Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words. (Romans 8:26, ESV)

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Detail Work

If I overanalyze everything into broad, sterile Science-y thinking, it's because the details always drive a thing home.

Think about it:

Your cat dies, and it's not the CONCEPT of "cat" which you miss.

Its the way she used to curl on your chest when you would fall asleep together. It's the growly sound she used to make, when you would try to move her food mid-chew.

I'm thinking, right now, of looking into someone's eyes from two inches away. Of feeling what they're doing to you, and watching their eyes widen to watch your own flutter closed. I'm thinking of that feedback loop of touch and response. The action/reaction/re-reaction that is connected lovemaking.


SEX, as a concept, has been easy to abjure, this past year.

But each detail -- like the feel of a man's broad hand against the bare small of my back.

My God. HOW did I live without these DETAILS?

* * * * *

I walk out from the library just now, having printed my Request for an Installment Plan form from the IRS website.

And my head is totally trapped in details, of the sort I've been trying to avoid: guilt, shame, fear about where the money will come from. All these.

So I'm brought up short when a woman I don't know says, "How far'd ya go?"

"Excuse me?" I turn around.

There IS a lady there in the lobby, one earbud taken out, telling her phone-conversation partner to hold on a minute, and pointing to the running tights I'm wearing.

"You LOOK like a runner. You got that confidence. So, tell me, did you run FAR? I bet you, look at you. I bet YOU run FAR."

And, suddenly, just like that, my whole day is made.

So I smile, and we chatter: I'm just getting back into running; she claims SHE could NEVER do that; I used to run 5 miles a day; SHE says she's "just gonna sit back and admire those who push like that;" I say, "Hey, we who want to, GOT to, right, because not everyone can, someday, even we won't even be able to, got to be grateful for what we still have in the now by using what we got while we got."

And she nods vigorously and she witnesses for THAT statement and I sail out of the library on a cloud.

The kindness of strangers. The glorious unpredictability of the world outside my stale living room.

These are details I forget, when I stay inside and inside my head all the time.

* * * * *

The way I walk taller when I'm working out regularly. The vast amount of workout knowledge I DO already have. The joys of meeting eyes with someone as I'm lifting weights, like, "Yeah, I am badass."

The feeling of being proud of myself. The relief at undertaking taking care of myself.

These details were there at the YMCA, waiting for me today, on my new, "initial" set-up appointment (new branch; new trainer).

I'd been avoiding the Y for that very reason.

Because dropping my membership card at the front desk again, wrapping my hands around weight handles again, sitting in a trainer's office discussing my long-term goals again --

-- these just drive home the goals I've failed at.

And why.

And I feel again the fear and pain at having my ovarian cyst rupture; of having my shoulder seize up and not knowing what to do.

The panic of having no insurance.

The sheer ballsiness of still having no insurance:

the devil-may-care courage of driving my ass here and trying By-God again.

* * * * *

Oh, right.

Even among the predictable details I feared, and which did trigger emotional aches,

there rise up, like flowers, details evoking kindness and bravery and all the successes I have had.

Until I resumed doing the thing and experiencing all the tiny details again,

I'd forgotten the good.

* * * * *

Sitting in the red-embroidered easy chair by somebody else's back sliding glass door,

I cough, deliberately and loudly.

From the cradle of my arms, the sweet-smelling baby falling asleep on the bottle looks up into my eyes, startled into nursing again. I smile that this trick I've invented has worked, yet again.

The baby smiles back.

* * * * *

And, Dios Mio. We all know Babies.

We know the concept. We know the abstract.

We know -- from movies and books and Gerber commercials and stories from that new grandmother with the photo-wallet in the McDonald's line -- that babies are Charming and Perfect and Precious Tiny Miracles and yadda yadda and blah blah blah...

* * * * *

But, in my arms. MY arms.

This baby.

THESE clear eyes.

Looking directly into mine.

MY eyes.

Me. Me, alone:

the one with this little life in my hands.

(Temporarily. But he doesn't know that.)

In the present moment the perfect details of this perfect baby flood my senses.

* * * * *

And the emotions these details raise rumble through me like slow rollers:

The emotions, the realizations, I've been trying to suppress.

* * * * *

And this is why we rush through life.

THIS is why we leap from project to location to relationship to distraction,

drink too much, overeat, race through our days.

* * * * *

Because, slowing down,

that tsunami overtakes you.

Comprised of all the feelings you've been running from:

All the little, fully-felt details,

that wash your self-delusions away.

* * * * *

And, suddenly, you're flooded with the understanding

that this life is your only life

the actions you take are the only ones you'll ever take

the decisions you make or put off will follow you forever.

* * * * *

I look at the face of this baby whose weight I am supporting, and realization rolls me over like a riptide.

Then it passes, and I'm left with a smiling baby and a sense of, Yeah, well, and I knew that all along. Guess there's just nothing left to do but admit it. Then, man up.

* * * * *

There's not going to be any rescue.

There's not going to be a magic day where I've had a happy family.

There's never going to be a mom I can count on to call for advice for something this big;

There's never going to be a dad I can forgive for fucking with my siblings and me when we were this small.

And these are deflating, but joyous, details to be aware of.

Because, in their wake,

parade the lifetime of compensations I've made:

The research and the trial-runs with other babies and the replacement support network and the strength I've developed, to get through anything, even when starting with nothing --

* * * * *

-- I'm going to have a baby.

Counting on nothing but the support network I've developed myself,

and the house I'm going to buy with the money I've earned through my own businesses.

I'm the grown-up now.

Because, in that riptide of realization,

the details drove home that waiting to have been parented is a game I've played for much too long already.

And now, with dwindling fertile years left,

I refuse to let it cheat me out of this final thing:

this perfect, real thing, that I want to experience so badly.

* * * * *

I know this: I'm a great mother.

I should know this: Lord knows, I've practiced enough, already.

And there's never going to come absolution.

There's never going to come forgiveness,

or even acknowledgment,

of what we little children were put through.

* * * * *

And that's fine.

As long as I don't let it hang me up, cheat me out of anything more --

-- as long as I don't taint my child or children's life with it --

It's going to be okay.

* * * * *

I'm going to make it okay.

And: haven't I always?

Ah: but.

This time, I'm trusting myself to.


And for someone(s) else.

This time, I'm accepting the responsibility of becoming an adult,

for keeps.

* * * * *

And that is the tiny detail I have spent all this year working up to.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Undress Rehearsal

Z comes over for his keycard and key: he's back from Thanksgiving in California with his family, and my houseplantwatering and mailcollecting duties are officially over.

I'm so happy to see him, I hug him three times.

He seems glad to see me, too.

After he gets a band-aid for the finger of his he smashed in my door, I expect him to walk out: it's after midnight. The flight was long, he must be exhausted.

But he invites himself onto my easy chair and has a sitdown.

He asks me how my week has gone.

And, chagrined, I tell him that I've fallen into another relationship with a guy. A poly guy.

And he takes off his hat, grins,

and settles in.

* * * * *

And he laughs when I tell him this guy thinks I'm kind and sweet; laughs with me, as I gesticulate wildly in illustration of how vociferously I tried to wave this man away from me.

"He's got a wife, and two kids, and a custody battle, and his own local business," I yelled. "And I'm like, 'Are you even THINKING about this?' And he's all, 'But, nobody understands me quite like you do, Jinx! I feel like I can tell you anything!' What the fuck, Z? He's known me eight days!"

And Z giggles. Because, honestly. What lover doesn't say that to me (even Z, back in the day)?

What relationship of mine hasn't started with one-night "casual" sex, followed by THOSE VERY WORDS, from the mouth of a suddenly, "can we make this MORE than casual?" guy.

* * * * *

"So, I say, 'this is just casual, right?' and he's all, 'Sure! But, I've cleared with my wife all the necessary permissions, for more, just in case.'

"Just in case WHAT?" I demand of Z.

"I don't know," laughs Z, entertained.

"He's not even my fucking TYPE," I groan, tearing at my hair.

"Oh, don't I know it," mourns Z.

"It's like I'm a fucking drug," I mutter, curled over, fetal, on the couch, now.

"Hmm," says Z, pointedly searching his memory. "You are. You really are. Confirmed."

I stare at him.

* * * * *

And grin.

It's nice to have somebody know me.

To have somebody know all about me, and be looking forward to having me move in.

* * * * *

It's like Saint Tom. Driving all the way across town once a month or so, just to see me for a lunch here or there.

Or the Veteran, demanding to know when he can zoom himself up here to help me move my stuff.

* * * * *

It's like this married man. Naked and postcoital in my bed last night. Skinny and paperwhite and vulnerable and...and local. My own age, but he got there via a baby and a wife to care for by 21 and he invites me into Thanksgiving traditions involving butter beans and collard greens and

What am I doing, what am I doing...?

* * * * *

I'm jumping back into the game again. I'm taking the learning back down off the mountain.

Down to the Real World, where life is in living color and forward motion again;

where the perfect, leisurely contemplation of the Ideal revs back up to regular speed, and decisions shift downwards from The Best Choices Possible to the Best You Could Do On The Fly;

where a skinny white dude will come over for sex, but surprise us both by sitting on my couch for an hour and more, as we discuss children and stories about our days. Like the sex is almost an afterthought. Like what we both really needed was...


* * * * *

Z comes by in his odd-duck hunter-green felt fedora and accidentally badass leather jacket, and I'd forgotten how tall he is, and how great it feels to hug him.

And, also, to be understood.

* * * * *

"What do you want?" asks my accidental new lover in bed; skinner than I am; physically weaker than I am.

"I want to be a place where you feel safe," I hear myself say.

Then want to take it back: no, wait; I do that for everyone; I want that for everyone.

But, too late:

He's already snuggling into my neck and telling me the depth of despair he felt on his darkest day, and how nobody else he's met gets that, and he hasn't felt safe in such a long time; he's needed that ever so badly...

"Wait," I want to say. "No: stop. I fucked up. That's what I need.

"I've accidentally told you what I need," I want to tell him.

"And you can't give it to me," I want to say. "You and your secure marriage and your tangental care for me.

"You can't give it to me, and your presence here endangers my ability to provide it to myself."

* * * * *

Yet another man in a marriage of (relatively) long standing.

Who does not catch the paradox as he says to me that he hasn't felt safe in years.

Who makes me wonder: what good IS having a wife, if, to men, they're just one more thing to care for and protect;

if they're incapable of providing care and protection back?

* * * * *

WIth his birdlike body in my arms, my EMT training pops, incongruously, into my head:

"Don't worry, sir, it's all all right now. You can trust me: I'm a professional.

"I'm here to help," I don't say.

* * * * *

Z stands up with an air of a man leaving a movie theater, satisfied with the story he's witnessed.

So, I guess that's two in-flight movies for him, today.

"You certainly never fail to entertain!" he says.

And, walking him to the door, I'm glad.

His long-term knowledge of me puts this in perspective.

This isn't a major crisis I'm undergoing.

Shit. On the spectrum of Major Shit I've undergone, this isn't even a blip.

This is just that:

An amusing anecdote:

Leave for a week, trust that Jinx has gotten herself into another madcap adventure,

take off hat and sit a spell and tune in and catch up.

* * * * *

I'm really going to like living with Z.

And if he ever brings me that glass of Amarula, we're going to have us a crazy old time.

* * * * *

The computer programmer, accidental poly lover, is going to make a great friend,

once he figures out -- after this exclusive month I've promised him to "explore 'us'" -- that we aren't matched sexwise nearly as well as we are as conversationalists and as buddies.

* * * * *

It's coming:

I'm not from here;

I'm not going to stay here;

his town, to me, is just a training ground.

Most damning:

The miracle of kindness he sees in me makes me feel shabby: reminds me that this "rare" level of compassion has just become my routine: automatic care, my trademark.

The reason I took a year off.

* * * * *

There are a limited amount of days that I can wake up to the reflection of that dawning realization in his eyes.

* * * * *

Until then, he's my undress rehearsal:

my test flight for the sexual arena: see if I remember where everything goes, and who does what, when, how often...

* * * * *

It's a fun game, this falling off the mountain.

Like it's nice to have quit drinking long ago, so that that first drink you DO have again, years later, hits you like a freight train.

* * * * *

It's a rush to feel again.

To know I've still got it.

Sex worth stopping over at my place six nights of the past eight;

Automatic compassion like none this town has seen.

* * * * *

And, in leather jacket and unmatching, moss-colored fedora,

a friend eagerly willing to share the story of it all.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Side Note

Part of this diving in to YET ANOTHER polygamous marriage is the recent realization that I AM all those "evil" things: impulsive and a crisis-junkie and melodramatic and vain and magnetized by adventure and violent and cruel and and and...

...I really DO just live larger than most other people.

Trying to pretend otherwise, and hobble myself to appear normal, just makes me grouchy.

It's amazing how much of this "Borderline/Identity Disorder" depression and dismay just evaporated once I accepted who I am, and started expressing it, and found a group who is the same way, and supports me in it...

Take THAT, $12,000 DBT therapy!


Saint Tom traveled all the way from the Northwest side of town to over here at "3:00" on the clock, to visit me today.

I'm always touched when he does that.

* * * * *

The married guy I slept with last night (yes, a new one) possessively wants me to postpone "exploring" any of the otherh guys who have also shown interest in me, this first month of mine out in this new social circle. HE wants time to explore "us".

So, I've been writing blogs on OKCupid like a fiend this week, trying to explore (and get feedback on) my stance on Polyamory.

Has it been changed, by this celibate year of mine?

Is returning to Married Men now a regression? Or proof of an assimilation and heightened self/other understanding -- an evolution?

* * * * *

Poly Dude's wife I actually met at a party, before I met Poly Dude, separately, at a beer night.

Her biggest concern with letting him sleep with me was that he be careful not to let it ruin HER friendship with ME.

* * * * *

This social circle is great for my ego.

* * * * *

My blue-haired boss, I found out Thanksgiving Eve, is a Domme.

Asking around, many of the other folk here in ATL's kink community emphatically endorse her:

"Oh, YES! She's one of the few ethical ones."

"One of the only people I'd let beat me."

"Man, is SHE hard to forget, naked!"

* * * * *

It is less disconcerting to me than it ought to be, likely, that 100% of those statements were made by the married couple I'm now...


* * * * *

The wife of the Poly Dude is a scientist: we've bonded over the fact that we hate most other women type women.

The husband of Violet the Nanny Hirer is a rock musician.

The girlfriend of the center of this friendship circle -- Toddy, the one Worldnamer recommended -- helped herself, at Naked Potluck, to the chance to rub my naked back. AND my tit, under the guise of petting the tiny poodle-mix who had leapt up onto my reclined chest.

Violet says that she got into a tiff at a recent party, with a woman who asked her point-blank whether Violet disapproved of her. Violet, drunk, apparently went into a detailed thesis of HOW she disapproved of this other chick. Specifically, disapproved of her in the context of the boyfriend -- a great friend of Violet's -- whose life Violet thought this girlfriend was fucking up.

Toddy told me that Violet is one of his "very favorite people."

His girlfriend told me she doesn't approve of Violet. Specifically, the "incorrect" way in which Violet is raising her own 3-month-old baby.

Toddy's girlfriend is in her mid-twenties, unemployed, with no children of her own.

So her pronouncements leave me kind of perplexed.

Add that to her "helping herself" surreptitious public affection re: me,

and if it DOES turn out to be this Girlfriend that Violet told off,

and there DOES turn out to be a choosing-of-sides between the Femme Domme mom who I'm laughing with every day, versus the chick who gropes me and warns me off OTHER people in this group,

I'm glad the girlfriend's actions have already made that decision so easy for me.

* * * * *

Saint Tom tells me that Saph is starting an indoor herb garden for his cooking, "based on YOUR influence on him," Saint Tom says.

"Oh, that's great!" I say. "Is it indoors? Or outside? What?"

"Well, he'd LIKE it to be bigger. But, you know, he's...not the one in charge of the yard, let's just say."

And I start wondering if Saph ever got around to taking those "Codependent No More!" battered-wife classes.

* * * * *

"You look SO much happier than you did this time last year!" Saint Tom proclaims.

And, it's odd as fuck to hear, right?

Because filling him on events since last I've seen him seems like the plot of a country song. I really HAVE been robbed, cheated, betrayed, almost hospitalized (twice!). My therapist DID quit, my car's limping along, the money's been nuts. My cats have fleas, my neighbors are becoming more criminal by the day, I live in the ghetto; I had to skip that mud run due to the exploding ovary, my savings keep going toward things like Car Insurance just to keep in place, I've been so terrified that I've got a room full of stockpiled food.

And yet.

I have friends now: many, many who enjoy my company. I'm not relying on one boyfriend and his meager friendships to prop up my entire emotional life. Nor financial: I'm Making It On My Own (and have been). Business is picking up. I'm surrounded by smart, funny, brave, alternative people: for the first time in my life, I am part of a (widening, even!) social circle that is NOT based either on: 1. a significant other; 2. a meritocracy. That is: these people who like me, like me NOT because of what I do (attend their same school or dojo, say) -- but because of who I am.

My cats are healthy and STILL HERE: they were neither hurt nor escaped in the break-in.

And I have a lover now. One who is smart and who I can hash things out with: a perfect intellectual.

(As for perfect lovers...well. I DO get to keep looking for those. ALSO fun.)

AND I just finished getting (with Poly Dude and his wife's help) ALL those bulbs into the ground this weekend.

Which is perfect. Since, right this very minute, 2:04 am on a post-Thanksgiving Monday,

I'm hearing the rain patter on the dark concrete outside.

* * * * *

So, Saint Tom is right.

I AM happier now than I was a year ago.


Despite everything that's gone on.

* * * * *

Truly: what an odd thought.

What an odd, and miraculous thought.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

Neighborhood Watch

The 64-year-old retired schoolbus driver lady appeared on my doorstep, shortly after I'd returned from nannying today.

The woman is built like a battleship.

So, I opened the door to her looming presence, and, undaunted, ushered her inside. Whereupon she immediately gave me the hugest hug.

"I gotsta thankan, 'You knows, I ha'nt seen Jahnx in a whi'. Howwa done, Shu'r?"

I am, I realized, actually going to miss her.

She'd heard about "what happened" to me -- how not? -- and wanted to come by in sympathy. From her and her husband, both.

She had, in fact, actually driven by Brokeback as he was hustling as fast as he could up the street with my gear. She just hadn't known what she'd been seeing.

Well. What followed then -- what else? -- was an exchanging of all the "ain't it terrible" gossip we each knew, about the neighborhood.

I told her I'd confronted Brokeback, and he'd said he didn't do it. And that, last I'd heard, man was sleeping on the dirt ground behind the liquor store up the street, and damned if I was going to press charges, and send him to a warm, cozy jail (a bluff, really: nobody will go on the record saying they saw him do it).

She told me that her neighbors -- the pillheads that stole the $3,000 from the little old lady up the street -- had taken in a derelict, who was running a "metal recycling business" in their backyard.

"OH!" I said, putting it together. "So THAT'S the pickup truck that peels outta their driveway at 2:00 every morning!"

"Sho' A's," said the battleship. "Jahnx, deyz choppen a shoppe' car' back dey t'ther nie! Soze you know dey rey well do 'bout ANYthing. Anything t'all."

"Well, that doesn't worry me as much as the rapper that Shaundra down across the street from you has taken in," I said. And enjoyed a grade-school satisfaction at watching Ms. Battleship's eyes widen to dinnerplate size. Man, there was a certain fun, to this. "One, you know she's not supposed to have any man living with her: Section 8 rules! Two, you hear? Just tonight, SOMEone from that house stole both of Fatboy's handguns, out of his handicapped van."

Well, if her eyes could have gone any wider, they would have swallowed up her head.

The only thing she had to follow that up with was the fact that a tree had fallen on her property -- half in her own backyard, half in her neighbor's -- and her neighbor had been incensed that she herself only went out and cut up the half of the dead log on her side of the property line.

"Cain't go trussin nowah," she advised me. "Cain't go dong none fah nowah. Issel bitecha. Sho will." And she nodded, decisively.

"But, if you're not nice to people sometimes, your heart will just shrivel up," I countered. "And THAT is a worse fate, I feel, than getting duped once in a while."

"Effen yooz sta' 'live," she popped back. "Sawite to thank that. 'Til it hutcha."

And, who was I, to spout philosophy? Especially since, hurt me, it had.

* * * * *

An hour before her knock on my door, I had been in the $2,000 square foot home of a white lady. Where I am The Help.

We had been talking about this Spanxgiving event, and how $10 per drink was a little exorbitant, especially in light of the $15 cover charge.

You know: they don't even let you in the door of this thing. Unless you arrive in "appropriate fetish gear."

Which I do, in fact, own.

* * * * *

Then I got on the dating site where I've just updated my profile. Which had been the opening shot, inviting sundry worldwide guys to glom onto my profile.

Including -- since I'd cut-n'-pasted the "Gripemonster" poly-post into my journal there as my most recent entry -- the entire Greek chorus of old friends I'd first met when they'd gathered all together (electronically)... post comments on my blogs on this dating site.

This is particularly relevant right now. As this is the way I met Worldnamer and Z, both.

Worldnamer, whose circle of ATL friends I am currently mixing myself into;

Z, whose condo I will again be inhabiting, four weeks and two days from now.

* * * * *

Then Z came by, with chickenwire (to plant my flower bulbs under: de-squirreling them); a vacuum (to suck up all these flea eggs everywhere); two McDonald's packets of syrup (since it's a running joke that I keep stocking up on pancake mix, but always forget to buy the syrup); the rental agreement for my impending move into his home.

And, suddenly, I felt cared for again. And like I'd just signed my ticket out of this shitty block.

* * * * *

I don't know what the point of this blog is.

Some possibilities:

- Changing worlds is hard. Especially so many times in one day.
- My writing on OKC is like gardening. It's the shortest way I've yet found, to harvest the most productive crop of friends.
- My block now has two more loose guns, and a chopshop, and I want to be OUT OF HERE ALREADY.

The end.

The Initial Effects of an Absence of Fear

So. The married guy -- the LAST! -- I went out with last night has just texted me this morning.

To invite me to Spanxgiving at the Jungle Club here in Atlanta, this coming Friday.

And to tell me that, after his monologue-fest which was our date last night, he's cleared it with his wife: he's now allowed to sleep with me!

Well, lucky fucking me.

* * * * *

I just texted him back to say that, as lovers go, I think we'd make great debate partners, and that's more contention than I need in my love life right now. But that I look forward to many animated conversations in future!

Seemed a better way to check the "No" box re: pursuit of a relationship with him than, say, telling him he bored the shit out of me.

Or directing him to the "poly is for children" blog he inspired me to write last night.

Or letting him know that his extended company served as the final nail in the coffin of me dating poly men, ever again.

Also: this way, I get to maintain solvency in his same social circle, without inciting any polarizing (for/against Jinx) drama among the people I'm only just now getting to know/like.

* * * * *

I hope.

* * * * *

Well, at least his impending arrival motivated me to clean my house, last night. And introduced me to a great restaurant. Who SAYS there's no lasting benefits, to even a bad date?

* * * * *

In other news, I've realized this week how very wonderful it is to have somewhere outside the house to go every day, and people to talk to.

That is:

I'm really having fun with the oddly laughter-filled and bonding conversations I'm having with this woman whose child I'm overseeing.

I'm remembering how this happened, too, with the last woman whose child I babysat.

It's just that the pyrotechnic nature of my expulsion from that situation obscured the more tender, vulnerable earlier memories.

* * * * *

Because, man. If there's anything more vulnerable and 100% facade-free than two women caring for and bonding over babies and housework, I don't know what it is.

* * * * *

Rita...damn. The Tales of a Female Nomad lady. SHE said this: that the quickest way for her to get deeply into ANY culture she visits, even DESPITE the language barrier, is to volunteer -- with only hand gestures, if necessary -- to cook and perform childcare, with the women.

* * * * *

I'm going to miss having female energy to laugh and chat with, when this job ends, on New Year's.

* * * * *

I'm also really looking forward to having my time back. To write and draw.

* * * * *

Because, you know, the more I hang out with Cool People, the more I miss Having a Thing.

We are -- even Alternative-type people -- so VERY much defined by What We Do.

And I don't consider either phone sex, nor obsessive self-reflection, to truly be representative of the contribution I make to the larger world.

So it becomes pertinent to define, and begin enacting, What It Is That I DO.

* * * * *

- I create shit.
- I work out.
- I build community.

Except that, right now, I'm not doing any of these things.

* * * * *

In the new year, my daily dose of interaction will be with Z. Living with, sharing a house with.

And I'll still have PLENTY of time to live With Myself and By Myself, because he'll be GONE every day. And many evenings.

And the question becomes: what do I want to PRODUCE?

The story of my life? Erotica? A publishable magical fantasy series? Random tank-girl-esque graphic novels? Litrachoor? Fine art?

And WHO do I want to BE?

An athlete? A charity worker? A BDSM partygoer? A martial artist?

* * * * *

See, the fear is gone ("It's gone/it's gone a-waaaay").

And my life is rushing back in.

And plans are formulating again, no longer dispersed the instant they coalesce, by lightning-strikes of existential terror.

* * * * *

Plans of getting a house, then traveling to find both myself AND Mr. Right, and THEN heading up to Boston, for further education/further Mr. Right-finding...

* * * * *

Ooh. The host of Naked Thursdays just invited me to Spanxgiving, too.

And the man who lent me this laptop is going.

* * * * *

And I'm about to be late for nannying.

* * * * *


Could it be --

my life is actually getting fun?

Monday, November 21, 2011

Honesty Hour

I'm not saying that Polyamory is bad, as fads go. I'm just saying that I'm turned on by Alpha males. Which is to say: grown ups. Ones who would not abide playing second fiddle to MY "primary" mate; and so who would never expect me to dumb myself down into a "secondary" position for them.

In my world, see, "2nd place" still means "first loser." And why the hell would I want to invest time in a relationship that makes me into a loser? It's like footbinding in China. Or dosing pregnant ladies with Thalidomide. Sometimes "universally popular" and "mind-numbingly retarded" are NOT mutually exclusive.

By the way: this is not my only strong opinion. Nor even my strongest. There are a lot of things that privileged white kids do, that I firmly believe are so detached from reality as to make their socioeconomic class a completely separate universe. With its own physics and everything. Which might, indeed, be a nice place to visit...

...and has been.

After all: I, too, am white. Educated. Currently poor as fuck, but that will improve. Point is: I know the good beers. I can sling truffle oil with the best of them. I can pass as rich, white, and bored -- and have. Some of my best friends are Polyamorists.

Lord knows: I've dated enough of them.

And what I've found is that Poly really takes such a level of unexamined privilege so as to just baffle me.

The proof? Poly ain't a po' folk thang. When a couple is trying to figure out how to make a week's pay stretch for a month, there's neither disposable income nor time to divert one's attention from their "primary relationship" to go check out the climate in someone else's pants.

And maybe it's just that having been survival-oriented for such long stretches of time in my past has just rubbed all capacity for fun right outta me. Maybe I should be really sad inside, to have developed such a anaphylactic allergy to this whole "more is merrier!" bandwagon.

But I don't think so.

I simply think that my tough life experiences have taught me the value of loyalty, and of true partnership. Of joining up with a lifemate who has my back 24/7...not "most of the time, except on his date nights with other women." I think that Poly probably is fine for many...right up until the money runs out. Like cashmere and foie gras and Summering in the Hamptons, I bet it's stupendously enjoyable if you can underwrite it...and just the slightest bit too Imperialistic flavored for those of us who can't (or don't want to).

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And, no: NONE of this rant has ANYTHING to do with the fact that I've just returned from my 6th first date with a married man this year...nor with how he spent the entire time talking about all the things his wife and he love to do together.

If that shitty date were related to the above rant, however, I would feel obliged to add that the thing I MOST hate about Poly is how it allows dudes to not even have to try anymore.

I mean, okay. So, with male adolescence now extending "boyhood" into dudes' 40's, and the economy so very tragic, the number of commitment-capable men with respectable incomes has dropped lower than a snake's belly. Allowing a great number of them to quickly install a mate in the kitchen, then head back out to stock up on backups.

And that's just the dating landscape a single woman has to deal with, right now.

And that's fine.

But, I mean. Does that require that the smug guys in question have to rub in their current social superiority, by leaving their first-date manners in their other pants (which pants are probably, even then, being laundered by their financially secure wifeys)?

I mean, come on.

If you're married and also dating, studies show that you're more than likely in a tax bracket lofty enough for you to invest in some etiquette classes.

So: PLEASE, Poly Dudes. If you're going to swarm out here and occupy the dating pool like this, ENROLL.

I do believe I am not the ONLY single lady who would consider this a personal favor.

[And, if you liked this impassioned diatribe, tune in NEXT week when I address such OTHER topical conundrums as: "Tender Hipster Flesh: The New Veal?"]