Endings are Beginnings Too

Tonight I broke things off with Mr S.

I am sick at heart over it, but I think it had to be done. The topic of my last post just would not get out of my head. Normally I am all for communication, but how do you ask someone to feel something they obviously don't?

He wanted to talk, I made him do it over IM so I wouldn't be a blubbering mess. He said he loved me, he said he considered us more than FWB. But he didn't fight it. He didn't ask me to reconsider.

That hurts as much as anything.

I want so much to be loved. I want a man to hold my face in his hands and smile at me. I want to hear I make him happy. After two years with Mr. S I never experienced anything remotely close to it. I was just the toy he played with when the one(s) he wanted weren't available.

At the very real risk of sounding self-pitying, I don't think there are going to be any more relationships for me. Of course I am going to throw myself out there (I am already alone, so I have nothing to fear) but I don't expect anything to come of it. This failed one took 27 years to find. If it takes several tries to find a good one, at 27 years a pop, I am likely to be 81 at the youngest or maybe 108 before I have even a chance of love.

Booty Call

Mr S. has bit a rocky patch in his marriage (his woman be crazy) and there was some vague talk from him about his plans and the future. I have never once said or suggested that I want to date him full-time, nor have I ever asked for even so much as a definition of our current relationship. And yet he came out with these gems:

"As I said... I like our relationship now. Not sure where it's headed tho."

And shortly after:

"I don't think it would be fair to keep you on as part of a harem, and take on someone else as a primary either."

So what am I, chopped liver? I was noticing the other day, after he threw Pretty Eyes at me (again!), that he's really never given me any other kind of compliment. I am not fun, smart, insightful, a good friend, a good fuck, just plain pretty, or possessing of any positive qualities worth comment.

Even a one night stand gets more ego-stroking than this.

Beauty

I finally have proof that *all* men are liars.

Wait! Before I get flamed to a crisp for that, let me explain.

Not all men are liars all the time. Not all liars lie even some of the time. But eventually, all men utter at least one lie.

I know this because even Mr. S lies. He called me beautiful. Now most women take compliments like that (deserved or not) as a matter of course. Some women are pleasantly surprised by them from time to time. There are a few women, though, for whom the word just doesn't apply. I am one of them. Always have been.

I was expecting the Pretty Eyes chesnut, but then he threw that out there. What am I supposed to do with that? Pretend I don't notice that he couldn't be bothered to say it for the first two years he was fucking me?

Also, it's doubly unbelievable because right now I am literally as ugly as I've ever been. The Nexus of Evil endures and has wrought its toll on me, and everything has suffered. Skin, hair, weight, the works. So WTF is he doing saying that now?

Pretty Eyes: Redux

Mr. S keeps throwing the Pretty Eyes at me. Like, three of the last four times we've gotten together. Does he really think I'm not going to notice that he has *nothing* else positive to say about me?

I've considered bringing it up with him, but what am I going to say? "Hi, I noticed that you don't actually like anything about me, but I'd feel a whole lot better if you started lying about it."

Rake The Coals To Stoke The Fire

Or: It Burns Us, It Does!

Mr. S offered (apropos of nothing) to show me a Valentine's Day note he received from one of his other harem members. In a coup of personal brilliance, I allowed him to send the damn thing on.

Why, oh why, do I do this to myself?

It was *exactly* what I needed, reading about his emotional intimacy with another person. After a year and a half, I've still only got Pretty Eyes. I'm still Not Really A Girlfriend. She? She has "adoration", "fulfillment", "laughter and sharing", and (natch) "amazing sex".

It doesn't take a psych degree to see that I have my own baggage train of issues if I am sticking with a guy who isn't into me. In his defense, he did bring me a spiffy hand-made LED light-up V-Day card. However, I could have crawled under a rock and died when he casually asked me when the last time I received anything on V-Day was. I said, "It's been a while," and he asked "How long?" Ten years. I was 19 and a sophomore in college when Number One bought me two roses a week early because he "didn't believe in holidays." Ten fucking years. Ten years of fucking. And not one partner has thought to show me any generosity, on that day or any other.

I have always felt that it is better to be alone than in a bad relationship. But how do you call a relationship bad when it's the best you've ever had? For all his faults and failings (and there are many), no one in my life has been kinder to me than Mr. S. And yet ...

I don't think good things are supposed to feel like this.

Smash

Tonight, I mushed my middle finger between the tailgate of my truck and the windy bit on the tongue of the trailer I was about to unhook. It is bruised under the nail and sore as hell all over.

This means two [three] things:

1) Typing is going to be one handed for a while.

2) As I am left handed in general, this also means masturbation is right out.

[3) I am going to be wearing nail polish and/or gloves for a long while, as this is going to get ugly. *sigh* ]

Wanting Isn't Having, Needing Isn't Getting

Me: I feel fat today.

Mr. S: You have pretty eyes.

* * * * * *

Mr. S: How are you today?

Me: Depressed, but slogging through.

Mr. S: Why?

Me: Death by a thousand nibbles.

Mr. S: *nibble*

* * * * * *

I wonder if it's time to step away a bit from this blog. My original intent was to chronicle my pathetic attempts at connection with the world . . . lately, though, my posting has become more and more sporadic because there simply isn't anything to post.

I have no energy for reaching out. There are no more Mr. Marines, or Lawboys, or anyone else waiting in the wings. Just getting through the day takes what little give-a-shit I have, and then carves off a sliver of my soul for additional satisfaction. I am consumed by daydreams of love and tenderness, someone to caress my cheek or stroke my hair. Someone with a little give-a-shit to spare in my direction. Behind every business call, every conversation, every moment, I am just inches from crying. Hysterical, soul-wracking tears.

Tears for what never was, what never will be.

Somehow through this emotional (and financial) maelstrom I am supposed to reach out? To "date"? To "enjoy" myself? Relief these days consists of laying very still in a dark room. Realistically, what do I have to gain by putting myself through the dating wringer? I am a deeply broken woman. Wanting isn't having, needing isn't getting. Persistence, in this case, is unlikely to payoff.

My angst has been said, phrased and rephrased over the months with all it's pseudo-teenaged unoriginality. It can't be fixed, this angst of mine. The perfect Catch-22: a little love, a little give-a-shit is the salve I need, and yet so long as I need it as badly as I do none will deem me worthy to receive it.

Time to immerse myself in blackness.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...

There are moments when I consider caving to the Big Pharma dream of medico-happiness. But then I pause and wonder, If it's this bad then what's the point?

Lately I have become more and more aware of the utter futility of everything that I do. Save the planet by driving less? I don't think so. Even wrapping leftovers with tin foil leaves me in a funk. Not that my angst is environmentally derived. It's just easier to focus on the abstractly hopeless rather than the immediately hopeless.

I have recently acquired guardianship of my teenaged brother, who brings with him all of the typical joys of having a teenager around. The eye rolling, the sarcasm, the theatrics over the simplest requests. He is the best part of my life and I would do anything for him.

And yet it hits me that I really have no hope of connecting with other human beings anytime soon. Not only do I have nothing to offer a relationship, I am in an area that apparently has no single people of any age; nor could anyone possibly be interested in the hassles of trying to date or hookup around a teenager.

Lots of always/nevers there, but the fact remains that I can't expect others to do for me what I would not do for them. Including settle for mediocrity.

Dear Body

There has been a lot of "Dear Body, I love you" letters floating around lately. I have no problem with people appreciating their own bodies, so long as they look like Scarlett Johansson. For the rest of us, this is how you do a proper Dear Body letter:

Dear Body,

You alone are by far the worst aspect of my life. If I could live disembodied -- in the air, in a jar, whatever it takes -- I would do it to get away from you. In case you are confused as to why this might be, I will explain.

Starting at the bottom, I hate your feet. Your toes are hairy and your ankles are fat. If you watch TV too long, your feet swell and it makes putting on shoes again to take the dog out uncomfortable. Not to mention they are large for a woman, so even when shoes fit they don't look right.

Your legs are an abomination. Not only are your ankles fat, but so are your calves. You might as well be one tube of flesh between the knee and ankle, forget any Homeric epithets about well-turned ankles. And your veins! You're so young and already you're starting to get spider veins. It doesn't help that your skin there refuses to tan. At all. You might as well go audition for Powder: The Sibling.

Wait, we're not done with the legs. We haven't even seen the half of it. Those knees you've got are a joke. Not only do they manage to have their own rolls of fat, they are useless at the job of Knee. Forever breaking down, too sore to do this or that. It's obnoxious is what it is. Going up the leg is no better, because the nickname ThunderThighs was invented for you. Shorts are revolting on you, and impossible to fit anyway because of that weird flare you do right before the crotch.

Before we list all the fuck-ups of your snatch (get it? get it? haha), your ass is gonna some. What a pathetic excuse for a body part. Not even when you were young was this an attractive ass. It is both repulsively large and flat as a board, with a texture like cottage cheese. Nobody wants to touch that. Just seeing it nekkid has caused more than one man to soften immediately.

Now that we have that out of the way, about this snatch of yours. It's hairy. Yeah, I know no one naturally porn-star smooth, but you aren't supposed to be hairy *inside* the lips. It's freakish and impossible to shave without the risk of cutting your clit right off. And speaking of the clit, why do you have to be so damned difficult to get off? Men get bored with your "Let's savor the moment" excuses as to why it's taking so long. And speaking of taking so long, there's got to be something wrong with your scent or taste, because no one seems to want to go down on you very often. I can't tell, because your nose is also worthless (don't worry, we'll get back to that one). Before I let you off the hook, you also have to know that your tempermental nature regarding infection is a royal pain. No sugar binges or fruit juice, or you'll tip towards a yeast infection. It is the rare man who doesn't give you a bladder infection from oral sex, and god help us both if he had wine with dinner or else you'll have both a bladder infection *and* a yeast infection. Ugh.

Oh, and one other thing. I know you like sex; we both do... but just because a guy is finger-banging you doesn't mean you need to turn into Niagra Falls. Seriously, a guy once asked if we had just peed on him because you got so wet. It's gross. Stop it.

Ok, now onwards and upwards. Your whole pelvic area is a pain in the ass to clothe. Nothing fits as it should: either your ass is too big, or your hips too wide, or your belly too poochy. The beer-gut looking fat that hangs over your pants is *not* attractive. You're not a guy, you don't get a Buddha-belly. And while we're on it, the inside doesn't function too well either. Milk, vegetables, cheese, tomatoes, peanut butter, chocolate ... the list goes on and on of foods you won't digest properly. If you sit still after eating, forget about pants fitting for the rest of the day too.

Your ribcage isn't quite as revolting as the rest of you, even if it is swaddled in fat and even underneath it all still too big for a woman.

Your breasts are just kind of . . . sad. Men get excited when they hear your bra size, but it's all downhill from there. Disappointment is inevitable when they see your sagginess and stretch marks. When we're not quite so fat, it's no better because then the breasts just look deflated. I wouldn't want to play with those, and neither would anyone else. Even if they did, it wouldn't do much good -- the skin there is practically numb to normal touch.

Your shoulders, like your ankles, fail in the dainty department. They are large and round, and mostly just evince an aura of "workhorse".

Your arms are an annoyance all their own. Your under-arm chicken wings are unattractive in the extreme, and people comment on those gooseflesh-like bumps on the skin in your tricep area. Your elbows have their own repugnance, with their little rolls of fat and perpetually dry skin. I think it's bizarre the only skin that tans is your forearms; that wouldn't be so bad except it looks ridiculous against the rest of your skin. Your hands are abnormally large for a woman's, and if glove-makers are any indication they are also oddly proportioned. They are work hands, with thick fingers, undainty nails, and thick skin.

Back up to your neck, or where it ought to be. Yours is short and fat, and partially obscured by a roll of chin fat. It doesn't help that after you got sick that one time, your nodes never really deflated -- you could die of anorexia and still have a large throat.

From here on up is the worst of it. Really. Your skin is horrible, breaking out at the slightlest provocation. It also manages to be both dry *and* oily in the same places at the same time. Makeup is a pipedream, so you look perpetually unprofessional. Your ears don't have earlobes like a normal person, they connect to the jawline like an elf; it would be cute if you were 5 feet nothing and 100 lbs, but you're not so it's not. It just looks like a deformity.

Your mouth is ugly: you have almost no upper lip, your lower lip is pouty, your teeth are crooked and too yellow, you mumble when you talk. You also get cold sores, which some people humiliate us by calling a STD. It's not though. I can't take you to restaurants, because you're likely to break out if the silverware and dishes aren't perfectly clean. Drinking out of pop cans and sharing drinks is off-limits, as is touching anywhere near the lips while out and about in the world before your hands are washed thoroughly. Dating is impossible: kiss a guy and he thinks I don't like him because you can't see him for two weeks after due to the resulting outbreak.

Your nose is too big, and it's only function appears to be torturing me with it's largeness as only the most pungent smells permeate into the brain. Your eyes get the occasional compliment, but that's because it's really, really difficult to have ugly eyes. I am sure, though, that you'll succeed someday. Anyway, the eyes don't get any points because you make me blind as a bat without contacts or glasses. Your eyebrows make Brooke Shields' unibrow look over-groomed, and your forehead is too big.

Your scalp is it's own nightmare, being permantly afflicted with dandruff. And the hair! Oh god, the hair. It is thick, thick, thick, and there is a lot of it. I don't just mean length, I mean strands-per-inch. This sounds like a hairdresser's dream, except the hair is also dry as straw. I have plied you with creams and oils and conditioners galore, and it makes not a whit of difference. This is particularly ironic because, like your face, your hair is also oily. Oily and desert-dry at the same time. If it wouldn't make us even uglier, I'd shave it all off.

What's inside the skull isn't any improvement either. It's my responsibility, but ultimately it's your fault because you have the neurons and cells that make me Me. I am depressive and boring and of only mediocre intelligence, and I'm not surprised that even in this world of "what's inside is what counts" that I can't be loved.

Body, I am sorry if this letter has gone on and on. Your faults are many, and I just thought you should have a comprehensive list. You really are an albatross around my neck, and when we die I will be glad to be rid of you.

Forever loathing you,
Your Mind

Oral

Is it just me or is it at least a little bit cruel to tell a woman you fuck regularly but won't go down on that you "always" go down on "all" your sex partners for hours at a time?

*sigh*

I am willing to indulge the common female fear that my snatch doesn't smell/taste right or whatever (even though it seems fine to me), but does he have to gloat about it?

And I Don't Love You, Either

*sigh*

I was just beginning to get comfortable with some unfortunate warm-and-fuzzy feelings towards Mr. S, when of course he through a wrench in the works.

I have seen a fair amount of him recently, and it's been nice. He has been more affectionate of late, and the sex is fun despite being uneven. I never did say anything to him about the not-really-a-girlfriend thing and it has faded nicely away; he even introduced me to someone as his girlfriend.

I knew the rules when we started this: fuck buddies, friends with benefits, no strings, no drama.

The tricky bastards, they let you tie the rope you're hanged with.

And then came spring and camping season. Some chick from "too far away for a quickie" caught Mr. S's eye at a camp-out. *sigh* I have no claim on him, I know. I have no say in who he fucks. Nowhere, though, did I agree to have to like it. I find myself turning into Cool Girl again, as he regales me with the details of their intimacy and how she's sexually high-maintenance (can't touch her here, or there, or can't do this, or do that . . . I am baffled as to what he enjoys about that) and how many times he got her off. Of course, I can't say anything about how knowing all this turns me into a Psycho Hose Beast on the inside -- that would be too High Drama because . . . wait for it . . . I knew the rules when I got into this.

The last time he even *tried* to get me off more than once in a night was months ago. Why don't I rate that kind of effort?

I want to be enough for someone. Am I really so horrible that that's too much to ask?

Hey, Hey, You, You!

Maybe I don't wanna be your girlfriend.

This weekend I got to see Mr. S again because the Missus went off to see her boytoy. Woo! I was happy to see him, and I always enjoy his company. But I don't like being taken for granted. See, he waited until late Saturday afternoon to suggest that we get together, evidently assuming that I had no plans for the evening. Grr!

He also brought up the girlfriend thing. Again. WTF? I don't see why he keeps doing this. He's never once asked my opinion or what I wanted out of things; we don't discuss or settle anything. He generally just makes a bunch of declarative statements "we are this" and "we're not that" and then on to the next topic. My ego would like to think that he's trying to convince himself as much as me that there's nothing emotional, but knowing men and their ability to compartmentalize I doubt it is the case.

This session included a slight deviation from the script, in that 1) he called me his best (female) friend and 2) he said he was attracted to me. His actual words were "you're pretty fuckin' hot too". Although definitely SQUEE!-worthy on its own, I find it somewhat bittersweet when the last compliment he gave me was Pretty Eyes. Last August.

Emotional Lottery on Mr. S: "Too bad you can't just have a legitimate normal relationship."

Heaven forfend.

The Spinster Life

Argh! It is difficult to post anything when you can barely manage to get out of bed each morning. I had a hot little rendezvous with Mr. S almost two weeks ago now . . . That depression clamped down on me with a python's steady patience ever since has nothing to do with that. No, Siree.

I've been doing some high-quality rumination lately on what, exactly, I'm doing wrong in this life. While on one hand I am happy to take the righteous path and proclaim that I *do* like who I am and a pox on the people who don't . . . righteousness can't wrap its arms around me in the middle of the night and whisper that everything's going to be ok.

I am 28 years old and I have never had a boyfriend. Forget the pining and palpatations of True Love . . . Never have I known one of my sexual partners to even so much as look forward to my company. Yes, I am well aware of how sad that statement is.

Recently I stumbled across two articles that definitely have not helped my frame of mind. No, no, no.

In an article at The Root about dating, Kim McLarin says:

"I have yet to meet a man . . . over the age of forty who has never been married who is not broken in some serious and probably unfixable way . . . I don't mean damaged; we're all damaged: scratched up here, dented there, lumpy where the patch was made. No, I mean broken – or possibly just mal-manufactured on the assembly line."

Now, I'm a good ways from 40 yet. And I'm not a man. But I do think it's a fundamental truth that those of us who can't seem to have relationships *are* broken. I could be the poster child for mal-manufacture!

The other piece that makes me want to take a gun and shoot myself is this article on settling. Is that the only relationship I have to look forward to? No heart swells, no giddiness, no passionate sex . . . just someone who doesn't loathe me enough to kick me out of bed in the morning? I worry that she will be me in 15 years, although she suffers from Grass Is Always Greener more than I ever do. And despite recent cultural shifts, I think in the trenches there is still a special distaste (among men, in our culture, on this planet, take your pick) for women over 40 and having a child neither improves nor worsens the situation.

So I am reading this crap, and spelunking for my self-esteem ("in the toilet" would be a vast improvement ... I think it's sunk somewhere below the Earth's crust), and dealing with the No Emotions Zones (TM The Pervocracy) erected by the various men in my life, and . . .

And no wonder all I want to do is go back to bed.

There Once Was A Girl . . .

Who thought she would grow up to be pretty.

Who thought boyfriends would be a fact of life.

Who thought she was special.

Who thought love was inevitable.

Who thought "abandoned" only happened to puppies and babies.

There once was a girl . . . but she doesn't think anymore.

She's a woman now.

Hisssssssssssss . . .

That sound? The sound of my ego deflating.

So, the being stressed out and miserable and overwhelmed creature that I am, I decided to advertise on Craiglist for a houseboy. My life simply requires a second person in order to operate smoothly. So I posted about my situation, making sure to point out that this would be a No Sex position. While - between you, me, and the lamppost - I might be interested in sex with a houseboy after I got to know him and like him, I am not looking for sex with strangers. I have been down that road, and it does not interest me.

The responses that I got to the post range from "who the fuck do you think you are?" to earnest naivety. There was one, however, that stood out for both its literacy and it's attention to the details of my post. He was a 21 year old college student; younger than I was looking for, but cute. So we emailed back and forth, and seemed to be on the same page about our expectations.
I agreed to meet him in a coffeeshop. We chatted for a few and things seemed to be ok, so I agreed to take him home and show him around the house. At one point I turned my back for a moment to get something, and when I turned around he was naked. Oh, boy.

Somehow, he had convinced himself I didn't really mean it when I said No Sex. Just for the cock he had, I *might* have amended the deal to eventually include sex if he had shown himself to be a Nice Guy.

When I declined to give him a blowjob then and there, he said that if I didn't guarantee him sex in exchange for work, with a "test drive" right now, he wasn't interested in the deal. At all. I pointed out that his proposal was the equivalent of asking me to prostitute myself for the cost of hiring Molly Maid. I pointed out just how insulting that dollar value was. And I pointed out that I am not interested in sex with a stranger.

Ultimately, he left. No sex for him, no laundry for me. And now I'm hurt because some twit kid doesn't think I'm worth a couple of hours of labor.

Whiplash

Last night I got to see Mr. S when his wife went somewhat unexpectedly to see her boytoy.

After stewing in my alien-ness for the last week, it was intoxicating to be with someone who takes it as an *absolute given* that I'm a completely normal human being. All of my issues of isolation and invisibility are completely off his radar, because in his world it's entirely natural for everyone to be warm, caring, and connected. Sometimes I wonder which of us lives in reality.

Our sex this time was mostly vanilla, except his brilliant attempt to use a needle-point pattern tracer on me. I am so NOT a pain slut, especially with the stingy. He was momentarily a bit petulant about it, pointing out that several other gals he knows just love it. Bully for him and them, I say, if that's what he wants he is welcome to go do it with them. And that was the end of that topic. :-P

On further consideration as I write this all out, the pattern tracer is probably the result of some miscommunication between us. We had a conversation earlier this week in which I mentioned I'd like to explore what marks he could leave on my body without my going into fight-or-flight. I was thinking nail scratches and bruising. Apparently he was thinking perforation. *sigh* I still think it would be neat to be able to go around for a day or two after fucking him and being able to say to myself, "Mr. S was here. This mark is proof."

In the end there was lots of snuggles before we put our clothes back on and went out to dinner. At the restaurant waitress was making googly-eyes at him. I said he should ask her out, he said his girlfriend probably wouldn't appreciate it. It was a cute moment.

Later though, on our way somewhere else, he pulled the No-Girlfriend thing again. I really want to say something to him about it, but how do you tell your friend that every time he merely points out the truth it rips you to shreds inside because all you hear is that you're not worth his love, that you're unlovable?

A Day Late & A Dollar Short

Switch said about Valentine's Day: "I used to wear all black on this day, every year for ages. In relationships and out. Because the cruelty of this holiday for those of us who don't have relationships is not lessened by the fact that I happen to have one."

The cruelty of this holiday. Yep, that about hits the nail on the head there. For me, the day has always been one of explicit mourning. Kind of like the Mexican Day of the Dead, only personal and less cheerful. A time for me to commune with all the relationships that I don't (or never did) have in my life.

Although this year's V-Day itself was less painful due to the exquisite distraction provided by Mr. S, I find myself -- despite the delay -- going through the same mourning. All sorts of ugly thoughts are bubbling up.

According to Aristotle, man is a social creature.

According to Donne, no man is an island.

According to me, it is possible after all to live in a vacuum.

For all my self-pity, the vacuum I live in is rather like space: there's a lot of nothing interrupted by a few little somethings. People see me, people recognize me, a few people have history with me. But nobody knows me. Were I to die tomorrow, no single person would be able to piece together an accurate narrative of Who I Am. Then again, I don't think that if every person I know pooled their knowledge about me could they even then piece together a picture of who I really am.

Nobody knows about The Lech. Nobody knows about the funny sounds I make at the dog. Nobody knows about my attraction to cosplay (not even Mr. S!). Nobody knows how much I love to dance. Nobody knows anything about any of the men that I have seen, except a few know about Number One. Nobody knows the last time I heard the words "I love you" from anyone, be they friend or family.

And yet . . . And yet when I get like this, all curled up tight and cramped inside myself, reaching out to other people is a physically painful thought. I don't want to get out and meet people and date and do all the things social non-islands are supposed to do. I hate that the options now are either lie outright about who I am and what my past is or else be labeled as aloof and a closed book because I don't talk about my non-existent social life.

On the other hand, Sartre says that Hell is other people.

Never Have I Ever . . .

Let's play a game, shall we?

10. Never have I ever . . . been to the prom.

*sigh*

9. Never have I ever . . . held hands in public.

*shrug*

8. Never have I ever . . . received a love letter.

*ponder*

7. Never have I ever . . . received a gift from a man.

*frown*

6. Never have I ever . . . been on a date to a place fancier than jeans.

*grumble*

5. Never have I ever . . . been asked to stay the night.

*puzzle*

4. Never have I ever . . . been pursued.

*shiver*

3. Never have I ever . . . been told I was beautiful - or even pretty - by someone who wanted to sleep with me.

*lament*

2. Never have I ever . . . been referred to as "my girlfriend".

*cry*

1. Never have I ever . . . heard the words, "I love you."

*dies a little*

Rag Doll

Jealousy. Is it possible to be jealous of an idea?

I am a man-sized woman. As tall as a man, as strong as a man, as hungry as a man, as heavy as a man. An Amazon for the romantic, Shrek's cousin to the rest. And yet I want to be treated "like a woman". Whatever that means. I am jealous of this woman. I am jealous that her belly can be covered by a man's hand.

When a man is larger than a woman, he is both potential threat and potential protector. I am so very tired of "average" sized men: men who are no more than overgrown women, men whom I can push around, men who cannot push me. Men who make me feel more like a body than a woman. Men who make me feel nothing at all.

I want a man strong enough to enforce his will. A man who can pick me up, hold me down, toss me around like a rag doll. A man whose strength confines me, and in that confinement protects me.

Porn ( . . . is bad?)

I have long been content with complacency regarding the Porn Debate. I have never considered porn a healthy expression of sexuality (no, it's not a sin; yes, I'm judgemental), but more like the Twinkie of sexuality. Zero nutritional value, but common and relatively harmless. Actually getting upset over it? That was for nuthouses like the Christian Coalition.

At least until I had it thrown in my face.

Now, I'm not the skinniest girl or the prettiest girl, or even the smartest girl. I don't expect men to fall all over themselves for me. Given that I was treated like the troll under the bridge by pretty much everyone until I went away to college, I think I've come a long way in developing any kind of real sexuality, and mapping out what I like, what I don't, what works, and what doesn't.

And one thing that rarely works for me is porn. It took a lot of neurotic suffering (dammit, this WILL turn me on!) before I figured out that 1) porn makes me feel inadequate in both looks and ability and 2) the porn that does work for me is so brutal and degrading that I don't respect myself for liking it. Yes, I like to see other women hurt. I think that says plenty.

All of this is preface to saying Something Happened this morning. I know a man, whom I'll call Headcase, and with whom I have recently started something of a friends-with-benefits type relationship. Except we're not quite friends (the headcase part) and I am still wondering about some of the benefits. Great cock, except he refuses to exploit all its potential. After not having sex last night (see the headcase part) he woke up with morning wood and I wanted to play. So what does Genius do? He gets up out of bed and starts looking at porn on his computer. Okaaayyy.

But I'm a Progressive Girl, right? Porn is Fine With Me, right? I talk to him about what he's looking at -- turns out he wants to show me some clips of girls squirting. Um, okay. (Personally, I think it's kind of gross and I'm glad my body doesn't do it ... but there I go being judgemental again). I noticed that nearly all the clips he was looking through had the odd tic of the girl bringing herself to the brink of orgasm, removing the dildo, and with no stimulation whatsoever continuing to have a full, screaming, body-convulsing orgasm. I commented in an offhanded hey-you-might-want-to-know-this-about-me way that I am not built like that. That my orgasms are facilitated only by continued stimulation, and the train stops dead without it.

And I nearly got my head bitten off for the trouble. Apparently, I am wired "weirdly". Apparently, any woman can "just learn" to squirt and to have these pseudo-spontaneous orgasms.

And while he was excoriating my sexual ability, he left playing a video of what was obviously a sorority girl and a frat boy getting it on in front of his entire frathouse. Nothing new, I'm sure. But the video still made me sad. Even though the girl was obviously mugging for the camera, I don't think she suspected it would go on the internet for the world to see. And I was thinking about this: let's say five years down the road both her boss and the boy's boss see the video. His status will probably be enhanced (sex god, and all); she, on the other hand, might lose her job (the slut!).

Headcase's words and this video, together, really made me think. What is up with this fucked up world that somehow an actress is "better" at being a woman than I am? For all the flak that people in porn take for their job, they are still called "porn actors" for a reason. The sex may be real, but the theatrics are just that. Theatrics. And the sorority girl? I don't even have the words.

And yet maybe getting upset over porn isn't the answer. In a way, it's like the old gun debate. Do guns kill people, or do people kill people? Does porn degrade women or do the people watching porn degrade women? Really, though, does the distinction even matter?!?