Resurfacing

Hey, kids. How goes? Greetings from an emotionally and physically exhausted Empress. My apologies for being so quiet over the past couple of weeks; it's been a bit rough. Folks who know me on a face-to-face basis know that when I get quiet, it's time to worry because it means that life is kicking my arse. And it has. I think my last post had to do with a sick friend and asking for some good healing energy for him while reminiscing about how he had provided me with one of my few (possibly only) John Hughes' Moment in my dating life. A few weeks back I mentioned that The Job was not a happy thing these days. Well, it still ain't. I had a meeting with HR on Thursday afternoon to discuss the situation, and while I can't say anything has been resolved, at least I got to put my concerns on the table. And now... the waiting game. I am not good at waiting. Speaking of waiting, I have another 21 days to wait before Nova Scotia. There is a God. The relationship (I think I can call it that) has reached the three week point. All is good. It scares the piss out of me--SO normal, so lovely, so NICE. We date. We talk daily. We see each other a few times a week. I am not obsessing about every single detail. I trust him. (As much as I trust anyone, and that's saying something.) I LIKE him. There are a couple of things that annoy me, AND I AM GOOD WITH THAT! If he was perfect, I'd be running for the hills tout suite. (What annoys me: smoking, constant TV. NORMAL guy things! If that's the worst of his flaws, sweet Mother Mary, I WILL TAKE IT!) I feel safe, I feel cared for, I feel... I feel accepted. I really enjoy his company, just being with him. It's pretty damn amazing. It's also stressful. Because I am so terrified of fucking it up. Although I've been doing pretty well at keeping my natural paranoia in check; this is a good thing. I really don't want to fuck this up. I'm hoping I've finally a) learned to stay calm and keep my shit together; b) gotten my med levels correct; and c) found the good, decent and loving man I've been praying/hoping/holding out for all these years. Ma is Ma. She's been sick this week, so she's been off her game. Didn't help that I was a headachy mess today and not willing or able to take her out (mind you, I had set aside Thursday night and then Friday night for her errands, and had been told that she didn't want to go anywhere today, and then she woke up and felt better and decided to change my plans; my body had other ideas). The problem with being at this level of stress is that it also shuts me off and shuts me down artistically. I haven't been able to write for days, not even to blog (as you all know), never mind work on my novel. I have been wound too tight. I haven't even been able to read, or craft, or anything. And I'm BORED. I HATE being bored. There's so much I need to get done, and I haven't had the focus to do it. You don't KNOW how much that upsets me. It's like being in an extreme state of sexual excitement and not able to blow--most FRUSTRATING feeling in the world. Writing is a lot like sex for me--it's a necessary release, only for my brain rather than my body. The feeling after a good writing session is pretty much like a the feeling after a good shag--everything feels lovely, I'm content with myself and the world, and I can sleep. It's actually funny... the correspondence between writing and sex. The type of "cum" is dependent upon the type of sex/writing--the friendly shag (good sex, no commitment, but we both had fun--some of the more fuckery blogs are like that); the hard fuck (slam-banging, prolonged, physically and emotionally exhausting--there may not have been an orgasm, but it was satisfying as all fuck--heavy emotional writing, painful shit is like this--I'm aching afterwards, but it was damn good); and the serious lovemaking (sweet, passionate, and involving heart, soul, mind and body--rare and wonderful). HOWEVER... the period of unproductivity is coming to a close. I had a breakthrough on Broom Closet today--I've been really unhappy with the last third of the book, and haven't been able to find a way into it to improve it and get it to the level of the rest of the novel. (And I'm a month behind schedule. *headdesk*) Well, today I figured out what was missing and how to fix the scene in Salem that, while pivotal and important, was just ringing flat and false. SUCCESS! I'm hoping to get a night of writing in at Sbux this week. There's too much mental noise in the house to get it done here without staying up all night (and sometimes that doesn't work--case in point, it's nearly 4:00 a.m. and Ma is STILL up, watching fucking reality TV. Shoot me!). OK, kids, I'm going ni-night. It's nearly 4:00 a.m., I have to meet the Fabulous Alicia at noon to muck out the storage space, and I'd like to get a little sleep and have a decent breakfast before that. I promise I will be a more faithful correspondent. I have a lot I want to write about on here--the list of upcoming posts just keeps getting longer--and I think I'm coming out of my stress-induced silence. Much love, Your Empress

5 a.m. Confessions

For the record... this post was written between five and seven a.m. this morning. I was HAMMERED on tequila zingers (silver tequila, plum ginger cordial, lemonade) and the dam broke in a very good way.

Greetings, my cherished blurkers.
In this dark hour before dawn, I shall make my confessions.

Confession the first: I am HAMMERED.
Confession the second: I am happy to be so.
Confession the third: Godsdammit, but I sod-all needed the drink.

As the child of a drunk and coming from a family full of ‘em, it scares the piss out of me to pair the words “need” and “drink.” Because that is a baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad thing. It’s OK to WANT; NOT OK to need.

But tonight, I needed.
Been getting caught up on the Jim ‘n Eddie podcast. Got one last episode to listen to, but in #12, they got Jason PHUCKED up. And it was cool. It was the way getting drunk should be—just good friends being stoooooopid and having a fuckin’ laugh.

That’s the real reason for alcohol—just to relax a bit. Let the fences and walls down Just to be human without all the defenses for a little while.
It’s a friggin’ pity most of us can’t accept that and be there. All the excuses—“well, I was drunk…” So?

Maybe that’s it—I think I’ve identified my problem. I am who I am no matter what state I’m in. If I say something drunk, it’s the same as if I’m sober. No bullshit, no lies. No prevarication. Even less of an editor.

I’m good with it.

Confession the fourth: I’m dealing with a severe case of love. Yet again, I have fallen in love with a friend. I swear, I am the biggest fucking idiot on this planet. And it’s someone that I can’t have, for so many reasons. Too many reasons. Heinlein defined love—real love—the best: love is when what is best for the other person is more important to you than your own desire.
It sucks.
I hate it.
I want to be a selfish cunt and put myself forward.
But I won’t.
And for once, it’s not cowardice. For once, I’m not being noble. Stupidly noble. For once, I’m doing what is right.
Still sucks.

Confession the fifth: I need help. (What else is new?) See, I’ve put my ass on the line, doing this blog. I have a rule for myself: what goes on the blog, stays on the blog. No editing (even the odd typo—and you don’t KNOW how crazy typos make me; blame Sister Jane Michael, but I cannot abide mistakes in my own work. It makes me cringe, makes me feel a failure, a Bad Person. Fucking Catholic school. A blessing and a curse); what gets written, stays written, as is, and I have to accept it and embrace it, even when it hurts.
I’m good with that. It keeps me honest. Makes me stick to it. Doesn’t let me wimp out.
I’m not giving up this time. I am not crawling back into a life of obscurity that I have condemned myself to out of duty and cowardice.
Yeah, I said it—Cowardice. I let “duty” and “responsibility” override my duty and responsibility to myself. In my attempt to prove to my family that I am NOT selfish, worthless, horrible person, I gave up my dream to be America’s answer to Ken Branagh. This is a meaningless statement in 2011; back in 1995, it was a declaration of war, a statement of intent—a throw down to become the Shakespearean director of my generation, a general in the war against the Stratfordian Orthodoxy. Fuck, I miss Shakespeare. I miss my Lord of Oxenford and his blessed words, the words that woke me from the sleep of the Briar Rose to the world of the theatre. I fear it may be too late to reclaim my dreams, to throw my hat back in the ring and take my place.
But I am sure as FUCK going to try. If I fail… then being me, being the starry eyed Quixotic figure of ridiculousness that I am, I will try again. I will find my own version of Dulcinea and tilt at the windmills that may really be giants…
Shit, I’m talkin’ ragtime. I’m let the tequila control the fingers.
No, I’m not. I’m letting the tequila take down the barriers, remove the breakwaters, the harsh reins I’ve put on myself to keep the frustration in check. I want the stage back. I’m taking it back. I’m going back to open mike. I’m not going to let my own fears hold me back.
Because I am that good. I am. I am. I know it. I’ve coached so many, I’ve seen talent, I know talent. I know I have it. I know I have The Shine. I can do it.
I just have to hold on to that feeling and not let Duty take it away.
Help me, beloved blurkers, keep that faith. Send me good energy, think me good wishes. I am going forward. I have to. I am going to beat the odds, I am going to be the success story I should have let myself be years ago.
I know that the therapy words would be, “Maybe you weren’t ready for it.”
Bullshit. I needed it then; now, I’m trying to prevent my life from being wasted. I don’t want to be a “might have been”—“she had so much talent, such a shame she didn’t…” Bullshit. I promised myself the world.

“Life’s like a movie, write your own ending…” And I’m not dead yet.

Tonight, I’m seeing Celebricrush. Can’t wait. I doubt he’ll remember me; I doubt there’ll be anything more than a happy handshake and an autograph and a damn good show. And that’s OK. It took me so long to realize that I have to be my own hope. Last night, I had some kindness—a little bit of Happy Exercise (yes, another Heinlein reference) with a man I hadn’t thought I’d see again. I hope to see him another time. We shall see. It’s not what I want—I want to be in a relationship. But then… I don’t know where life is going to take me in the next six months.
I know I’m lonely. I know I want a circle of friends again. The problem is that I’m back to where I was in my 20’s—single, starting over, and enjoying life. Most of my friends are in a very different place—committed, established and dealing with very different issues. I’m free, almost. Almost. Six months, I can slip the surly bonds of responsibility… I can have my life back again.
Confession the fifth: That scares the fuck out of me. It does. It means I have no excuses any more. It means I have to take the leap of faith. I have to believe in the only person I’ve ever trusted or ever really feared—ME.

I wish this was a wise piece; I wish this was a funny piece. It’s not. It’s just me, naked and vulnerable. It’s just me. I have to be up in a few hours and go to the gym; I have to do my workout and keep the momentum going. I have to build my strength, slim my body more. The gentleman observed that I had lost weight—it was the best thing he could have said. I have felt ugly and fat; to have someone who hadn’t seen me in six months, someone who had seen me naked on a beach, approve and want me… I needed that validation. I need to be wanted and desired. I cannot embrace the one I love—and I see the trap I laid for myself, falling for my dark angel who is not within my grasp—and this other gentleman is a person of worth and intelligence and kindness.
Somedays, I find hope a hard thing to have. But right now, all I can feel is the bubble of potential… the feeling that Something Is Coming. I hope so. Dear Gods, I hope so. Hope has come so hard to hold on to, and I have come to despise my little life, this little life I condemned myself to in the name of duty, from the desire to prove myself worthy of love to a parent.
Confession the sixth: I should not be drinking. But I do not regret it. I try too hard to control, and sometimes, I need to let go. So I will thank Jim, Eddie, Jason and Lindsay for letting me be a silent witness to their silliness and fuckery. It was therapeutic.
Confession the seventh: I have just emptied the last of the New Year’s Eve Espolon tequila into my glass and added some homemade plum ginger cordial and agave lemonade Lifewater. The sky is lightening through the dining room window. I am not going to send the text message I want to send. I can’t; it would be self-destructive and selfish. And I could not bear to lose a friend.
KJ, I forgive you. I love you, my friend, and I forgive you, as I always have, and as you always have forgiven me. That’s what it means to be best friends—the love, the bond, the everything, is so much more important than trespasses. And unlike Annie, you were always true. There was never a siphoning, an agenda. We were, are, and always will be the Pros from Dover. We are, and always be, sisters. Like all family, sometimes, we hurt each other. But like family, the love, the bond is more important. I miss you like a fibre from my heart. Something… something went awry. I can feel it… like a wrong note. Like directing a rehearsal and hearing a false line… like a note off key. I am trying to find the thread, unravel the mistake, reweave reality and make it right.
I hate being a shaman. Because there is a place that the shamanic soul goes to… this is where the right chemical takes me. It’s dangerous. It’s scary. Because it’s a place of truth. This is where the New Age airy fairy bullshit meets reality—I wish this wasn’t real. I wish I could turn my back on what I’m experiencing. But I can’t. There is a higher truth, another level from coarse reality. Call it God, call it faith, call it aliens, call it whatfuckingever… it’s real.
The sun is up. I am somewhere in the aether. It’s OK. I need this, right now. I need to let go.
So… I am going to speak to the cards and then I am going to sleep. Let this move through me, this Golden Moment of Clarity…

Blessings, my darlings. Thank you for indulging me. Whisper a word in the ear of your favorite deity that I can hold on to this moment, this feeling, this clarity.
Much love… so much, my heart aches…
Your Empress

Considering open relationships

I love my country, but I really think we should start seeing other people. - popular button

I actually don't own the button cited above, but I'm considering buying it. See, I do actually love my country--I think we have the greatest law code on the planet in the form of the Constitution and the Bill of Rights--however, I also feel like the American Empire is crumbling and going the way of ancient Rome. The barbarians aren't at the gates, though; we've atrophied and are crumbling from within.

I've always questioned authority and government; it comes from growing up in a family full of Kennedy Democrats. I have memories of Nixon on the television (Jack was a news junkie; if it wasn't sports on the damn telly, it was the news. Cable was the bane of our existence in Hell's Vestibule), and my grandfather hollering, "Impeach the bastard!" (If you ever wondered where I learned my habit of yelling at the TV and talking back to the radio, yeah--I acquired it from Jack.) After I started to make friends from other countries and actually get out of the U.S., I really got a taste of how the rest of the world views us.

And how myopic most Americans are.

It makes me sad. See, we used to be a great country--we used to be if not the best, at least we were pretty damn good.

Not any more. I haven't read up enough on the horrible incident in Arizona to comment too deeply, but it sounds like the incivility and immaturity that has dominated American political discourse hit home in a hail of bullets yet again. This isn't the first time (remember the church shootings last year, inspired by one of the right-wing morons?), and it's probably not going to be the last.

I'm a bit sick of it all.

The point is, so many of don't travel, don't explore and don't consider that maybe, just maybe, our way isn't the only way, and it shouldn't be the American Way or the highway.

Just a thought.

Now, this also got me to thinking about open relationships. (Yeah, I definitely have some form of ADD, but it's working for me.) I have never been a fan of them. My ex-husband wanted our marriage to be like that, and I said hell no, for a lot of reasons, some of them good and valid, some of them purely selfish and immature. On the selfish and immature side, I was incredibly insecure and jealous; competition was NOT happening, and any other woman he was interested in was competition--someone getting my piece instead of me. WEREN'T HAPPENIN'! On the valid side, well... I had no desire to end up with an STD, and honestly, Rick would stick his dick in anything that stopped long enough for him to whip it out. Because I was on chemical birth control, we didn't use anything else, and honestly... NO. I wasn't going to end up with my life destroyed because he fucked some skankrag and brought home an unwanted present.

How ironic is it that that is how I discovered he was fucking around? His condom supply had dwindled. At least he cared enough to keep it covered, eh?

Anyway, as I've gotten older and been faced with reality in its many forms, and found out that you can love someone and still fuck someone else (not me; I am sickenly monogamous when I'm with someone, even if I've been given permission to cheat--I'm such a bad liar and so forgetful, I can't juggle more than one lover if I have to actually be in a relationship with them). I won't say that I agree with infidelity or open relationships, but I understand at this point how it happens.

Internet sex is another poser in that realm. I know a number of people who get it on via the Interwebs, either using IM or email or text messages. None of them are physically stepping out on their partners, but there is still this other side...

I've really had to grapple with the ethics of this. On the one hand, I know that if it was my man, I would be PISSED. I mean, fucking furious and ready to snap his fingers. (Note, I said "ready to" NOT that I would do it. Contemplating violence is acceptable; committing violence is not.) On the other, how the hell does one person satisfy all of another person's needs? Is it really possible?

I'm really serious when I ask this question. I know the kind of stuff I fantasize about; I know how hardcore my desires can be. I also know that I am not willing to violate a partner's taboos for my own satisfaction. I've been in that position; when I was really young, it meant I ended up in situations that left permanent scars on my soul. When I got a little older, it meant that I was still manipulated and hurt and betrayed because I wouldn't negotiate. So there comes a point where I have to ask, is monogamy the right thing? And how do you define it?

I have no issue with porn. Seriously--I am all for it. Ditto for legalizing prostitution and making it an honorable profession. We have demonized sex stupidly, and it's a big part of the underlying problem in our society. The lack of acceptance of sexual desire and the classifying of anything beyond "normal" (i.e. missionary position sex) as deviant has caused more problems, and ditto, the demonization of homosexuality or anything beyond pure heterosexual relations.

So I'm just thinking about this. I don't know how I feel about it--I don't know if I could be in a physically open relationship (especially with my libido--I mean, I'm horny all the time; no way I'm sharing). But I think I'm ready to reconsider my views on the electronic side of things.

Just sayin'.

Learning to be Lonely...

Child of the wilderness
Born into emptinessLearn to be lonely
Learn to find your way in darkness
Who will be there for you
Comfort and care for you
Learn to be lonely
Learn to be your one companion
Never dreamed out in the world
There are arms to hold you?
You've always known your heart was on its own
So laugh in your loneliness
Child of the wilderness
Learn to be lonely
Learn how to love life that is lived alone
Learn to be lonely
Life can be lived
Life can be loved
Alone. - "Learn to Be Lonely," Phantom of the Opera

There are two songs going through my head right now... "Learn to Be Lonely" from Phantom of the Opera (yeah, yeah, I know I hate Andrew Lloyd Webber, but I'll give him a break for Phantom) and "Jane Says" from Jane's Addiction.

Just had what I hope is the last convo with Potential Paramour. I called him out. And he had a snit and signed out.

Which is fine with me.

Anyone reading this blog knows that sex is one of my main topics of interest. I love it; always have, from the first time I discovered how to make myself feel really good (it involved my backyard swingset when I was still in single digits). Sex--masturbation, fuck I hate that word--WANKING!--and occasionally, sex with another human--is probably the only time I enjoy being physically incarnate.

I've never been exactly healthy. From the time I was little, there have been a lot of physical ailments--whether allergies, bronchitis, injuries, depression-related crap, and then the weight problems (thyroid, arthritis, whatever)--and the only good things about being alive were being creative and having an orgasm.

Because I'm a curious person (in the sense that I am curious about things--I am curious in terms of being a bit of a curio, true), I want to know more about everything that affects me; I want to understand what makes me tick, and why I react to the world and others the way I do. The way I find out about stuff is to talk about it--directly to people, in this blog these days, whatever. The cool thing about the interwebs is that there are a lot of people out there and more ways to connect with them. I have a number of friends whom I have never met face-to-face, but whom I love dearly because via the wires, they have become key parts of my life. (To be honest, I have met most of them face-to-face; there are still a couple I haven't.) I have a few on-line fuck buddies, too--men who are good friends and occasionally, we get it on via IM or text or whatever because we are of the same mind about things, and for whatever other reason, a face-to-face relationship won't/can't work, but we are on the same groove level sexually, and it provides us with an outlet.

I'm not going to debate the "morality" of it. I'm just not. I can't. We have a connection, and we provide each other with a necessary release. I love these men for what they give me--a very private part of themselves that keeps me from losing all hope. What's passed between us has come from very serious, honest discussions about sex--very open, real and wonderful conversations. Now, I've been accused more than once of thinking too much like a guy (which baffles the shit out of me, but there you have it). Maybe it's true; I have a sense of honor that is much closer to a man's than the way most women operate. Maybe because I'm both a historian and a Shakespearean--my grounding is firmly in the past, in times when your word meant something, when Honor meant something real, rather than just a funny concept in books.

I also find sex hysterical--I find the dance that men and women do, quite frankly, ridiculous. I DON'T GET IT. If I tell a man he's hot, I mean it--I find him hot. What makes him "hot" to me isn't about his looks--well, not STRICTLY about his looks--it's about who he IS and how the whole package fits together. I'm not looking for some stupid storybook romance. I'm looking for a damn good friend I can share my life and my body with, and maybe, just fucking maybe, he and I can make each other's lives a little happier. I don't need perfection, I don't need Prince Charming--please, dear Gods, SPARE ME!--I just need someone with a sense of humor who can deal with my shit and who has the kind of shit that I can deal with. I don't give a damn about hard work--every relationship worth having, whether it's with a partner or a friend--requires hard work to keep it real and keep it working. The thing is, when someone matters to you, the work is WORTH it.

I have a very limited supply of hope left. See, Potential Paramour has been going on and on about us having an emotional and intellectual connection (his words, not mine), as well as a sexual one. *sigh* He's lonely, he wants love, he wants a partner, he wants he wants he wants he wants he wants...

Yeah. What fucking ever. HE wants. And he sporadically gets in touch--there's been a three-month-long IM convo going. I've blogged about it here and there, but I really couldn't take him seriously because well, it's been going on for three months without a phone number or a meeting, and the sporadic nature of his contact told me that I was his "fall back," not his main objective. Which is fine, but he keeps trying to corner me--nail my feet to the floor about a commitment.

Excuse me?

"You are not ready to be a wife."
"You are not ready to be a mother."

EXCUSE ME? The man who starts out a conversation with telling me that he's horny after I haven't heard from him in how long, and who pings me at 1:00 a.m. looking for IM sex, and he's telling me I'm not ready for serious commitment while trying to get to make a serious commitment without having met.

Yeah, right.

Now, I live on the outside of my skin in a lot of ways. There's some stuff I have no problem with people knowing about because hey, I think the whole lace curtain Irish shit is bullshit. Look at the state of the Catholic Church right now, and you KNOW it's bullshit. If you don't talk about the bad stuff, it keeps on happening. I talk about it when people do lovely things for me. I talk about how awesome my friends are (because they are). I don't talk about some stuff because it's private; there's information you need and information you don't, and that's that. When I tell a story, I don't tell people the stuff that I don't think they need to know.

Specific example: the Jim Jefferies review from NYC; there were a few comments, a bit of information, that I just didn't think should be shared. Nothing gossip-worthy, nothing career-impacting, just stuff I don't think anyone else needed to know. Just because he's a public figure doesn't mean every moment in public is for every member of public's consumption. It's like my view on charity--it's a private matter. No one needs to know what I give or how I give it. It's not charity if you're doing it for the laurels. And I'm sure as hell not going to i.d. my internet fuck buddies--what passes between us is a private matter. I don't give a damn what you know about my kinks--theirs, however, are a confidence.

Anyway, I am pretty open about what is going on in my life, particularly the struggle at home. It's difficult; I am dealing with an elderly parent whom I love but who has also taken over my life. Dear friends--GOOD friends, beloved friends, decent human beings--have told me to get the fuck out and leave her and my uncle to their own devices and demise, to take care of myself and forget about it. I cannot do that; I cannot abandon my mother. Whatever emotional abuse and pain she has inflicted on me over the years (and it has been horrible and awful, and there is a part of me that hates her passionately), while she emotionally abandoned me years ago because she was afraid of the child she brought into this world--afraid because I was everything she wanted me to be and so very much like her, yet without the horrible fetters her family put on her, and because she was afraid, she put fear in me... *sigh* In short, because my mother is human and didn't have herself for a parent, she made mistakes. Physically, she never abandoned me. Whenever I have needed something of a tangible nature, she has done her best to provide--a place to live when my ex took off (and when he came back, so she knew I was safe), and stuff... whether an extra $50 to get me through until payday, or paying for my drum kit (my Xmas pressie, Gods love her), she has been there.

That doesn't make any of this process easy. I want my life back. I want to be living on my own, as a functioning, independent adult, responsible only for myself and the things I WANT to do--like writing and performing. I want to be in a relationship, but how the fuck do I get involved with someone when I can't give the relationship 100%?

Now, I have been open with him about what's going on. There has been no information shared on his part. I know nothing about his family, nothing about his job, I know what town he lives in and that he has a roommate. Oh, and that he won't bring a woman back there because the walls are paper thin. *rolls eyes* Please.

So, after all this bullshit--and him saying that we hadn't met because we had no place to go afterwards and he didn't want to fuck me (his term, not mine) in a motel--and him pressuring me to tell him what I wanted and didn't I think we had potential, I threw down. I said, "Maybe. I won't know unless we meet."

And got the run-around and a lot of fucking excuses. He got pissed when I quoted his own words back to him. Made the point that he said he's not looking for a fuck buddy, but is never in regular contact. That he only gets in touch when he's horny. That I knew nothing about him. That I have half a dozen men and a bunch of chubby chasers on POF who want to fuck me.

All of a sudden I was being a bitch and twisting his words.

I'm feeling very, very bitter right now, and I think it's time to give up on the idea of finding a relationship. I know I've said this before, but... *sigh* I think it's time to go to Plan B for having a family, and stick with the IM fuck buddies. At least there are no lies, no illusions, no bullshit, no one trying to manipulate me into being something I'm not. I wish to Hell there was a man out there with whom I could be open and just be me with, and be together. Seriously. It just pisses me off that I accept people--everyone in my life--for WHO THEY ARE. I don't ask anyone to promise me things they can't give, I don't ask for anything I'm not willing to give. Why the hell haven't I found a partner who can give me the same?

So much for dreams. Better to spend my time on my work--at least I can give my characters happiness.

Hugs accepted gratefully.

Shooting the Black Dog, Part 7: Mother's Little Helper

Well, I may have jumped the gun on the bipolar issue, and I gave myself the clue I may have needed to solve the problem.

I commented earlier in one of the Black Dog posts about medication--the fear of the loss of efficacy of the meds because it has happened before. You want hell... being at war with your own mind and every thing that you try to fix it stops working after a while... it's why the idea of needing the Xanax more has had me freaking. What had me even more upset was the idea that the Effexor's efficacy may be earing off. I've been on Effexor XR since 2003--it's been the best fucking drug I have ever taken for this mess that is my brain.

Well, I had a little brainstorm the other day. My doctor upped my dosage last February after the suicide attempt, from 150 mg to 225 mg., and lucky me, they didn't make a caplet that size, just a horse pill. So, after a bit of an argy-bargy with the doctor, I got him to prescribe three capsules per day to make up the dosage. (Didn't help that the fucking 226 mg horse pills, even though generic, weren't covered by my worthless health plan, so instead of $10/month for the generic 75 mg or 150 mg capsules, it would have been $45. I shit you not. May not sound like a lot of money, but when you add in the money for the inhaler, the Singular, the levoxyl, the other inhalers... the supplements that are no longer covered by the fucking tax-free account... Yeah, the meds cost keep climbing.)

One of the things that can happen with broken switches in the head, because they are chemically activated, is that too much medication is as dangerous as too little. I have gone through this before, usually with the thyroid.

Yeah, the thyroid. That which has fucked up SO MUCH. *slams head on the desk*

So, if the thyroid--which has dicked things around so badly before--has stabilized, perhaps, just perhaps, thought my thinking brain, perhaps it's the OTHER head med that's off now. *BING* Lightbulb appears over the redhead. And because of the way my med is being administered, I can do this without involving the doctor to see if the hypothesis is correct. (And go back to the higher dosage if the lower causes problems.)

And the other part of this is that I may have to vary the dosage at different times of the month. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I am the living chemistry experiment, and with the exception of the occasional indulgence of marijuana, all of it legal.

Sad. But better than another attempt to check out. I came too close to success last time, and succeeding would mean failing at world domination, and that would utterly fuck things up. ;-)

It's not even that I fear Death; I met him once, back in '95, while I was dealing with the aftermath of the miscarriage. The ex was being his completely utter dickhead of a self, I was going through hell, housesitting for a friend (which was what kept me from checking out--the thought that she'd have to come home to a corpse. Just a complete violation of hospitality, and when having to chose between relieving extreme soul pain by violating the most ancient of courtesies and honoring hospitality, well, I just had to take the course of honor. Because I'm funny that way). Anyway, the episode got so bad, I started hallucinating. Or perhaps I was seeing what was really there, who knows? I know enough about the subconscious and filters and the human need to deny reality to believe that anything that can unhinge the modern mind is screened out, which would make the mad people really the sane people because they had a real grasp of what was there, but then... that's crazy talk. ;-)

ANYWAY... at the lowest moment, when I was right on the edge, Death was there in the doorway, waiting like a lover, arms open, a figure of light, and I knew that if I stepped into his embrace, there would be no more pain. It would all be over--the pain would finally end. And this was the only lover I could ever trust 150% not to hurt me. All I had to do was surrender.

I am not good at surrender. You may have figured that out about me. While I do have a submissive side, I am definitely on the equal footing/dominant side of the sexual spectrum. I wanted to cross the room--I wanted the release he was offering. But I also knew the price of surrender. I have never, ever been so perfectly poised in balance between life and death as I was at that moment. Of course, I chose to fight on. Because I'm like that--I never take the easy way.

I can't say I regret the choice; there will come a day when he returns, and it will be my time to surrender, and I hope I'm at the age where it's been so long since I've had it, I welcome the attention of a young man. ;-)

(Yes, I find my own drama highly amusing. I have to. If I didn't, I'D BE DEAD. So laugh along with me, will ya?)

But I digress...

Since the gastric bypass, I am not supposed to take large tablets because my stomach tissue is a bit delicate: the bottom part, where all the acid lives (the stuff that breaks down everything), is cut off, so it's harder to digest things. It's why reputable gastric bypass programs require you to go to a nutritionist and attend support group meetings--so you learn the proper way to eat after surgery so you can stick to the program and actually have some weight loss success, not just in the short term, but so you can keep the blubber off.

Of course, with my elevated stress level over the past few months, things have fallen by the wayside. Like it or lump it, I'm going to have to cut back my coffee intake. (My internal four-year-old is on the floor, throwing a massive tantrum at the moment, kicking and screaming, and insisting this will not happen. I will spank the little bastard and knock 'im into line. Because it's my INNER four-year-old. :-) I'm also going to have to get back on an eating schedule--I've skipped breakfast too much of late, completely gotten off my Greek yogurt kick, and we won't talk about all the missed supplements.

Argh.

And the insomnia. And the headaches. And the mood swings.

Argh.

And it's winter time, so all I am craving is comfort food. Luckily, my idea of comfort food is stuff that I've worked pretty hard to adapt to healthier versions, and I happen to be an amazing fucking cook, if I do say so myself. (Can I just say how flattered I was when one of my baristas, when I was talking about holiday baking, raved about the Guinness mac 'n' cheese--an experiment, the very first attempt. You know you're good when... ;-) *sigh* So it's time to put up a bit pot of beef stew and Guinness mac & cheese (with three cheeses & Greek yogurt mixed in, and don't forget the grilled chicken... now I'm hungry, dammit).

So, my game plan... because I am not going to let the Black Dog win...
1. Cutting back the Effexor dosage to 150 mg a day & taking it ON SCHEDULE.
2. Remembering my multi-vitamin. ON SCHEDULE.
3. Eating a PROPER breakfast. BEFORE 11:00 a.m.
4. Ass BACK in the gym.

Four easily achievable things, the combination of which should get me down to a size 20 by April and a smaller bra band. Provided I can get my brain to function through the fog of anxiety and residual depression and stress. *slams head on the desk* So tired of being told how strong I am, and that if anyone can conquer this, it's me. I'd be good with Prince Charming rescuing me right now, even if it was just for a weekend and a long, hard shagging. Seriously. I'd never be comfortable with a permanent rescue--I really prefer standing on my own two feet, and don't trust anyone trying to solve my problems for me. Life doesn't work that way.

But I'd take a short-term rescue... a little pampering... possibly involving a hot tub, champagne (optional), lots of Lush bath bombs & massage bars, a king size bed and a lot of sex... Yeah, that would work.

*sigh* IF ONLY!

Although... going to the gym means exposure to... muscles. Muscles. On men. Oooooooooo... *swoon* *dreamy smile* Sweaty, hard working muscles... Lickable, kissable, delicious MUSCLES... OK... motivation acquired. Most women, offer 'em chocolate for motivation. Me? SCENERY. Loooooooove muscular arms... forearms and biceps. And thighs... *sigh* Rugby Boy... The thighs on that man... (we won't talk about his other parts and the great ink; there's a reason I kept the pics. And the vid!) *swoon* Yeah, I can forego carbs for the joy of muscles. And the chance of getting a nice set of 'em nekkid!

Rented Love

OK, I have question: why is it OK for men to go to a prostitute or a whorehouse, but it’s not OK for women to pay for it?

I’m serious here.

Did anyone ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, we’d like a little action without all the fucking baggage—without having to deal with you complaining or snoring or farting or scratching your balls first thing in the morning. Ever think about that?

Jesus H. Christ, it GRIPES me! All this bullshit about sex toys, etc.—did you ever stop to think it’s because you don’t have to praise a dildo? You don’t have to tell a vibrator that it’s OK when the batteries run out a little too soon, you don’t have to soothe a dildo's ego if it doesn’t fit just right—you can just throw the fucking thing out and buy another. AND they come in multiple sizes so you've got options, depending on your mood.

Sometimes, however, it's nice to have a little human interaction that also doesn't require soothing an ego or putting your own needs aside, and then... then, I see the point of rented love.

So I’m all for legalizing prostitution—just make sure it goes BOTH ways, dammit.

In Praise of Men... or a Question of Taste

She's as sweet as Tupelo honey...

She's an angel of the first degree

She's as sweet as Tupelo honey

Just like the real thing from the bee - "Tupelo Honey," Van Morrison

This one is for all my crushes, and my favorite barista, the Graverobber. ;-)

I am (in)famous for my use of language, both in the written and spoken form. I'm someone you piss off at your own risk because I WILL verbally rip your heart out and serve it to you (unless I love you, and then I will take a deep breath, walk away, calm down, and then come back and discuss it with you. And it will suck for both of us because we'll end up crying and hugging and Having a Moment), especially in traffic.

Now, as erudite as I can be in a public forum (such as this) or in a debate over a serious issue, I am quite possibly the most foul-mouthed driver on the road. Behind the wheel, I progressed from "cocksucker" to "motherfucker" to "cunt." I love all three of those words. They are lovely, ugly words, and I have thoroughly embraced them.

And, lest someone think the embracing of the c-bomb is merely the influence of a Certain Australian Gentleman, I'd like to assure you that I have been using that one for a while in traffic, much to the chagrin of St. Teresa. Speaking of Mr. Celebricrush, why do critics use the expression "foul-mouthed?" It sounds so stupid--"foul" doesn't refer to language; it refers to a state of physical decay. I mean, I'd understand if he had rotten breath (he didn't when I met him), but his language... Give it a break and grow the fuck up. As George Carlin said, "It's only words."

So, that leads me to a funny moment last week in Nova Scotia. Now, understand that Vicki has two daughters, ages 12 & 15, so she is used to trying to keep her language clean. While she can cuss with the best of them, there are still a few she doesn't use. The c-bomb is one of 'em. And, like so many women, she really hates it.

Well, it was in the morning, and she had the C-100 morning show on (pop station in Hfax--blech!), and they did a teaser gossip lead-off with, "Guess who website Cougar World has offered $1 million to be their spokesperson!" And I just shuddered.

See, Cougar World advertises on Plenty of Fish. Out of curiosity, I clicked on their ad. I was potentially interested until I saw the word "cub."

Yeah. "Cub."

Evidently, this is the term being used for a younger man dating an older woman. Now, I guess it's better than "gold digger" (what they call the girls dating older men) or "trophy," but CUB? It really turned my stomach. And I said this to Vicki with that look of complete, utter distaste I get--you know the one, it looks like someone has held something incredibly foul under my nose (there's that word again!).

Well, Vicki looked at me with complete incredulity and said, "You are crazy about a comedian that regularly drops the c-bomb, and YOU'RE OFFENDED BY THE TERM 'CUB'?!? You have GOT to be kidding me!"

She was genuinely amused at my distaste. My response was, "The c-bomb is one of the oldest curses in English. Shakespeare uses it [Henry V, for one, and a few other places as well]. It refers to a body part; it has a great effect in bed during sex. It has a use. But 'cub?' It's so... so... INELEGANT! So... TACKY!"

And Vicki just shook her head at me. She is probably still shaking her head.

See, I have an issue with the whole battle between the sexes. I agree with Spider Robinson that it should be reduced down to a friendly, non-competitive arm wrestle (a happy bed wrestle is even better). I like men; I love their company. I have a damn good time hanging with the guys, and I really empathize with them when it comes to dealing with the more militant women on the planet. While men and women are very different in how they deal with some things and how they communicate--part of it due to socialization, part of it due to physical differences (it's the whole exposed genitals vs. non-exposed genitals. I'll go into that some other time)--for the most part, we're not that different. In the end, both sides need to be understood and loved and accepted.

And respected.

Today's epigram is from one of my all-time favorite love songs. In Long December, my favorite scene, and the one love scene, is choreographed to this song, when Nate surprises Rebecca with a candlelit dinner at home, and they end up slow dancing and making love to this tune. Of course, I always change "she" to "he" in my mind, especially when I picture the man who was the model for Nate.

Because as raunchy as I get, I am very much enamoured of men. I love them. Love to look at them, talk to them, touch them... I've had an orgasm just from a kiss from a cherished lover and there is nothing so awe-inspiring and moving to me as my lover, naked, in front of me. Aroused, even more so because I know I've had something to do with that.

One of the most moving moment in Jim Jefferies (yeah, yeah, I know... always with the Jim Jefferies) show was when he did a bit on foreplay. Most of it was utterly hysterical--spot on (as always) and very, very funny. Until the last line, which was one of those heart-breaking moments he is so incredibly good at. He sums up a man's need with one line: "All we need is YOU." And the delivery... he could have had every single straight woman in the room right then and there. I hope that is on Alcoholocaust--being able to watch his facial expression during the delivery of that line alone will be worth the cost of shipping from England. (And the charity auction proposal is still on the line if I get multiple copies of the DVD, but proceeds will be going to disabled vets in the U.S., Canada and the UK. THROW DOWN!)

While I will say, yeah, I need a bit of the kissing, touching, etc. part of sex, I also I know that need--the need just to see my man naked and near, his warmth, his eyes... that moment. And for me to get to that point where I'm ready and waiting and wanting... there is so much emotion that goes into it, such emotional commitment, even if it is just for a night... For me to open myself up to another human being like that, it takes a measure of respect with the desire--it takes an insight, a glimpse of the soul of the person I'm opening my secret and sacred places to. That's actually the one bit of psychic talent I will lay claim to--I can read souls, and I know when the person I am with is a worthwhile soul or empty.

The word "beautiful" is so seldom applied to men, and it bothers me because I find so many of the men in my life beautiful--it's not just about their appearance, either. It's about their eyes, their voice, their intelligence, their spirit, their soul... all of the elements that combine to make the incredible human being who is gracing my life. I repeat my earlier statement: I LOVE MEN. Not just all that is good about you, either--I love all your exasperating, frustrating silliness--your illogic that develops when you're little boys (and I am one of the few women I know who truly wants a son--I LOVE dealing with small boys because of their infallibly illogical logic when they get into trouble) and stays with you. The vulnerability that lays beneath your strength. The glory of your smile. The sparkle of mischief in your eyes. How beautiful you are naked and wanting, eager... Gods, is there anything more moving than a man during an orgasm? And afterwards... the sleepy warmth of your arms, your scent...

How the best of you struggle to do what is right. The protectiveness over those you love. Even the walls you put up to Be a Man about things... All the contradictions and complications that go into you breathtaking darlings who claim to be such simple creatures. Love every bit of it. Cherish it. Ache to have that back in my life. It's why I'm willing, in a fight, to shut my mouth and back off and calm down before going on. It's why I'm willing to give the benefit of the doubt. It's why I've never cheated. It's why... *sigh* It's why I'm such a fool when I'm in love.

So that's why the word "cunt" can fall from my lips, but "cub" makes me want to wash my mouth out with bleach. To denigrate men the way that some of the less enlightened of their gender have denigrated women... I can't do it.

If I had a religion, it would go against it.

Till next time, my darlings,

Your Empress

Why do they that call it THAT?

I have a cat. Most people know this. I refer to Piddy Pat at my "four-legged child," and am forever grateful I don't have to worry about paying for college.

I like my cat. Actually, I love her dearly, but I also like her. She's an odd little creature--unbelievably beautiful, independent, loyal, and highly entertaining. (There are two reasons people have cats: company and entertainment. Piddy by no means ever attains the level of pure feline showmanship that the Luckster does, but then, she's female. It's the whole Bast-groove that female cats get on.)

Anyway, cats have no concept of privacy. None what-so-freakin' ever. I have friends who, whenever they try to enjoy themselves, have to make sure the cats are NOT in the bedroom (or wherever they happen to be hoping to shag) because the cats will come and watch. One of them purrs in encouragement. The other... well...

I deal with a similar issue, although I am currently without a partner (sort of. Long story. Potential Paramour is heating up and may have to disappear from the blog; we shall see), my sex drive is that of a cat in perpetual heat.

*sigh* You know that whole "sexual peak" thing? Considering what a ridiculously horny kid I was in high school and early 20's, I had really hoped that the whole "sexual peak" thing would be a case of hit the peak and slide down into the oblivion of mentalpause.

No such fucking luck.

A woman's sexual peak is supposed to happen around 35. Now, maybe I'm just a late bloomer, but every time I think I've hit the peak and have started a lovely slide into the valley, I find myself on top of another mountain. Now, this is not necessarily a bad thing. Not necessarily. The problem comes when you can't find a partner who can match your desire levels. And your kink levels. Yeah. I mean, I don't need it to be a porn show--for fuckssake, I LIKE TO FUCK! Just good, plain, old-fashioned fucking--kiss, feel up, get hot, strip each other, go down on each other, explore a bit, and then, LET'S FUCK! Slide it in, go to town, both have a good hard cum, cuddle up, and sleep, wake up, suck, repeat.

That works for the daily routine (with the occasional blow job in the car, shag on the couch, anal in the shower... stuff like that, y'know?). It's the "healthy diet" part of the sexual relationship. The kink.. the kink is the hot fudge sundae, the prime rib, the lobster... the $100 bottle of tequila... it's the treat that reminds you how much fun life really is. It can't be the daily diet because your body and mind can't take that level of stimulation all the time--like a really fatty diet which will enlarge your waistline, liver and cause other horrible things, kink all the time isn't good for you.

MY OPINION.

Wanking is a necessity. I don't care if I'm in a relationship (I think I actually masturbate more when I'm with someone because I'm constanty aroused); I need to get off on a regular basis. I need for my body and brain to explode and not be able to anything but moan and shake for a few seconds that feel like eternity, and honestly, that rarely happens with a partner. This is not (necessarily--using that word a lot today) his fault. Sometimes it is--if you're fucking a selfish prick who doesn't give a shit, then yeah, it's his fault for being selfish and yours for putting up with him--but most of the time, it's just that you know your needs beterthan he does.

So I get myself off on a fairly regular basis. I don't need a man to make me late for work; I have toys to help there. I also have a cat who feels the vibrator is a competitor for Mom's attention and affection and feels she needs to remind me that she has a nicer purr.

Picture this: lying on the bed, vibe on the button, hands on the nips (or one hand on a nipple and the other holding relevant literature), the big build is coming, finally got just the right image to send me over... and I open my eyes to find myself nose-to-nose with a confused, slightly hurt kitty who wants to know why Mom has allowed something else that purrs in her bed.

Yeah. There is a reason I call her my four-legged child. And, like someone with kids, I have learned to compensate. I have found a way to balance the porn, play with the nipples, keep the vibe in place, keep the fantasy in place, and soothe the insecure kitty, while still managing a mind-blowing orgasm.

What can I say, I am multi-talented. I am.

Once the vibrator is turned off, Piddy fucks off and leaves me alone to enjoy the rest of my wank. I don't use a vibrating dildo, so she's OK with it. That part just confuses and annoys her, particularly the thrashing, so I get a little privacy there.

So this is my question: WHY THE FUCK DO THEY CALL A WOMAN'S VAGINA A "PUSSY"?

I don't get it.

I mean, I have a pussy--she weighs six and a half pounds, is covered in soft, silky fur, hates being wet, and purrs. Usually, she smells good. I have no clue what my cunt weighs, it has hair that will never be called silky unless it's been rubbed with a massage bar, and is only really happy when it's wet. About the only thing they have in common is that I try to keep it smelling good and the muscles toned.

There is no physical resemblance. Cats are beautiful creatures... cunts are... well... I think they're ugly I mean, I'm not a lesbian. The first time I was faced with the prospect of going down on a woman in my wilder, younger experimental days, my internal reaction was, "You have GOT to be fucking kidding me. That thing is NASTY!"

A cock is a beautiful thing (especially a cut one)... lovely velvety skin at the tip, veins, ridge... lovely to taste and touch and play with. A cunt... I get why some guys don't like to give oral sex. Not all women are exacting in their hygeine. The smell... not always lovely and enticing. If you've eaten the wrong thing lately, it can definitely make a difference in the taste, and one should keep flossing in the bathroom, nuff said.

There is no mystery on how to operate a cock. (Well, no mystery for me. Every man has different likes and dislikes, every man has a different little spot that will make him go wild, but the basics are the same--lick, suck, swallow, repeat steps one and two, and spread.) Operating a cunt... every woman is different. I know this because of the techniques guys have tried on me that have made other women go insane, and just made me want to throw up and throw him out.

Little point, gents: nipples are for sucking, clits are for licking. Remember that, please, if ever you present yourself for Your Empress's pleasure.

The way I discovered that I am probably the straightest woman on the planet is, after the first cum happened during a two girl threesome, after she'd eaten me, my reaction was, "Was that all?" I mean, I was expected to be satisfied.

I wasn't.

I mean, it was nice--felt good, appreciated the effort and all--but I had three holes, two of which really needed filling. NEEDED. Not just wanted, NEEEEEEEEEEDED.

Made me a bit cranky, and was glad it was a threesome because he was hard and ready. I think I hurt her feelings a little (not that I cared at that point), but I made it clear I wanted him and wanted him NOW.

I'm a simple creature.

And there's the other reason I have a problem with the cunt being called a pussy--cat's have zero patience. Anyone who has a cat will tell you, a cat has NO CONCEPT of later--they're like kids that way. A cat does not say, "meow." A cat says, very clearly, "NOW!"

A cunt, however, must be patient. That's where we have the advantage over men--a cock shows when it's wanting, visible for the world. A cunt, tucked safely within its folds, does not (at least, if you're wearing clothes).

What a lot of people forget is that, when we're conceived, we have all the building blocks for both sets of sexual organs--it's why we get hermaphrodites. When the chromosomes sort it out and the sex is determined, you either get ovaries or testicles (which means we all have balls), both get holes (one is just actually useful for more things than fluids and marking territory).

What happens to the erectile tissue becomes the interesting part.

See, with men, it gets spread over the head of the cock, and depending on how a guy is shaped, that can be a lot of real estate. And, with no exceptions that I've encountered (although I'm willing to be educated), the head is the most sensitive part, and if you know what you're doing, it's the only acceptable, popular and desired head game in a relationship.

*insert rimshot here*
Wait, I thought we were talking about...
GET ON WITH IT!

For women... NOT so much real estate. Instead, all of that erectile tissue is concentrated into a little button, a tiny knob, that, like a uncircumcised cock, has some protection around it, and when excitement ensues, it becomes engorged.

Yes, guys, women get wood.

And it's annoying! I walk around most days, and if I was a guy, I'd have been locked up as a deviant by this point. Seriously! And it happens for no discernible reason that I can figure--I mean, the beat of the song is correct, and all of a sudden, *BING* Hello! Someone's awake!

It's annoying, dammit, because it's not like it's exactly easy to take care of it. Not like I can just casually reach down and rub it off for a bit--it takes me a while! And after a while it just starts to ache, and I get that glazed look... I swear, I'm not on drugs, I'M JUST FUCKING HORNY!

And I still don't get why they call it a pussy.

Oh, wait... yeah...

NOW!

Empress Abroad: Evening with Jim Jefferies, Part 3: Anatomy of a Celebricrush

Celebricrush: Strong, inexplicable attraction felt towards a famous person with whom one has no direct connection. [Yeah, a no-brainer of a definition, but WTF, had to be done.]

Theme songs for the evening:

"All These Things That I've Done" by The Killers
These changes ain't changin' me/the gold-hearted boy I used to be
When everything's lost, the battle is won
All these things that I've done...
Time, truth, heart...
If you can't hold on,
Hold on."

"She" by Green Day
She... she's figured out all her doubts were someone else's point of view.
Additional tracks for the soundtrack: "Absolute Beginners" (David Bowie), "Long Road to Ruin" (Foo Fighters), "Better Days" & "Red-headed Woman (Bruce Springsteen), "The Turning Away" & "Learning to Fly" (Pink Floyd); and a few others I'm forgetting

OK, so I've been yammering on about Jim Jefferies for a couple of weeks (well, actually for a couple of months), and the upside of it is that all of my friends who have had to listen to me have also got to see and hear Jim's material (clips via You Tube or the DVD "I Swear to God"--I won't let "Contraband" out of my hands), and everyone has had a damn good laugh.

Because he's fucking hysterical.

Now, I'm not going into an analysis of his performances--either the live show I saw the other night OR the recorded performances available. (Note for everyone paying attention: my birthday is ONE MONTH from today; "Alcoholocaust" will be released TWO DAYS AFTERWARDS in the U.K. And if I get multiple copies, I'll auction off the extra and donate the proceeds to kidney disease research [you know why]. If there is another extra copy, proceeds will go to the charity Jim gave the proceeds for his last Fringe show. Sorry, it's 3:45 a.m. and I'm not doing the research now.) You want performance analysis (ever notice that "anal" is the first part of "analysis." Note to self: research etymology of "analysis" and "anal." Got to be a reason), go read Part 1 of An Evening With Jim Jefferies on this blog.

This post is going to analyze the whole Celebricrush thing.

Now, I am 42. I know I don't act it; that's deliberate. I grew up a long, long time ago--it sucked, it was boring, and I said to fuck with being a grown-up. Grown-ups are assholes--fucking stupid jack-offs who are so self-involved and self-important that they don't remember the joy in life. Adults... *shrugs* being an adult is a slightly different story. I do consider myself an adult--I have a job that I go to on a regular basis that I actually love (well, for the most part, when people aren't pissing me off with their fucking ridiculous passive aggressive games. I mean, PLEASE! Don't you have something better to do with your life than make mine difficult? And seriously, what rational human being would be stupid enough to get into a pissing contest with me? Really. OK, I'll stop bitching), I have responsibilities that I attempt to take care of, I pay my bills as close to on time as possible, and I remember to feed the cat, fill the gas tank, and take my medication on time 9 days out of 10. I try to be compassionate, not break the laws I think are sensible, eat healthy, seldom drink these days, and do my best to be a good friend. I see my doctor, check my blood chemistry levels when I start feeling things go off, and do my best to help my mother in all her drama.

Because of the life I've led, I also go to therapy from time to time. And while it was not my fault that I was abused, it is my responsibility to heal and not take out my pain on others. I call it the Path of Compassion, the most important part of taking the Road Less Travelled. See, breaking the cycle of abuse is not enough. You also have to heal your soul and learn how to love and trust again.

This... this is not easy. There are days I think it is utterly, completely fucking impossible. I got back into the dating game about a year and a half ago. I actually started on a BBW-specific site; that was a fucking disaster. Not only did a schlub I'd dated a few years back try to get in touch with me (Gods, THAT is a story and a half! But for another time), the first member of the Strap-on Frustration Club (I was introduced to the term "pegging" today by a friend; never knew what it meant) was found on there, and it just wasn't working.

It's the self esteem thing. See, I dealt with the worst part of Fat Girl Syndrome a few years ago, long before surgery--the whole self esteem issue. I like myself. Actually, I really love myself. I'm pretty fucking cool, damn smart, incredibly talented, a decent human being, and a great lay most of the time. I don't want to be anyone else.

So I switched to Match.com. Argh. What a waste of fucking time--aside from all the scammers, Edwad showed up in a search. I freaked. FREAKED. Damn, I wish he'd die. Just a wasted of space on the planet; I wouldn't even wish that loser on Sarah Palin, but then, they'd probably get along famously and share their guns. *shudder* Christ, I'm skeeved at the thought. *gag*

There was another site in there; again, waste of time. Met a couple of guys, one of them nice, went nowhere. And then Plenty of Fish, whereon Phil was encountered, and it was decided that Your Empress was NOT ALLOWED NEAR BRITISH MEN EVER, EVER AGAIN.

*sigh* It's a pity. I love Brit Boys... the accent. The mischief... the fucking. Mmmmmm... so very good in bed. Never met a Brit Boy who didn't have a kink in his soul that translated into the bedroom. Deliciously translated... Yeah. OK, head out of the panties, and back in reality. The problem is that most of them are utterly fucking mental--it's really easy to forget when you're in the middle of incredible, amazing sex that you're from two VERY different cultures, with very different ways of communicating and ideas about what is acceptable. Argh.

But the sex... the sex was gooooooooood. So very, very gooooooooooooooood. If only it didn't leave such scars on the soul.

So, after Mr. Phil, I was pretty badly damaged. I mean, I had to confront a LOT of shit after that collapsed about me as a woman and as a person. And I had to really face my sexuality.

Now, as I've mentioned, I grew up Catholic. Had twelve years of Catholic school. Raised by a single mum who lived an exemplary life--she dated, but I never saw a strange man in my mother's bed. I think this is a good thing for a kid. Sex is an adult thing--kids don't need to know about it.

Mum had some pretty old fashioned ideas about sex, at least as she communicated them to me. I was told I was to remain a virgin until I was married. There was a problem with this, however: I had read Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Sex But Were Afraid to Ask at the age of 11--definitely an eye opener!--and had also read most of the letters in the Forum section of the Penthouse magazines under my grandfather's bed and the reader stories submitted to Hustler, which my uncle kept under his bed.

Yep, I'd had an education. And a half! I'd also discovered masturbation fairly early on (I think I was like four, or something), and never forgot how to make myself feel good.

Interest in boys happened at some point, and of course, it started with a crush on a celebrity.

Now, my Celebricrushes have never been mainstream. Never. See, back when I was 9 or 10, the big show was The Hardy Boys. Now, most of the girls went for blonde singer Shaun Cassidy. Not me. Nah, I wanted Parker Stevenson, the older brother, with his lovely blue eyes and greater intelligence.

Next was Dirk Benedict as Starbuck in the original Battlestar Galactica. I wrote my first ever fanfic at the tender age of 12. Yeah, I liked the bad boys even back then.

When I was 13, I began my lifelong habit of bucking trends. Instead of falling for whoever was the flavor of the month, some safely packaged Tiger Beat baby (I think Scott Baio was considered "hot" at that point; I will refrain from commenting), I fell head over heels in teenage lurrrve with Peter O'Toole.

Now, this was 1981. We had cable and The Movie Channel, and they were running an ad for a film called The Stunt Man. Just like Lord of the Rings changed my life, so did The Stunt Man. It's a film about a fugitive, Cameron, a Vietnam vet who stumbles on to a movie set whilst being pursued by the police, and must take the place of a dead stuntman so that the director, Eli Cross, can keep his location for the final three days of shooting.

If you have never seen this movie, RENT IT. Netflix it, buy it--Criterion released it on DVD. If you're in my neck of the woods, I will be happy to share my copy with you--Peter O'Toole is riveting, and I will never forgive the Academy for giving Robert DeNiro the Oscar that year. After seeing that film, I knew I had to be an actor and a director.

The next Celebricrush was David Bowie. I took a lot of shit for loving David Bowie--the famous cry, "BOWIE'S A FAG!" echoes in my ears still. Didn't matter--his music kept me alive during high school and was my portal to exploring stuff I would have never been open to without him. I've seen him live four times, and although Glass Spider was a bit lifeless, all of his shows have been amazing. If I ever get married again, "Absolute Beginners" will be the wedding song. "Labyrinth"... Gods, I want to adapt that for Broadway. It would be so amazing...

Anyway, I spent my teenage years sharing my affections between the two of them.

When I was married, I crushed on Mr. Spock. Not Leonard Nimoy--Mr. Spock. He was a unique creature in my experience--a logical male. (I did say I was married at the time.)

And then came Harvey Keitel. *sigh* Yeah, that one was intense. I applied to the Actor's Studio MFA directing program because of him. Got the news I'd been accepted on his birthday. It was nice.

I didn't go. By that time, my health was in the toilet, my psyche was severely damaged, and theatre... theatre was not an option at that point in my life.

And now... along comes Jim Jefferies.

So let's talk about Celebricrushes and why they happen. I mean, on the surface, they're creepy. (My opinion.) You have this attraction to someone you have never, ever met and probably never will. (Although I have met a few of my Celebricrushes, including Peter O'Toole and Harvey Keitel, albeit briefly.) It's one thing when you're a kid--it's safe to feel sexual attraction to an adult who is not a part of your daily life. When you're my age... well...

A bit weird.

Unless you're me. See, I find the ability to crush on someone (and I have a couple of "real life" crushes, lovely gents whom I deal with socially who just make my heart & other bits of my anatomy flutter) to be a really hopeful thing. After all the shit and bad things and bad relationships and stupid choices I've made, I can still have romantic daydreams, un-filthy desires, and yearning for a man.

I joke a lot about sex--honestly, I find it pretty damn funny--but then, I joke about most things that are important to me. It's my first line of defense. What we get up to in the pursuit and enjoyment of carnal pleasure... Yep, it's pretty damn funny. However, there is nothing more sacred to me than the sharing of my body, and I am luckier than most people in that I am really open-minded about sexual practices. I don't consider anything consensual to be "deviant." Sorry, but if you're both adults in your fairly right minds and you're both into it without coercion, GO FOR IT. I mean, who fucking cares what two consenting adults get up to behind closed doors? (Or three or four or however many. Life is too short--GET LAID!) The problem for me has come in when other people get involved.

Now, as you might have gathered, I live on the outside of my skin in a lot of ways. There are things I don't talk about--I leave out details that I consider a confidence in these posts because while there is stuff I don't care about people knowing because it just involves me, there's other stuff that to reveal it would be to tell someone else's story, violate their privacy. If you haven't broken faith with me, I can't break faith with you. It's not honorable. Back to living on the outside of my skin... the problem with being an open-hearted human being is that most people are not. Most folks live in fear, and the way they deal with fear is to deny, and in their denial, they instead judge others. Yep, it's hypocritical. Yep, it's the way the world works.

But it still hurts.

I've had a lot of hypocrites in my life. And they've done a fair bit of damage. As a result, for a lot of years, I'd do anything to prevent a man from knowing I liked him In That Way. PAINFULLY, HORRIBLY shy. And so utterly deep in self-hatred for my size. Now... now I'm old and cranky and don't give a manky fuck what you think of me. And I KNOW I'm a good lay. However... getting over that horrible, ugly voice inside... the one that whispers, "You're ugly. You're horrible. No one wants you." That's a challenge.

Self-hatred is something that's been a part of my life for a long, long time. It's taken me years to realize that it's not self-imposed--it's been put on me by others who couldn't accept me because I scare the living fuck out of them. People who hated me for being able to do what they were incapable of--loving myself, being myself.

My Celebricrushes have always happened at low points in my life--at times when I was ready to give up and pack it in. At critical nexus points. Jim happened in August after a looooooooooooooooooooong, hard, awful fucking summer when I was being consumed by rage, frustration--artistic, sexual and personal--and despair. There, on the giant screen television, was this guy saying shit... I mean, I've been writing stuff in that vein (not the same material, obviously--we're two very different people from different places)... I'm talking about the attitude, the honesty, the "I don't give a shit" attitude. How many of you have heard me say, "I'm old and cranky, and I don't give a fuck." It's my mantra, my philosophy of life, my shield against all the stupid fucking imbecilic hypocrites of the world. And here, on the TV, is this FUCKING ADORABLE, I mean, really goddamned cute! hysterically funny man saying pretty much the same thing.

I've mentioned that this was the summer of breakthroughs. Part of it came from dealing with Mum's illness: realizing how badly I'd been manipulated, how much of my life had been stolen, and how I'd allowed myself to be duped into because of my own desperate need to be loved and approved of. The non-body chemistry-related trigger for February's attempt to check out was delivered by Mum; she's been the catalyst for 85% of my bouts with the Death Need, the feeling of complete, utter inadequacy and rejection that only a parent can engender in a child. She and I have such a complex and intense relationship. I do love her; I also hate her. I accept that. Right now, I have to help her untangle her life so that she can go into elder housing and I can go on with my life.

I accepted that I may never find a partner and have a family. I still can't bear to think this; it still makes me want to curl into a ball and weep like a broken child. I truly do not know if there is a man on this planet who can love and accept me for who I am, as I am. I have a great deal to offer as a partner; I am also deeply flawed. I don't have many years of fertility left, although the surgery last year and continued weight loss and commitment to my health will give me a little more time. The bottom line is that I do not want to bring a child into this world just for the sake of having a child. I do not want any baby of mine to know the pain I have known; this is why I did not have a family when I had the chance when I was married. To bring a child into an abusive, alcoholic marriage would have been the basest, most vile of betrayals--a sin beyond all sins, a continuation of the ugly cycle of abuse I'd sworn to break. A child should have two loving, committed parents; I remember what it was like to watch my mother struggle. I do not want my little one to know that pain.

Because of who I am, I will make the most ethical decision, even if it means sacrificing my own desire. Because that is what it means to be a parent. I learned that from Mum; she tried so hard to live that.

The final breakthrough... theatre. Performing. I've been writing like a fiend this past year--with One Flew Out of the Broom Closet, I finally wrote the novel I've been dreaming of for years. And it's GOOD. Damn, it's good. I LOVE the voice of Rebecca Kinsale, I love her prickly, cranky, demanding bitchery. LOVE HER! Of course, she's just an extension of me, but still... to have a story that I've been trying to write for ten years FINALLY come together... Yeah. What's been missing, however, is the part of me I have been mourning for so very long: the actor.

The last show I did was Guards! Guards! back in '07; a mixed success, more success than failure, despite the fact it was staged in the Bookstore of the Damned & Clubhouse of Retarded Gamers. I know I still have "it" as a director; however, what I didn't have was the joy.

See, theatre... any art form, really... if there is no joy in the artist's soul for the act of creation, then there's no point. It's like perfunctory sex--you might feel good, but the orgasm is just a physical release. There's no satisfaction in it, and it leaves you feeling emptier than when you began.

That joy was stolen from me. I'm not going to go into the story--it's long, it's stupid, and the person who hurt me is a useless cunt who doesn't deserve the time or the credit. She's out of my life, she's a miserable creature, and I'm glad to be done with her. And it's NOT her life--it's mine. I'm responsible for it. Doesn't matter who does what, in the end, I am responsible for my own growth, my own healing, my own everything.

The one thing I don't like about myself is my need for approval--for applause, for adulation. The need to be loved. I may not give a flying fuck what people think about me, but that doesn't mean I don't need to be loved and wanted. And honestly, it's not something I ever really feel. I mean, I do on occasion--and far more now than I ever did in the past--but still... I do not see myself as a lovable person. I identify a lot with Granny Weatherwax in the Discworld books--the bicarbonate of history, the person you call when there's a hard decision to make, when you need something impossible done... but not the person you invite to a party.

Ow. That hurt to admit. But the truth is, that's the way my life has been. When things are bad, people want me around--I'm fearless and I'll deal with it. When things are good, well, let's just say people tend to forget I exist. Unless you've been in that position, you have no idea how painful it is. So, a long time ago, I started doing stuff on my own: going to movies, going out. Going to New York City to see Jim Jefferies. *shrugs*

I had to, though. There's a lot of common ground--again, different backgrounds, similar experiences, and a similar outcome, at least on stage. And it meant the world to see someone saying those things, getting angry, being honest, BEING FUNNY!!!!! and being applauded and successful for it. How could I not crush on him?

Besides, he really is fucking hot.

Seeing Jim perform--and the attraction I felt--set me to thinking. Because of course, being me, I have to analyze the shit out of everything. Why did I never go through with the one-woman show? The script was GREAT. Not perfect--needed tweaking, I mean, I only did the two drafts--but it was still damn good. And it's been sitting on my hard drive for nine years. Why HADN'T I done open mic? I'd been fantasizing about getting up and just doing it for years. Why the fuck wasn't I still doing theatre?

And it all started falling into place.

So... yeah. No more excuses. No more hiding. No more. Good-bye, Darth Thespia. Good-bye, OSP. Good-bye.

I'm back.

[So that's my rambling analysis of crushes. Short form: a reason for hope, as long as you see them for what they are: a bit of necessary self-revelation, a bit of inspiration, and a jump-start for a dead heart. Taken with a grain of salt and a good sense of humor, a damn healthy, normal thing to let you know you're still alive, still kicking, and everything's gonna be all right.]

G'night, my darlings. Thank you for reading. Be well--love each other. And don't be afraid.
Much love,
Your Empress

Premature Blogulation

Well, I spoke too soon. Ex is not an ex. Good thing he didn't make it into the open mic material last night... Talk about cutting yourself off. (And no one but he and I knows why that line would be funnier than hell. And anyone intelligent and dirty enough to interpret it.)

Mood has lifted. That bothers me--how much sex affects my mood. I once had a friend say to me, "If I knew all it would take to get you to act human was to get you laid, I would have done it myself." (Mind you, he introduced me to my ex-husband for exactly that purposed--the two of them had shared digs back in the crazier parts of the 70's and had shared a hell of a lot more. He's the reason I have an issue with dating anyone more than 15 years younger than I am--having someone put an arm around your fiance, look at you while you're lying there naked [and we won't mention what else] and say, "Get 'em young and raise 'em right, eh, buddy?" makes you think twice about repeating history.)

But it HAS lifted, and without the application of external chemicals (although it is time for meds. Joy, joy... thyroid and anti-depressants make my day go forward...). Of course, the prospect of achieving a long-held fantasy tonight has a lot to do with it. Although why I'm still in the office talking to the blog and procrastinating rather than racing home, showering and prepping beats the fuck out of me.

Probably because my ability to trust is not extensive. But there's something going on with this guy... I have been so depressed at the thought of not seeing him again. I mean, the last two... no big deal. Rugby Boy was hot, hung and KINKY... shit, WHAT A STORY that night's going to make (probably not part of the stand-up--it's more like a novel episode for the Kinsale Chronicles). Ditto for Mr. Teacher (I will never be able to order a sex on the beach again with a straight face... just the thought of that night has me chortling... And I was afraid certain types of sex would be awkward after surgery... YES!) OK, I'll stop gloating about that one. I felt a little regret when it became clear they were full of shit about wanting to get together again, but it was a twinge... just a "Yeah, OK, whatev, your loss, dumbass."

This guy has gotten under my skin. Not good.

Wish I could make up my mind about love. Wish there wasn't such ambivalence. Part of me... part of me longs for partnership. Part of me hasn't got the patience to deal with my own shit, never mind someone else's.

But I like him. I actually like him. Feel like I've known him forever. Despite the fact we've been sexting each other mercilessly, the two times we've been together have been lovely--seriously lovely. Nothing spectacular--nothing over-rated chick flicks are made of--just lovely in the ordinary, comfortable sense.

Scares the livin' fuck out of me. Which is probably why I went moderately psycho and over-reacted when I didn't get an instant reply on Saturday night. *sigh* Damn PMDD. And then no reply when I called him to apologize and say that I hoped I'd misjudged him. If I hadn't hit his number by accident on the stupid touchscreen (I love my little 'droid, but it's as cranky as R2-friggin-D2) instead of my mom's boss (same prefix on their telephone number, so don't give me any shit) tonight wouldn't be happening.

OK, I am NOT going to get sentimental... I am not going to believe that Fate had a hand because this is my fucked-up comic tragedy of a life, and my luck in love SUCKS. Probably going to find out he's got a 3" dick erect and is addicted to meth and has herpes.

Which reminds me of a funny story... I have a really strict rule about not allowing exes in my life once it's over and done with, and I have all my money and stuff back (or made the dirty arsed rat fucker come through on his promises which is why Edwad was allowed to stick around until he'd done the brakes on The Beast. I lost a baby, he did my fuckin' brakes, the worthless cunt). Anyway, the only one I ever made an exception for was Irish Joe because he was my first love, and Jesus Christ and the Nailbanger Five, was I STOOOOOOPID.

Anyway, Irish Joe was making the pitch for us to get back together for the umpteenth time, and I was saying no for the umpteenth time. We'd tried it once, it hadn't worked, he'd SUCKED in bed, and I'd realized what a total loser he was, especially since he'd lost his looks and had taken too many shots to the head.
Truth.
So we're talking, and somehow got on the subject of Jews, and having dated several Jewish guys (and been married to one) and had a damn good experience with them in bed, without thinking, I said, "Mmmmmm... I do love to keep kosher."
To which his response was dead silence.
"What?" I said.
"What the fuck is THAT supposed to mean?"
Well, I really put my foot in it. "The best lovers I've ever had were Jewish guys." (This was before my long spate of Brit boys. Oooooohhhhhh, the Brit Boys... mmmmmmm... yeah. I'll take an English Banger any day. [And yes, I know the contradiction there, but the pun is so worth it.] Despite the fact that if I take a step towards a man with an English accent, my friends are going to jump me with baseball bats.)
Well, Irish Joe had a fucking fit. Mind you, he was a bigoted little bogtrotter (I can use that one; I'm a member of the tribe, and thank you, Eugene O'Neill for teaching me that one). He hated everyone and had a slur for everyone. Remind me to tell you the one about the n-bomb sometime. Irish Joe is good for stories.
ANYWAY... He explodes with, "HOW CAN YOU SAY THAT TO ME?!? I went down on ya, I tried ta make ya happy, and you like JEWS better?"
And then I put the other foot in. "Well, it wasn't meant to be a criticism, Joe. Aside from the fact they're really attentive, they're also pretty well-hung--"
At which point, he humiliated himself by saying, "I guess four inches ain't good enough for ya."

I am VERY proud to report that I did not burst out braying with laughter at that statement. Fuck knows, I wanted to. It took every ounce of self control--and thank the Gods we were on the phone because face-to-face, I wouldn't have been able to control myself. I would have been on the floor, howling. Four inches isn't enough for ANY woman, not if she's being honest, at least not if she's built like me.

I'm TALL and long. I can't have my yearly gynecological exam done by my regular doctor because my canal is deep and they don't have the long speculum in the GP's office. So while I may not know how big my cunt is (thank you, Jim Jefferies, for that image... I never knew what the pinky finger thing meant, but I agree that it's cruel, and your response is priceless), I do know that it's deep. And Irish Joe's pitiful four inches were not enough. Well, the man they were attached to was woefully inadequate--stupid, narrow-minded, devoutly Catholic, Boston Irish to the point of being handicapped, a thug, and just not a decent human being. Oh, and being six inches short that I am didn't help, either, as those were the days I wore heels.

Yes, I'm distracting myself. And now... now, I am going to commit a blatant act of faith and go home and get ready for this date. Because it's going to happen.

Right?
Right?
*deep breath*
Right.

Sluts & Studs - The Other Side

Anyone who's talked to me lately has heard that I've finally bitten the bullet and started doing stand-up after years of dreaming about it.
Yep, The Empress has returned to the stage, and this time, she ain't spoutin' Shakespeare. Be afraid. Be VERY afraid.
I'm the first person to admit that I need a good swift kick in the arse sometimes to get the fuck out of my own way. The past year has been a fresh slice of hell in so many ways; in others, it's been amazing. Aside from a lot of hard work on my issues (/end pity party), the final inspiration--that "good swift kick in the arse"--came from seeing a stand-up show on HBO, and since seeing "I Swear to God," I've managed to turn more than a few people on to Jim Jefferies.
I'll post later in the week about his comedy and why you should check him out (especially those of us feeling the unfilled void left by the loss of George Carlin, that glorious, cranky old fuck). This post is about me (hey, it's my blog, fuck off if you don't like it) and my shit.
See, I don't find Jim's stuff offensive, or even particularly revolutionary. What I dig about it is that he's saying the same kind of crazy shit that I do--the same stuff I've been writing for a long time. If you've read One Flew Out of the Broom Closet, you know that I'm the Empress of Rage--so utterly fucking fed up with stupidity and idiocy that I don't allow myself a gun because there'd be a trail of corpses every time I'd get behind the wheel of the Blue Bomber, most of them in Cambridge. Obviously, it's not THE SAME, but it's in the same vein--reflections on the foibles and follies of our own lives and the stupidity of the world. Oh, yeah, and the utter lack of concern about offending anyone, including (and especially) family and exes.
Allow me to throw a quote at you:
"They are the abstract and brief chronicle of our time. 'Twere better to have a bad epitaph than ill repute in their mouth whilst you live."
Now, Hambone is talking about The Players--the traveling troupe of actors that arrive in Elsinore, temporarily lift his depression, and allow him to expose the guilt of his mother-fucking uncle. I've always used this quote to make it clear to anyone and everyone that my life is fair game for my art--good and bad--and that's the price of being a part of my life. I actually told the most recent ex that the relationship would not appear in the act, but once it was over, it was all fair game. Needless to say, the adventures of the past week--the meeting at the beach, the adventures in the sex shop, the shopping trip... yeah. It's going to make for a GREAT story. *insert evil laugh here*
Let this be a lesson to the gents in the audience: DO NOT be a cunt taunter. Women are far more vicious than men about sexual frustration.
I don't believe that guys don't realize that cock blocking goes both ways. For fuck's sake, do you think we don't want sex? You can deny us, too. (Case in point: this past weekend. *growl* It should be illegal to promise a woman her ultimate fantasy, go through all the work of assembling the gear, and wuss out. )
So, in response to the phrase "prick tease," I am introducing the phrase "cunt taunter" to the lexicon. It doesn't have the same flow, but it's the best I've been able to come up with, and I've been trying to find a female version of this for 25+ years.
Yeah, I'm old.

http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/c110c75202/sluts-vs-studs

To go on... and the reason I invoke the title of one of Jim's regular bits as the title of this blog post... In his act, Jim Jefferies declares that, "It's easy to be a slut; it's hard to be a stud." (And as a Boston, I love how "hard" comes out as "hahhhd" in the Australian accent. Warms the cockles of my heart.) The bit goes on about the fact that he's been in the business too long to enjoy "nice girls," and how nice girls are shit in bed and why. All of it, honestly, truthful.
(There's a sadness in his face during this bit in "I Swear to God," a sadness that breaks my fucking heart. Probably because I know exactly how he feels from the other side. Another reason I am so seriously up about this guy--he's a fucking amazing storyteller. Funny, profane and brutally, viciously honest. At the end of both of his DVDs, I wanted to comfort him and fuck his brains out. Now that's talent!)
He also makes a lot of cracks in interviews and as a part of his act about his own promiscuity and encounters with STDs ("I may be the only man on the planet to high five a doctor after being told he had cancer.")
It doesn't detract from his sex appeal. Seriously--I'd do him in a second, and I have incredibly high standards (it's the laugh- and intelligence factor. Show me a man who can make me think AND laugh... insta-aphrodisiac).
Well, I'm going to disagree with Jim. Not on physical grounds--he's right there. It IS harder for a guy to be a stud in the sense of fucking a lot of women and fucking them well. In the physical sense, it IS easier for a woman to slut around. There's no guarantee of quality--you just have to be there and make the holes available. A little enthusiasm and good lubrication doesn't hurt, either.
Where it's harder for a woman to be a slut--in the conventional sense of having a lot of sexual partners and enjoying it--is in the price she pays in self esteem. Never mind the exposure to disease, the risk of violence and abuse, and the risk of losing fertility. The price you pay is in self esteem because honestly, men are fucking hypocrites.
Women are bitches--absolutely. Judgemental, evil, catty cunts, the lot of us. (Something else I have in common with Mr. J.--I do love that good, old fashioned Anglo-Saxon cuss.) Men, however, are even worse. Prissy, stupid and judgemental. Gods forbid you show a little enthusiasm in the bedroom (living room, kitchen, backseat, movie theatre...). Gods forbid you enjoy giving him pleasure because if you do, you instantly cease to be a "nice girl" and become a "dirty slut" in his eyes, and there's no love in the term.
I stopped dating "my own" (i.e. Boston Irish bogtrotters) because of this--because I couldn't relax and be myself with them. I stopped a lot of things for a long time because I was so fucking sick of being judged.
I'm tired, kids. Sick and fucking tired of hypocrisy. Tired of men who want the world and when they realize they could get it--or at least a goodly part of it--they run away because, hey, you can't be real.
I hid my profile on POF yesterday because after this weekend, I just don't have the heart for it. I'm done. Done with being honest and getting lied to and fucked around. As I held my baby cousin yesterday, it was all I could do not to weep because I know it's something I'm never going to have. Somewhere, somehow, that opportunity's been lost. There's a new guy who's flirting with me, but I really don't have any hope for it. He's a "nice guy"--and nice guys can't handle sluts.
And yeah, I embrace the label. I LIKE sex. Sod that, I LOVE sex. Sex is the happiest thing on the planet, the only time I forget how utterly stupid and hopeless life is. It's the only time I'm NOT pissed off at the world. And I like all kinds of sex (except the lesbian version. Sorry, girls, does NOTHING for me, and yes, I experimented when I was younger and made sure)--vanilla, rough, BD/SM, kinky, whatever! And I've never understood why anyone would judge someone for their sexual practices or preferences (except for pedophilia and beastiality--leave the kids and pets out of it, you scumbags). Whatever passes between two consenting adults passes between those two consenting adults. I don't understand the shame factor.
Because, honestly, I don't have any when I'm with a partner. I don't. If it doesn't feel good, I make adjustments until it does, or we try something else. Problem solved. Somehow, I missed out on the shame thing, probably because I educated myself about sex all those years ago and avoided all the Catholic bullshit. All these years later, the only regret I have is that I didn't have more of it (and that I ever allowed EdWad to suck me into his vortex of soul-sucking horror. Thank the merciful Gods for antidepressants).
And I'm willing to accept that there's something missing from my moral makeup. I don't have a problem with that assessment. There's nothing missing from my ethical makeup, and that's what really matters. I accept that if I play, there's a price to pay, and it's up to me to be sure that the price is minimal. I accept responsibility for myself and my actions--no excuses, no bullshit.
I also accept that I probably never will get married, probably never will have a family unless it's by accident or by some grace, there actually is a man out there who can accept me. It hurts... Christ on a crutch, it rips the heart out of my chest to think I'll never hold my own child and look up into the eyes of my partner and see the wonder and pride and love there for the miracle we've created together. There's always a chance, but I'm not holding my breath. I have my work and my art. Who knows? I may make a success of this writing and comedy shit. You can't have everything in this world.
I wish I had something profound or at least funny to end with, but this isn't a particularly funny post.
Time to sign off and get my shit together--dialysis run coming up and then off to open mic. Tequila, take me away.