Don't EVER Call Me "Cute"

So, I posted Part 2 of the Captain Strap-on Saga earlier tonight, and, of course, it's got me thinking.

Today is a national holiday up in Canada--Thanksgiving. Unlike the U.S., Canadian Thanksgiving is actually a harvest festival that falls during the harvest. They're a little less commercially-oriented than their neighbors to the South, the socialist bastards. ;-) Well, I had something that doesn't happen at home for Thanksgiving--I went to a family dinner. Not a huge one, but a three-generational dealie. And, of course, it was lovely. Good food, good company, and just a nice time.

Now, yesterday, I was in touch with Captain Strap-on, and he has reiterated that he's serious about this. I set the rules before I left, but you know they haven't been followed. This has become more of an experiment at this point in time, a failed one, really. I'm just fascinated by it, in this really horrible way. It's like watching a 50 car accident on a slick highway that also involves three oil tankers, a garbage truck, a bullet train and a truckload of live chickens. It's utterly horrible but somehow, very entertaining.

Something's gone wrong--I can feel it in my chest right now, this awful hollow feeling. I always know when something's wrong with someone important because that feeling hits me. I hate it.

Anyway, of course, I'm thinking about the two very different situations I'm dealing with--two men with very different approaches and desires.

I don't know if I want either one of them at this point.

All this talk about wanting a family--you know that even if the sitch comes to fruition with Captain Strap-on, it's not going to be a lasting relationship. As for Potential Paramour... argh. I've finally figured out why I'm hesitating. It all has to do with the word "cute."

I hate it. As a friend pointed out, puppies and kittens are cute. Baby bunnies are cute. Forty-two-year-old women are NOT cute unless they are dressed thoroughly inappropriately (and then, they're not cute--they're fucking WEIRD or mentally ill). I realized why, too, I hate it--it's a bastard word that makes something dangerous safe.

It's why I coo over baby tigers--they ARE cute, but the little fuckers can kill you. Ditto for polar bears--adorable as hell, but one of the single most vicious predators on the planet. Don't fuck with 'em--they CAN lop your head off with the swipe of a paw.

Now, I'm not a polar bear (although I'm currently insulated like one--working on reducing that, but it's still going to take a little time), but I am pretty deadly. I mean, I won't pull out a sword and decapitate you physically, but I will verbally kick your ass if you cross me. I hate being diminished--made safe. I'm not safe. I never have been; I never will be.

No human being is, nor should they be. We all have edges, secrets... dark places that don't need to see the light most days. I have a lot of those places in my soul; to be expected with the life I've led. Now, I'm sure my therapist will have an interesting time dissecting why I feel more drawn to Captain Strap-on than to Potential Paramour.

Captain Strap-on is familiar--I've known guys like him forever. Plus, there's the added dimension of crazy sex, something beyond vanilla. Now, honestly, I have no problem with vanilla sex. I like it--it's fun, it's joyful, and it's good. Ideally, I'd rather this whole strap-on adventure be happening a part of a normal relationship--another dimension to a committed relationship, something added to a repetoire of healthy adult play. Ideally, but ideals are for dreamers.

Potential Paramour... he's not familiar. He's something new, from a different culture and background. He's definitely traditional in his views. The IM sex has been interesting--fairly vanilla but with a few twists that I'm good with. The whole "cute" thing was OK until he threw another word into the mix that sent up a red alert of klaxons screaming, red flags springing up like dandelions on the lawn... "daddy."

I didn't use it. I don't. I went through that phase of need a long time ago and got past it. The closest I ever get is a playful "big daddy" said with a thick Southern accent and a glint of mischief. I don't use it during sex--I think it's creepy. Well, he said something to the effect that "daddy knew what his girl needed."

SKEEEEEEEEEEEEEEVVVVEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! *shudder* Really? REALLY? I don't fucking think so, I really don't. I mean, REALLY?

Of course, if I had a brain, I'd dump both of them and say to fuck with it. I have enough shit to deal with ATM, I don't need this silliness. Is it so bad that I want to be an equal partner in a relationship? I don't want or need a sugar daddy, I don't mind paying my own way (been doing it for so long now, I just don't even think about it), I don't want a "manchild" as one of my friends puts it, I don't want any of the stupidity I've dealt with in the past. I want a partner--I don't give a rat's arse about baggage--I come with a matched set--I don't care about anything but being with someone I can actually share my life with without having mine taken over completely. Why is that too much to ask for? A little acceptance, a little compassion, a little understanding, good sex, good company, and no bullshit.

Why is this so fucking impossible to find?