On A Drinking Game

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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 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 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

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

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(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.

On Iron Man vs Hulk

sex-dice

He was the hottest guy in a five mile radius of my friend group, with a giant stockpile of charisma to boot.

 

I was seeking anything remotely like machismo to pull me out of a seemingly never ending rut.


I was warned he was the biggest player of the players, the biggest man-whore of the man-whores, and don’t touch or you’ll get burned.

And I looked at that and said, But, actually? Sounds perfect.

We met at a flat party, and discussed video games, and I tried to suppress my nerdom in an attempt to impress, but actually ended up in a half an hour conversation about button masher games. He then invited me to join the group going to see the next Marvel movie together and we freaked out at all the same moments, while our other friends watched and rolled their eyes at the ongoing battle that ensued the entire movie.

I will forever and always be team Iron Man.
He thinks Hulk will always be able to kick Iron Man’s ass.

 

Had we ever actually slept together, our idea of foreplay would have been discussing the scene in the first Avengers movie where Iron Man throws the nuclear weapon out into space, and then Hulk saves Iron Man’s life. We would have been stripping each other while arguing about which moment was more badass, fuck each other’s brains out, and during the after sex cigarette resume a similar argument as a pump up for round two.

But, alas, we never did sleep together. Not that we didn’t want to.

I was out with a group of girls, he was out with a group of guys, we ended up at the same club. We saw each other, he got me a drink, and we ended up dancing together. He kissed me, and boy was a damn good kisser. We continued dancing, he kissed me again.
It would be the last time he ever did so.

He invited me for coffee the next day, and I was excited, if a bit confused.
What would this mean? Where did we stand?
We chat about nothing for a while before he finally got around to the subject.
He had a girlfriend, which I knew.
He had an open relationship with the girlfriend, which I knew.
He was not allowed to fuck other people he cared about, which I did not know.

Ah. Uh. Heh.

I want to delve into the different types of relationships (polyamory, open, monogamy) in a different post, but I have been fairly open about being polyamorous for about 4 years now. Basically, since I heard the word, did some research, and had that glorious moment of Oh shit everything in my romantic life finally makes an iota of sense. 
And I don’t (or at the very least, try my best not to) pass any judgements on other people’s various poly/open/mono setups. I understand that what works for me may not work for you or the next person or the next person. 

But back to Hulk boy.
Basically, it flew in the face of everything I had been told about him. And my brain just went to:
So a one night stand is okay, but I’m not okay?
Are you telling me you care about me? That I matter more to you than that? 

This question was never entirely cleared up, but I do believe that, yes, I did. He would come over immediately on my days off work, he would sometimes try to hold my hand when he’d had a bit to drink, he would give me a look sometimes, that I know meant something, though what, I can’t say. And I have to admit I liked him too. I was annoyed I was being strung along, sure. But, I have to admit that there was a part of me that liked being liked by him, especially when everyone had said he was incapable of such emotion.

Which is why it really sucked when I found out he’d told his girlfriend’s best friend that I was a sure thing.”
Don’t talk about any woman, any person like that. I have not, will not, and will never be anyone’s sure thing. Not in the least because as a human being, I am capable of changing my mind at any given moment.

So I froze him out. I threw a halloween party and didn’t invite him. He found out, he asked why I was mad. I told him. We had lunch, he apologized profusely. He refused to eat his vegetables. I added them to my soup.
We were saying goodbye, and he gave me a look like a little lost puppy.

“Are we friends now?” He asked, so sweetly it would’ve melted any lingering annoyance I might’ve felt.
“Of course we are,” And we hugged.

He was a summer…I don’t know what you’d call it. He’s someone I remember with a smile on my face. I remember flirty conversations and playing Kings in my living room with a wonderful group of people. I remember him coming to have lunch with me at work and showing me pictures of his vacation. I remember laughter and light and fun. I remember poker games and pizza. And I’m sad we weren’t anything more, that we never had ridiculous nerd debate infused sex. But, at the same time, maybe it’s okay Hulk boy is just Hulk boy, and not anything more. Maybe it’s okay some people will remain just as they are in your memory, light moments of fun, never to be tainted, and no longer possibilities. They’re people you can think about, and honestly and truthfully still call a friend. 

On Fire

I wrote this about 6 months ago, and had a friend post this writing elsewhere. It was before I started this blog. Now, I have a place to vent these feels, and the emotions then and now are more or less the same.
_____________________________________________________
They ask me, ‘What does it feel like?’
I don’t know how to answer this question. I know how I want to answer the question, but it’s not an answer I can say aloud.

It feels like fire.
Normally no larger than a candle flicker, it grows, unwanted, unwarranted, always at the worst possible times. It feels like flames clawing their way through my skin, through my brain, and the only way to get rid of it is to bite, scratch – attack. To revert to the lizard brain and pounce on the next thing I see. It feels like a lethal combination of lust and raw power.

They rephrase the question.

‘What do you need?’

This is not rhetorical- it’s a question that needs an answer, and I’m in conflict.
Bite.
Beg.
Grab.
Plead.

The lion would pounce, bird would fly, fox would bite.
We’re past the point where human language has any meaning, where the only words understood are grunts, or moans – sighs or gasps.

And I pull them to me, with patience I do not have, and kiss them. I slowly show my hunger.

We fall into a tangle of limbs and sweat and I feel their hands everywhere, fingers in my hair, squeezing around my skin, trying to pin my hands that have become claws against their back, jaws snapping, thighs squeezing like pincers around their hips, and there is a roar that might have come from either of us or never have happened at all.

We breathe deeply, out of rhythm. It is not a moment for tender touches or sweet words as we take stock of the markings of the fire. I pick up my things and head to the door. The cursory goodbye, and I’m gone.

The cool air hits my face as the lizard brain retreats – humanity restored.
Control is back.
The flame simmers once again.

On Writing A Sex Scene

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So in my post on New Year’s Day I mentioned that I wanted to write a book. In truth, I have been working on this already, and parts have been shared with different people.


The book changes POV, and part of the story involves the changing relationship/dynamic between two of the main characters. As simply as possible, they go from outright shouting matches to what is essentially stress relief/hate fucking. It’s not the main part of the story, but it’s in there. It boils down to using sex as a coping mechanism, and it not necessarily mattering who the other person is, but seeking human contact in the closest warm body you can stand touching you. Is it pretty? No. Does it happen? Sure.

Two people have read these parts relating to their relationship through in their entirety. Others have read chunks here and there. And it’s been quite interesting getting the feedback, because the guys that read it send me back much different interpretations than the girls.

I.e., the guys don’t understand the girl character’s agency.
Or, really, that she has agency. They’ve stated that they believe she’s being used.

I had a discussion about this with one of my very close guy friends – and he said it may have been a matter of experience. Have those reading it experienced sex in this way, even second hand? Is it beyond the purview of their experience and, therefore, it makes little to no sense why a character would behave in that way or make those assumptions or do x then y to get to z?

I don’t believe this is a 50-50 split. I don’t think every girl will immediately get it and every guy will immediately not. It’s simply that I’ve never experienced such a clear gender divide in interpreting writing before.


It’s not that this doesn’t happen. Look at the stigma around romance novels/women’s literature, erotica vs. porn, sci-fi, and some graphic novels.

How do we overcome this? Do we overcome this? It’s experience, and preferences, and choices, and life. There are conversations to be had about the differences between Literary Fiction and Women’s Fiction, but how we interpret the book itself? That’s a person to person case.

And this is not to say that the scene in question does not still need editing. It does. Or that I’m not grateful for the feedback. I am.

But when do you, as a writer, say, I’m listening to those comments more than yours? I can’t address your feedback and this feedback and not make it look like I was of a sound mind when this was being created?

Or maybe I’ll just stare at the computer screen until my eyeballs bleed, because writer’s block is just so, so real.

On Biting

On a hot summer night,
Would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?
Will he offer me his mouth?

Yes

Will he offer me his teeth?

Yes

Will he offer me his jaws?

Yes

Will he offer me his hunger?

Yes

Again, will he offer me his hunger?

Yes!

And will he starve without me?

Yes!

And does he love me?

Yes

Yes

On a hot summer night,
Would you offer your throat to the wolf with the red roses?

Yes

I bet you to say that to all the boys.

“Hot Summer Nights” – Jim Steinman

On Something New

Don’t make me open my eyes

Because I’m so close to breaking

And the world is fading

As you weave complex patterns on my skin.

You want my attention

But there’s so much sensation

And I just want it all the blend in.

My face is a demon mask and I hope you don’t mind

No wait, slightly up, to the right

Ah crap, you just had it!

Oh fuck now he’s got it….

Oh, Jesus, now he wants round 3.
__________

I understand I’ve gone a bit AWOL for the past few weeks, and for that, I apologise. It’s not that I’ve had nothing to say, it’s quite the opposite. There have been a bit too many stories, and I’ve needed a bit of time to digest. Between a few new people entering my life, the reminder of someone from the past, a ‘vacation’, and my birthday, it’s been a bit much. What is appropriate to say? What should wait until the dust all settles? What do I want to say in the heat of the moment, and what is actually justified?

Hence a silly little happy, poem-y thing while I sort my head out. I am dedicating myself, in this next year, to write more. I want to take my writing to a new level. I want to publish a book. I want to grow this blog and see where it goes. I want to take my freelancing career…somewhere. I don’t know where.

So I hope you will bear with me, as I try to sort this out. Figure out what works, and what doesn’t. If you have thoughts, want to contribute, want to tell me I suck, shoot me a message.

I hope everyone had a great holiday season, and hope you had a great new year celebration, whether you were out somewhere fabulous, or were, like me, in a blanket burrito on the couch.

On A Child’s Thought

"I want to be an astronaut, president of the United States and ruler of the universe! Chica power!"

I had to visit relatives this weekend. Like many, my family can only be described as “colorful.”

For a very long time, I was the baby of the family. I was delegated to the kid’s table. Even after starting graduate school, it was still the kid’s table. It was an odd contrast, because from the time I was a teenager, I was always asked about boyfriends, what my dating prospects were like, etc etc. So I was being treated like a child while being expected to live up to certain adult expectations.

I thought they’d finally given up, until my cousin asked me a question last night.

Now this cousin, I understand, has not had the best socialization. At family gatherings, there is minimal interactions between mother and daughter. It became very apparent upon entrance that the mother expected my sister and I to essentially babysit her daughter while she got some adult time. My sister and I were having very little of this.

My cousin, at one point, asked my sister and I if we had boyfriends/husbands. My sister said no. The cousin, who is 9, patted us each on the head and said, “That’s okay. You’ll find someone someday.”

Oh, hell no.

What has this girl been learning.

What has this girl been told about us.

What has this girl been told about single women.

What has this girl been told about her goals for her life.

What has this girl been told that she thinks it is okay for her to pat 20-somethings on the head and say, oh, that’s okay sweetie, you’re still of breeding and marriageable age? You could still find somebody…

Fuck.
That.
Shit.

I like men. Obviously. This blog is proof. Dicks can be really good. Can be terrible, but can be really good.

But I have never *needed* to date. Wanting and needing are fundamentally different things.
I will never need a man.  

And isn’t about fucking time we taught our daughters that? That they can stand up on their own two feet and be their own person without someone else by their side hogging their spotlight?

I want to hope that my cousin will figure this out herself, and I want to hope that she will learn it’s not okay to pat single women on the head like a lost puppy. It’s not a lot of hope, but it’s there.


Regardless, I’m currently sitting in the airport, by myself, eating a meringue, enjoying the last rays of sunlight. And I will sleep in my own bed and and enjoy all the space and the blankets myself, because I can and will.  

On Storytelling

 

I want you to tell me a story.

I’m not sure if it needs to be true, or fabricated, or long, or short.

But I want you to tell me a story.

I want you to tell me a story that transports me, that focuses my mind on the characters and the places, on their emotions and their motivations, on what might be coming next.

I want you to bury your head into my hair, kiss up my jaw, as you tell a part that’s particularly enthralling.

I want you to trace patterns with your fingers, and tease me that I’m not focusing on your words.

I want it told in completion, from beginning to end, even if it’s a fantastical fairy tale with a ‘happily ever after’ at the end that you know will make me pull faces and mime gagging.



Because right now I’m being told bits and pieces, with holes and inconsistencies, and I hate every second of it.

The truth will suck. For you, admitting it will be so difficult. But, it needs to happen, doesn’t it?

I need to know. I need to know what is happening in its entirety.

I don’t know how to ask this, I don’t know how to call you out on this.


I’ve asked you questions you don’t want to answer, or answer in full. And you’re so far away I can’t do much when you don’t.

You’ve put me between people, used me as a buffer. I know this and don’t know this. I know things and don’t know things. My head is a swirling mess.


I needed one last thing from you, and I’ve asked for it, and now there’s really nothing left to tie me to you. So now, I could say That’s me done.

I think I need to be done.
I don’t know if that’s fair, or not.

I need this horrible feeling to be gone – of not knowing, of being pulled in the middle, of not understanding, and not having a claim to demand understanding.

Give me peace. Give me answers. Give me something.

I can’t give you my attention. Every moment you get from me takes away from something else, something else that needs my focus so much more.

 

I’m so, so tired. And I want to be free of this.

 

So I’ll tell you the story of how two people drove along a highway, in the sunshine, under a bright blue sky.