Category Archives: Best of Steff

RANT: Kids? Don't Have 'Em, Don't Want 'Em

I made a pretty quick reference to abortion in my last posting, simply stating that an inadvertent pregnancy on my part would, with absolute certainty, end in an abortion.
I have fairly strong views on abortion, and it’s one of my particular irks with America today. Sitting across the great divide, as a Canadian, it’s baffling seeing the land that’s so hell-bent on separation of Church and State on its quest to be its own Holy Land.
I swear, I think that if Bush accomplishes nothing in his time in office other than the radical reversal of Roe v. Wade, and brings about the elimination of abortion as birth control in America today, he will believe he has done his job as a leader. (Never mind that small matter of Iraq, the erosion of personal freedoms, information leaks, etc.)
But this is not the time for my soapbox.
Okay, well, yeah, all right: Any time is soapbox time.
But here, now, I want to talk about this myth of 2.4 kids, a dog, and a picket fence.
I’ve written in the past about the cultural objectifying of relationships – that if you’re single, you’re incomplete. Insert cheesy Jerry Maguire scene here: “You complete me.” [/swoon] Barf.
Not in a relationship? What’s wrong with you? You say you don’t want kids? Oh, give it time! You’ll meet the right person! You’re just being cynical. Everyone wants kids. You don’t know what you’d be missing!
Um, like, YEAH.
I’d be missing spending the rest of my life worrying about what’s gonna happen to my kids if anything happens to me. I’d be missing the complications of trying to find time alone with my lover. I’d be missing the ability to take time out for myself any time I need it. I’d be missing years of diapers, debt, spilled drinks, debt, crumbs in the sofa, debt, heavily soiled clothing, debt, kids crying about playground bullies, yada, yada, yada. Did I mention debt?
I’d also be missing the shaping of a young mind. I’d be missing the direct imprint of my values on another human being. I’d be missing the journey from embryo to adulthood, with all its zany stops in between. I’d be missing the endless surprises and laughter brought about by having kids around the house. I’d be missing the pride I’d feel as I watch my progeny take the world by storm, one small accomplishment at a time.
Don’t you think I know what kids add or detract from a life? That’s the thing that pisses me off. The smug, patronizing, “Oh, give it time, you just haven’t met the right man” bullshit I hear every time I have to explain, “Um, no, I don’t want children.” As if being a woman and shunning my birthright to bear kids is antithetical to nature itself. “Um, NO, I do NOT want children,” I have to say yet again, slowly, as if speaking to a brain-damaged psych ward lifer.
Fuck that, people. I don’t want kids because I’ve already spent too many years of my life patching up other people’s arguments and caring for a sick mother and forgetting who I was in between it all. I don’t want kids because I want to experience my life to the fullest, on my terms. I don’t want kids because, deep down inside, I know I’ll one day resent all the compromises I will have had to make in order to raise them well. I don’t want kids because kids deserve something better than some parent who’s only half-wanting to be there.
I don’t want kids because I have carefully considered all the ramifications, and I simply know I’m not willing to do what needs to be done to raise them well. And kids deserve better than being shipped off to boarding school by some prima donna parent who’s tired of the compromises.
When I was a teen, I was babysitting a fair bit. I had a great attitude, was fun to be around – because I love kids and think they’re an absolute hoot. They crack me up. And I always, always crack them up. I remember two women who made me really, really think about the whole parenting thing.
One had taken extreme measures to make her home a learning castle for her kid. She did everything for her kid, so much so that I wondered how in the hell she ever found time for herself. My guess is, she didn’t. The kid was doted on, and it showed – he was bright, funny, happy, wonderful. He really was a terrific kid, and I knew his mother and father were huge – HUGE – players in that reality. I realized how much then a woman had to forsake (and in theory, the man, too) in order to properly raise a child. I realized then how much my mother put into raising my brother and I. It was daunting, to say the least.
The other woman took the “Well, it’s my life too” method of parenting to a whole new level. I was hired as a babysitter who would come over three to four nights a week at 8:30. I would put the kid to bed, and the mother’s partying would begin. The mother had a one-way radio in case something happened to the kid, but she was in a separate wing of the house, and for all I knew, would never look in on the kid. I’d return at 7am, get the kid ready, and take him to school. I would be paid for 12 hours of work, despite doing only about five – and I was only 17 at the time, and still going to school. This woman was doing blow, drinking like a fish, and sleeping with other men, despite being married. I didn’t need x-ray goggles to figure that much out. I saw what was in the kid’s future – anger, resentment, aloneness, despair, and a lack of self-esteem. Oh, and boarding school. Mom might have been around, but she made it pretty fucking clear where her priorities were.
Having kids is not to be taken lightly. Children deserve love, attention, nurturing, fun, and every kind of support imaginable. I’m a fan of parents who invest in their kids – who are so proud of their kids’ works of art that they frame them. I admire parents who expose their kids to new worlds, who don’t let their tykes crash in front of the TV and remain. I can’t get over, and never cease the admiration of, parents who are actively involved in all areas of their children’s lives, who establish trust and openness at a young age, and who stay plugged in as long as possible, who put their kids where they deserve to be put: First.
But I’m not willing to make the sacrifices in my own life to be that kind of parent, and I’m not going to do a half-assed job, either. The last thing any kid ever needs to know is that you’d rather be lying in a hammock in Bali, working on your novel. No kid needs to know you wish you’d made different choices in the past, and I know that’s how I’d feel, regardless of the highs.
So how in the fuck does my knowing where to draw the line in my sand make me some sort of crass, unplugged woman who doesn’t get what she should be? Society judges chicks like me, still, and I’m tired of it.
Hell, I was watching Oprah the other day and Kirstie Alley was on, talking about dating, and she insists that any man she sees be previously married and even have kids. “If you’re over 40 and you’ve never been married, you’re a perv!” she shouted. Oprah just laughed – but I wonder what went through her mind. She’s over 50, has never been married, and has never had kids. Why? Because she feels she has a different role to play in life, so why limit her potential by being a mother?
And before you get up my ass about the “limited potential” as a mother comment, think about it. If your first priority is NOT raising your child, you’re probably not doing it as well as you could, or should, be doing it. Those are the sacrifices you’ve elected to make. So make them.
Me, I’ll have no kids. I watch my nephew and my friends’ kids with great love and respect. I try to play an important role in their upbringing, as I know I’ll never play that role for kids of my own. I have “kids” out in the world now, going to university, who I taught how to write when they were only 8 or 10 years old, and they still remember all the things I taught them, and they smile at me, and tell me stories about the way I made them fall in love with writing. I cherish the knowledge I’ve been that for those kids, and that I still am that for others, since I’m still having the same powerful experiences I used to have… yet I go home at night, alone, and have a long, lingering bath, a meal I’ve cooked and can enjoy in silence, and I watch what I want to watch on television, and I go to sleep and wake up whenever the hell I want.
Life is about balance. And I have achieved mine, moreso of late with the acquisition of a great relationship, and I have no regrets about my definition of “balance”, and no intention to change it.
If kids are on your list of must-haves, along with item H on page 62 of the latest Restoration Hardware catalog, you better fucking check your motivations and know, with certainty, that you’re able to make the required sacrifices to give that child all the attention and love it deserves. Otherwise, kindly outsiders like me are the ones who’ll be picking up your fucking slack, and really – I’ve got better things to do.

Some thoughts on relationship "firsts"

Tonight’s a family dinner, my dad’s 64, and I think his health is beginning to fail. I wonder sometimes how long he’ll be around, and being the monster-sized man that he is, coupled with diabetes and heart conditions, it’s anybody’s guess.
The Guy was supposed to join us for dinner – something he claims he really wanted to do. I believe him, but I say “claim” because I can’t fathom why he’d be looking forwards to meeting my folks. I think most guys run from that, but since he’s the one who started it by inviting me to meet his father (didn’t happen), I figured I’d invite him over. Unfortunately, his leg’s being a bitch today (surgery/broken leg) and with his sick days rapidly vanishing on him, and 11 months left in his calendar year, playing it safe at the start of the week is the wiser way to go. I can’t fault that, and even support his choice.
Besides, I’d rather him save his energy for me alone. I doubt my dad’s expiration date looms that closely, but I’ll be happy to have them meet sooner than later. It’s strange having a guy around who flies in the face of the stereotypes for a change.
I’m still the one being a tad more cautious about the things I say, et cetera, but I’ve been thinking of late about the beginnings of relationships, such as when one embarks on different “firsts,” like this “come meet the folks” invite extended by each of us in the recent past.
For example, the inevitable Toothbrush Debacle. When is it the right time to bring a toothbrush and leave it at your new partner’s? Is there a good time? Is it the first time you’re formally invited for the night? I don’t have to worry about that, since the Guy bought me a toothbrush for his place about two or three weeks ago, and deposited his own here rather unceremoniously a couple weeks back. (I’ve been avoiding opening the brush he bought for me, to be honest, as if it was the Sign of Serious Things or something. I’m still a tad apprehensive that way, but I’m thinking about forcing myself to crack that bad boy open the Next Time I’m Over.)
Then, testing for STDs, such as AIDS. How do you approach the subject of getting tested for your partner, especially if neither of you are the Lifestyler types who dismiss testing with ease, given it’s part of your routine? Again, the Guy brought it up first. “I think we should get tested,” was about the gist of his simple-but-good approach. Ironically, he was planning on going for a full work-up after work on the day he busted his leg. Thus, testing’s been delayed. I’ve just made myself a post-it note to get my ass in and take care of my end of things. Not like I have a broken leg for an excuse/reason.
I think there’s no delicate way to say, “Hey, you better get tested.” I think, if you’re looking at a commitment, the incentive of condomless sex is about as good an incentive as anyone needs. Condoms = Mood killers, but necessary evils. With a commitment, not so necessary anymore – provided you’re both toting a clean bill of health and other forms of birth control are in use. I think it comes down to taking a moment after sex or at some other point and simply saying, “What are your thoughts on getting tested for STDs? I know I’d prefer it if we’d both go ahead and do that, and I’m wondering if you think now’s a good time to go ahead and take that action?” Or, the simple-but-good Guy approach worked well for us.
Another issue is that of unwanted pregnancy. If you’re getting into that committed, yet condomless point of a relationship, I think it’s just pragmatic to discuss what a course of action would be if you suddenly were accidentally to become pregnant or get her pregnant. An opportunity arose for me to make my sentiments known (I would abort, with absolute certainty – I have no interest in having children at all, and that’s probably something worth writing about on its own) and I did so. Now he knows where I stand, and he’s relieved, since he’s of the same non-childbearing state of mind. Obviously, guys should let the chick state her stance first. If you force the issue with “I think an abortion would be appropriate,” you may never hear her true feelings on the matter – feelings which might well be contrary to your own, and this is not a subject to dismiss lightly.
It’s awkward, these beginning things. Coming to conclusions on each of the above certainly makes for getting on page a little quicker. There are some conversations that just need to happen. There’s no right way to go, unfortunately. The Guy buying us both toothbrushes might have fallen flat with another girl. Me, I thought it almost seemed like a statement of intent, and I sort of liked the way he took charge and simply made that decision. Another woman might not feel so warmly about it. Ditto with him inviting me to meet his father within about two weeks of the start of our relationship – something that actually did freak me out a tad, to be honest.
Like sex, like taxes, like navigating a new furniture layout after dark, it’s learning by bump-in-the-night, and there’s no simple way. What works once for you will likely fall completely apart the next time. Humans are an unpredictable beast, and you takes your chances every single time. You need to use your instinct, and you need to keep all these situations light by not making a big deal of them. Just simple, matter-of-fact comments and actions go a long ways to taking the edge off of what can be a pretty intense moment (yes, even toothbrushes can be intense).
I still get my moments of total apprehension and weirdness, but I keep them at bay by keeping conversations open with the Guy. He volunteers much in the way of feelings and communication, and I reciprocate both in person and through this blog. Together, we’re making it through the minefield of discovery, and the future looks interesting, if even a tad promising.
Meanwhile, if you want an absolutely incredible recipe, this is what I’m making for din-din this evening. Don’t you wish you were invited? 😉

The Fantasy Business

The guy is asleep, about four feet to my left. He looks so different when he’s sleeping.
We were talking the other night and I told him I would have to start getting up before him for awhile on weekends, so I could write, as it’s really important to me. He understood, naturally, and began narrating, suggesting the above opening line as an opening line. I had different ideas in mind, naturally, but hey… I’m in the fantasy-fulfilling business, you know.
And maybe you don’t know it, but you are, too.
I was reading a certain high-profile sex blog yesterday in which another blog was mentioned, in both a positive and negative manner.* The former blog included a negative mention of the latter’s recent dismissal of her lover’s desire to come on her tits sometimes. The latter told her man he was “acting like an idiot,” and apparently he apologized, saying he was “horrified” with his behaviour.
Yeah. Right. Both myself and the voice of the former blog state that any notion of this guy truly being “horrified” is more hilarious than it is likely.
What is likely, though, is that she managed to, in one simple, fell swoop, dissuade her man from being anything but truly honest with her in the future. She more than likely made him feel like an idiot, though. Shame’s a killer in a relationship, and she’s going to come to regret that, whether she wants to admit it or not. Somewhere down the road, she’s gonna wonder where it all changed. Well, that’s the fulcrum there, baby.
Sex takes all kinds. We’ve all got strange little fantasies, although his wasn’t all that strange, nor really out of the norm at all. Far be it for me to suggest you do anything you’re uncomfortable with, but as far as fantasies go, allowing your guy to shoot his load on your tits isn’t exactly all that invasive.
Personally, I’ve admitted before that I’m not really into the above. Would I shut a lover down for asking? Jesus, no!
Your job, as a lover, is to listen to your partner’s wishes, dreams, and desires. That means, if they have a d-i-r-t-y fantasy, you should be listening to it. Do you have to partake? Absolutely not. But I don’t care if you’re the goddamned Queen of England – you have NO right to ridicule them or mock them for their wishes. Don’t you EVER think otherwise.
Deep down inside, I’ve always had this ridiculously stupid fantasy of having sex in an anti-gravity chamber. Yeah, loverboy and I are cracking the code for NASA and taking a field-trip. Right. (Although there was reportedly a hotel in Paris that offered the services once upon a world, if I recall correctly.) Still, I’ve thought of it more than once. It’s there, on that list, “Things I’ll do if the chance arises.” Mental note made, long, long ago.
Fantasies are what they are, and everybody has the right to them. Shutting down your lover for their wishes is akin to telling your kid they’re too stupid to be an architect. Who in the HELL do you think you are?
Don’t like the idea? Just say no. Tell them you understand why it might get them off, but you’re uncomfortable with performing that act. They’re not insulted, and you’ve made your point known. Peachy.
But in a perfect world, you’d grow the hell up, and realize that most of these things aren’t going to kill you, but they might take your lover to a place they’ve never been before. Now you decide. Do you want to be a selfish person, and just say no all the time, or do you want to explain that it doesn’t do anything for you, but you’re willing to indulge their desires, if it makes them happy, once in a blue moon?
Consider it like one of those strange food cravings we’ve all had: pickles and ice cream, a bacon & peanut butter sandwich, liver and onions. It’s not a regular part of our diet, but once in a frickin’ while you just can’t help yourself. There’s almost this shame behind it. I’m eating bacon with peanut butter. Just like that fat fuck Elvis. Is there a dire future with a toilet in front of me? We’re secretive about it. Guilt, guilt, guilt, baby, but GOD, it feels good.
Now, imagine you’re sitting there, dreaming of this sandwich, and in comes your lover, who’s always stated it’d make him/her ill to have one. And there they are, holding the sandwich with bacon cooked just the way you like it, on the best bread, with the best peanut butter, and they made it themselves. Now, I guarantee you, apart from just satisfying a craving, it’s gonna be the best fucking sammich you ever sank your teeth in. It’s a gift, it’s thoughtful, and completely selfless.
Like fulfilling any fantasy can be.
And let me say another thing: If you lord it over them (“see how generous I am? You owe me, you know,”) then you’re still a lousy lover, don’t kid yourself. It’s not about power or debt or superiority. It’s about just being there in a way that makes your lover feel a little more validated by you.
Hmm. And you know? Mine really does look a little different while he’s sleeping, and it’s time I returned to him.
Listen to your lovers. Indulge them sometimes. Never judge them. Always respect them. Is it really so fucking hard?

*I’d rather not give publicity to her in a negative way. She’s already getting slammed, and if she reads this, she’ll know it’s her.

Kiss Me, You Fool: Some Tips

It’s Friday, do you know where your lover is?
I’m going into kissing withdrawal. You have to understand, I just absolutely love kissing. It’s really not often we find someone whose mouth fits ours perfectly and whose kissing style works with yours. This relationship has that fit. We could kiss for hours. And do. Among other things, of course. But KISSING… oh!
Now, I’ve got mad kissing skills. I can go soft, gentle, tender. I can deliver a deep, probing kiss that says nothing less than, “Take me now, you beast!” Kissing’s a world of wonderful variety. Long, deep, slow, hard, furtive, ferocious, fun. Whatever works for you. And it ALL works for me.
Why do we kiss with our eyes closed? Ever wonder? Muscle memory, baby. It’s easier to kiss by feel and sensation when you take the visuals out of the equation. I’ve noticed that every time I open my eyes to study a guy mid-kiss, I lose my pacing. Sad, but true. And I know I’m a good multi-tasker, so, hey, it’s a hit to the pride to admit.
I was asked recently to post some kissing tips. I will. I’m not getting into actual techniques today, just tips. So, without ado:

  • It’s best to kiss with your heads off-set at 45-90 degree angles. It allows for better contact, lip-sealage, if you will. Sometimes, though, just contacting is what it’s about. You crank your head up off his lap for a kiss while watching TV, whatever, and then, you go where it takes you. Don’t think so much. Yoda might say, “Do, or do not, there is no think.”
  • Always try to swallow before you kiss. Nobody wants a mouthful of saliva. Moist, not wet. There’s a big difference, and it ain’t just semantics.
  • Get your hands in on the action. Caress their face, hold their neck and pull them to you. Whatever, but it shouldn’t just be about lips.
  • Lips have a great deal of nerves in them, happy nerves. Don’t forget to suck and nibble the lips in between tongue-probing. I love, love, love lip-nibbling and nibbling lips. OH.
  • Do you suck tongue? You should. But for the love of god, try not to be too aggressive! Light sucking, like you’re feasting on a Creamsicle. Use your tongue to toy with theirs as you suck, too, if you like. Lightly drag your teeth up their tongue as you release your prisoner.
  • Every now and then, detour away from the lips to let them get their sensation back. May I recommend dotting their face with light kisses (and light sucking), particularly over the eyebrow hump thingie, the earlobes, and on the neck just under the chin and jawline? Hell, anywhere will do, baby. Money-shot: Back of the neck. Yeah, baby! Me, I kiss every inch of a guy’s face and neck (and more), and just love doing it. They don’t seem to mind, either.
  • Feel free to moan softly during kisses. The vibrations of the moans can add a nice little dimension to the kissing. But, really, don’t go over the top. It’s a mood killer. Soft, barely-there moans. MmmmM.
  • Don’t dominate the kisses. Do quick exchanges of probing. Stay interactive.
  • Sometimes, stop and linger with the lips just hovering in proximity of each other — a half inch or centimetre away. Breathe softly, take quick lip nibbles, and linger teasingly slightly apart. Now’s a great time to lean in for a hard, long kiss. MmMm.

I’ll get into specifics of kissing techniques another time. It’s sort of daunting, actually, trying to think of how to describe tongue moves, et al. But I have a pretty spiffy research subject, and he’s willin’.

Now, get out there and kiss, people. God knows it’s in my plans.

The Passion of the Artist (And the Lover)

I’ve been thinking of artists and passion today, and how important it is to keep that passion alive, whether in life or in love.
I saw the Johnny Cash biopic Walk the Line last night and came home wanting to write about the importance of having your passions appreciated by those you love. For some reason, I’ve been unable to put it together in a way that works.
This morning, I began thinking of another movie coming to that same theatre I so love here in Vancouver, the Hollywood, a classic theatre from 1937, which has been owned by the same family for all these years. I’ve seen movies like Casablanca, Gone with the Wind, and The Wizard of Oz there, and secretly covet the knowledge that they all aired there first-run, all those decades ago. These days, it’s a second-run theatre that specializes in great double-bills for the low, low price of $6. (Add to that real butter for the popcorn, and you’ve got yourself a winner.)
The other movie coming soon is Capote, and I’ve been thinking a good deal about it thanks to a conversation with The Guy. You might wonder what Capote and Walk the Line have in common, but they’re both about artists and how destructive the quest for one’s art can be.
Cash was very nearly destroyed by his music, as a result of his first wife being unable or unwilling to appreciate or support his craft – something as integral to him as the air he breathed. She fought him on all things musical and demanded he be the cliché man-about-the-house when he was no longer on tour. He felt like he was living a lie, and lies are as destructive as any force of nature can be.
Capote, on the other hand, one of my life-long writing influences, sacrificed everything to tell a story he predicted would change the way non-fiction was written forever. He was right about the impact of his creation (In Cold Blood), but failed to see what being unwilling to compromise his story would do to him as a man, and what it did was destroy him utterly. He never wrote another word and succumbed as a bitter, angry, heartbroken man to the diseases of alcoholism and loneliness.
I was a writer with writer’s block for six years. Anyone who tells you writer’s block is a myth doesn’t know what they’re talking about. What it is, is simply the failing to know yourself anymore. It’s the failing to know the route inside yourself, and they don’t sell those compasses. I believe that once you’ve overcome writer’s block – true, heart-wrenching, long-term writer’s block – that you’re stronger than it is, that you learn more about yourself than you ever would have otherwise, about the dark places inside, and the block will never happen again. (Not to me, anyhow.) But it destroyed me then. I felt dead inside and out. I hated my life. I wonder sometimes how intentional my two life-threatening accidents really were, whether I subconsciously sought an “easier” way out of my pain. I’ll never know.
For some of us, what and who we are is simply not negotiable. I am a writer, a woman, a photographer, a lover, pretty much in that order. Even as a failed writer, I knew it was all that I was – a writer, but a writer without the words, a writer with the failure to realize her potential. Today, if a lover ever tells me to stop talking about writing, I’d be out the fucking door like a shot.
When I was seeking out men as The Queen of First Dates, the litmus test for me was my writing. Did they get it? Did they care? Were they intrigued? No? Buh-bye, and thanks for flying Air Not in This Life.
Our passions are who we are. Our loves are who we are. Our actions are who we are. Our dreams are what we aspire to, and thus who we are. We absolutely must be appreciated on those levels, for if we’re not, we become shells of who we possibly can be.
Too many of us have to face the reality that we don’t get the support we need in our lives. Too many of us settle for lovers who don’t understand our visions, who don’t push us in the directions we need to travel in.
Instead of saying, “Wait, I deserve better,” we somehow begin dismissing those dreams, those loves of ours, our passions. We tell ourselves that it’s OUR obsession, not theirs, and we shouldn’t inflict it upon them. We somehow justify the segregation of who we are in those quiet moments in the dark of night with who we’re supposed to be in the light of our relationships. We compromise.
And we pay the price no one should ever have to pay.
Capote and Cash are perfect juxtapositions of what could have been and what was, in the face of artists sacrificing for their art. Cash finally had his first marriage end as a result of his destructive behaviours, and was ultimately saved from that destruction when he was finally able to act upon the passion he’d long felt for June Carter, who saved him from himself by becoming the love of his life. So much so that when she passed away in 2003, he’d follow her to the grave inside of four months later. The bond of love sometimes transcends death, for the lucky and the few. They were of that number.
Capote (seen here in a photo taken shortly before his death) had to choose between fighting for the life of a man he’d come to love, or praying for his death by execution, a death that would make his book a best-seller and give him a writing angle that would be unparalleled. The execution inevitably happened, with Capote looking on as that neck snapped and the body dangled from the gallows, and despite then finishing what would be the crowning achievement of his literary career, it destroyed the man.
This is what art can do. This is what passion is.
A few years back, I lost all my passion. Every bit of it. I don’t know if it was due to the adversities in my life or due to the writer’s block, it’s really a chicken-or-the-egg non-sequitur that I’ll never solve. I know the result, and there are nights I still remember the hollow I’d become, and marvel at the changes I’ve seen since. I drank to excess every night. I numbed myself into oblivion with drugs and irresponsibility. I cut myself off from everyone in my world. I didn’t give a fuck about anything or anyone except the pain I felt. I wallowed in it and never rose above the surface. One day, that began to change.
Now, passion is all I have in the face of an uninspired bank account and a not-so-rivetting lifestyle. But the passion is all I need, and I’m more content than I ever dreamed I could be. When you rediscover passion – for life, for love, for art, for nature, for all of the above – you realize how incredibly disposable the rest of your life really is.
But it isn’t something you can acquire externally. It comes from within. Your external choices, though, can impact how much of the passion you can embrace. Does your lover share your passions? No? That’s an obstacle. Does your work encourage your passion? No? Another obstacle. Does your life allow for you to pursue that passion? No? A greater obstacle. When we amass enough obstacles, we choose to avoid the struggle it takes to keep passion alive. It’s easier. Thus, we coast. We meander meaninglessly through life, and ultimately, we succumb instead to avoiding death, not celebrating life. Get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’, like the man in Shawshank Redemption says.
I’m happy I’ve found someone who seems to get what I’m about, on every level. It’s such a challenge to find that. It’s so easy to cloud the issue with silly things, like we like the same movies or we both play baseball. At heart, what are you? Does your lover understand it? Do they appreciate it?
If not, you’ve got to ask yourself if you deserve – no, need – more. I know I did. For the moment, I have what I need, and that’s a start.

HIV: Are You Shitting Me?

Africa is the canary in the coal mine, folks. AIDS is an epidemic on that continent, and this Western perception of “it can’t happy here” is bullshit. AIDS was born there (arguably), it spread around the world, and it’s growing faster in Africa than any other place.
But it will continue its spread. Things will get worse. COUNT ON IT. The only weapon we have against AIDS is education, but we all know that ignorance is as epidemic as the virus.
More than 6,000 people die of AIDS each day on that continent, where 25 million people presently suffer from its wrath. In two years alone, the portion of adults in South Africa with AIDS jumped from 13% to 20%, from 1997 to 1999. There is no country in the world facing a greater threat from AIDS than South Africa, and ignorance of the problem has not disappeared.
In this BBC story from today, we see how a political power-broker in South Africa is accused of raping a woman known to have HIV, in which he did not use a condom. He instead showered after the encounter, believing that would negate the virus’s ability to infect him.
This is an “educated” and “successful” man, and he believes this shit. This is a continent in which education is nowhere near where it needs to be, where superstition and age-old cultural beliefs trump modern knowledge. A place where the Catholic Church (fuck them and the horse they’ve ridden in on) is still militantly campaigning to not have condoms distributed freely in an attempt to stave off the spread of AIDS & HIV, which some experts say might well have spread to a quarter of the continent’s population by 2020.
We in the West are far too ignorant of Africa’s problems. We like to think this disease’s problems will stay confined to the jungles and savannahs of the Dark Continent. But they won’t. In this day and age of world-wide air travel and international immigration, this disease is coming to a body near you, if it hasn’t already.
Educate yourself. Have protected sex every time. The few people I know with AIDS or HIV can tell me almost with certainty which encounter they believe caused it — calculated risk? Not so calculated, it would seem.
Test yourself and your partner, and demand to see the evidence, before engaging in “bareback” sex. I’ve never been promiscuous mainly because AIDS and HIV scare the living shit out of me. And rightfully so. The Dark Continent tells of a dark future for us all, if vigilance and education aren’t increased.
America is taking ignorance to new levels — allowing for states to have “opt-in” sexual education, like in Kansas, where if a student has not received a signed permission slip from a parent, they will not be taught sexual education. Ironic, isn’t it, when it’s the students whose parents won’t consent to such education who are most in need of it?
It’s time we put our so-called quest for morality away, and focus instead on educating ourselves about the possible transmission of this disease. Just the other day, some fuckhead politician in the States was talking about the transmission of the virus through tears. (Not likely to happen, Bubba.)
The topic of AIDS and HIV are ones I’m very passionate about. The ignorance of Africa as a problem on more levels than one is another I’m passionate about (one word: Darfur). But they depress me and I avoid writing about it, because I want to do it well, and to do it well means finding the facts and figures that can be used to shock awareness into people. I will, however, aspire to it over the coming weeks. It’s time people get their fucking heads out of their asses and learn about this. The spread of AIDS here in the West IS increasing as the spread of education has been reduced in the past half-decade or so. Teens are more ignorant than ever, and it’s the politicians’ faults. Women are contracting the disease faster than they ever have, and the dangers are not diminishing.
Use condoms. Always get tested. Be aware. Educate yourself. Never, ever touch blood without protection provided by latex gloves or what have you. Be vigilant. And stay uninfected.

Erectile Problems: Bent Outta Shape When Not Takin' Shape

I have long been a believer that men have far too much pressure on them when it comes to sex. It’s why I started writing about how to become a vixen (such as this and this, which I must continue, and will) and it’s why I’m constantly saying that I feel women need to initiate sex as often as men, if not more.
God knows I try to.
There is one thing people are eternally guilty of, and that is believing the notion that sex is about orgasms, not intimacy. As a result, we have a market flooded with Cialis, Viagra, and other miracle-cures for the Minute Man.
It enrages me when I hear about women whining that a man couldn’t get it up. It happens, honey. Get the fuck over yourself.
The reasons why a man might not get it up are many – from a too-long bike ride to an allergic reaction to his meal to too much alcohol to too much job stress to a woman who can’t keep her mouth shut about certain topics during foreplay. I’ve had guys tell me they couldn’t get it up because a photo of her mother was right there. Who the fuck knows what’s causing it? All that matters is, it happens, and more than the media and women want to accept. Tough. Get over it.
The common penis doesn’t come with a helium pump for inflation purposes. There is no “on” switch. Trust me, if there were, I’d have fucking nailed the technique by now. When it comes to sheer instinct on the male body, I’m certainly near the head of the class. When it comes to technique and attentiveness, again, I know I’m there.
Yet, nonetheless, the Guy had difficulties with maintenance during an otherwise great Saturday night. Neither of us realized at the time that the copious Tylenol 3s he’d been needing to take all week for his horrendously broken leg (on which he had surgery on Tuesday afternoon to insert two Titanium plates and countless metal screws around and in both his tibia and fibula, for a total of three through-and-through breaks, which was then wrapped in a too-vulnerable soft cast that kept getting knocked by Miss Butterfingers here) came with a side-effect of erectile dysfunction and decreased libido.
Well, the libido? Trust me, not a problem. It wasn’t that he couldn’t get it up, he sure as hell could – far too many times. It just didn’t want to maintain long enough for follow-through. Thus, frustrations understandably ensued – not from me, but from him. He was bitter and maybe even a little unnecessarily angry at himself, because his track record was anything but that of inconsistency.
But, you know, we talked, we made it through the night in relatively good spirits, and in the morning, with a sponge bath by yours truly and a start-up blow-job, everything worked out quite nicely. Enough that I had to cancel my evening plans to recoup, honestly.
A little research later and suddenly the light came on: Drugs will fuck you up. C’est la vie.
(And for all the guys out there cringing and thinking, “Oh, my god, how could she do this to him and tell this story?” Well, I told the Guy I’d write something and pretend a reader sent in a letter, and he said not to bother, it was cool. Now THERE is a man comfortable with his sexuality, people. And rightfully so.)

Here’s the deal. Erectile dysfunction happens. It’s not the end of the fucking world. When guys get bent out of shape because they’re not taking shape, it’s really unattractive. A little frustration is understandable, but getting pissed off about it, walking out, anything like that, it’s childish, unattractive, and shouldn’t happen. Guys, get over yourselves.
But is it that simple? No. The media and women are most of the problem on the shame-over-“failure” front, sadly.
Chicks who take it personally, who the hell do you think you are? Get over yourselves. Most of the time, it’s not about you. Most of the time, it’s any one of a hundred little things that can transpire to blow a mood… Or maybe it’s major surgery with insertion of too much Titanium four days previous and a hellishly fucked limb.
Any which way, when a guy can’t do what guys are supposed to be able to do, it’s a crushing damned blow, and not one they’re wanting to have to face – OBVIOUSLY. For you to escalate it by doing the whole, “What’s wrong? Is it me? Well, what can I do to help? Maybe we can try again later?” 20-questions, woe-is-me, I-must-not-be-sexy crap is about as lame a thing as you can lay on a man – a man who really doesn’t need your shit at that moment.
Kiss him, tell him it’s cool, slide your hand tenderly up and down him, tell him you’re thrilled to feel his warm, sweaty skin next to you as it is. Ask him if there’s anything he’d like to do instead. If he wants to give you oral and get you off that way, then that’s something you should encourage. If spooning’s his bag, great. Whatever you do, don’t make it about you. Even if it IS about you, don’t get hung up on that.
Any chick who’s really baffled about the mechanics of the cock (or guys, for that matter) – and it’s not as simple as it looks – could read Dick: A User’s Guide in order to get exposed to the basics about penisology. For something more in-depth, focusing on psychology of the cock and all that, I’m not sure what to suggest, since I’ve not happened upon something that fits that bill. (Although Paul Johannides’ Guide to Getting It On is about as complete a sexyclopedia as you’ll ever find, and it takes the psych-side of cock quite well, plus all the other need-to-know sex basics that every lover should pore over.)
Let’s face it. Guys tend to be pretty non-communicative. That’s typically how they work. Stress can impact performance, and you putting a negative spin on it’s really fucking uncool.
I know I didn’t. And I wouldn’t. Sex isn’t just about orgasms for me, it’s about intimacy, and if things aren’t working, I’m more than happy to be entertained in other ways. It’s about the closeness, which I fucking love.
It helps that I understood somewhat the world of pain the Guy’s been in this past week, having spent about 20 weeks in a single year on crutches myself a couple years back, so I had pretty low expectations going into things. I was pleasantly surprised on Sunday and in the end had a pretty wicked time of things. It was a “gee, I could really go to church and do confession now” kind of weekend despite mechanical difficulties on Saturday. Now, the guy’s prematurely weaning himself off the drugs, in a conscious decision that he’d rather endure pain so he can enjoy the pleasure in between. I secretly don’t mind. 😉 I know a couple pain-negating moves, I assure ya, Guy.
I’d like to think the Guy finds me hotter and cooler now that he knows I’m not going to be a bitch in a moment like that. I’m not looking for brownie points, that’s just the kind of chick I am. I get this shit, and you should, too.
One of the worst things to ever happen to sex, in my point of view, is the whole Viagra thing. Yes, lasting’s awesome. Yes, orgasms rock. Yes, being hard’s much more fun than soft. But it ain’t all about that, and when it comes to the little blue pill, that sometimes gets forgotten. Sex should be about remembering what the point was in the first place: Getting close, experiencing the person from head to toe, travelling the terrain of their body, exploring all they have to offer. It’s not just about getting hard and getting off. It’s time to take the ego out of sex, before the ego kills the fun.

A Rant: An Interested Lover is a Stalker?

So, a comment was left on yesterday’s post, and it went to the effect of this:

Steff, I have to say it’s kinda’ creepy or something……with you writing about your guy and your guy adding comments to your blog.
I know it’s a free world and people can do anything they want.
But, this Blog is beginning to give me flashbacks of watching the Brady Bunch or something. It’s almost like……is he watching over your sholder all the time or stalking you? Doesn’t he have anything else to do? It’s making me sick!

The Guy makes comments on posts relating to him. Suddenly it seems stalkeresque to that reader, and perhaps others. The comment put me on the defensive, and then it made me think.
The Guy said, “Hey, she posted to my blog first. And what you see as creepy I see as caring and supportive.” I’d have to say I agree. And it’s true, I did comment on his first. (And no, I won’t post the link. You find that shit out on your own, kudos, but I like him being a rather non-distinct entity. It makes him stay more mine, in some weird way.)
The Guy’s a writer and an editor in his own right, and as a result, he’s extremely supportive and encouraging of my attempts – because he knows what you don’t: Nothing terrifies me more than writing, but there’s nothing I need to do more. He reads everything I write every day, (including on my other blog) and tends to send off a couple short emails each day, considering that he knows I simply sit at my desk most often and write. He knows I don’t like MSN/instant messaging, so he doesn’t push me to use that, since he realizes I find it interrupts my work ethic. I send him far more emails than he sends me, and it’s a wonder he’s not slapping a stalker label on my ass. But, of course, he’s definitely slapping my ass. You don’t need to hear about that.
Anyhow, that wasn’t what had me thinking.
I’m an independent chick. I don’t “need” a guy to feel whole, and my backlog proves that. But I want a guy. I want The Guy. And why not? He fits the bill of what I’ve been looking for, and vice versa.
In writing about our recent collision in matters of the heart for his own audience, he had this to say: “It’s exciting, fun, and works. We’ve jumped in with both feet: there’s lots of trust and sympatico there, which helps. It feels, in a way, like it’s been a long time in coming, and I don’t think I could explain that sense if I tried.”
And neither could I. Really, explaining this shit to the masses is like trying to explain why you like a certain food. You can try, but really, unless you’re sitting there and munching it yourself, you’ll never understand.
I’m in an unusual predicament. I’m supposed to be writing about matters of the heart and loin, and I try to push myself to create new content on a daily basis. Somehow, I mostly succeed. Yes, some days are weak and of little consequence, and others are fun and quirky, and on rare good days, I manage to even pull off the odd hint of insight.
But through it all, it’s fuelled by me – my experiences, my life, my fears, my curiosities, my takes, my opinions. Me. I leave myself out here on the clothesline to be whipped about by the elements, and hope like hell there’s no tatters when I’m through.
There are moments when I wish The Guy didn’t have access to this blog. Moments like The Relationship Ride posting from last week. But he does have access. What’s more, it seems to matter to him what I’m saying. When I posted that writing about my early-days fear, he didn’t post some lame-ass comment for you all to read, he called me and deflated any anxieties I had through good old-fashioned conversation. We actually only talk on the phone once or twice a week. We save conversation up for being in person, but we keep communication open via email. He told me the other day I could be writing about quilting and he’d still check it daily, but the fact that it’s about sex is just “total bonus.” Then again, he knew my writing from long ago, and liked it just fine when I wasn’t giving instructions on how to perform oral.
So, it bothers me that someone who’s interested in what I say has to be labeled as a “stalker.” What the fuck is that about? As a result of him being interested and reading what I say, our communication process is probably far more sophisticated only a month (technically, but that’s not allowing for our exchanges from four years ago) into the relationship than most people probably experience after several months in. I encourage everyone to try and find their way to a communicative experience like this. Throw in a little hot action, and there you go.
It also means he understands what I want from sex, what I expect from a lover, and more importantly, what I, too, will (and do) bring to the table. Our physical exchanges are passionate, open, rewarding, and fun, and we know how to talk about it before and after the fact. Our verbal exchanges skip to the heart of the matter, because so much has already been said and understood, if even only through these pages.
I guess the long and the short of it is pretty simple. We live in a fairly cynical age where interest and affection can be perceived as indulgent and sappy. We’re so fucking bent on being “cool” and maintaining an image, and even playing fucking head games, that we tend to forget about being — or even how to be — real in between it all.
On here, I am what I need to present myself as. It’s as much a marketing ploy as anything. In print, I’m real, but I’m a stylized, heighted form of my reality. In person, I’m someone who can be hurt, who can cry at the memory of a tragic event, and who needs someone who can make that pain go away and who makes me laugh and feel safe and sexy. I’m cute, affectionate, doting, open, smart, communicative, excitable, and engaging, and I really, really need someone who mirrors that. Luckily, it would appear that’s what I’ve got.
A “stalker” is someone who shows unwanted attention to another. They’re obsessive and they pursue their subject with little regard for the subject’s desires.
The attention I’m getting is wanted. The “obsession” appears mutual. And my desires have met with nothing but his regard. And vice versa.
There will be posts in which some aspects of my relations with The Guy will find their way on here. This doesn’t look like a short-lived relationship, not to either of us, and I suspect there will indeed be things worth writing about. I think it unlikely I’ll ever share a great deal of detail with any of you in regards to that, as I do value some privacy and really do feel that keeping things to myself sometimes makes them mean more, but I’ll certainly allude to things, and I intend to continue sharing my fears, apprehensions, optimism, hope, and more. That’s what this place is about, and it indeed will change with the landscape of my life… a landscape that isn’t as empty as it was a month or two ago.
This thing I have going might seem sappy or whatever the fuck you perceive it to be, but that’s a truncated, inaccurate portrayal of what, to me, is mature, fun, communicative, supportive, and really fucking hot. So, y’know, whatever you wanna think, think. I know what I got, and I’m cool with it.

All About Oral: Odor, Etiquette, and Why Some Women Don't Want It

So, I received an interesting email recently, and the reader had this to ask:

I was wondering what your opinion is on oral sex etiquette. For guys AND girls, is one obliged to kiss someone who just finished going down on you? If your partner doesn’t feel like swallowing, what should he do about his come?

Personally, I can’t wait to kiss a guy who’s just gone down on me. I’m not really sure why it is, but I like to think that a) it shows my appreciation, and b) he finds it hot. Similarly, if I go down on a guy, I also can’t wait to kiss him afterwards. I find those kisses the hottest, most intense a kiss can get. I look forwards to them every time. Besides, planting a smacker on your lover after they’ve gone down on you is the subtle way of making sure you’re tasting great. I’ve often grabbed the guy mid-oral, made him kiss me, find out the taste-test way if I’m tasting as clean as I want, and if I am, he’s shipped back south to finish the job, and my fears and insecurities are abated. Smart, crafty? Of course I am. 😉
I think it’s rude, really, not to kiss your lover after having received their oral services. I don’t know why, but I do. I’m not sure there’s a hard-and-fast rule out there, but really, if you avoid a lover who’s just been indulging in your bodily juices and such, it communicates that you’re repulsed by yourself. It’s not that sexy. Own your sexuality, own your body, and prove it with a post-oral kiss.
When it comes to swallowing, I’m not one of those “good girls swallow” proponents. I often don’t. It’s different in a relationship, I suppose, and it depends entirely on his hygiene and his personal flavours. I’ve occasionally swallowed, and the first time I ever did it, it was by accident and I was surprised it wasn’t anywhere near as bad as I thought it’d be. I’ve sometimes chosen in the past to let a guy ejaculate in my mouth, and as I’ve snaked back up his body, kissing everywhere I go, I’ve deposited bits back on him, and then we kissed and squirmed happily together. I think it doesn’t really matter too much, but guys absolutely love a girl that swallows, not only because her lips are around him as he orgasms in that happy, warm place, but because it shows she accepts him in entirety, and that’s arousing no matter what sex you are.
If you haven’t brought him to orgasm orally, then it comes down to either finishing inside you, or by manual means, in which case either a condom catches the ejaculate, or it “goes where it goes.” Again, what happens with his come in a manual situation’s pretty much up to you, him, and the moment. There’s no real etiquette involved. Want it on your belly? Great. Want to take the chance that he’s not a squirter and your walls or floor won’t catch it? Great. Do whatever strikes you as the right way to go.

________________

In keeping with this topic, I’ve been asked a few times and just never get around to answering it:

What can a guy (or gal) do to change the flavour of their ejaculate/personal juices?

It comes down to general health as well as diet. Are you prone to infections? There might be little you can do to change flavours if UTIs and/or other infections find you regularly.
But usually it’s a diet-related thing. Most sources tell you that a meat-heavy diet can result in a more bitter-tasting sperm. Rumour has it that vegetarians have the best taste out there. (For some reason, I just find vegetarians a little less sexy, though. There’s something odd about a man who doesn’t like sinking his teeth in meat, you know?) Focusing your diet on more carbohydrates, fruits, and vegetables, as well as drinking a lot of water and other pure, non-sweetened juices can do a lot to giving you a better flavour (and odour).
Smoking, coffee, and alcohol can also result in a bitter, unpleasant come.
You want to eat foods rich in anti-oxidants, high in fibre, and with lots of juice content. Pineapple juice is thought to be one of the best things you can drink in regards to improving your flavour, and is great for overall health anyhow. Drinks like blueberry juice and cranberry juice are also great in this regard. Celery is said to be a terrific food for come.
If you’re really wanting to get serious about things, you could invest in quality juicing at home. Cucumber, celery, pineapple, ginger, and so forth, all mixed together with some protein supplement can really help you develop a sweet, nutty flavour.
There are pills on the market that swear by improving the flavour of come, but what they don’t tell you is that the pills are rich in things like ginger, aromatic herbs and spices, and vegetable supplements. Sticking to a diet that’s rich in spices like ginger, low in sodium, high in natural sweeteners, will do the same trick.

________________

There are women who resist having men go down on them. These women are resistant for a number of reasons.
One, maybe they just don’t like oral. Strange, but true. Oral’s a very intense experience, as most of us know, and for some, it’s simply too intense.
Two, they’ve had bad experiences. Lovers can be idiots. We can say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, and it can turn a pleasant experience into a scarring one. It’s hard to shake the memory of someone who’s been a thoughtless lover, and it takes patience and encouragement and support to overcome a negative experience.
Three, they have a history of infections. Some women are predisposed to infections. Maybe they swim in natural bodies of water too often, maybe they have a bad habit of shaving their legs in the tub, maybe they have poor post-workout hygiene, maybe they’re just built that way. Whatever the case, a history of infections can leave a woman with a really negative sense of herself and her privates.
Four, they simply have a negative sense of their personal odours. Like most women, I’ve had times when I’ve been self-conscious about my odour. I’ve avoided intimacy with a guy based on paranoia, not reality. In the end, I’ve come to learn that I generally smell the way I’m supposed to, and I have an average, if not desirable, taste to me. The only way a woman overcomes these sensitivities is by way of supportive, open lovers who offer compliments and kindness, not crass observations. The odour a woman emits is filled with the pheromones that turn men on, but the pheromones don’t work on us. Instead, it makes us paranoid. I actually worked in a fish restaurant as a teen, and was belittled by guy friends for smelling fishy after work. For years, I’d have issues about any odours my vagina emitted, and was never able to relax when a man went down on me, not until my mid-20s.
Five, your guess is as good as mine. I recently did the piece “Twats and Knives: Together at Last” in which I discussed the new trend of women getting cosmetic surgery done on their pussies. Why would a woman do that? Who knows. It’s not always something we’ll understand.
The point is, whatever the reason, some women aren’t into letting a man perform orally. If you’re a woman and you’re really, really concerned about your odours and tastes, you might want to try douching. It’s not something you should do regularly, as it kills natural bacteria that can fight infections, but if it’s something that gets you past the fear of having a man perform on you, then maybe it’s something worth trying. Including things like pineapple, ginger, celery, and other juice-altering foods in your diet might also give you a better sense of your emissions and scents.
If you’re a guy and you know she won’t let you go down on her, then don’t force the issue. Instead, sometime when you’re fingering her, you can lick your fingers and tell her you love the way she tastes, and you wish you could try it firsthand sometime. Comment on how her natural scents get you aroused. Linger by her belly, kissing her groin and surrounding areas, and toy with her, breathe her in. Don’t be obvious and say all the positive comments all at once, just occasionally make statements, and you’ll probably slowly wear down her resistance.
Insecurities are a hard thing to overcome, and as women, we’re barraged by advertisements on television that tell us we have to worry about our smells. Once every month, we get periods and there’s always inevitably that moment where we discover it’s a little on the ripe side. It’s not a wonder that women have insecurities about their sexual juices and aromas; it’s a wonder we ever overcome it, considering all the crap we see in the media. Any woman who’s ever had a yeast infection and has seen that look on their doctor’s face as he/she describes the “cottage cheese” within her knows how awkward it can feel to be aware of this thing growing inside of her.
It’s a struggle to overcome the paranoia, but supportive lovers get us there.

The Relationship Ride

When I was a little girl, I liked the “nice” rides at amusement parks. The Tilt-a-Whirl was a favourite. There’d be those moments when you’d spin wildly and you’d verge on nausea, and then it’d slow on down, and you’d settle back into an easy pace. It was unpredictable, but never dangerous, and never scary. The perfect combination, I always thought.
When I was eight, I went to Ontario to visit family, and my Evil Vixen cousin decided I needed to try a scarier experience. I was just tall enough to ride, and this was one of those big wheel-type thingies where everyone walks in, gets strapped against the wall, and the thing spins madly at wild speeds, first on a horizontal plane, but then it starts angling and elevating, until you hit absolute vertical – with every rotation, you go from facing skyward to staring at the ground from a height of a hundred feet or more. For an eight-year-old Steff, it was hellishly frightening. Throw in the blasting music and the screams and taunts of others, and there I was, out of control.
I was screaming, crying, and absolutely horrified. Tears poured down my face and I couldn’t stop wailing. They had to stop the ride and let me off. I was heaving and sobbing and needed my mommy, who was thousands of kilometers away.
To this day, there are times when I wish I could do the same with life. Stop the ride, man, let me off. Give me a blankie and a quiet night with reruns, I’m done like dinner.
The beginning of relationships, for me, are one of the most terrifying things I can experience. I’d like to jump in head-first, absolute abandon, and know it’s okay, it’s all right, I can do it. But I can’t. I start to, I throw my pennies in the wishing well and pray it’s all going to be all right, but then the evil What If? Monster starts whispering in my head.
What if I’m wrong? What if he comes to his senses? What if there’s some external factor I can’t control? What if I’m missing out on something better? What if the timing’s wrong?
And I fucking hate the What If? Monster. I hate the ambivalence and apprehension that finds me when the only thing I should be finding is trust. I’m in that rare situation with a guy who’s opening all the trust doors first, so the fear’s a little less than it might normally be, but it’s still there, and I really, fucking hate that it is. I wish it wasn’t. This time, I really wish it wasn’t.
But it’s strange and weird because he has this, this massive decoder ring of mine. Not only do I have this blog, with more than 200 postings, but I have my other blog, with more than 500. I don’t know if I’m your standard blogger, because I try to really peel back my layers. Not for you, not for him, not for anyone but for myself.
Unfortunately, though, he gets to peel back my layers on his own time, by himself, without me seeing his reaction, and I’m left wondering, “What’s he really thinking?” Fortunately, he’s good enough at expressing himself that he often clues me in without my needing to ask. Still, I’m over-analytical, timid, worried, and scared. That’s just me, and it works better when I’m flying solo, because then I can sit around and ask all these grand questions that my readers can relate to. Now, though, I’m not flying solo, so I go and I air these fears, and he’s gonna know. Maybe a good thing, maybe not.
In my life, fear is the great component that I can never, ever shake. All this self-examination and illumination is generally done in the attempt to get past the fear of hurt and pain that has greatly coloured my life over these years. I’ve had, unquestionably, a hard life. I’ve been hurt six ways to Sunday in every arena of my life, no matter what walls I’ve put up or taken down. I’ve had adversity piled upon adversity, and the hardest thing I’ve ever had to learn is a) to love myself in the face of it all, and b) to allow others to love me.
And I’m nowhere near ready on the front of B. I’m having a hard, hard time getting past this fear and apprehension that comes with the beginning of a new relationship, but specifically, this one. There’s the reality that this relationship has begun with more abandon and less restraint than any I’ve ever had. It’s freaking the shit out of me, honestly. That was hard enough at the beginning, but then my bone-breaker had the misfortune of badly breaking his leg and needing surgery for the insertion of a metal plate and several screws. I feel so horribly for him, and because I’ve already come to care a good deal for the man, I really want to be there to be of assistance and comfort for him.
So I have. And today, oh, my GOD. I’ve woken up with The Fear. I hate The Fear. On the one hand, I’m screaming “Stop the ride, lemme off!” On the other, I’m thinking I like this feeling. I love how I feel when I’m around him, but when I’m not… all the niggling doubts squirm to the surface of my psyche and the Questioning begins anew, and quite needlessly, I suspect, given the time we’ve shared and the openness we seem to already have.
During one of our first nights together, we were lying on the bed, comparing notes about what we thought the other would be like versus what they had turned out to really be. He commented that he thought I’d be “more cerebral… no, more pensive.” I told him that I am, but that moods like pensiveness have no place in front of another person. (It’s rude, methinks.) I’m very, very pensive – always, really – but moreso when I’m alone. I do get very quiet, though, in those makeout sessions, lying there, occasionally holding each other’s gaze, and in those moments, it’s true, I’m not really thinking about anything in particular. But the wheel’s turning, and soon, the thoughts strike. Like now, the next morning.
And my question today is, am I my own worst enemy? Is my fear my great undoing? It probably is. But at least I confront it, I give it a voice, and maybe that’s the first step in moving past it. I know I feel this way, and I’ve tried to explain to The Guy that, for now, my actions need to speak much louder than my words, ‘cos baby, I ain’t got the words. Not yet. I try. But I can’t do.
I’m a good woman, a good lover, and a great friend. I know it, and I try to be each of those, but deep down inside, I’m also a scared little girl that wants the safety of the Tilt-a-Whirl. Too bad I’ve met the height requirement for the big fucking roller-coaster, and it’s the only ride operating.