Tag Archives: sex

Traits of a Narcissist

  1. Narcissists are (usually) male.   Over half of the narcissists in the world own a penis.  Which kinda explains a lot, no? (sorry boys)
  2. Narcissists are charming. At least at first.  When you meet them, they really seem like they have it all together.  And they’ll make you feel important.    Like you’re the only person in the room.  They always have the best stories.  They’ll make you laugh.
  3. But they also are (usually) looking out for themselves. If they want to be with you, it’s because they want something from you (most of the time).  Money, status, a connection, sex, sympathy… something that they can get from you that makes them feel good… that reinforces their self image and ego (usually) or something that they think you’ll give them that others simply won’t (as-in… they’ve run out of friends to have a pity party with, and you haven’t been to one of those yet, so you’re the new pity-party-person… yay).
  4. Speaking of that, their external self image (at least the one you can see) is huge. Their ego is even larger.  They live with the mentality of entitlement, of invincibility, and of the belief that everyone looks up to them.
  5. Image. Is. Everything. It doesn’t matter what’s going on on the inside (we’ll talk about what lies underneath soon).  What matters, to the Narcissist, is what everyone else sees.  What everyone else thinks.  Photos are important.  Looks are important.  Using said looks to get attention (whether physical attractiveness or other physical features) is super important.  Basically, anything that can bring in more attention, more compliments, is GOOD.  Therefore:
    1. You’ll never see a bad picture of them.   Those are relegated to the depths of the realm of “Under The Bed”.  If they survive the digital deletion on the camera phone.  And the good photos you see have undergone some form of editing or filter.  Every. Single. Time.
    2. Social Media is integral. Think about it… it’s the “Platform of Me”.  Narcissists usually have a large number of “friends” (aka Followers).  If there is a max number of Friends that can be had on their list, they’ve maxed it out and there is a goddamn waiting list.  They use it as a platform to get their ideas out there (the way that most of us do, I guess), but they will spend more time socializing on Social Media than they do socializing in real life.  Even in one-on-one situations, Social Media must know where they are, that they are having a good time, and even if they’re not having a good time, it had better fucking look as if they are having a good time because everyone out there needs to be flipping jealous of the good time they are not having.  It’s the name of the game.
    3. They buy shit. A lot of shit.  They need to look good.  They need to smell good.  They need to keep up with the Joneses.  Money is no object… even when they run out of money, it is no object.  Bankruptcy is totally a thing.  But it’s ok.  Because they’ll look good while being bankrupt.  Well… until the bank comes to take their shit, but that’s totally the bank’s fault.
  6. Name Dropping is totally a thing. The first time you meet them, they’ll start that shit.  It’s supposed to impress you.  What might have been a two second interaction suddenly turns into a thirty-minute life-changing experience that really HAS to be shared.  This goes back to that image thing.  Really it all goes back to that image thing.  But I wanted to make it it’s own thing, because it’s such an important part of who they are.
  7. They’re entitled.   In their world, shit should be given to them, no questions asked.  If shit is not given to them, then they will drop you like a bad habit, complain to their Facebook minions about what a bitch you are, and find a way to get it from someone else.  Getting “it” – whatever “it” is – does not involve doing any of the work themselves.  Nope.  Mooching is the order of the day whenever possible.  Dates will consist of inviting you to dinner, then telling you that you have to pay for it (after it’s already been ordered).  They expect you to wait, too, until they’re ready for you.  Your own timeframe doesn’t matter.  What you need doesn’t matter.  It’s not about you.  It’s about them.  It’s always been about them.
  8. They break all the rules. I mean it makes sense when you think about it… because to a narcissist, who doesn’t really care about anyone else, who doesn’t think that anyone else is important, rules are something that were invented for everyone else to follow.  To a narcissist, rules don’t apply.
  9. Boundaries don’t exist. Your money is their money.  Your food in the fridge is their food in the fridge (and they’ll fucking take it without asking). Aretha Franklin would be PISSED because there is no R-E-S-P-E-C-T here.  They’ll keep pushing… and pushing… and if you keep giving?  Then it’s working.  Because they’re training you for the next time they want something.  Or the next time you’re kept waiting (it’ll be longer).  It’s a cruel fucking kind of conditioning and abuse.  And the worst part is that you won’t know you’re in it until you’re there, you have an oh shit moment, and you’re in too deep to easily dig yourself out.
  10. It’s NEVER THEIR FAULT.   They will have sob stories the likes of which you have never heard.  They’ll tell you about all of the people they’ve gone out with and how horrible all their breakups are.  They’ll be particularly distressed about a couple.  Likewise, their worklife will be just as screwed up – they’ll have lost a lot of jobs for reasons that had nothing to do with them.  People won’t get along with them, but it will (in their opinion) be because of something the other person did.  If arguments are started, it is NEVER because the Narcissist said something out of line.  He or she was merely reacting to something someone else said in a “hyperbolic fashion.”
  11. For that reason, they prefer to be in leadership positions. This isn’t because they necessarily make good leaders (they think they do).  But because:
    1. It provides more job security.  Because they get fired a lot.
    2. They can’t stand for someone to tell them what to do.
    3. In reality, due to the virtues that accompany the narcissism, their employees are often very disgruntled and unhappy.  There’s a high turnover rate (which, of course, is never the Narcissist’s fault because “Underling Number One” was a bad employee anyway and screwed up too many things on the job.).
  1. If they let you see who they really are (which doesn’t happen often), they’re pretty messed up inside. Self esteem is really low (narcissists compensate for low self esteem).  They pretty much hate themselves.  They need thousands of people to tell them how wonderful they are because they don’t “actually” believe in their own self worth.  Pointing out their faults (on the rare occasion that they are actually lucid enough to see them) serves no purpose except to cause them to “Double Down” on the originating Narcissistic behavior.  It is rare that a narcissist seeks help because doing that forces the narcissist to realize that he or she, in fact, DOES have a problem – something that, by nature, the narcissist isn’t able to do.

A Eulogy to My Old Dorm

They tore my old dorm down today.

Well… I don’t know that it happened today, but it happened fairly recently – recently enough so that the equipment was still there and only the elevator shaft was still standing.  Lonely.  Like some sort of monument to what used to be there.

I didn’t know it was going to happen.  I wish I had.  I’d have gone to take photos before it came down.

I’m pretty upset about it.  And it surprises me that I feel this upset about it… it was, after all, just a building. And it’s not like I spent a whole lot of time there, preferring, instead, to be at my friends’ dorm on the other side of campus (which is, at least for the time being, still standing).

But this is where it really started for me.

I moved there, after the summer, not knowing what to expect and, really, seeing it as a means to an end since my plans were to get married to my then boyfriend right after college.  Things didn’t work out for us… we broke up while I was sitting at my desk in that dorm (he’d gone to college in Indiana).

I made friends.  Not thanks to that dorm… in fact none of my friends lived in that dorm.  But that dorm meant I did not live with my parents, I did not have a curfew, and I was free to come and go as I pleased.

I had internet access again.  And I used it.  Oh god did I use it.

While living there, I reconnected and had an (albeit short lived) affair with 1.0… who broke my heart while I sat in my desk chair (ironically the SAME desk chair I got dumped in at the beginning of the year) in January of 2002.

I can’t tell you how many dates picked me up from that parking lot and walked me to that door.  Seriously.  I lost count.  I don’t even remember all of their names (because not everyone I go out with is worthy of a nickname).

This was the dorm room I lived in when I lost an entire research paper (that was stored on a floppy drive) hours before it was due – I had to stay up all night recomposing it from memory so that I could turn it in on time.

I consequently bought a new computer the next day that had a CD Burner (cutting edge technology in 2001).

This was where, after coming in from a Psychology exam, I watched (on TV) the Twin Towers fall on September 11, 2001.  And where I listened as all of the planes that were in the vicinity of Louisville were grounded (and flew directly overhead as we were very close to the airport).

This is the dorm room where I found (after three years of no contact) Emperor Slade/Buttface, in the chat room that had replaced HotelChat.

And the dorm room where I spent hours on the phone with him.  And 1.0.

I lived in this dorm room while I dated The Professor.  This meant I didn’t spend a whole lot of time in that room, as I was either traveling up and down the road to Bowling Green, or sleeping in a random hotel off of Newburg Road, but when we weren’t driving a lot, or that week when he was on some Debate trip, that’s where I was.

This is the dorm room where I learned my real mother’s name.  And where I was given the ring she’d requested be put away for me.  And it’s the dorm room where I struggled, after finding all of that out, with what to do with the information. Ultimately I decided to do nothing – I regret that now.

I still have the bedspread that went on that bed.  I still have (and use) the green Yaffa blocks that sat in the corner.

I lived here when I made my first (secret) trip to New  York City in 2002.  Partly to see 1.0 (who had already dumped me by that time – but I still had the tickets, so I used them), but mostly to see the city.  The trip was terrifying… it was just a few months after 9/11 and with the new, tighter security measures in place, I didn’t know what I was doing.  Granted, it was also the first time I’d flown alone so I probably wouldn’t have been very good at it before that happened either.  My parents STILL do not know that happened.

My dad still has my old refrigerator in his garage.  He uses it to store cold drinks for mowing days.

It wasn’t all fun and games…

The kitchen was three floors down… so I almost never used it.

The Spring Break security staff was very lax… so lax that they let my parents in without keys (and they were the LAST people I wanted to see) in 2002.

I remember fighting for toilets (because there were only three on our floor) and for showers (there were only two on the entire floor).

But I also remember looking at the showerhead every morning… perplexed and intimidated by the “self breast exam instructions” that someone had hung up there.  I also wondered why I would ever need to do that, since I barely had any to speak of in those days, and they were regularly getting mauled by one of said boyfriends.

Oh and I hated having to wear flip flops in the shower because no one wants athlete’s foot.

And how my shower caddy never really dried out very well since it had to travel back and forth and eventually molded.

But at least my dorm room was next to the bathroom.

And the stairwell.

RIP Wellness Hall.

Guess I missed you more than I was willing to admit.

Ten Ways You Know You’ve Found the Right Guy

10.  He loves your cooking. Like… even if you think you’ve completely fucked up a dish, he’ll eat it anyway, and will genuinely like it.

(Granted, it probably STILL tastes better than anything he could possibly make for himself.)

9.  You feel like you won the fucking lottery every morning. Even if your bank account is on Empty, you have no viable job offers, and the only real plans you have for that day are making him a toasted turkey sandwich with bacon and maybe watching “Grace and Frankie” that night.

8.  The sex is so amazing that you’re still thinking about it hours later. In fact, it’s so amazing that thinking about it hours later got you both so turned on that you did it again. And the cycle continues…

(Also, you can do it every day, multiple times a day, and you still aren’t tired of him.)

7.  Conversations sometimes take the form of completely incoherent noises and you both still understand each other perfectly.

6.  When planning vacation budgets, he budgets for all your oddities… like Voodoo supplies and a new Tarot deck. Even if he has no idea what any of those things are for, and thinks you’re weird for using them.

5.  He makes your boobs grow. Not because you’re pregnant. Not because you’ve had work done.  But because you’re going through another puberty.  And neither of you has any legitimate explanation for that other than maybe once he thought to himself, “I wish these were just a tad bit bigger.”

4.  He tells you you’re sexy. Often. Even when you’ve just rolled out of bed wearing sweatpants, a baggy shirt, your hair is a royal mess, and you haven’t decided for sure whether or not you’re actually awake for good.

3.  The best part of your day is waking up with him… and going to bed with him… even if he smacks you in his sleep in the middle of the night.

2.  He’s worth breaking every single one of your dating rules for… and the only time you even think about them anymore is to wonder why you stuck to them so rigidly in the first place.

1.  Almost a year after your first date, the only real regret you have is that you didn’t get together sooner.

Six Months: Sex, Boobs, and Barbecue

It’s not often that I can say that I’ve been seeing the same guy, exclusively, for six months.  And it’s even rarer for me to say that I am still HAPPILY seeing the same guy after six months of exclusive dating.  This is a milestone that I have now met.

Although we made things “Facebook Official” on the drive up to Louisville from Tampa (with all my worldly belongings in tow), Ormsby and I had been seeing each several months before that… and we agreed to make the “official” exclusivity date August 2, 2014.

Now this six month thing, while it may seem minor to some of you, is a big deal to us.  For Ormsby, because six months is generally when his previous relationships began going sour.  For me, because any relationship I’ve had that lasted longer than six months already WAS sour, and continued to BE sour, and I continued to stay due to my predilection for masochism and dedication where dedication was unwarranted.  For him, six months usually signaled an impending breakup.  For me, six months was simply another day – not worth celebrating, yet celebrated because that’s just what one “did.”

Not anymore.  I don’t know what’s happened – I don’t know if I’ve finally grown up, gotten a brain, or just gotten lucky in the relationship department (I mean, because seriously, after everything I’ve been through, a little bit of luck is LONG, LONG overdue). But we are now six months in, things aren’t showing any signs of stopping or souring, and I’m uproariously happy.

Why?  There are many reasons, but to name a few…

First?  I really love the guy.  And if that’s not the best reason for being happy and keeping him around, I don’t know what is.

Second: We talk.  Like… about stupid stuff half the time that no one else understands.  But also, when things go wrong, we talk about it.  We don’t fight about it.  It’s quite interesting how constructive those uncomfortable conversations can be when you are actually conversing and not bringing up a billion things that aren’t even relevant to the situation.  I’ll admit… I was worried when I moved in with him that it would be like the experience I had in the past – because with Mr. Ex, once we started cohabitating, we argued from the time we got up until the time we went to bed some days.  I was worried that history really would repeat itself and I’d find that it’d be the same way here.  I was wrong.  I’m glad to say I was wrong, because this is one of those times when I really didn’t want to be right.  That’s not to say we don’t have “discussions”.  We do.  But they are not knockdown, drag out fights that end with one of us saying a bunch of shit we don’t mean.  And that’s pretty awesome.

I mean I guess it helps that we kind of already “get” each other pretty well.  But where we don’t, both of us really make the effort to understand what we don’t understand.  Granted, sometimes it takes a while to get there, but I’m finding that taking the time is much, much more preferable to not really ever caring enough to take the time.

Third:  The sex is AH-MAZING.  And frequent.  Like every day, sometimes twice a day frequent.  And for someone with a high libido like me, that’s a pretty big deal.  He does a very, very good job with keeping up with me (though I think sometimes I wear him out).  But then I did also come complete with a very established, $5000 in value lingerie collection.  I’m like a brunette Barbie that bought out Victoria’s Secret.  They should seriously give me stock in that, since I own fuck tons of their stuff.  Anyway, the lingerie collection certainly helps.

Still, though, it hasn’t gotten boring.  Far from it.  I’d swear it gets better every single time we do it, and considering we really do actually do it on a daily basis (I’m not lying here), that’s saying something.  I keep thinking that one day it’s going to level out, but it hasn’t yet, and in total I’ve been fucking him since May of 2014, which is a couple of months longer than I’ve actually been dating him.

For serious… this is the most sex, and the best sex, I’ve ever had in my life.

Fourth: I don’t have to fight with him to go visit my family.  Of course, it probably helps that my sister’s German Shepherds just had the most adorable litter of puppies.  But even before that, he went with me, he’s friendly, personable, everyone likes him and my friends adore him.

So to celebrate this milestone, you might be wondering what we got each other?  Well, to make the day as special as possible, I told him I wanted him to tell me what he wanted for dinner… anything… and I’d make it.  I cook every night, of course, but usually the menu is planned by both of us.  But we were out that day, we were pretty much out of food in the kitchen, and we were hungry.  Instead of cooking, I took him to Mark’s Feed Store, which is where we ate during one of my visits over the summer.  They have barbecue there.  We ate a lot of it.

And for me?  He got me boobs.  Now.  Let me explain.  I have boobs.  I didn’t always have them.  In high school, the lack thereof was the constant distress of my life, but I didn’t want the fake shit (not that I would have been allowed to get implants anyway).  In college, after I got on the pill, I got them.  I went from like an A to a C in about a year.  It was pretty spectacular.  But still, there’s always room for improvement.

And when I say that Ormsby got me boobs, I don’t mean that he paid for implants.  I mean they fucking started to grow again.  Not a lot.  Thank god.  Because I don’t want to have to completely overhaul my bra collection again.  But they’re definitely filling out.  And it wasn’t noticeable at first, but then I started realizing that my bras were a little tighter.  And my shirts were fitting differently.  And then I asked him if he’d noticed it too, and apparently he has.  We pulled out some topless photos he’d taken of me in Florida in the late summer (not posting them, don’t ask), and confirmed it.  Crazy shit.

Not complaining.  A little more to fill out the dresses, tops, and bras is always a welcome addition.

He doesn’t know how it happened.  I certainly don’t know how it happened.  But I credit him with it, because he’s literally the only change I’ve made in my life and he plays with them a lot.  Maybe he willed it to happen or something.  I don’t know.  Still, it was a pretty nice (if unexpected) six month anniversary gift.

So we’ve hit a milestone.  I am madly in love with this guy.  He has barbecue (or had it, till he ate it all); I have boobs.  Life is good.

Baggage

When I think about “baggage,” I think about that “I Love Lucy” episode where Lucy and Ricky are moving out of their apartment in New York and, due to a delay, they are putting all of their furniture in Ethel and Fred’s apartment.  Most of the episode is set in Ethel and Fred’s apartment with just about everyone navigating through and around the piles of boxes, yelling over them, trying to find each other, find a place in the middle of the chaos just to sit down.

Relationships… or breakups, rather… are a lot like this.  You get settled into something for a month, six, or sometimes years, you build up a lot of memories, and when (or if) those relationships end, you pack up those memories, along with your physical shit, and you take it with you – back to your own house (using the term “house” to mean your living space, as well as your own mind) to recover, to sort, to unpack and to find a place for that baggage.  In terms of physical shit, you might keep photos, or small mementos, but the big shit often ends up in a dumpster or maybe at Goodwill.  The figurative, or mental, baggage, though, is more difficult to get rid of.  You store it away, in the recesses of your mind, where it sits there over the next few weeks, months, or years, gathering cobwebs.  You don’t revisit it, because revisiting it is just too painful, but it’s still there.

Inevitably, you end up in another relationship.  The more serious it gets, the more “moving in” and “settling” you do… you start sharing more than the occasional dinner and after-dinner bang.  Your stuff ends up at their house.  Emotionally you become more connected.  And whether you physically “move in” or not, some of that baggage from before, cobwebs and all, figuratively moves in, too.

Now, if you’re lucky, there isn’t much.  Maybe there’s only been one “bad” relationship, or just a couple of “bad” experiences that translate into one or two figurative boxes in the floor.  You trip over them now and again until you realize that maybe those boxes, if they have to stay around at all, would do better over by the wall or something so that they aren’t in the way.  If you’ve been more unlucky in love, or maybe there’s just been a lifetime of bad experiences, those box piles become much bigger. You quickly run out of wall space, more boxes find their way into the middle of the floor, until suddenly you’re yelling over the towers the way that the Ricardos do in that Lucy episode… and if those towers become tall enough, finding middle ground becomes almost impossible.

And that’s where a lot of people fuck up.  Because when the place becomes so full that you can’t see each other anymore, you’re presented with two options: get rid of shit, or move out.

I think that moving out is the easy option.  I mean, it’s easy to say, “Hey, this is mine, I’ve carried it around this long, I earned it, I moved it, I KNOW it, and I don’t want to get rid of it, so I’m just going to leave and take it with me.” It’s easy to declare that, pack it all up, and leave.  Sure it hurts… but that hurt, along with those memories, get packed into another box and get moved around with all the others.  It’s like the equivalent of emotional hoarding. No one, least of all a hoarder, LIKES the clutter.  But you KNOW the clutter, and going with something you KNOW is much, much easier than going through the boxes and doing without (because what if you find that there was something in that clutter you needed?) so you keep it.

The other option, the one where you realize you have to get rid of shit, and you start clearing out the shit, is harder.  For several reasons.  First, because doing a shit cleanout is difficult.  I mean all of those boxes, all of that stuff, is daunting.  Packing them up and not looking at the contents is easy… going through it all is time consuming.  It involves effort, it involves time that you’d rather spend doing other things – like going to dinner and fucking.  Second, because it involves remembering things that are really hard to remember, and looking at them, at least as best you can, from an unbiased perspective.  That unbiased perspective is the worst – because you have to be able to accept your own portion of the blame (where there was one), and decide whether the shit is worth holding on to or would be best added to a trash heap.  And if you’re an emotional hoarder (or a hoarder of any kind) that trash heap is hard to build.  Because it’s COMFORTABLE holding on to the shit you know, and much scarier to replace it with the shit you don’t.

Now, admittedly, that emotional purging process can take years.  Like, you start on it one day, and you do a couple of boxes, then you realize you just can’t do it anymore, and you back off, only to go back to it months and months later when you can stand it again.  There is no TLC show called “Hoarders” that can come clear out your mental, emotional shit.  That project?  That’s all you… and maybe the significant other that is brave enough to put up with you, maybe even help you while you’re doing it, maybe even clean out a little (or all) of their own shit at the same time so that you both end up in a new house, with little to nothing in the middle of the floor, ready to make new memories and establish a new furniture layout.  But it’s hard.  And it takes a lot of time.  And a butt-load of dedication.  And not many people are up to the task.

I’ve had a long history of relationships, some harder than others, that have created a fair degree of emotional luggage that, like it or not, I’ve carried with me.  And I won’t lie… I’m well aware of the possibility (and in some cases, the reality) that that emotional baggage has caused some of these to fail.  But they generally failed DUE to that baggage, in a situation where the person I was in a relationship with, had little to no, or at least, less baggage than I did.  It made finding common ground hard.  It made that person less patient with my need to sort through, and ultimately purge, the things that weren’t working.  And those relationships ended either due to their impatience or due to the fact that I was unable to purge quickly enough.  And, of course, that added to the baggage that I carried with me into the next one.

I often wonder, then, if it is easier, for those couples who met early, who stayed together through everything, had few to no relationships prior to the one they are currently in, and who had little to no baggage to sort through, except the stuff they’ve built up together over time.  I don’t have the answer to that.  I was not fortunate enough to be one of them.

I’ve found that my relationships are better when I find someone with baggage.  Or, at least, someone with baggage that is willing to purge or ultimately work toward purging that baggage.  Not because it’s a pleasant “moving in” experience – there are boxes all over the damned floor some days, and wading through the junk can be difficult.  But because even though the heavy baggage ones haven’t lasted in the past, at least there is the knowledge that there was some common ground… and when they end, I can chalk that ending up to the fact that there was just too  much clutter in the floor that both of us were stubbornly hanging onto.  It wasn’t, at least in most cases, because of new shit that popped up.

Of course the ultimate goal is to get rid of the baggage altogether – or at least make it so minimal that the old shit can be put in a closet somewhere and that the living room of the mind can be re-filled with more pleasant memories.  And part of reaching that goal is finding someone patient enough, and dedicated enough, to let me weed through that baggage – and brave enough to stay with me when I’m having bad days, and when purging becomes next to impossible.  The hardest part of that process is knowing that I won’t even know when I find that person until that process is complete – but I’m optimistic enough to believe (despite those boxes) that they exist.

Where am I now?

The box towers in my brain are getting a little shorter while I unpack things and find a place for the contents or throw them out the window.  The process is hard, and it leaves me raw sometimes, and while I’d like to say that I keep it under the surface and it doesn’t affect my current relationship, that isn’t always the case. There’s still a lot to go.  But I can see some floor space.  And that’s a start.

More Rule Breaking

Nine years ago, when I was still just dating my now ex-husband, I answered an ad on a modeling site about a new magazine that was being launched in Louisville.  I agreed to meet the editor/photographer in a coffee shop one afternoon, and took my then boyfriend along with me, just to be safe.  When I walked into the coffee shop, I didn’t see ANYONE in there that looked like a photographer – the ones I’d met were old, not at all attractive, not at all interesting (though they all thought they were God’s gift to the world).  Sitting at a table toward the middle of the coffee house was this guy, a good-looking younger guy, that I didn’t think could possibly be the guy I was supposed to be meeting.  I was wrong, that was the guy, though, and while he passed me up for a couple of blond chicks for the issue of the magazine, I spent several months writing content for it anyway.  We talked a lot, because we had to, but after I got married, lost contact.

After my divorce, I hadn’t “forgotten” about the editor/photographer (now called Ormsby), per se, but didn’t think for even an instant that he’d be interested in me – his crowd, at least from the public portrayal I saw, was the nightclub crowd… surrounded by women, models, all the time, and while I may have functioned as one, I certainly didn’t think I measured up to that standard.  So I set up my dating rules, and I lived by them, as much as possible, altering and adding to the list where necessary:

  1. Age: Must fall within five years of myself (older or younger, but preferably older). I am 32.  Within those parameters, that would make a potential candidate 27-37.
  2. Preference toward military.
  3. Preference toward divorcees who are OVER IT.
  4. Must have stable income.
  5. Must have (some) hair on head, but not an overwhelming amount of body hair.
  6. Must not have an abnormal attachment to his mother.
  7. Must want children, or at least be open to the idea. If he already had children, must want more.
  8. Must be able to sustain an erection.
  9. Must be taller than me, even when I’m wearing my heels. (This was harder to find than you’d think.)
  10. Must want a relationship (no one-night-stands, casual flings, etc.).
  11. Some semblance of sanity (and by sanity, I mean not a raging, psychotic sociopath) is absolutely necessary.
  12. Must live in Florida, because I sure as hell wasn’t interested in leaving the land of eternal summer.

There were other rules, unspoken ones, some I probably don’t even really acknowledge, but these were the basics… formed after years of an unsatisfactory marital and post-divorce dating life.  Now, trying to find all of that in one particular individual isn’t the easiest thing in the world.  And I compromised on some of the lesser ones… still, I never quite found what I was looking for.  One met pretty much all of these factors but was emotionally unavailable when it came to using the “L” word (that is not “Lesbian).  One was particularly adept at hiding his psychotic tendencies (but of course they surfaced eventually anyway).  One was divorced, but still emotionally tied to his wife.  See, I thought that, after my divorce, finding someone else would be easy.  I clearly underestimated the dating pool out there – it was a LOT of work, a LOT of disappointment (though it did give me some humorous moments when I was crafting the IDEs).

Then May came.  And I reconnected with Ormsby.  And I liked him… a lot.  But here’s the thing about Ormsby: with a couple of exceptions, being with him, WANTING to be with him, would constitute breaking just about every single one of those rules.  And I thought about it… hard.

But then I realized something… those rules?  They hadn’t been working.  Because if they HAD been working, then when I’d come for my sister’s wedding in May, I’d have been in a relationship already.  One that succeeded.  And this blog wouldn’t be an endless rant of breakup stories (at least until recently).  It was an acknowledgement of failure.  Sort of.  Or, maybe, a recognition that my processes that I’d carefully lain out and followed (almost) to the letter were a little bit flawed.

And so… I broke them.  Or most of them.  I mean the obvious ones I kept (you know, the stuff about the body hair, erections, the lack of over-infatuation with the mother-figure ,the lack of major psychosis… those I stuck to, because no one wants to go to bed with a werewolf, especially one that cannot keep it up, and no one wants to have to deal with mom-boners every time you visit his parents; also you CERTAINLY don’t want to have to worry about accidentally crawling in bed with the next Ted Bundy).  But pretty much everything else… age to location included?  Yep.  Broken.

And this is why I sit here, in Louisville, in Ormsby’s bed, a bed he modified with his own two hands (and power tools) to accommodate my television, perfectly comfortable and completely satisfied.

I’ll admit, doing this was a huge risk… a calculated risk, yes, because one does not simply pack up one’s own belongings and move halfway across the country to live with just ANY guy, but still, a risk.  Because this could have gone sour as soon as I set foot in the Penske truck with Ormsby and my cat.  I mean, that’s how it’s always been in the past.  I’ll admit I was even expecting it a little.

And yet, it hasn’t been like that at all.  It’s been a refreshing, and yet surprising, change.  Things are mostly blissful, exceptionally peaceful, and minimally stressful.  I’d swear, I was living someone else’s life (and if I am, seriously bitch, whoever you are, I’m keeping it).  And if I’ve learned anything at all, I’ve learned that relationships do not have to be dysfunctional to be functional.

Which simply further illustrates a point I’ve made before:  Rules were made to be broken.

9.5

So, I could go on and on about all the stuff Ormsby and I did that Sunday.  I could tell you about how we had dinner and how I reintroduced him to Chocolate Oreo Cheesecake.  I could write about how I drank him under the table with Cake vodka shots then kicked his ass at ping pong (but he kicked mine at pool – though I was royally shitfaced by then and I did not care).

But instead of dragging it all out, I’m going to answer the all-important question…  Did we do it?

Yep.  We did it.

I don’t know which of us came up with the idea of making him 9.5.  I mean, I’d made it clear that I wasn’t sleeping with anyone new until I had gotten exclusive and I’d done well at keeping that promise.  It might have been the alcohol.  It might have been the fact that we’d had a really good time all day and that I’d laughed more that afternoon than I had in nearly a year.  It might have even been the trip to the sex store we’d taken after we’d gotten tired of pool.  But I decided to make him 9.5, which meant we needed supplies.

And not just any supplies.  Because remember:  I’m allergic to latex.  I am not on the pill.  No ordinary condom would do.  It had to be the non-latex kind.  Now, thankfully, I’m well versed in non-latex condoms, but also well-versed enough to know that they can be hard to find.  And funnily enough, the only non-latex condoms sold at that particular sex store were the lambskin kind.  Now, beyond the fact that lambskin smells funny and doesn’t protect against STDs, I refuse to sacrifice a lamb just because I need to get laid, so those are off the table.

So, yet again, I’m on a condom hunt… with a guy I’ve never slept with before.  Thankfully he was not too drunk to drive, because it took a while.  Several stores.  I don’t know why no one sells as large a supply of non-latex condoms as they do latex… I mean… just because I have a latex allergy doesn’t mean that I don’t need to get laid too.  But combine the fact that we had to hit up several locations to get these things, plus the fact that it was already very late so a lot of the usual options weren’t exactly options right that second, and by the time we finally got to a store that had them, we were both pretty frustrated – sexually and otherwise.  The store carried two sizes… and I didn’t know what size to tell him to get… the regulars, the large… so we got both.  Because these are not as stretchy as latex from the beginning and I didn’t want to get into the heat of the moment only to find out the damn things didn’t work.  Especially not now that we’d just spent the last two hours driving all over town looking for the damned things.

We went back to my hotel room, frantically hit the bed, didn’t turn on the lights, went to town.  He was fascinated by my underwear… I’d worn the uber soft yellow set that day (though the color was irrelevant, since he could not see them), but those came off quickly.  As did his clothing.

And before I could even think about it, he reached over, tore open one of the boxes (we couldn’t tell which), put one on, rolled me over, and just… well… went in there.

Best. Surprise. Ever.

I mean seriously.   After years of substandard sex, after years of men telling me that they were enough to hit my g-spot, after years of being disappointed but needing to preserve their egos, all I could think, before he started putting me on the ceiling, was. “Oh yeah… THIS is what this is supposed to feel like!”

I can’t tell you how many times I came.  I have multiples, they just roll right into each other.  I can’t tell you how many positions we tried, I can’t even tell you how many times we did it that night, because by the time we were finished, I didn’t even know my own name anymore.  But when we HAD finished, and when I made my way to the bathroom to take the usual UTI-preventative measures (a piss and a shower), he switched on a light and started laughing.

I turned, puzzled.  He was holding the Magnum-equivalent Skyn-brand condoms in his hand, the top haphazardly still holding on, the used wrapper in his other hand.  “I grabbed the big ones… and they fit!” he said in an overjoyed tone.  I laughed.  Mostly because he was so excited.  But also because part of me couldn’t believe that he needed a condom to tell him that….

Because I didn’t think my insides were ever going to be the same.

But what a price to pay.

 

Lord Ormsby Speaks:

 

Within the first hour of meeting, she tells me that she has a condition with some acronym I’ve never heard of that basically means she’s always horny and requires frequent stimulation. I may not be great at taking hints but of course I took that as a green light and figured I’d be getting laid that night.

But a few hours later when I made a move (hand down the back of her pants) she swiftly rejected my advance. So I was hands off the next several days, including the whole time she was in a string bikini at the amusement park.

She had said that she wanted to restrict  sex to the confines of being in a relationship and talked about a toy collector who was deployed overseas who she was waiting on, so I respected that – and him – and kept our contact platonic.

Now on her last night here she had up and changed her mind. I had no idea why unless she was turned on by the fact I let her win at ping pong.

Driving all over the damn town late at night trying to find an open store that carries this one super rare brand of special condoms meant that if she had hoped for sex with me or anyone else on this trip, she would have packed them. So I felt special (until I got demoted to a .5 of a man on her been there, done that list).

For me, she was an old co-worker/friend passing through town probably never to be seen again outside of Facebook and to her I was half a man to kill time with while she waiting for whatshisnickname to get home.

Turns out we were both very wrong…

Internet Dating Escapades XXXIII

Double the fun today.

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Naked

Relationships are complicated.  Somewhere between elementary school and adulthood, we’ve gone from the silly notes in our lockers that say “I like you, do you like me, circle ‘Yes’ or ‘No’” to full blown mass “freak out” sessions where we obsess over whether that guy is ever going to call again, whether she’s going to be turned off by too much back hair (if it’s me?  Yes.), and we overanalyze every extended silence, every stupid Facebook post, and every text we DO get that isn’t to our liking.  We’ve gone from knowing that we’re a couple because we circled “Yes” on a piece of paper to wondering after a few dates, a couple of heavy makeout sessions, and a romp in bed whether we can start thinking of ourselves as a couple, or if we’ve just been used.

And I don’t know if it’s become standard for everyone, but I know that for me, this has gotten more and more complicated as I’ve gotten older.  People have gotten to be less apt to communicate, less likely to be reliable, more likely to “disappear” rather than to answer the “hard questions” or talk about the “hard issues.”  No one wants to WORK on problems anymore, everyone just wants to see if the grass is greener on the other side of the fence (regardless of whether it turns out to be the Garden of Eden or a yard full of volcanic ash).

I label my dating life as pre-divorce and post-divorce.  Pre-divorce, I dated a fair amount.  I’m not saying everyone was awesome (as a matter of fact, many of them were NOT awesome), but just about everyone was, at least, straightforward about what they were looking for.  Dating was a means to entering into a relationship – it was never, or at least usually not, a means to an endless string of interactions that resulted, finally, in an abrupt disappearance.  Most times it ended in commitment.  Or, at least, the expectation toward eventual commitment.  It was understood that things were going to go this way or, sooner than later, there would be a parting of ways.

The funny thing is, I used to think this was “complicated.”  Maybe in its way it was… Because in those days, it wasn’t so much the worry about whether or not I was actually “in” one, but it was the worry of what said significant other was doing when I was not around.  No stranger to the “cheating” boyfriends, I can’t say that I went into those relationships believing that people were going to cheat on me, but I’d say I was more hyper-vigilant about it than I would have been had I never been cheated on.  Still, it was easy to get a date, nothing was expected out of me except to be a good dinner companion.  If things went further eventually, it was “understood” that we’d do it again.  It was “understood” that we’d see each other again.  It was “understood” that the likelihood of becoming exclusive was imminent.  I learned, after a few months of this, that it was better to trust until I had a good reason NOT to trust.

But that was then.

Post-divorce, dating has gotten significantly harder.  And I’m not sure if it’s that the attitudes of the world have changed, or if I’ve just gotten worse at choosing men, but things are VERY, VERY different.  As I said earlier, people don’t communicate anymore.  Instead of phone calls, we text.  Instead of using complete sentences and punctuation, we use chatspeak.  Spelling, even, has fallen by the wayside – and smart people, like myself, who give a shit about such things are expected to just roll with it and lower our standards.

Because no one wants to communicate, we’re all afraid of each other.  Some of us prefer to keep our relationships completely text or chat based (and we have no idea how to interact face to face).  Others can’t be straightforward and upfront about things when we don’t expect them to work – we’ve been dumped (or have done the dumping) so many times that we’re afraid to do it again… we don’t want the shit show, we don’t want to deal with the fireworks, so, to avoid confrontation, we just walk away and expect the other person to just “get over it.”  It’s easier for us… we don’t have to see it.  Who the fuck cares what they have to go through?  We say it’s to “spare someone else’s feelings,” but that’s a cop-out.  It’s really to spare ourselves from the discomfort.

Further, and I think this has to do with my age, everyone who is still out there, and single, has been burned, by now, more than once.  It’s left us all jaded.  No one trusts anyone anymore… we’ve all been through the ringer so many times that we jump into our relationships EXPECTING to play games.  We go into these things BELIEVING that everyone we’re talking to will lie and cheat on us eventually.  And so, finding something solid, something dependable, something lasting has gotten really difficult.  I don’t lie, and I don’t cheat, but if I’m completely up front and I TELL someone these things, I don’t expect to be believed.  After all, why should I?  Everyone’s heard the same story again and again.  My predecessors got there before me, said the same shit I did, but did it all anyway.

And so, instead, we’ve become a culture that goes through life, pretending to attempt to find something solid (probably genuinely desiring something solid) but are too afraid to truly stick our necks out there to GET it.  We settle, instead, for superficial relationships… we text each other a lot, but don’t interact in person.  We get to know someone at a high level, perpetually hold them at arm’s length.  We use each other for sex, because the orgasms are nice.  We’ve become more and more accepting of being naked in front of each other, but we’re too afraid to REALLY be naked, to REALLY show someone else who we are, out of fear of being hurt again.  We’re protecting ourselves, but essentially, our inability to expose ourselves to pain, our unwillingness to put ourselves out there, is the same thing as punishing a complete stranger (or, at least, someone who has done nothing to us) for something that someone else (or several others) have done.

I’m just as bad about this as anyone else.  Communication has never been my problem.  If I want something, or if I like someone, I fucking say it.  I’m not shy about that.  I don’t mind being naked, literally, in front of someone either – I got over that when I started doing nude modeling a decade ago.  But I still have my hangups.  After the divorce, rather than finding boyfriends, or potential boyfriends, I realized that, I could easily find someone to go to bed with, but it became difficult to find someone to BE with.  And when I did find someone to BE with, well, if you’ve read the blog, you know what I’ve found… 3.0, who couldn’t get himself “sold”; Botboy who could fall in love with TransFormers, fall in love with me, even, but only say so when he was drunk and who ran the first chance he got when he came home.  I can go on dates with others and things will look as if they’re going well, but then, without any sort of explanation, the guy disappears.

And with every failure, with every disappointment, I myself have become more jaded.  I find myself going into relationships EXPECTING to be disappointed.  I find myself, essentially, punishing someone who has never had the chance to prove himself to be different for bullshit that others have given me in the past.  I wait for a screw up, and I use that screw up to further the conclusions I’ve drawn about everyone that’s already out there.  I don’t let people in because I’m too busy blaming total strangers for the failures of the douchebags I’ve already known.  I’m just as jaded as everyone else.

Back in 1998, a friend told me something once and it’s stayed with me through all this time (despite the fact that he turned out to be one of the ones that wanted to “fuck me” but not “be with me):  Assumption is the mother of all fuck ups.  Assumption is what we’re all doing these days – instead of giving people the benefit of the doubt, instead of letting them prove themselves to be different we’re assuming that they aren’t, and we’re sabotaging ourselves.

Life is about choices, life is about decisions.  In the end, I have to make a choice.  I can choose to remain alone because I’m too afraid to open myself up to potential failure.  I know that if I continue to choose to punish people for what their predecessors have done, then that is the same thing as choosing to be alone.  It’s like having a “self destruct” button that I can press whenever I feel like it.

But I can also choose to stop this.  I can choose to stop repeating old patterns that clearly have gotten me nowhere.  I can choose to stop assuming the worst.  Does that I mean I go into every situation wide-eyed, naïve and ready to throw it all out there (emotionally) to someone I barely know? No.  We learn what we learn for a reason.  But it does mean that I stop expecting the worst out of everyone… it means I give them a chance to prove that they really are different without judging them before they’ve ever had their say.  It means that I open up a little, give people the benefit of the doubt, and that I, at least, start looking at things more objectively.  It means that I let myself truly bare it all when I feel ready to do that, and I do it without expecting that I’ll immediately be steamrolled as a result.

It’s scary… but when have I ever been chickenshit?

 

(Also if you think for a minute I’m going to stop doing the Internet Dating Escapades, you’d be wrong… some people are just asking for it.  Or, well, I’ll keep doing this until I do find someone that lets me in… once I do that, the IDEs stop, because my profiles will come down.)

Inspiration to the January Masochism – January Flashbacks

This post has no “real” narrative – it’s a series of conversations that were had between myself and Botboy on the night we saw each other, before he left.  These are, in essence, some of the things he said that inspired the last several months of masochism.  Or helped to… I’d say, honestly, the months of almost nightly conversations leading up to this, the amount of transparency I got that evening, combined with the conversations below, were what made me agree to wait.

I know they are not complete, they certainly do not encompass hours and hours of conversations we had both on our way to Clearwater, at the restaurant, and on the trip back to Tampa afterward.  Regardless, I have intentionally left out the things that he said regarding his personal life out of respect for his privacy.

I want to start this… transcript… with part of the conversation we had a few days before that fateful night in January.  He’d been calling me relentlessly since November.  I didn’t know what he wanted, so I posted the T-Minus 30 Days post, and then the Fifteen Days post.  He texted me, asking me to call him (or, at any rate, a callback number – he swears he didn’t put that in there, but that’s what the text said).  We talked.

Me:  So am I going to see you before you leave?

Botboy:  Probably not.

Me:  Well, that’s what I needed to know then… I’ve got to go.  You be careful, okay?

Botboy:  Wait.

Me:  What?

Botboy:  Where are you going?

Me:  I’m hanging up.  If you don’t want me, I don’t see that there’s anything more to say.

Botboy:  I’m not just looking to get laid.

Me:  Well what are you looking for?

Botboy:  I’m looking for someone to handle my shit.

Me:  I’ve already done that.  And very well, I might add.  And I’m not just looking to get laid either.

Botboy: (after more conversation)… Let’s have a flashback date!

And so we planned a date.  For before he was to leave.  We were going to do the same things we’d done after he’d come home – the Thai place in Clearwater.  I agreed.  He kept having me call him for days leading up to it to “remind him”.  When I asked why he needed me to call him to remind him, he told me it was because he liked when I “did his bidding.”  I shook my head.  Whatever.  What you have to realize is that this is just how he can be – I’ve long since learned to see the humor in it instead of getting frustrated with it.

On the day of the date, he showed up early – or tried to – to surprise me, but got the wrong building.  I ended up picking him up at the mall parking lot, which is close to where I worked.  We drove to Clearwater to the Thai place, making a pit stop to Toys-R-Us (that’s his thing) on the way there.  We talked about a lot of things.  Those things I won’t repeat here.  But the gist of it was that he was telling me about how he’s gotten his life in order, had let go of the past, etc. etc. etc.  I was part of the past.  I did not understand why I was there, if that had been his goal.  So I asked:

Me: So… then why am I here?  What do you want?

Botboy: I wanted my Crazypants back… as a friend.

Me:  Just as a friend? (He’d been alluding to wanting more than that in previous Skype chats.)

Botboy: I told you, we’re taking this stupid slow.

Me:  But you will be gone for six months.

Botboy: That’s why… while I’m gone… I want you to date.  And when I come back, if you have a boyfriend, we will go to lunch, and then I will never bother you again.

That’s when I started to think.  I didn’t know what to say to that.  I didn’t know whether that was what I wanted, or whether it wasn’t.  I was confused.

After dinner, in the car, I was telling him about someone else I knew that wanted to date me – that I could, if I wished, easily settle down with.

Me: … but I do not want him.  I do not love him.

Botboy:  Do you love me?

Me: (after a pause, trying to decide whether to be truthful or not) … Maybe…

Botboy:  MAYBE?!

Me: (struggling for a second – hearing those damned voices in my head telling me just to say it, he was leaving, I may never get another chance) Alright, alright, YES.  I do.

 

Still in the car, I’m driving.

Botboy has reached over, grabbed my tits, groped my legs, etc.  I cannot exactly respond, as I am driving.  And considering what he’d said about taking it slow, I was amused (but also confused).

Me: This is taking it slow, huh?

Botboy:  Yeah!  (Alluding to a prior conversation that happened months before where he’d told me he would play with my tits if I gave him a blowjob.)  So now I’ve played with your tits.

Me:  Yeah… you’ve skipped about a dozen bases, but yeah, you have.

Botboy: I know! So now you can give me a blowjob.

Me:  Um… no, that’s not how that works.  You haven’t given me what I need.

Botboy: What do you need?

Me:  I’ve told you what I need.

Botboy:  You need kisses.

Me:  I do.  To start.

Botboy: When I get back, I will run my fingers through your hair and stick my tongue down your throat…

 

(Yeah… this guy has game… but it makes me laugh, so I continued…)  At some point around this time, he bit me.  Hard.  It left teeth marks (photo included).  I still do not know what that was about.  But the bruises were there for two weeks.

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We continued to drive… I continued to think… because I did not want what he’d said earlier.  I did not WANT him never to bother me again.  But I didn’t want to just hop into a relationship with him either… not after the stuff I’d already been through, not knowing what I knew.  So in the parking lot of the mall, after I hugged him and before he got into his car, I realized I needed to do… well… something… :

Me:  Wait.  Here’s what I’m going to do.  I can’t take my profiles down this time… but I’ve been dating, almost endlessly, since you left.  And I’m tired.  Also, I want you.  You know that.  (He nodded.)  And I don’t think it’s fair to date anyone else while I still have a thing for you.  So I’m not going to pursue anything until you are back.  So I’m not “actually” waiting…

Botboy: But technically…

Me:  Technically, I am…

We hugged twice more.  I told him to email me while he was away; he agreed.  I got in my car.  I left.

Lame or not, it doesn’t matter.  It’s what made me agree, for whatever it was worth, to wait.  And so I waited.  And that’s where Season 17 picks up this year… during the waiting, the masochism, and the games.

The important stuff to remember:  Aside from talking, the groping, and the fact that I have, twice, grabbed his dick through his pants, Botboy and I have never been any more physical than the hugs we’ve shared as he was leaving on the handful of times that we have been together in person.  I have never seen him naked.  We have never kissed, had sex, etc.