkC conquest) worth all this waiting?
            1. His flakiness leaves much to be desired.
            2. His spark when in person almost makes up for the flakiness, save:
            3. His penis leaves much to be desired, although,
            4. It’s true, Ula was right, we haven’t had sex yet so who knows.
            5. Tangent: Ula was also correct that of course no one has made me cum the way that PM did, given the fact that I haven’t been in love with any of them yet.

… Which brings me to the ultimate dilemma:

Am I going to be able to distance the rest of myself away from this man, this Problem Man, in order merely to use him for sex? I am imagining using this as a sort of acting exercise. A twisted, manipulative role play in which maybe we even indulge ourselves (naughtily, I do believe) the satisfaction of the indulgence of romance. Compassion. Love? Don’t push it.

Of course this could go horribly wrong. And perhaps I will not decide to pursue it. Certainly I shall wait until a more reasonable hour to propose such a thing, although I was considering a net casting text of whether he was awake at this hour (1:40 AM, to be precise, although Sandra Frankenstorm seems to have interceded my internet connection, so this posting will be tardy)… which I have now done.

The question is if one of us will bail, one of us will hurt to much, or one of us will … maybe we will both fall back in love? Or grow simultaneously, not caring about the others lives yet, just bodies – just maintain the bodies and then one day we will get to be people around each other. Is that selfish? Is that unhealthy? Perhaps, but it is also a new ground, new territory. So what if he continues fucking the other one. He said that she wasn’t me, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t eventually dim away from his horizon as she glows iridescently enshrined in a thick cloud of impassioned haze. So then they’ll be in love and I’ll be SOL but at least I’ll have gotten some great orgasms in the meantime, right? If getting a little bit of him back makes it hurt less in the meantime, then potential heartbreak (again) is worth the risk, right? Isn’t that what all love is?

I’m trying to make up my very own rules. I’m trying to have my cake and eat it too and be able to decide what it is that I want when I finally see it and just, like, fucking know what it is. That it is. That you are. Whoever you are. And the one for me.

Until then, there are a myriad of patchwork quilts in progress in my life: the one for my bed, out of an array of rainbow batik fabric; and the one of my heart and my destiny, made out of the bits, pieces, and people I find along my way. PM’s section isn’t ready to be complete yet. Just a few more pieces, please.

I am having a lot of sex. This is a fact. And I am starting to learn something about it all.
Perhaps to say all of it is a little overzealous. I would say that I am starting to get a good sample space to hypothesize about the demographic of mostly white, educated, middle-upper class, slightly overweight, mid to late 20s heterosexual males. As an avid OkCupid user, I am finding, drinking and doing it with these young men, frequently on the second or (as is much more popular as of late) the first date.

I am also walking away from these encounters with little remorse, and an even littler desire to ever see them again. That latter part is not exactly true, as I am actually becoming good, jovial friends with quite a few of them and hope to keep them around for companionship and laughter, at least for a little while. At least a couple I hope to artistically collaborate with, so that’s an exciting area of exploration. Networking! Friendship! Casual sex!

I think I can do better than these folks. And by better I mean better bodies and bigger dicks. To be frank. I hadn’t realized how perfect I found PM’s body until I was ready and willing to entertain all sorts of body positivity (a lot in part, I realized now retroactively, because of my own insecurity) for my sexual partners. This does not mean that I am not attracted to a heavier set body, indeed, I would say I am drawn in particular to them because, as a large woman (in height and therefore size, but not heft — I remain a 38B for those who will relish in that sort of detail) I still feel insecure about being ungainly and/or immune to vulnerability. I need protection and I find that most in loving touch from caring, sure, passionate, loving humans. These humans can come in large packages. There is just one small, yet essential item: I need my sex to be, for lack of a better word, athletic.

This is not the same as huffing and puffing over me, at such an erratic and high strung rate that I (more than once) wince at the mental association with being humped by an epileptic walrus. This is not what I want to be thinking during sex. I want to be watching the sculpted Herculean body sensually, rhythmically, robustly pumping away at my supple, silky, smooth curves in a mirror that we have perched above our bed. I want to watch the muscles in his buttocks clench as he drives into me, as deep as he can go and then I arch my back and clench his shoulder blades as he goes yet in deeper.

I’m not getting this kind of sex.

In the meantime, I’m mostly being poorly fucked by mediocrely endowed men. You, sirs, cannot afford to have so little technique in addition to your little predicament. I hadn’t thought that size mattered but let’s remember my statistics, shall we? It took me 20 years to have sex with one man. I then had sex with him, the PM, the poorly postured but otherwise perfectly proportioned problem that he was, for TWO YEARS. In the subsequent weeks since my self-removal from that catastrophe, I have notched my belt an additional 5 notches in my belt, totaling my tally to 6.

And, yesterday, I had sex with 2 people. Not at the same time, mind you. (Yet.) But I definitely went from a first date/one-night-stand-where-I-left-instead-of-staying-over and then, instead of sleeping alone in my bed post date, I was booty-called and a man showed up on my doorstep and fucked me into the night. Entertaining? Yes. Enjoyable? Yes. Exhausting? Yes. Exactly the same next time? No. Needs improvement.

So, here is my advice to the demographic whom I expect to keep pursuing, even though I also may extend my casting net into higher leagues. I think I might be a pretty high league now, which is astonishing. I also think I may have dropped 12-15 lbs or so since arriving in the city but having stopped weighing myself around 3 years ago because it was making me insane, I wouldn’t quite know. I do know I feel slimmer, trimmer, and SO MUCH HORNIER. That’s the lack of birth control and I’m almost inclined to stay off of it, but then I remember I’ve had sex with two men in the last 36 hours and I remind myself that if I have a baby before I get a master’s degree, my family may disown me. #firstworldproblems

So my advice to all the young men in this age group looking to please a woman in bed, or:

How To Get Her (To Like It Enough To Want You) Again

1. Kiss her neck.
Don’t necessarily rub your face (especially if recently stubbled) against it.
Kiss, not bite, I said.
Slobber is not necessary.
A light sucking, occasional slip of the tongue, all along her collarbone, up her neck, along the jawline and then gently tugging on her earlobe.

2. Be gentle with her breasts
You don’t know where they’ve been (or what they’ve been supported by, what they’ve also been carried with, what time of month it is, how sensitive her nipples are)
Do not bite her nipples (unless she asks for it.)

3. Hickies are only acceptable in places where standard business casual clothing covers.
No exceptions.
Be conservative if you have any doubts.

4. Do not ram me for more than 2 minutes at the same tempo, frequency, gate, and stamina unless I am obviously reacting very positively. And even so, I don’t think I’ve ever done anything that long without changing something up.
Pumping is a no go. That word is just … that’s what the problem is. You are not having sex with, making love to, boning, fucking, or sleeping with me. You are just pumping my body and I am not into it.

5. Ask me, preferably early on, when you are clearly horny but not close and/or already finished, how I best come and then for the love of god help me get there.
If I say, no it’s okay, then it’s okay but you just got mad points for putting me first.
Protip: I always put your pleasure first, because watching you be pleasured (by me) is what turns me on the most. BUT: there are very particular things that you can do that will help me get going right along and then it’ll be smoother (wetter) sailing for everyone (if you get my drift).
I don’t want you to grunt and sweat and squint your eyes so much while you hump me dry that you forget to notice 1. that I’m a human there, receiving your skidding latex-sheathed dick and that 2. your latex-sheathed dick is skidding back and forth inside of the human below you.

Too much Ow; not enough Ahh.

Please and thank you.
Raynbow Phoenix thanks you.

P.S. As we all remember from last post, I give amazing head. One of my Pleasure Him Party Tricks, if you will. The one thing I will say about all you belt-notch boys is that you have been astoundingly grateful and for that I am flattered and charmed.

Hold Me

What is the best cure for nightmares?
I have a serious case.
I waste away hours and hours of the night
on the computer
on a pipe
with a book
stuffing my face
it matters not
only to avoid actually allowing myself the luxury
of letting down my guard
and floating into the pillows
and the jersey sheets
to bask in the glory of
peaceful slumber
I’ve lost that.
I am too vulnerable.
I am too exposed to the tyranny of my own conscience
to volunteer
instead I weasel my way out of hours
that I need
my body needs to sleep
my mind needs to rest
my heart needs to heal
but something is stopping it.

Hold me, please
I do not care what you look like
You will not be too [whatever you fear] for me
I am open
I am waiting
I am desperate

I am not looking for love
I am not looking for a lover
Albeit I seem to be finding them along the way
I am merely looking for a good night’s sleep

What is the cure for nightmares?
I don’t know, but in the meantime
Just hold me.

Actress Extraordinaire

Every time I touch you in a caring way, it feels a little bit forced.

I am in need of space to find out who I really am now, and what I want, and what I’m looking for.

Space from you.

Right now it is a countdown until I can stop living the lie I’m living for you.

It is a hard thing to be a self-diagnosed manic/depressive hypochondriac. 

The problem with being a hypochondriac is that too frequently you are convinced that you must have thyroid disease (3 times now), even though you’ve never had any sort of ailments similar enough and to the scale of comparison with thyroid disease symptoms.

The problem with being manic/depressive (and currently in a, somewhat self induced because of the marijuana dependency/self-medication, depressive phase) is that you are afraid that you are just crying wolf, because haven’t you done that so much before?

The problem is that you wouldn’t be crying wolf this time. This time the wolf is real. 

So I have gone to therapy. So I have stopped, and gotten worse again. So I have gone again to therapy. And stopped. So here am I, on the verge of a new beginning (you should know that I automatically typed nervous breakdown before rewinding and typing in new beginning — that seems pretty indicative of something, eh?) … I am ready to leave. I am ready to start over. 

But I know these things, these real things that I keep trying to deny, survive, bargain with, and overcome, they will follow me. Now I believe the things I carry with me are items of baggage like Anxiety, Depression, Addiction. I am also burdened with Insecurity, Loyalty, and Pride. 

Pride. Sometimes I am so chagrined by admitting I need help that I shut down. And I opened myself up for a man, a beautiful, kind, wonderful, albeit unreliable stoner child. He has grown so much with me, but what he does not understand is the complex state of womanhood and how much more guarded it is compared to the whims of young girls. I am learning this hurt, because I opened myself too soon. I have conducted myself with such poise around attractive, older, sexually charged men that I knew, intellectually, could have taken me, heart and soul. Instead, they, intellectually, took my heart and soul. But did not touch my body.

Instead I gave my body to you, in addition to my heart and my soul, which you learned was a dangerous place. Dangerous, unbridled, I know this all too well because I have powered on in states of delirium because I cannot sleep or because I am feeling too much over something my mind can tell itself over and over is not important but my heart will not stop because it suffers. No matter how much I shouldn’t I still feel it. 

So my Pride is a burden, rather than a Protector. 

But all of these burdens I believe will weaken with time because I still believe in all of the other things I am carrying. All of my Virtues, like Loving, Creative, Thoughtful, and Self-Aware. Like Optimist, Youthful, Empowering, and Passionate. 

Someone, someday, may find me and love me at whatever state of self-appearance I am in. I will once again devote myself to the care and well-being of this person, and he (I anticipate, but am not sure so let it remain a placeholder pronoun) will give himself to my care and well-being. Something will be different, however, and that is that I will not give my entire being to others; I will preserve some part of myself that is merely, truly, and loyally for myself.

That is what will be different the next time. Until then, I must learn to do all of these things. I must learn to love myself. 

I am now emotionally detached.

I realized this tonight as I watched him bring out a tulip of a home-rolled cigarette and I, hoping with all the Benefit of the Doubt I could ever muster, said, “Ooh that’s a big commitment.” [subtext: “that must be filled with a lot of weed.”] And he sheepishly looked back and said, “Nah. Different sort.” [subtext: “Yeah, this is that gross, dried out, 6+ mo. old tobacco my drug-dealing sidekick you don’t like very much because he occasionally ends up passed out in my bed at 3 in the afternoon while I’m holding up shop — he’d take the futon, but I’m already taking up the living room. He’s my buddy, what, so I’m not going to offer him my bed? I’m not going to accept his grody ass tobacco?”]

The fact is, though, that because you don’t eat properly and you smoke too many cigarettes, darling, you are a skeleton of what you once were. I have always known that I am attracted to beefy men. My father used to seem a lot bigger, even in his slimmer years, because I was (believe it or not, given my size now) somewhat smaller. My father has put on weight in his middle years, but he has incorporated it gracefully as a tall man and so simply has a more solid presence in the room … contrary, say, to his former days as a 1970s short-shorted high school varsity basketball player. His downtown corporate office city suits from our suburban American family days filled him out, and my own smaller stature. Also, my admiration for his achievements. My longing for his approval. My eagerness to somehow learn how to truly communicate with my father.

This sure sounds Freudian, but I definitely believe you remind me of my father. You too are from a small town, although you do not come with nearly as much affluence. This means, I think, that you do not believe in yourself (as in, yourself as a success who will continue to succeed). This does not mean that you don’t talk a big talk, but why do you think I try to shoot you down so much? I want you to see yourself as actually describing the reality of the situation, rather than the inflated hyperbole that you mumble on about.

You also both have dreams. I am not disputing that. My father has come a long way from the rural and remote of where my high achieving grandfather placed him to fly from to settle his roots elsewhere. My father has settled his roots down in a place that I’d like to think I helped lead him back to. The place where he married my mother. The place where his mother received her high school degree. I have rooted my parents there, no matter how many other pilgrimages they pursue. My mother, also, has traveled far, and stood strong as a grecian goddess of a pillar in my life.

The real difference, though, between you and my father, darling, is that while my father’s dreams incorporate only those less fortunate, those more needy, those more taxed, yours only include the betterment of yourself. My father is driven by a Divine Leading that I do not fully understand, but I believe is the same spark in me from which the music of my soul flows. My parents have taught me to seek to better those around me, because it is my duty, and also my Divine pleasure, to help. So I have tried to help you.

And now I see you wasting away. And smoking away. And drinking away.

I have become emotionally detached because I need to love myself first. I used to love you, love the idea of saving you and, most of all, used to love the idea of being with you once you were saved. I’ve often been accused of Falling In Love With Potential … Well there I did it again. And now I cannot watch any more. I am stepping above. I am stepping beyond.

I am also tiptoeing around the aura of another former Lovespark in Whom I Imbued Too Much Potential for the Period. But, after stepping away and letting go of the absurd human I wouldn’t watch him become, he stepped out and continues to surprise me with smiles every time I talk to him. Which I find wanting to be more and more frequent. Isn’t it funny, I’ve been in love with this young man since we were 13. Almost a decade. And I’ve never kissed him? Delusional, I know. But I’ve also been the closest to him without going further with the most electric magnetic pressure I’ve ever experienced. I’ve known him at highs and lows and loved watching where he discovers next.

The first play I ever wrote, I wrote about this young man with whom I hope to stay along my voyage away from this compound and towards my family vacation which I get to go on because I wasn’t, in fact, hired at the August internship I’d hoped for. As my mother would say, “Rats.”

I am on the verge of another change. I mentioned at Al-Anon the other day (I’ve started going; I think I will be ready for the real change when I can get away from him) that I was ready to have Freedom from this man. This tortured young man who has too much kerosene and spark and not enough slow burn. The Almost-Second Lover I took was far more gentle, far more loving in his embrace; I questioned it was merely a matter of softer fingertips in the most delicate, and sensitive, of places. I realized, even in my hazy state, that the answer was probably not; the answer was probably more linked to an awareness of the woman and her pleasure. Pursuing mine, because by being as pleasured as possible, he could tell, this temporary target of mine, that I would pleasure him back. Or did he? He just seemed intent on my pleasure. And I intent on his. Had the alcohol not derailed the physiology of our plans … well, we’ll never know, will we.

I am ready to feel a new lover’s touch. I am ready to find touch, if he is ready to give it and I am ready to receive it, the touch from this old Lovespark. As he is also a dear friend, I hope to one day explain our relationship using a term of my mother’s which is bound to surprise her: that he and I are “devoted to each other.”

I have this idea for a play in which a young open hetero couple gets accidentally pregnant and decide to raise the child… a few years later the woman has unprotected sex with another man and gets pregnant with his child. The two fathers decide to both be in her life as love interests, but they have to figure out how to explain it to her family, who is completely traditional. That is not to say conservative, but the idea of having multiple sexual partners, much less child rearing partners … It is not a matter of gender as it is a matter of number. 

But I digress.

I am seeking for a way to pleasure myself, because I deserve to be pleasured. Here I am stuck in a soon to be escaped delusion of being with someone I am ready to transcend. I am ready to grow and he is not. And I will be wounded still when I leave, perhaps more so when I am in nomad mode for a while. But exciting things are on the horizon, if I am just patient enough to get myself there in good enough shape to plant in soil anew and soak in the nutrients of a new, inviting, and exciting environment.

My future lies ahead and, believe me, good things lie in it.