On a Drunk Text

theotheremma

I don’t want to drunk message you.

So I’m writing this instead

Because I’m sick of using inebriation to tell you what’s on my mind.

I want you to fuck me so hard I see stars.

I want you here, in my arms.

I want you to sneak me away and fuck me against the bathroom stall – with girls coming in seeing my fingers curled around the metal frame, hearing moans and grunts and sighs.

I want you to pin me down, twist my hair in your hand, and tell me I’m not going anywhere.

And then I want you to hold me close- like in that moment I’m the only person that matters.

Because goddammit, I miss you.

I miss you so much it hurts.

And I know full well you don’t feel the same.

You don’t say hi anymore. You don’t call, or message, unless I cave and make the first communication. And it sucks. So fucking much.

But, I also get it. You’re hung up on your ex. You are very, very far away. So, I won’t tell you any of these things that occupy my mind.

But I miss your arms around me. I miss the way you look at me and the way you say my name. I miss the way you smile at me when you haven’t seen me in a while, kiss me and say, “Well, I feel better.”

And I can only say these things when there are stars in the sky, when my breath smells like whisky and life is blurred around the edges.

I hate that you make me feel these things, and that you don’t feel them back.

So that’s why I’ll write them here. I won’t burden you with a message you feel like you have to respond to, and probably won’t know how to, when you’re thousands of miles away.

But,

This is my safe place. To openly feel whatever it is I’m feeling.

So.

I guess.

I miss you. And I really wish I didn’t.

On Changes and Things

theotheremma

He tells me he wants to take me to dinner.

And he knows I’ll say no. Knows I’ll say he doesn’t have to.

But he tells me he wants to take me to dinner, because I deserve it.

We met the day before New Years. I don’t know why, but I instantly felt comfortable with him.

He was artistic, smart, creative. He wanted more from life than what he had at that moment and would work for it. Had worked for it. He was interesting, conversation flowed easily, and, well, his cheekbones were unreal.

So we went back to mine and in the morning, I didn’t feel the need to kick him out.

I couldn’t say why, even to this day, but, instead of making him leave so I could go get ready, take a shower, put on makeup, I let him stay, face buried in my pillow, sunlight on his face.

And when I woke him up, and he looked at me all bleary-eyed, and said, “Oh, you look beautiful,” I knew something was different this time.

It wasn’t anything that lasted long. It wasn’t a relationship, and we didn’t talk too much when we weren’t together. But, he was someone I liked cuddling me as I fell asleep. I liked waking up beside him.

My friend nicknamed him ‘butt-scratcher’ when I referred to him as someone who scratched a much-needed itch.

I don’t know if the itch was semi-regular sex, companionship, or a mixture of the two. But I think it was more the latter than the former.

It didn’t end well. It ended with me waiting for him to show up, and he never did. And I never really heard from him again.

I’m not bitter, not anymore. I don’t resent him for it.

He knew about my blog, and he said he wanted to be ‘more than one story,’ and for a while, I thought he didn’t deserve to be anything afterward. Didn’t get to be a story, a part of the narrative. 

Because Butt-scratcher showed me something I hadn’t realized. And so he gets this. One post. This one part of my story.

I was ready for something I had previously run full force away from.

I was ready for that person to wake up beside me. I was ready to share my space with someone. Keep a toothbrush in my cabinet for when they spent the night.

So, if nothing else. I owe him thanks.

A thank you for letting me dip my toes in the water.
A thank you for kisses on my forehead and fingers entwined in mine.
A thank you for being a stepping stone and a push in a different direction.

Because who knows what our future might have held, but, now I can envision futures.

And that is exciting, terrifying, and new.

On A Shameless Self Promotion

theotheremma

Hello!

So a while back (On Writing a Sex Scene) I wrote about a book I was writing/working through and how weird both receiving and using feedback can be.

That specific project is still ongoing, however, I have managed to complete a different book. This book is now up on Amazon, and is free always if you have Amazon Prime, and for the next two days if you don’t.

If any of you fantastic lovely people wanted to download the book, hell, maybe even leave a review?? I would love you ’til the ends of the earth.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07HLH58PH 

Way Down We Go
Because a girl needs a lot of pen names

Two versions of the summary – the one that’s on Amazon

Rory tells herself it’s a trick of the light. That she can’t actually see the spirits of living beings as they die. Until one night, when a starving demon comes across her path, and the mysterious blue and yellow lights are suddenly given a name. Asa can’t understand how a human can see mana, let alone possess it and use it, but wants to help Rory find a way to control her abilities and find out more about her. But he’s not the only one who’s intrigued by the mystery. Others begin to take an interest in Rory’s growing powers, and her potential as a shield, or a weapon, for forces in the demon realm.

 

and the one I use to describe it in all of my self-deprecating glory.

So, it’s basically a plot-driven romance with demons and sorcerers, with a potential uprising/war and all sorts of lovely darkness. But also humor and sexy times. Also, my editor described it as “this isn’t horrible to go through!” which is the highest praise I feel you can get.

Hopefully one of those convinced you to give it a go. I’m also happy to do the same thing in return if anyone needs.

^_^

On A Dance

theotheremma

I have a performance coming up, and it has been highly recommended (see: do this or you’re dumb) that I journal or otherwise map out what the piece means, what each motion signifies, where it’s going. Who is the audience? What are they to you? What should they get out of it?

So I thought about it. A lot.
And the only way that the piece makes sense to me, that allows me to get to the emotional level I need, the vulnerability involved, is to think of it like I’m writing out a blog post and the audience is you, the lovely readers. It’s a place and a persona that I feel safe leaving bloody and ruined and exposed. To be completely honest about what I feel, and what I want.

So, that’s what this is. The blog post that the piece would be. I apologize if this seems entirely nonsensical. If it’s confusing. Movement sometimes is. I like to think of it the completion of a sentence when you no longer have words. Movement is truth – harsh, brutal truth. And converting that back into words is difficult.

But here goes anyway.

_____________

I’m looking for something.
I don’t know what, until I see you.

You…you’re beautiful.

But what are you? You are grace and effortless movement and flow and…so many things. So many things I want to be and am not. Yet.

But maybe I could be – will it be that difficult?

Yes. Yes, it is. You are confusion and a mess of patterns and shapes and nonsense. And my body doesn’t understand how to react to you. How to handle what I am pushing it to do because of you.

I’m trying not to falter. I’m trying to be beautiful. I’m trying to be all the things you need me to be.

And I’m breaking, and trying not to show it. But I’m falling apart, and you know this. Know it far better than I do.

Everything hurts and I’m a tangle of broken pieces, searching for something that doesn’t exist.


And I can’t walk away from you, but I don’t belong with you. I don’t deserve what you could make me, I can’t handle what you will ask of me. But goddammit, I want to. I want this. I want this more than anything in the world. I will give up everything for you. For this feeling. To fly with you.

I need you like a drug, I am desperate for your validation, for this feeling of undeserving to finally end. To be satisfied, just for a moment, that it was enough.

You call me back to you when I am weak and unworthy. You are waiting for me to pick up where we left off.

So, we’ll try again. I am trying to be all these things that I am not, and you’re trying to help in the only ways you know how. Because I have to work with you, not against you. I have to embrace you and love you for what you allow me to do at any given moment.

You are what I long for, and can’t reach quite yet. But that won’t stop me.

And when you break me for that final time, because we both know you will, when you do cast me aside, I will be grateful for the journey.

But for now, you and I, we can fly together. You will hold me, and I will cry into your shoulder. You will tell me I’m not enough, not yet, and I will try harder. And we will create something together, that might not be beautiful, but it will be ours.

And for now, I suppose, that has to be enough.

On Those **** Eyebrows

theotheremma

You make me want to scratch my face off.

It’s not out of anger – it’s that every second you’ve been in my life has been a combination of fluttery highs that have made me happier than I can describe, and anxiety of when are you going to fuck this up because you know you will.

And it’s not that you have not told me how you feel, if your own special and lovely way. It’s in the way you touch my skin, in your words in my ear, in the way you raise your eyebrow that tells me you’re thinking of all sorts of terrible things you want to do to me. In the way you say you miss me. In the way you call just to say hi.

It’s because I never thought I’d feel this way at all, let alone with someone who could, maybe, possibly, like me back just as much.

And having never done the adult actual bona fide relationship thing, I’ve never had any desire to have the conversation of;

“So, what are we?”

Because any time this might have potentially come out I would retreat into emotionless pit of darkness with a supply of vitamin D supplements because no one has time for that shit.

But you make me want to venture out of my little fox hole and sniff at the sun.

And you terrify me, but in a way that makes me want to jump off the high dive, that pushes me further, that makes me want to try.

So, the other day when we had a conversation about our future goals, our plans, our dreams – I had a moment of;
Is this enough for you?

I am not ashamed of my job, of what I’m working for, of what I’m doing. But the nomadic, artistic life is definitely one of those concepts that will make a person say
“Go do it, go follow your dreams and passions and conquer the world,”
Or
“Sure, that’s fine, but what are your real goals?”

And I’ve been thinking about this, because again, that nagging horrible voice in the back of my head is saying,

You’re not enough. What you want is not enough. They’ll want more.

And a realization came from a most unlikely of sources.

You don’t have to be enough.

After all, isn’t that why you’re poly?

Because, you and I, and I know I’m getting so far ahead of myself, but, we can have our own little bit of happiness, create something together, and it can be ours and beautiful.

But you can also go do that with someone else, and that’s okay.

I’ve always thought about the concept of ‘other halves,’ solely in how it relates to me. In that, I firmly believe that one person will not fulfill all my emotional and physical needs. That one person, or no one, might be all I can handle at any given moment, or all I want at that specific moment, but in time, I may find that x and y is missing from my life. It might be that a and b needs aren’t being fulfilled. That I want to explore m and n. Whatever the case may be, it is not fair, or, indeed, accurate, for me to identify as monogamous when I am aware of these aspects of myself.

However, I haven’t spent too much time thinking about this from the opposite perspective. What it would mean if I was not enough for someone.

And again, I don’t know what we are right now.
But I know that I love the feel of your hands around my waist as my legs wrap around you.
I love the feel of your teeth against my shoulder.
I love sitting on your couch with a beer watching something stupid on TV.

My friend told me that my eyes go soft when I talk about you. Because you are a lot of firsts for me.

You are the first guy, as an adult, I have missed when they’re not around.
You are the first guy I would be willing, even want, to stick some sort of label on, whatever that may be. Something that gives it the impression of stability.
You are the first guy who’s friends I have met. Hell, met more than once.
You are the first guy who I want to come to, versus having them come to me.
You are the best sex I’ve ever had.
You are the first guy who makes me want for something more.

That being said,

You will not be my other half.
You will not be my soulmate.
You will not be the center of my universe.

But, you could be my love.

And I want to believe that we’ll figure it out as we go. Because if you are not enough for me, and I am not enough for you, it doesn’t necessarily mean that you don’t still want me, or that I don’t still want you.

And maybe that’s why I like you so goddamn much.

On No. 4

theotheremma

She told me you were safe. That she wouldn’t leave me alone with you unless you were.
We were hanging out on your boat. It was a fun night; hanging with friends, old and new.
We watched the fireworks on the dock, watching the reflection of the sparks and lights in the water.
And we drank, because of course we did. We were adults on a national holiday.
And the other two left for home, and I was alone with you. The last train home had left, and I said I’d just sleep on the boat. I wanted to feel the waves rocking me to sleep, feel the peace and quiet that being on the water brings me.

 

And we had beers, we smoked, and you told me about your girlfriend. Told me the distance is good for you. Told me she doesn’t want to share you. Told me you were physically – platonically – affectionate, and that people didn’t understand.

 

I understood. I have friends with whom my levels of affection come out in ways people might find weird or inappropriate considering we are not in a relationship. But it’s consented to by us, it’s taken a length of time to get to that level of emotional intimacy.

 

You wanted to cuddle, and I didn’t see a problem with that. We talked for hours, looking at the sky, the way the moon shone off the mirror smooth water.

 

And because you’d said these things, said the limits of your relationship, I didn’t think anything when we continued to cuddle as we moved down into the boat. You thought she might care, and told me if anyone asked, I spent the night in a different room.
I shrugged it off. I was tired. I wanted to sleep. I didn’t care if we kept cuddling or not. You wanted some affection? Fine. Whatever. I told you I was dating someone and didn’t know the parameters of that relationship and didn’t want to fuck it up – nothing was going to happen anyway.

 

But you didn’t just want affection, did you? Because I was half asleep, and your dick was pressed into my ass, and you were grinding against me, seeking something, I don’t know what. And my mind couldn’t process what’s happening. I was still partially asleep in your arms until you tried to touch me, and I said Stop.
You stopped. Half apologized. Said it had been a few months since you’d gotten laid, that you missed having someone to hold. I told you I’d go to the other room, and you said no, and you pulled me to you again. You said the look on my face as I got turned on was enough for you.

Finally, you fell asleep again.

Until an hour and a half later, when again, in a half-conscious state, you were dry humping me again, and I could feel your breath on my neck and your hand pulling my hair and I couldn’t get my mouth to work. I wanted to stay stop before I did. The second I felt you on me. But I was not fully conscious, and whether or not you knew that, I’d told you no.
And I finally managed to get my brain and body to cooperate, to wake up, to say Stop again.

And you did. Immediately.

And I reminded you of your girlfriend, and you said that was why your pants stayed on.

I pulled myself away from you, clinging to a pillow on the other end of the bed, and you pulled me into your side again.

And I was not safe. And I could not leave. Because I was trapped on a boat and you were my only way off.

You said we should watch the sunrise, and I was more than grateful to get your body off me. I felt so violated by everything you’d done, I didn’t care if you saw me change my shirt. I didn’t care what you saw. Because you seeing me was somehow less invasive than your hands on me. Than you caging me in a headlock so I couldn’t move as you felt me up.

And you said you knew I liked the dominant stuff. So that made it okay, right?
If you know I like my hair pulled, its okay that you do it, because you know I like it, even though I’ve said I don’t want anything to happen.
If I say I like x, y, and z, then you know it’ll trigger a biological response, even though I don’t want it to be you doing x, y, and z.

Did you notice I wouldn’t touch you after that? That the night before we were cuddly and friendly and nice, and after I wouldn’t touch you, I would barely look at you, I wanted to be on my phone, and distance myself from you. Because you were my ride home. I was at the mercy of your transport, or the trains that were not running until a certain time, of your will to go where I needed to go.

So you took me out to see the sunrise. You wanted me to catch my first fish. You took me to breakfast and a diner you’d thought I’d like.

And I was amiable enough to you. Because I felt disgusting. I felt like I’d betrayed someone, someone who is your fucking friend. I felt like I’d done everything wrong.

And people will say I did. That I should have gone into the other room anyway, to which I have no idea if he would have let me/if he wouldn’t have followed me. I have no idea.

And people will say it’s not that big of a deal.
Maybe it’s not. My clothes stayed on. Your clothes stayed on. Nothing was inserted anywhere. You can probably justify it to yourself that you didn’t cheat.

But that’s not the point, is it?

I will never feel safe around you.
I was promised you were okay, that I was okay to be alone with you, and that was not true.
I said no 3 times, and you ignored me.

And I can’t get rid of this feeling of self-revulsion. I can’t get rid of this feeling that I’m disgusting. That my boy should leave me because I did something terrible. That I fucked up, and I fucked up so bad. It’s why I’d said what happened in that room needed to stay in that room. Because how could/can I tell him?

After all, you did thank me for being a ‘good sport‘ about it.

But you texted me, asking me if I got back home okay.

Don’t pretend you care about my safety now.

Just go fuck yourself.

On Compliments

theotheremma

Your hands are clumsy as fuck.

But it’s been months and I think I need something.

I am tired and I hurt. I am physically broken and feeling weak.

And you’re there, and you’re not…terrible looking?

You tell me I’m gorgeous.

Not hot, not pretty, not sexy.

Gorgeous.

And I didn’t realize how nice it would be to hear that.

It’s so silly, isn’t it? How these trivial comments can mean so much, even when they come from the most ridiculous of sources.

And you can’t kiss for shit, your tongue like a dead snake in my mouth, but I know you want me. You want me in your bed, you want me to stay the night. And I tell you no, because this means nothing, and let’s not pretend it does. But, we can maybe try again tomorrow, when you’re a little more sober, a little more put together. It seemed like a terrible idea at the time. But, I agreed the next day. You’d meet me, we’d hang out.

You remembered absolutely nothing about me. I’m about 75% positive you only remembered my name because it was saved on your phone.

I had to repeat conversations multiple times. Remind you of basic facts about me. I didn’t expect you to remember my mother’s maiden name, but maybe me repeating the same fact about my career three times in the space of two hours wasn’t necessary?

I don’t know if the conversation or the whiskey killed more brain cells that night. And I want to say the sex saved it, but you half-heartedly pulling my hair while saying you can’t feel anything with a condom, somehow, amazingly, does not get my engine going.
I don’t need to hear you call me gorgeous.

I don’t need to hear your pretty words as you try to coax me to stay.

Because I never called you hot, or sexy, or gorgeous.

I knew what I wanted, and I took it. And it was disappointing, but it didn’t need to be anything earth shattering or world changing. We were two assholes paired together for a moment, never to see each other after that moment.

I will wash your sweat from my skin. Brush my teeth to remove your taste from my tongue.

Your ‘gorgeous’ is as meaningless as the water circling the drain.

And I’m realizing now that I need something more.

On A Drinking Game

theotheremma

tumblr_o4x8k2jetg1u824vuo1_500

Written at the end of a very long day. Meant to be all in fun. Would write a female version, but I don’t have any experience with female profiles on Tinder. If someone wants to write that and link it to me, I’ll probably repost it if I think it’s funny.

Use Responsibly!

TINDER DRINKING GAME

Take 1 drink each time you see:

A professional headshot ala American Psycho
The picture doesn’t include the guy
The picture includes the guy but the guy is out of frame so you have to go to the profile
The picture includes a girl that could be an SO
The picture has poorly edited out other people
The picture basically has neon lights screaming DOUCHEBAG
The picture has you wondering where the bodies are buried

Take 2 drinks each time:

The profile advertises the guy as some version of “dominant, *nudge nudge wink wink*
The profile openly advertises for a sub/slave (+1 if the guy has a gf and they are vanilla)*
The profile has any pseudo philosophical quote, i.e. You can’t destroy energy, only transfer it
The profile advertises the height of the guy as it relates to dick size
A girl popped up, & that’s not what you’re digging right now.

Take 3 drinks each time:

The profile advertises height as though they didn’t want to/it’s a chore
The profile says the girl has to message first
The profile “can’t believe they are on Tinder again”
You got through almost all/all of the pictures onto to see one that fell under the first category and/or once you read the profile

Blearily take a sip while continuing to swipe when:

You got so lost in swiping you’re pretty sure you passed a soulmate 5+ ago, and can’t do anything about it and it’s too much effort to care.

*Added because there is a website for this – Fetlife. Although people get angry on there too because its supposedly Kinky Facebook and Not Kinky Tinder. Because nobody can win, I guess. 

 

On a Love Letter

theotheremma

We don’t have the best relationship, you and I.

I beat the ever loving shit out of you, push you to the breaking point, call you names, tell you to do more, that nothing is ever good enough, and expect you to show up in top form the next day.

I hate you, most of the time. But you are mine.

If other people insulted you the way I do, they would never be forgiven.
But you are stuck with me, forever.

You are I are forever entwined, mind and body, together as one.
I will call you a whiny bitch, I will call you a brat, I will tell you to stop complaining, to stop aching, to get your fat pudgy ass up and keep moving.
Because we must keep training.
Because we must keep moving.
Because my brain is not okay when you are not okay.

And right now, you are broken. You are hurt. You are wounded.
You can’t move. We can’t train. We can’t work.

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to hurl things at the wall.

And I can’t, because I need to care for you.

I’m worried about you. I need you to be better.

Because you are the thing that lets me move though air, that lets my fingers turn my thoughts into words. That lets me turn my emotions into movements, into dance, into flight. You will let me torture you, abuse you, yell at you, shame you, and yet you will get up the next morning and start all over again. You know I want you stronger, and will endlessly fight to meet my expectations.

You are my body, the only one I have. And when you are broken, I am broken. When you stop, my life stops.

I love you, and I hate you, for all your faults and imperfections.

Be patient with me, as I try to learn to love you better. As I try to make my mind sync with you. As I try to understand how to care for you as you should be taken care of.

I’m sitting here, on a Friday, with gin and tea and candles and my favourite show, with heating packs and pain relievers. I will do this every day, until you are better.

But please, don’t take too long.

On Older and Wiser

theotheremma

cathy2

(Warning: The post is going to tread the waters of irritated, swim into the rivers of snarly, and dive momentarily into the depths of anger.)

There was a night, a couple months back, that deserves some dissecting.

Dissecting on why I stayed versus left. Dissecting on why this happened or that happened or just how far up the asshole scale this guy gets to be placed.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself.

I haven’t said much about myself, in the sense of, what do I do for my job, or what did I study in school, or where do I live now, etc. etc. I haven’t planned to go too in depth in these things, for the sake of anonymity. (I am paranoid as fuck.)
But I think it’s safe(ish) to say I’m pursuing a career in the arts. I have a mentor, for lack of a better word, who keeps trying to remind me that he has gone through this path, that he has seen x and y mistakes, that I need to do a and b to take care of myself, and that I need to be patient as FUCK because this is a process and a journey.

He can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that he is older and wiser than me, and that the knowledge he has because of this will help me, and I can choose to ignore it, but it would be a dumb ass decision. He has not used the phrase ‘older and wiser,’ but, it has been implied.

What does that have to do with the asshole to outdo all assholes?

The guy messaged me online. He didn’t light my fire, but seemed decent enough. Worth a shot, anyways. He called me. I had some concerns, he assuaged them. We decided to meet for drinks.

I usually have rules for these nights. We meet for drinks, that’s it. No sex, not on a first meeting. We meet on neutral territory. We go, we sit, we talk. We get to know each other. Is there chemistry? Is there a spark? Is it worth pursuing further, taking to a place behind closed doors?
I’ve broken this rule twice now.

One guy was worth it. One was not.

In general, I go between studios and home and that’s about it. I know some bars, not a lot. I told him to pick a bar near his work, because I didn’t know the area. He gave me the address.

The address was his apartment building.

I was pissed, and left. He explained he wanted to find a central point to meet, (which couldn’t have been a bar, why?) and I said I was trying to find one. We wandered, missing each other, finally found each other. I was freezing and annoyed. He found a place for me to sit down and eat, get a cocktail, warm up. We started chatting. Again, he was nice enough. The conversation flowed easily enough. I’d had better first encounters, but I’d certainly had worse.

I may go into more detail on this next bit in another post, because it deals with other shit that went on that night. Suffice to say, I decided to go back to his. We went to a liquour store and picked up wine, and he got me a whiskey he thought I’d like. We went back to his, and he poured an entire glass full of whisky. Enough that if I’d drank it all, I would have probably vomited all over his floor.

We talked for a little while, but then we were alone and he was on me, pawing at me like a horny teenager. He said something about liking my reactions. I said I wasn’t sure if I wanted to have sex that night. He continued to kiss me, trying to touch me, trying to turn me on. He wasn’t entirely bad at the foreplay, but I also was very aware it was my body chemically reacting, versus me enjoying myself because it was him. He let me go for a little while, then came up behind me and pulled down my pants when I was refilling my glass with water.
“I hope you made up your mind, because I sure did.”
I don’t know if anyone else has experienced this sensation, to know that the actions happening to you could be coming from basically anyone and your body would react the same way. To feel the synapses in your brain, the chemicals releasing, and know, yeah, this could be okay, but, this is just a body opposite me, not really a person. It sounds terrible, and dissociative, but, it’s there.
(I also understand that if I hadn’t been in such a state of apathy about it, that his actions could be considered assault. I want to clarify I did consent.)

I didn’t want to take off all my clothes, and he was in too much of a hurry to really care. So we fucked with me still wearing my zip up hoodie and knee socks. It looked like an 80s workout video gone wrong. He couldn’t really get it going, he wanted to flip me over so I had to look at him. Then, he whispered in my ear;
“I want my cum leaking out of you as you’re working,” (He was more specific, you get the idea.)

I couldn’t actually respond to that. I shook my head frantically.
“Not right now,” He said, in one of the most condescending voices I have ever head, “But someday. It’d be so hot.”

I was so dumbstruck. I’d just met this guy. I felt so little towards this guy and he was talking about a future in which we’d be having sex without condoms, where we’d be in a situation where that could even be considered a remote possibility.

He finally rolled off me, and tried to take off my sweater. I told him I was cold.
“Still? After that?” He looked both unconvinced and confused. It was true, I was cold – amazingly the ten minutes of whatever that was had not heated my bones – but I was still not okay with being naked around this guy. I know it’s silly, but somehow being naked meant being vulnerable, and what we’d done didn’t (or at least, not to the same degree) in my brain.

He said something about me freaking out about his comment.
“Well, more than just diseases,” I said, “I’m fucking terrified of getting pregnant.”
“Oh, you’re not on the pill then?”
“No, I have an implant.”
I had to then explain what my specific implant was and what the percentage of failure was, to which he said,
“Oh, so it’s not an issue then.”
“No, it is. It’s a very big issue to me. I do not want kids. It will forever be condoms and my implant until I am old enough for a more permanent solution.”
“That’s a bit extreme.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Well, can I just say, as someone older and wiser than you, you’ll probably change your mind.”
“What?”
“Well, I’m just saying, I’ve known women who’ve had a similar mindset and they’ve all changed their minds, it’s just something they do.”

Because I seem to be doing a lot of clarifying today, I am not passing judgement on other women who have kids, change their mind about having kids, or on women who want to have kids. I am passing judgement on those who tell me they know more about my own mind than I do.

So, I stood up from the bed.
“Are you mad?”
“I need to go to the bathroom. And yes.”
I came back out a couple minutes later and he was standing up, waiting for me.
“Don’t be mad.” I didn’t look at him. “Look, I’m just saying that as someone older and wiser than you I know people who have changed their mind and you’ll probably change your mind. You might not. But, just don’t be mad.”

And then he tried to give me a hug and kiss the top of my head.

Ladies, Gentlemen, Non identifying, Goldfish, and Bird People,
Let me say it louder for the people in the back.

DO NOT TELL ME MY OPINIONS ON MY UTERUS.

Do not tell me what they will be, should be, or are.

Do not tell me I will change my mind one day, that I am young, that I won’t have a full life without a screaming infant in my arms.

I am glad my parents wanted kids, obviously. I am happy for all those who want to bring life into this world.

I do not. Therefore, I will not. It is unfair to ask those who do not want to, to do so.

No matter how old or wise you think are, you can keep that opinion to yourself.

Because those that are actually old and wise will never have to say so.