tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77958697071741224232024-03-25T02:22:08.569-07:00Diary of a Slutty Feministby Ava BogleDiary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-62102138757150934502018-10-30T10:07:00.000-07:002018-10-30T12:45:09.879-07:00AirBnBooty<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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“You’re breathing too much,” he says. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Excuse
me?” I snort.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re
creating too much wind.” My breathing is apparently having a dispersive impact on
the smoke rings he’s working so hard to create from the massive vape parked
between his lips.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I laugh, joking
that he’s already starting to get annoyed with me after less than 48 hours in
my presence. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Today it’s
my breathing, what’ll it be tomorrow?”<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There is
no tomorrow,” he says. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That’s
true. I’m leaving the following morning to fly to London, then back home to Los
Angeles.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The previous night, my first in his Berlin apartment,
my cute 27-year-old German-Argentinian host tells me he’s single because he gets
bored of people easily. He’s making me dinner—spaghetti—something he says he’s
never done for an Airbnb guest before. I speculate that this extra bit of hospitality is probably due to the fact that earlier that day, when I showed up at his
apartment, I broke the ice by telling him I was going to the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yUk8371Txsc" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Berlin porn film festival</span>,</a> and from that small sliver of information, he gleaned that here was
an American girl on vacation interested in porn and whom he could most likely have
sex with if he put in a modicum of effort. He’s right. I would have sex with
him even without the spaghetti. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He holds
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the water and in my experience I always overestimate and make too much pasta.
He follows my advice and after seven minutes, strains it into the sink. He holds
up the strainer, exasperated.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This isn’t
enough at all!” He exclaims. I laugh and apologize and tell him I'm used to cooking for one.
“I’ll have to make more.” He seems more amused than annoyed. How annoyed can he
be after all, he hasn’t even had sex with me yet.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay, I’m
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in Berlin, curious about what kind of porn Germans are into and if it’s
different from the porn that’s popular in America. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“There’s more fetish stuff here,
particularly dominatrix stuff,” I tell him. Something called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Facesitting" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">face sitting</span></a> </i>seems quite popular—an act
of dominance in which a fully-clothed woman with a big ass sits on the face of
a naked restrained man until he almost passes out, then she lets him breath for
a couple seconds before sitting her fat ass back down on his face; in the one I
watched all the way through to the end, the guy eventually didn’t wake up and
the woman leaned over him and asked, “Are you dead?” Then she walked off camera
and it faded to black. Is this a snuff film, I wondered? I tell my host about another
one in which a dominatrix with a white-blond ponytail wearing a pink leather
body suit ala <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CduA0TULnow" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Britney Spears in the “Oops... I Did it Again” video</span></a>—except with a
zipper on the crotch—barks in German at a fat groveling man who keeps repeating
the same word over and over again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What does
‘entschuldigung’ mean?” I ask my host.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m sorry,”
he says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
makes sense. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I ask him what
kind of porn he's into and he tells me he likes that dominatrix stuff. I tell
him that I often think if someone observed what porn videos I click on, they
would be really surprised about the ones I choose to watch. It doesn’t even
make sense to me, I say. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Like what?”
he asks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I confess
that the other night I watched a video in which a guy had sex with a sleeping
girl, and got very turned on. I understand the inherent controversy of admitting this in the time of Cosby, Weinstein, Kavanaugh, et all, but I believe that fantasy and reality are and should remain separate. In the words of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fPtjGH3Uo-k&t=9s" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Cindy Gallop of <i>Make Love Not Porn</i></span></a>, "I'm pro-sex, pro-porn, and pro knowing the difference." I think that problems arise in a world where <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2016/03/20/opinion/sunday/when-did-porn-become-sex-ed.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">sex education has been replaced by porn</span></a>, and too many people don't know the difference.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I wonder why we like that stuff,” he says, smiling.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s taboo.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had spent the day at the <a href="https://www.tripsavvy.com/what-to-expect-at-german-sauna-1520041" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">sauna, which in Germany means all nude and co-ed</span></a>. I tell my host about how even here where people are much more relaxed about
nudity and it’s not sexualized like in America, I was watching the men and could
tell a lot of them were trying really hard not to stare at the breasts and
vaginas of the women sitting around them. I found it funny and perversely titillating to
realize that even these seemingly more evolved men struggled not to look.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Men are
animals,” he says. He asks if I think women are as horny as men. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, but I
think it’s more circumstantial. And the stakes are higher for women.
Biologically, men are designed to spread their seed far and wide, whereas women
have to consider—even on an unconscious level—the possibility of getting
pregnant and having this guy’s baby, so it’s less frivolous for us. We have to
be more responsible.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He tells me
that for him love and sex are separate. He explains it like this: “If I love
you and I think you’re cute, I can’t be dirty with you.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Being dirty</i> sounds like it’s important to him. I say I used to feel
more like that but it has started to change for me lately. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I think about the last guy I fell
in love with, the literal clown whom I met at a fringe festival. He was in
an open relationship with his wife and eventually broke my heart. The clown had
stared into my eyes when we made love and whispered “my Ava” and “beautiful Ava”
and I came so hard I cried. I used to think “making love” was a stupid and
embarrassing expression, but now it seemed I required it and could no longer come from the
usual pounding. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What about
when you have a strong connection with somebody, the sex can be intense,” I say.
My host shrugs. Clearly "being dirty” and somewhat detached is more his speed, as I will come to find out
later. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can't have asked for a more perfect candidate to fuck
the loving clown out of me. We get stoned and, as I make an O with my lips
trying to blow smoke rings like he’s taught me, he leans over and kisses me. He
is undeterred when I have to go remove the diva cup I preemptively
inserted earlier that day thinking I was getting my period—I appreciate his
lack of squeamishness over the potential for a little blood. And whereas some
guys in the past—particularly casual fucks—have used my impending period to
justify not going down on me, he seems quite content to bury his face down
there—a quality I respect. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When we first start having sex, I try to maintain eye contact and pull him close, but his eyes
glaze over or refuse to meet mine as he stares down at my flapping tits or
watches himself thrusting in and out of me. Despite my asking him to slow down,
he pounds harder and faster and, as he does, I slip further and further away from
any chance of orgasm. Eventually I give up trying to connect with him and instead shut
my eyes tight and default to the fantasy I’ve come to depend on in times like
these—the secretary bent over her boss’s desk organizing his papers when he
comes upon her with a hard on. But even this
old standard proves fruitless. Apparently the clown has ruined me not only for
porny sex but also for my tried and true, orgasm-guaranteed fantasy. Will I forevermore
require deep eye contact and tender proclamations during sex in order to come? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just as a
few nights ago I experienced the rude awakening that I am now suddenly too old to sleep
in an eight-bed, dorm-style hostel room amongst a bunch of drunken
20-somethings singing Backstreet Boys karaoke, I now feel too old for this
particular brand of fucking. It seems like just yesterday <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/11/halloween.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">I was sucking dick in a dive bar bathroom</span></a> and feeling really good about my life choices. Now here I am
wanting my two-night stand Airbnb host to make sweet love to me and tell me I’m beautiful.
What the fuck happened to me? When did I get so <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">old</i>?!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After moving me around into several different pretzel-like
positions—legs on shoulders, hip twisted to the side, knees out like a frog as
he fucks my feet (new one for me!), he asks where I want him to come. Ah, my
favorite question.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My tits?”
I try. He looks nonplussed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My ass?” I
try again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your
face!” He beams, eyes shining. He looks so fucking excited I burst out
laughing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No one
wants you to come on their face,” I assure him. This comes as a surprise to the
porny fucker. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
When he eventually does come on my
tits, he tells me he’s never done that before. Really? This amazes me. I wonder
if I have somehow inspired the porniness of this guy’s fucking. Is he normally
a tender lover but because this eager American introduced him to the porn
festival and admitted to watching a sleeping girl get screwed, he thinks this
must be the one to try out the moves he’s been practicing only in his
imagination--the porny moves no self-respecting woman before me has allowed him
to try? Not for the first time in my life, I wonder if my being a sexual woman
who is honest about her proclivities inspires men to disrespect me. Not that I
necessarily find being ejaculated on disrespectful, but the ease with which
some men assume this is something I want always surprises me. And I find it often comes
coupled with a seeming disregard for my pleasure, at least when it comes to
orgasm. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Both times we have sex that first
night, when I pull him close and ask him to slow down, he resists, instead
opting to spread my legs wider or put them over his shoulders or actually speed
up his pounding to a frequency of motion that will never in a million years make
me come. The second time we have sex, when he declares, “I’m going to come,” I say,
“not yet.” And still, he comes. So, despite all the finger banging and his face
buried in my ass for five minutes and him poking around my vagina as though
giving me a gyno exam—something that actually makes me laugh out loud and
inquire, “what are you doing back there?!”—I do not come. Which leads me to the inevitable
conclusion that all this seeming attention he pays to my pussy is really more
for his own pleasure than it is for mine. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The second night, we have sex one more time, and I do come.
I tell him to put a condom on and I go to the bathroom to remove my diva cup,
which is now full of blood. I return and tell him to get on top
of me. I slow him down for long enough that I am able to eek out a modest
orgasm. Afterwards, I get in my PJs and almost fall asleep next to him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This is
dangerous,” I say. I have a flight to catch at 7:30AM and have to be up in four
hours. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You could
set an alarm in here,” he says, but I opt to go back to my own room where I am
guaranteed at least a few hours sleep. I guess in some small way I’m learning to
take care of my own needs—a benefit of turning thirty, I suppose. I kiss him
goodbye.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Predictably, the following day on my flight back to London, I replay our time together.
His amused annoyance with my breathing, me pretending to hold my breath, joking that “I want to make this work,” spoken in a ditsy American accent. Our
stoned laughter. My excitement when I finally successfully blow a single smoke
ring and he isn’t even paying attention. His tight body and the tattoos on his shoulder and thigh and the one of a tadpole on his ring finger. The view of his tight ass as he stands naked with his legs crossed, hovering over his computer. His James Dean-like pompadour of sandy blond hair.
His nose ring. The cute way he pronounces “cheese” in his Argentinian accent.
“Chiz.” The fact that he is a Sagittarius, like me, and how the only other Sag
I’ve been with is <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2013/09/oops-i-did-it-again.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Gaffer Guy</span></a>—clearly not a good match for me.<br />
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I should be
used to this post-coital nostalgia fest by now, but somehow it always catches me off guard. Why is it that no matter how mediocre the sex is or
how clearly incompatible I am with someone, if I fuck them, I will
inevitably spiral into this wistful replaying of our time together? Is this
what I meant when I said women are just as horny as men but we have to be more
responsible, have more self-control? It's not only because we might end up pregnant with his child, but maybe more so because our feelings betray us. At least mine do. It's become blatantly apparent that if I have sex with someone—even if I don't like them all that much—I will inevitably fall a little bit in love. It feels inexorable, outside of my control. In fact it feels like a biological holdover from a time before birth control, before the possibility of abortion. Because even if I know in my head that in the unlikely event that I did get pregnant, I would certainly get an abortion—<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2018/08/30/opinion/brett-kavanaugh-abortion-rights-roe-casey.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">at least while I still can</span></a>!—my body tells me a different story, an ancient story, one that is unfortunately quite compelling.<br />
<br /></div>
Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-66263862703036729902017-10-31T13:02:00.000-07:002017-10-31T19:39:46.865-07:00My Harvey<div class="MsoNormal">
When I first started reading about the <a href="https://www.newyorker.com/news/news-desk/from-aggressive-overtures-to-sexual-assault-harvey-weinsteins-accusers-tell-their-stories" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">numerous allegations piling up against Harvey Weinstein</span></a>, I didn’t understand at first how this could
be going on for over twenty years and no one had come forward
before now. That so many women could have such similar experiences with one of
the most powerful men in Hollywood and yet it continued to happen. If there were
to be no legal repercussions, why at the very least did older women not warn
younger women to not go into those hotel rooms, not to be alone with this
sexual predator? Why was he allowed to get away with it for so long?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Initially, I resisted the <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/10/20/us/me-too-movement-tarana-burke.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">#metoo hashtag circulating on Facebook</span></a>. Why was it that women had to stand in solidarity in our victimhood?
Why are we so obsessed with the woman as victim narrative? I don’t see myself
as a victim, and I don’t want to be made to wear that badge because we live in
a sexist, patriarchal world. Of course I empathized with the women who had been
victimized, but I resisted what felt to me like a celebration of our presumed
weakness. I couldn’t imagine being in a room with a powerful man who could make
or break my career crossing all the boundaries that lay between us until I felt
I had to make a choice between my ambition and my soul. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then I remembered that actually I had been in a room
like this one. A year ago. And I didn’t know how to process it until I started
reading these women’s stories. I actually didn’t really understand how to think
about what had happened to me until I read in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Atlantic</i> <u><a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/entertainment/archive/2017/10/harvey-weinstein-and-the-economics-of-consent/543618/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Brit Marling on Harvey Weinstein and the Economics of Consent</span></a></u>. I didn’t realize my situation at the time because I had simply
accepted it as the status quo. And that’s my really horrifying realization in
all of this. Not that Harvey Weinstein is a sexual predator, because frankly
and unfortunately, I’m not surprised. But that I have been in a room similar to
the one these women describe, and I didn’t even realize it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A year ago, I was hired to adapt a novel into a screenplay
by an older female producer. She let me know before offering me the job that
she had sent the book to several more well-known and established screenwriters,
one of whom was a female writer/director I greatly admired. Lucky for me, those other writers passed. This producer fancied herself a
sort of mentor and liked the idea of giving a young woman writer with potential a shot, and I was grateful for the opportunity. I had only ever had one
of my feature scripts—a co-write—optioned, and never anything produced except
for short films I made myself. This was a very important project for her and
she had a reputable director interested. To make myself more appealing while
trying to get the job, I lowballed a figure because I knew part of my appeal
was being a writer without a quote. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was paid half up front and was to get the other half upon
delivery, but when I ran out of money and needed to pay my rent, I asked the
producer if I could get the rest of it now. It wasn’t a lot of money and I knew
the guy funding the film was loaded. She said yes, but that her financier wanted
to meet me, so I could go pick up the check in person at his office. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I headed into the financier’s office building, a man
passed me in the hall and looked me up and down, smiling as he checked me out.
I continued into the building and was led into a conference room by the pleasant
young woman working the front desk. A few minutes later, the financier entered
the room. It was the guy who had checked me out in the hall. We shook hands and
I sat down. He was talkative and energetic. He asked me questions and then talked
over my answers. He seemed to want to tell me about himself, to show off his
philanthropic work, and I responded attentively like a good student, nodding
and smiling and making all the right noises. He asked if I liked the book—he
hadn’t read it. I said I thought it would make a good movie. I wasn’t really
sure what this meeting was about but apparently he just wanted to put a face to
the person to whom he was writing the checks. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He asked about my other work. I told him about my blog, this
blog. I told him the title. His face lit up. He suddenly seemed very interested
in what I had to say. He asked what made me so comfortable writing about sex. I
told him about the shameless way I was raised by a feminist mother. I told him
the foundational story of my childhood, <a href="http://bust.com/sex/16419-my-first-vibrator.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">that my mom bought me a vibrator when I was twelve</span></a>. This isn’t privileged information—literally everyone who knows me
knows this. And it’s not a story designed to titillate. I sometimes tell it to
relative strangers in business meetings because I feel it cuts through a lot of
small talk and gets to the heart of something that helps people understand who
I am as a person and an artist. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He leaned in, a glint in his eye. He asked if I knew how he
and my producer had met. I said no. He dialed her number on the conference room
telephone in the middle of the table and said, “Hey, tell her how we met.” She
giggled and said, “Oh god.” She hung up and he told me they had met at a sex
party. Neither of them knew it was a sex party, of course, and they ended up
chatting in the kitchen while everyone else got it on in the living room. He
watched me intently as he told this story. I laughed politely and smiled a lot,
and still wondered what this meeting was about. Was I going through some kind
of test before I was going to get my check? He seemed electrified by the fact
that we were now talking about sex, and I suddenly felt like maybe we were
headed in the wrong direction. I could feel myself getting hot under my
cashmere sweater, an ill-advised choice on what I had assumed would be a chilly
fall day and had turned instead into a stifling LA one. But I didn’t want to
take it off, embarrassed about the possibility of sweat stains. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn't sure why I felt uncomfortable. Maybe because
the stakes felt higher than usual. I had been hired by this woman I respected to
write a script after it had been passed on by much more established writers.
She had made it clear she was taking a chance on me, and here I was talking
about sex with her financier. Somehow I knew there was something about this
that wasn't totally above board. But hadn’t he pushed the conversation in this
direction? He had probed into my other work and gotten fixated on the subject
of sex. It suddenly seemed I had unwittingly tapped into an area where I maybe
shouldn’t have gone with this particular guy, and now I didn’t know how to get us
back to higher ground. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I guess inspired by my mention of being raised in a
shameless household, he started telling me about how he had coached his “gorgeous”
seventeen year old daughter that she should play with a guy’s balls when they had sex. I didn’t know what to say to that so I stupidly said, “Oh really, I
don’t think I’ve ever done that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll show you if I’m ever lucky enough to have sex with
you,” he said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just stared at him. I felt my face turning red. I started
to think back in the conversation to see if I had provoked this comment. Had I
said something that might make him feel like us having sex was a possibility?
And even if he thought it was, why would he say this out loud in a supposed business
meeting with someone he didn’t know? Had I incited this by talking about my
sex-positive childhood? Had I said too much? Probably, I usually did. Or was it just the way this guy talked? He stared at me
inquisitively, gauging my response. Perhaps testing how far he could go. This
was my opportunity to shut the door, to say, “Please don’t say that.” I didn’t.
I was just so surprised; I didn’t know what to say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later, when I recounted the story of this meeting to my mom
and a couple friends, I left out this part. I told them that I’d found the
meeting refreshing. I was charmed by the attention of this rich and powerful
older man. I was excited by what I saw as a potential business opportunity. He
seemed interested in the Slutty Feminist—maybe he wanted to invest in her? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The meeting ended with him asking me what would make me
happy. I waved the check in the air and said, “This helps!” He then said he
wanted to take me out for a sushi lunch so we could get to know each other
better. I said great. Free sushi lunch with a rich financier who likes slutty
feminists and might want to invest in my brand sounded good to me! <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We went to lunch and it felt like a date. We ate expensive
sushi and he told me about how he loved his wife, she was a great mother, but she
had a low sex drive and he had a high sex drive and he said they had kind of a
don’t ask-don’t tell policy. He also said that the one time he’d taken
advantage of this policy and fucked someone else, the girl ended up
blackmailing him, and his wife was furious at him for putting their family at
risk. I wonder now if there was a part of this story he wasn't telling me, and if perhaps it wasn’t that she had blackmailed him,
but that he’d gotten sued and settled. Now I’m curious about the girl’s side of
the story. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He told me about the time he and his buddies went to Vietnam
where he met the most beautiful young girl he’d ever seen and his friend was
making out with her when his other friend broke the news that this beautiful young
girl was actually a beautiful young boy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I would’ve had sex with her. She was stunning,” he said, grinning.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He told me he wouldn’t make the first move on me, that I
would have to initiate if I wanted “anything to happen”. I stared at him. The
words I should have said stuck in my throat. I tried to think of how I might
switch gears into talking about business, but my brand was my business, right?
And my brand was the Slutty Feminist, wasn’t it? And the Slutty Feminist was just talking about the subject of her work at lunch with a rich businessman so it was all above board,
yes? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That will never happen,” is something I never said.
Instead, I told him about the stand up gig I had coming up and he asked what he
had to do to get a private show. I laughed and said, “That’ll cost ya!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He said he wanted to make our lunches a monthly engagement.
I said okay. I called my mom after lunch, excited that I might be forming some
kind of ambiguous relationship with someone who liked investing in the arts,
someone who might want to invest in me. I left out the part about tickling
balls and beautiful Vietnamese boys. I left out the part about how, deep in my
gut, I felt unsettled.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I think about <a href="https://www.theguardian.com/film/2017/oct/11/the-allegations-against-harvey-weinstein-what-we-know-so-far" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">the women who went up into Harvey Weinstein’s hotel rooms</span></a> and drank champagne and allowed themselves to be
massaged, I get it. I get why some women stood there while Harvey jerked off in
front of them. When I’m honest with myself, I can see exactly how that could've happened.
Because they wanted something—a role, a paycheck, a career—and here was the most thanked person at the Oscars after God, and on some level you might assume that someone so rich and powerful was right, no matter what he did to you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As Brit Marling says in her wonderful piece on Harvey: <span style="background-color: white; font-size: 12pt;">“The
things that happen in hotel rooms and board rooms all over the world (and in
every industry) between women seeking employment or trying to keep employment
and men holding the power to grant it or take it away exist in a gray zone
where words like “consent” cannot fully capture the complexity of the
encounter. Because consent is a function of power. You have to have a modicum
of power to give it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Looking back on this lunch and the meeting that preceded it,
I’m embarrassed about how I acted. I feel ashamed that I didn’t set a boundary
for myself, that I allowed this guy to believe there was a chance of sex with
me if it meant I might get some career or financial boost out of it. I feel
like an idiot because on some deep level I knew exactly what was happening. I
knew this guy wasn't interested in my work, he just wanted to fuck me. I knew that and yet it felt good to feel
some illusion of power in the situation, when in actual fact, he had all the
power. Because as a young, broke, attractive woman in this world, sometimes it
seems the only real power we have access to is the ability to make powerful men
want to fuck us. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Which is why it adds insult to injury to tell the end of
this story. I finished the script and felt really good about it. I think it was
the best script I’d written up to that point. I’d poured my heart and soul into
it. It was personal yet true to the original story. I knew it was good. I
handed it in and waited. And waited. For two weeks, I heard nothing. Finally, the
producer called. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Something has come to my attention that I feel very
uncomfortable about and it’s the reason I haven’t called you sooner,” she said
ominously. She then accused me of “pursuing a relationship” with the financier,
and said she felt betrayed. I was confused.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He asked me to lunch,” I said. We had one lunch. These
lunches happen all over LA every second of every day. LA is built on these
getting to know you lunches. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She said she could have picked nine other writers, but she
chose me, and I should have been impeccable. She told me she felt like throwing
the whole project in the trash. She said this was a huge fuck up, she didn’t know if
she could trust me. She made it sound like I had seduced and fucked her
husband. I didn’t understand what was going on. I started to cry. She kept
going. She said what I had done downgraded my efforts from an “A to a C.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re not a teenager, you’re a grown woman,” she yelled. I
sobbed. I felt so ashamed. I didn’t even know why, but on some level I felt she
was right. I had failed at my responsibility: to draw a clear boundary with a
horny man who couldn’t help himself. I deserved this. I pleaded, told her I had
made a mistake. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A huge mistake,” she corrected.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I cried, she yelled. She said I had used the relationship
for my own gains, hoping to get something out of it when I should have been on
best behavior and grateful to her for giving a chance to an untested writer. I
tried to convince her I was trustworthy and honest, that I hadn’t meant any
harm. I’d never had to argue for my trustworthiness before; it’s not something
that had ever been questioned. I felt like an imposter even saying the words. I
felt blindsided by the attack and completely unprepared to defend myself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In retrospect, I might have asked, “What exactly did I do
wrong? What could I have done differently?” Drawn a clearer boundary, okay. But
the man writing my checks (aka paying my bills) asked me to lunch. Was I
supposed to tell him to fuck off? How do you draw a boundary with someone who
within fifteen minutes of meeting you says, “If I’m ever lucky enough to have
sex with you…”? I had actually practiced what I would say at our next lunch,
the boundary I planned to draw—albeit belatedly. My plan to get us back on track, back to what I wanted out of this. That second lunch would never happen.
I never heard from the financier again after the producer’s call. I wondered if
she’d berated him as forcefully as she’d berated me. Somehow, I doubt it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the producer was done yelling, she pivoted to what a
good job I’d done on the script. She said the director had some notes, but they
both thought it was a very strong first take. I sniffled, trying to pull myself
together and shift gears. I grabbed a pen and paper so I could take down a
couple of her initial thoughts. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We both think you’re a strong candidate to continue working
on the script.” I thanked her and we hung up. Then I went and stood in the
shower and shook like a leaf. I felt like I’d been assaulted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I didn't continue working on the script. The project was shelved. I never received any feedback on my months of work, never got a chance to talk to the director. I was relieved to put the episode behind me, but I also felt used. I felt this was my punishment for being a little slut.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think about the women who stood by silently—the older
women, the potential mentors—who knew what Harvey was up to but were too afraid
to speak up, afraid of losing their jobs, of jeopardizing their own tenuous
position in the pecking order. I do feel for those women. Who knows what kind
of awful shit they had to put up with to get to where they are. <i>That’s just
being a woman in this business, sweetie. Grow a thicker skin, don’t be so
sensitive.</i> What they’re really saying is, turn off your empathy. Turn off your
compassion. Turn off your nurturing instinct. Turn off your innately feminine
qualities in order to survive in this male-dominated space. No. That’s not what
we need. We don’t need more hardened, macho people in this industry. What we
desperately need is more empathy, more compassion, more nurturing, more feminine
energy. That is what will make this industry stronger. Those women who looked
the other way, I feel for them, they too are victims of a patriarchal system,
but they are also complicit. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As women, we are really good at twisting ourselves into
pretzels, constantly adjusting to fit into a world that wasn’t built for us. These
circumstances have made us extremely adaptable, which is a wonderful quality.
We know how to do that. Now it’s time to change the culture of Hollywood, politics, the tech industry, the world. It's time to design a world that fits <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">us</i>. So that our daughters and
granddaughters don’t have to post #metoo on Facebook. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-73279246113409744832017-02-20T12:48:00.000-08:002017-02-28T12:43:36.976-08:00Those Who Get STDs Together Stay Together?<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been doing stand up and, naturally, my
set leans heavily on sex and feminism. The first couple times I got onstage
at open mics, I was compared to <a href="https://www.ted.com/talks/eve_ensler_on_happiness_in_body_and_soul" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Eve Ensler</span></a>—something I would usually take
as a compliment, but somehow felt like an insult when the audience consisted of a bunch of dudes. The MC at one mic commented after my
set, “What a nice, romantic story. Very Nicholas Sparks.” He was joking of
course. I had just finished telling the crowd about <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2014/10/the-pussy-knows.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">my date with the self-proclaimed “female orgasm expert”</span></a> with whom I had some of the most
mediocre sex of my life in the back of his roommate’s van behind the Urth Cafe.
I ended the story with, “Spoiler alert: I didn’t climax. But he sure did. Because,
you know, he’s a man.” I guess the MC was implying that, because I think some guys are both bad <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> arrogant
lovers, I’m not a romantic. <span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt;">I guess I come off as cynical. Have I become
irreversibly jaded about men?</span><br />
<br />
I had just started seeing someone whom I had known, as casual friends,
for a long time. We had sex without a condom, so in my usual post-coital panic attack, I immediately went to get tested. The problem with
me is that I’m a hypochondriac but I’m also bad at using condoms, so I get
tested a lot. On Saturday afternoon, after returning home from hiking and brunching with a friend, I received in my email inbox the results of some of the
previous week’s tests. It said I had tested positive for syphilis. I had been
tested since my last unprotected sexual encounter and hadn’t had sex with
anyone since this new guy, so I was pretty convinced he was the one who’d given
it to me. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSRhLr3qEBCbue62KeACZYFQet8L1Fe9J4485zWzufGFWGFEZNNFKPZATjLj3-AwrwdHHCE4VyMT9MR-byrjpCj1MxSklfMoX4iws6b9eKcAogR5Uwg6yTPmuAsA3wy9a2yk7XAb1ba3d9/s1600/herpes.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSRhLr3qEBCbue62KeACZYFQet8L1Fe9J4485zWzufGFWGFEZNNFKPZATjLj3-AwrwdHHCE4VyMT9MR-byrjpCj1MxSklfMoX4iws6b9eKcAogR5Uwg6yTPmuAsA3wy9a2yk7XAb1ba3d9/s400/herpes.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt;">Syphilis sounded to me like some pretty medieval shit, so I started looking up the symptoms online (mistake). What would initially
start as sores and a rash on your genitals and the inside of your palms could,
down the road, turn into blindness, insanity and death. </span>I
discovered that syphilis is rampant and has become a <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2016/06/how-syphilis-came-roaring-back/488375/" style="color: red;" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">national health crisis due to budget cuts to STD prevention clinics</span></a>. </span><br />
<br />
I considered not telling the guy right away, as I knew he
was on his way to spend the weekend at a music festival. Part of me didn’t want
to ruin his weekend, but the bigger part of me thought that if I had to suffer
with this news, then so should he. He was appropriately embarrassed and
apologetic when I called to tell him. He contacted the last girl he’d had
unprotected sex with only to find out she had also tested positive for syphilis
after they’d been together and hadn’t told him. He offered to leave the
festival to come be with me, but the clinic was closed for the weekend and
there was nothing for us to do but wait, so I told him it was fine, to try to forget
about it and enjoy the festival. Meanwhile, I agonized, my imagination spinning
so far out of control that I got online and searched, “if I have syphilis, do I
have HIV,” which autofilled immediately in the Google search bar, telling me I
was not alone in my irrational fear.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiqCA4AtTHTcR2wouoV12p8NSPPBcqa4NVzk2fQoX1ni4x9cvdhZCoQJ4Ox1QkQ9Jj1Ej6mZUOr_FuwKDBULIgX0lVMZub7BbuPqWRY-tQ-6VoOZvzB0GKtwqG8S8YHW3Gh6rR8lz8Pmed/s1600/penguin+man.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiqCA4AtTHTcR2wouoV12p8NSPPBcqa4NVzk2fQoX1ni4x9cvdhZCoQJ4Ox1QkQ9Jj1Ej6mZUOr_FuwKDBULIgX0lVMZub7BbuPqWRY-tQ-6VoOZvzB0GKtwqG8S8YHW3Gh6rR8lz8Pmed/s400/penguin+man.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
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Finally, on Monday, we both made appointments to get treated
on Wednesday. As I was leaving for my appointment, I received on my doorstep a
lovely bouquet of wild flowers from the guy.<br />
<br />
At the clinic, they took my blood again and I was called in
to see the counselor. She informed me that I was the first ever cisgendered,
heterosexual woman to ever test positive at their clinic. "Can I get a medal for that?" I joked. Then I got called in to see the doctor who said that syphilis infections were
up 400% in Los Angeles that month. Then he told me that I didn’t have syphilis,
it was a false positive. The guy also tested negative, he too didn’t have
syphilis. Turned out the girl he'd fucked before me had gotten it from the next dude she'd been with after him. He was enormously relieved and immediately his whole demeanor
changed. He felt understandably let off the hook, and wanted to celebrate. I
was also relieved, but still felt emotionally hung over from four days of escalating
fear and paranoia, and was slightly annoyed at how quickly he was able to
bounce back. I was headed to The Comedy Store to see a friend perform, so we
went to Saddle Ranch for (gross) burgers, and when he didn’t offer to pay
the bill I became irrationally angry and disappointed. I felt emotionally raw
and in that moment like I wanted to feel taken care of. It's the oldest story in the book, but I just wanted him to read my mind and know intuitively what I needed. We usually
split the bill—which was fine, I’m a modern woman, whatever—but I felt like
after this scare he should've at least offered to pay for dinner.</div>
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I didn’t like this version of myself. I had been single for
five years, I was used to taking care of myself, codependence made me sick, and
I didn’t like feeling like I was relying on someone else. My sudden unexplained grumpiness caused him to leave rather than come to the show with me. I
texted him afterwards that I was upset that he hadn’t offered to pay after this
whole ordeal. He said he thought I should have bought <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">him</i> dinner as he felt I had been really harsh with him over this syphilis scare and then I hadn’t apologized enough when it turned out he hadn’t
given it to me after all. Maybe he was right, I didn't know. All I knew was that I hated this kind of lovers’ quarrel; I had
successfully avoided it for so long. Was I really going to morph into this needy person when I liked myself so much more as a single woman not reliant on anybody else? On
the phone the next morning, in a moment of impulsive frustration, I said that I
thought this wasn’t going to work between us. I felt that my heart had
hardened—did I even believe in relationships anymore?</div>
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Getting an STD with someone is traumatizing, and it can bring out the worst in people. Sometimes this makes a relationship stronger, and sometimes it tears you apart. Although it turned out we didn't have syphilis after all, I think the whole ordeal made us realize we didn't like each other that much in a crisis. Perhaps he saw it coming. When we first found
out we didn’t actually have syphilis, he jokingly asked if I was disappointed
that now I didn’t have a legitimate reason to break up with him. I laughed and
rolled my eyes, saying that no, I was happy to not have it. But I did wonder
what made him ask that—was he reading something into my behavior that even I
wasn’t aware of? Was I really trying to sabotage this? Why? Was I protecting
myself? From what? What I liked most about this guy was the lack of games, his
openness about the fact that he liked me, that I never felt like I had to play
it cool. He always texted back, he appreciated my jokes, and—perhaps most
importantly—he wasn’t afraid of my <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2016/05/angry-feminist.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">angry feminism</span></a> or my <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/11/halloween.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">history of sluttery</span></a>—both
things I talked about with abandon on our very first date. Perhaps more than
any guy I’ve dated since my ex, he seemed completely undeterred by my
brashness. I didn’t have to pretend to be demure around him, I could say things
like, “are you having a stroke?” when he couldn’t remember something I said,
and he didn’t get offended. Throughout the syphilis scare, I realized I wasn’t
just worried about my own health, I was also worried about his—and that felt
like something new.<br />
<br />
Just before I reconnected with this guy, I'd said to a
couple friends in all seriousness that maybe I was just going to be single
forever, and that was okay. I liked myself single, I had forged a whole
identity around being an unattached woman. I didn’t know what me in a
relationship looked like anymore. And I was scared of how being “coupled” might
change me for the worse. I didn’t ever want to be in a codependent situation again,
it was important to me that I maintained my autonomy. Was that even possible in a
relationship? I didn’t know. A lot of the women I admired were single. Was that
a coincidence or was there a reason? Was there something in me that wasn’t
meant to be inextricably linked to another person? And was this view somehow limiting
me from experiencing something potentially great? Could a relationship ever be
something that actually fed me emotionally and creatively rather than
distracting me from my life and my purpose? I decided that, for a relationship to be worth it, I'd have to like being with this person better than being by myself. Because being by myself was actually pretty good. </div>
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Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-35263871297700944382016-05-23T09:53:00.001-07:002016-05-23T12:05:50.472-07:00Angry Feminist<div class="MsoNormal">
It seems to me that the problem some men have with feminism is that they think it’s about Us v. Them. They hear Feminism and they
think War. Instead of “equal opportunities for women” and “a more just and
balanced world that values both male and female qualities and perspectives,” they hear, “women
who hate men and are trying to take our place in the world.” They assume that
we would approach it as they might: as a competition, survival of the fittest,
every <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">man</i> for himself. What these men fundamentally don’t understand is that women on the whole don’t operate like
that. We want everybody to get along, we want the world to be a better place
for everyone living in it. A world that is better for women will also be better
for men. Until these guys realize that, feminism will continue to feel like a threat. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Often when I bring up the F word on, say, a first date, a
glaze will pass over my date’s face. He is no longer looking at me the
individual, but instead seeing me as one face in an amorphous swarm of angry bitches.
Every time I meet a man and tell him I’m a feminist, I watch
him closely. His reaction tells me a lot about whether it’s going to
work out between us on a fundamental level. I have yet to meet the man who says, “Fuck
yes, me too!” That guy I will marry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkDhWfPBQxOPw6QTqEIpQsPAysfsThRffExj2qz2S0fXPL2Iy0HNAEP988h1jBZaH510SZykt74FubNBPr8b-C5devMsqbCoHiS2IQQkgT0RO0Sa-oolfJZM20IDPuYENXL1Y4I-2ATB63/s1600/Matt+McGorry+feminist.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkDhWfPBQxOPw6QTqEIpQsPAysfsThRffExj2qz2S0fXPL2Iy0HNAEP988h1jBZaH510SZykt74FubNBPr8b-C5devMsqbCoHiS2IQQkgT0RO0Sa-oolfJZM20IDPuYENXL1Y4I-2ATB63/s1600/Matt+McGorry+feminist.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I'm on a date with a guy I met on Tinder two
years ago whom I just randomly came across on the Internet and decided to Facebook
message. We had never met up in person, but texted for awhile, and the
fact that he appeared in a random Google search made me feel serendipitously
like we should meet. We agree on a bar in his neighborhood because he doesn't have a car, so I drive from Silverlake to Culver City on a Friday evening to
meet him. I arrive, we hug, and he hands me the happy hour menu. We're both filmmakers
and film buffs, so we nerd out about cinematography and
directors and within minutes we're arguing about which movies were the best of
last year. He mentions <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MEVuXWEBAP8" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><i>Tangerine</i>, a film about two African American trans women prostitutes</span></a> shot in LA on an iPhone
6.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I hate gimmicky movies like that,” he says. “It was a piece
of garbage that people only thought was good because it was about trans people
and was shot on an iPhone.” I bristle.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I feel like you can’t call telling a story that hasn’t been
told before a gimmick,” I say. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The filmmaker only made that movie to capitalize on all the
trans stuff in the media,” he says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My warning flags start going
ballistic. As an avid support of trans rights and the <a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2015/12/14/dolls-and-feelings" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">president of Jill Soloway’s fan club</span></a>, I'm not the person to sympathize with someone calling a
story about trans women a “gimmick.” I decide not to write him off just yet,
though I'm starting to get the sense I probably won't ever see this guy
again, and I'm only on my first drink.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He starts telling me his entire life story, complete
with the fact that he was medicated as a child for bipolar disorder, got kicked
out of school for beating up other kids, and had a substance abuse problem
as a teenager. I just stare at him as he monologues at me, wondering what I've said or done to inspire such an aggressive confessional. He tells me in
detail about his father, his uncle, his family history, his family recipes. Finally, he takes a breath and says, “Sorry, I talk a lot, tell me your story.”
I start to tell him about where I grew up, but he's reminded of an anecdote
about his own life and interrupts me to talk about it. I decide to stop
trying to insert things into the conversation. He tells me he usually dates lawyers and doctors and architects, women in different fields, because he's <i>really interested</i> in other people’s lives that are different from his own. He seems very proud of this fact about himself and I wonder if those women were able to
get a word in edgewise. Who raised him to believe
it was okay for him to talk for so long without stopping? I wonder something
I often do on first dates with men, how it is he can be so un-self-aware.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We walk to another bar down the street and this is where
he turns to me and says, “You’re hard to read.” I consider informing him
that it's easier to read someone when you ask them a question about themselves
rather than just constantly talking about yourself. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You
don’t seem to care what I think of you,” he says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why should I?” I ask. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He says he's hoping to get a second date with me. <br />
“Why do you think I’m buying you so many drinks?” He chortles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He mentions several times throughout the night this
girl he was dating in the Midwestern city where he lived before moving to
LA. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“She showed me I could actually really like someone,” he
says. He’s never been in love, but the amount he talks about this girl makes me
think there's still something there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Maybe you should give it another shot with this girl,”
I say. “You seem to still really like her.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nah. It would never work. She wants too much from me.”
Apparently, she wants kids and stability, while he isn't ready for any of that. “I’m not looking for
a fuck buddy, but like not a big commitment either.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He asks what I'm looking for and I say probably more
than he is. I'm not interested in having casual sex anymore. Then he insinuates that he doesn't want me to get too attached to
him if he can't give me what I want.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re worrying about me getting too attached?” I laugh into my beer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I think women have certain expectations.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There <i>is</i> something biological that happens to us because we
literally let men <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">inside</i> our bodies,”
I say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He tells me he wishes he hadn’t said anything about looking for
something casual, because he's open to seeing where this goes. I say again
that we're probably looking for different things. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somehow we start talking about rape culture and the
<a href="http://nymag.com/thecut/2015/07/bill-cosbys-accusers-speak-out.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">accusations brought against Bill Cosby</span></a>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s scary as hell for a guy to think about being accused
of that,” he says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s scary for a <i>guy</i>!” I practically shout. He laughs,
conceding that this came off wrong. The fact that straight white cisgendered
men are somehow capable of twisting the narrative so that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">they</i> become the victim in the rape scenario never ceases to amaze
me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then he says, “I just don’t understand how someone could get
off on rape. Like, how do you even get hard when someone isn’t wet?” Ick. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgny-qYX03nGITD1hGFda5mlRUGG7QS5Siwt1zDMhuYycHoyAU1R40NyeoVWYoo5Y3Oo-tKl-0NfvyMcV5CCogD4nLzT97brSYJBkRHHNVrsTVEMfJoZq2or9NbtZAP5FRbdiWwIgvz_Izo/s1600/Catastrophe.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgny-qYX03nGITD1hGFda5mlRUGG7QS5Siwt1zDMhuYycHoyAU1R40NyeoVWYoo5Y3Oo-tKl-0NfvyMcV5CCogD4nLzT97brSYJBkRHHNVrsTVEMfJoZq2or9NbtZAP5FRbdiWwIgvz_Izo/s1600/Catastrophe.gif" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because I know I don't want to see this guy again, I decide to try an experiment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just so you know, I’m a raging
feminist," I declare, watching his reaction.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He looks at me sideways and asks warily, “What does
that mean?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I consider myself a social activist for empowering women’s
voices. I’m really passionate about it and believe that women should have equal rights and opportunities.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I mean, yeah, but is that even feminism? It should just be
called humanism.” He says this as though it's a totally innovative new idea he's just come up with. Then he proceeds to explain feminism to me. I laugh out loud.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You are <a href="http://www.salon.com/2014/10/20/rip_mansplaining_how_the_internet_killed_one_of_our_most_useful_words/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">mansplaining</span></a> feminism to me right now!” I say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I hate that word,” he says with a disgusted look on his
face. Of course you do, I think, it was invented precisely for guys like you.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Everyday there’s another article written about this stuff,”
he says, by way of arguing that we don't need feminism anymore. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, because nothing’s changed yet. Once there’s real
change there won’t be the need for so many articles.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” he says. I wonder how
long we have to wait, how many more years of male justification of the
insidiously sexist way things are will we have to live through before there
is quantifiable change. How many levels of entitled white men defending the
status quo are there left to battle?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ask if, as a director, he hires female crews.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Have you ever hired a female gaffer?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There aren’t really any,” he says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What about DPs?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“They’re never recommended to me. How am I going to hire
someone who isn’t recommended to me?” He raises his voice, getting frustrated. “I don’t think about
gender when I’m hiring, I think about the best person for the job.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s really fortunate for you that you don’t have to
think about gender, because as a privileged white male you’ve never had to.” Full disclosure, I may have said something about him having a penis
between his legs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“My makeup artists are women and gay men. I don’t care that
they’re gay.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wow. Good for you,” I say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiro8g8hucf0LsGRm3immw7PI0f8g1NRvktdoXCMu_xc5rw-Xj5wAjVtDE9A7xN3bcJ5R9-W7mIFzGDDsIbEf-a8u_ywApikIY8M1__l8wNPCgZVBizojnPWII8q-8XC8WZlhs8kBb61A9t/s1600/penis+dance.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiro8g8hucf0LsGRm3immw7PI0f8g1NRvktdoXCMu_xc5rw-Xj5wAjVtDE9A7xN3bcJ5R9-W7mIFzGDDsIbEf-a8u_ywApikIY8M1__l8wNPCgZVBizojnPWII8q-8XC8WZlhs8kBb61A9t/s1600/penis+dance.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He then tries to convince me that women don’t make less
money than men. He says he knows a lot of female directors who are successful.
I ask if he’s ever honestly asked them how it is for them as women
directors. He hesitates.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, I mean, they said it was hard to get where they are
but now that they’re there, it’s fine.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So you think we should just shut up and stop
complaining.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re putting words in my mouth.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Maybe this is true, maybe I am putting words in his mouth, but the point I'm trying to get at that he doesn't seem to understand is that he is fundamentally resistant to even acknowledging that things aren't equal. The fact that he insists on defending the way things
are and refuses to recognize the problem seems to me the most
insidious thing about the sexism in this town. The fact that if men
continue to refuse to acknowledge the need for change, they will never change
themselves. This is why we need feminism, and I tell him as much.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The old guys are dying anyway,” he says by means of
consolation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“But here you are a 29 year old man and you don’t hire
women. Where’s the progress there?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He ramps up for another session of mansplaining and I
decide to get real with him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You know what,” I say. “I know a lot about you and you
know very little about me. You have been talking at me and interrupting me all
night. And I know you talk a lot and that’s okay, I do too, but it might
behoove you to listen to someone every now and again.” I may not have been this
eloquent. I am a little tipsy and very angry.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He just stares at me. Then he says, “You started telling me
about yourself and then just stopped.”<br />
“Because you interrupted me,” I say. I start talking again and he
interrupts me again.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I am trying to tell you about how you interrupt me and
you’re interrupting me,” I point out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So interrupt me back,” he says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I really don’t have any interest in doing that.”<br />
“Well then don’t go to New York because that’s the way it is there,” he says,
grinning. I had told him earlier in the night that I was thinking of moving to New York. I
decide this is it. I'm tired of listening to this idiot. I stand up.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay, it was nice to--“<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, you’re welcome for all the drinks,” he interrupts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I march out of the bar and LOL all the way home, exhilarated
to have walked out on a first date, to have spoken my mind rather than quietly
stewing over the ubiquitous misogyny that women are constantly swallowing. The
days of swallowing it are over for me at least. If that means I’ll be single
for life, so be it. I know this guy probably didn’t hear a word I said,
but it doesn't matter. I said my piece and he was right, I don't give a
fuck about what he thinks of me.<br />
<br />
I think about the me of just six months ago. She would
have smiled and nodded through the mansplaining, had a couple more drinks, gone
home with this guy for some mediocre one-sided sex. The new me simply can't stomach it anymore. I don't want to let another misogynist inside my body. I
don't even want to let in another culturally-blind, privileged white male.
That's a harder bar to clear, and I think it's understandably difficult for some of these men to see past their own privilege and sense of birthright entitlement. Regardless, I've decided to start having higher
rather than lower expectations for the men I have sex with. I will hold men to
a higher standard and believe that they can be better than so many before
them. This I feel is the true essence of feminism—that men and women don't need to be in opposition, a world that is better for women will also
be better for men. Until I find a guy who sees that, I will stop letting these
lesser males inside my body. Perhaps that means I won't be having sex for awhile.
If that's the case, so be it. Any guy who tells me to stop complaining, that
I should be satisfied with the status quo, can literally go fuck himself, cuz
he ain’t fucking me.</div>
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Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-2948737813754119712016-03-16T12:26:00.001-07:002016-03-17T16:45:37.127-07:00Dating Myself<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 11.0pt;">I've decided to start
dating myself. I came to this conclusion on Saturday mid-morning after dragging
my tired ass out of bed to take a walk in my neighborhood. I ended up outside a
house that used to belong to </span><span style="background: white; font-size: 11pt;"><a href="https://www.brainpickings.org/2015/08/14/anais-nin-diary-vacation-presence/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Anais Nin, the renowned French writer of erotica</span></a></span><span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 11.0pt;">.
I couldn't see much of the house, but it was comforting to know she had once
lived in my hood. I kept walking, working up a sweat on the steep hills. I
started to feel better. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 11.0pt;">The night before,
I'd felt like I was coming down with this mysterious multi-week cold/flu that
all my friends seem to be getting. I huddled in bed with my iPad binge-watching
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Jessica Jones</i> on Netflix when the
front doorbell rang. I wasn't expecting anyone, and I couldn’t hear either of
my roommates making noises about answering it. In my PJs and not in the mood
for company at 9pm on a Friday night, I texted them. "Expecting someone?"
One responded back right away that she wasn't home, the other didn't answer.
The doorbell rang again and now someone was fumbling with the handle. My heart
started beating fast. I put my iPad aside and crept out of bed with my cell
phone gripped in my hand. I padded into the living room and could hear what
sounded like a group of guys talking outside. I thought I saw one of them
trying to peak into the window on the side of the house and then a dark shadow
ran past the other window towards the backyard. I was shaking now, suddenly and
viscerally scared out of my rational mind. I crept upstairs and shone my
iPhone’s light towards my roommate's bedroom—the one I thought was home. The
light was off, her door open. Not home. Now I was terrified. I crept towards
the front door and instead of opening it, slid into the dark garage where I
stood on a chair peering out the garage windows into the street. My roommate’s
car was in the driveway and there was no sign of anyone outside. I couldn't
hear voices anymore. I stood on that chair and shook for a good five minutes,
my phone clutched to my chest. I imagined this group of guys casing the house,
surrounding it, deciding the best way to break in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; color: #222222; font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: #222222;">I gingerly stepped
off the chair and pressed my ear to the door in the pitch-black garage,
listening hard for the sound of breaking glass or jimmying locks. My phone was
now sweaty in my palm. Should I call someone? The police? And say what, “someone
rang my doorbell”?? Why the fuck was I so scared? It suddenly occurred to me
that I didn't know any of my neighbors and that I didn't have anyone to call at
a time like this. No nearby friend who would drop everything to come be with me
until I calmed down. This made me feel sorry for myself and I almost texted</span><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: #222222;"> </span><span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2016/02/sexpectations.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: #222222;">the </span><span style="color: #222222;">guy I’d gone on three dates with</span></span></a><span style="color: #222222;"> </span></span></span><span style="color: #222222;">to</span><span style="color: #222222;"> see if he was back in town, to let him know
I was a damsel in distress and needed his manliness to protect me from whatever
perceived danger I was apparently in. Men love that shit! I imagined winning him back with the scenario of the helpless female. Then I imagined the
opposite, him feeling put-upon and thinking </span><i style="color: #222222;">doesn’t
she have anyone else to call?</i><span style="color: #222222;"> I decided instead to wait it out. I stood in
the dark as my breathing gradually returned to normal and I felt the fear
slowly dissipate. I decided I was safe and had invented the sense of danger. I
returned to my room and finished the episode of </span><i style="color: #222222;">Jessica Jones</i><span style="color: #222222;"> I had been watching (probably the reason I was scared
in the first place—the show is terrifying).</span></span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"><br />
<br />
<span style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial;"><span style="color: #222222;">The next morning, I had trouble getting out of
bed. I watched more </span><i style="color: #222222;">Jessica Jones</i><span style="color: #222222;"> and
finished a bag of potato chips before 11am. I started having a general sense of
FOMO, so I decided I should probably leave the house. At least take a walk.
Exercise usually helps the feeling of ennui that often settles over me these
(unemployed) days. Maybe it was Anais Nin's house or maybe it was the fresh air
and endorphins, but I began to feel better and I made a sudden, inspired decision
to start </span><i style="color: #222222;">dating myself</i><span style="color: #222222;">. That's right,
ladies and gentleman, I decided to stop waiting for that mysterious man to come
along and take me on cool dates, and instead to take my own damn self out on
some cool dates. If I were dating me, where would I take me? I decided first I
would take myself to see </span><i style="color: #222222;">City of Gold</i><span style="color: #222222;">,
the new documentary about </span><a href="http://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2016/mar/13/jonathan-gold-world-most-loveable-food-critic-new-documentary" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><i>LA Times</i> food critic Jonathan Gold</span></a><span style="color: #222222;">. I know my
fondness for food and how much I love Jonathan Gold, so I knew this date was
sure to please me. Who knew, afterwards if things were going well and I still
seemed interested, perhaps I could take myself to one of the restaurants
featured in the film? That would be the perfect date for me! I felt better
already. Why hadn't I thought of this before? Fuck these men. Who needs em? I'm
an only child, I know how to play by myself.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: 11.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">City of Gold</span></i><span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">
was wonderful, a love letter to Los Angeles with its vast mosaic of various
cultures and cuisines. I decided Jonathan Gold is my personal hero, for he
found the one activity he enjoys above all else—eating all the foods—and made a
career out of it. Jonathan Gold eats everything. He picks restaurants the way I
like to pick restaurants—democratically. He loves equally the highest-end fine
dining meal at Providence (<a href="http://ballots.latimes.com/lists/101-best-restaurants-jonathan-gold/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><i>LA Times</i> #1 Best Restaurant in Los Angeles three years in a row</span></a>) as he does the street tacos from the Guerilla Tacos truck. Jonathan
Gold is living the dream. He gets paid to eat and write about it! Sitting in
the back of the movie theatre on a Saturday afternoon, watching this film—that
was a really lovely date with myself. Afterwards, I thought about going to
Jonathan’s favorite Thai place, Jitlada, which was not too far from the
theatre, but I was due to meet <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/07/sex-club.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Best Guy Friend</span></a> and his girlfriend for dinner
and another movie, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Zootopia</i>. I’m not
in the habit of crashing Best Guy Friend’s dates with his girlfriend, but
seeing as I’m now dating myself, this was actually more like a double date. And
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Zootopia</i>, while not a movie I would
have gone to see without them, I found absolutely delightful. I was so
enthralled that I leaned over to Best Guy Friend in the middle of it and
exclaimed in his ear: “This is a feminist parable!” To which he laughed at me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">The next day, Sunday, I went
on a three-hour hike with my friend <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/08/childhood-crush-part-two-or-how-i-got.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Paula</span></a> in Topanga Canyon. As we often
do on our hikes, we got to talking about the <a href="http://poly-graph.co/bechdel/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">feminist injustices in the film industry</span></a> and how we sought to remedy them, and soon we were huffing and puffing
up the steep hills, red in the face with both exertion and conviction. After we
had worked up an appetite with the exercising of both our calves and jaw muscles,
we went to Milo and Olive for brunch.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I’ve decided to date
myself,” I declared happily, sweaty and red-faced.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I think that’s great,”
beamed Paula. Paula would also like to meet a man. She is a hot and sexy woman
in her 40s who is incredibly talented, fun, smart, and amusing; she has a
gorgeous house and an amazing ass. The fact that Paula can’t seem to find someone to date I find
equally hard to believe as the fact that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i>
can’t find someone to date. By all accounts, and I say this with the utmost
humbleness and objectivity, we are both <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">catches</i>.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I think about the guy I went
on three dates with several weeks ago. The last time I saw him he said, “I
really like you and want to get to know you.” Then he cancelled our next two
dates (because he was understandably very busy) and left town for two weeks
without trying to see me before he went. I asked if he was doing the <a href="http://www.bustle.com/articles/103422-6-signs-that-someone-is-already-ghosting-on-you" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">fade away</span></a>
to which he LOL-ed and replied, “No! But to be clear as day, I’m seeking a slow burn. I’m
not rushing into anything. But I’m enjoying our time together.” To me it didn’t feel like what we had going was a slow burn. It felt
like what so many of these flings feel like: hot and heavy in the beginning and
then the flame gradually goes out. I had texted with him on and off since he’d
been gone, but now I hadn’t heard from him for a whole week, and I feel like if
you really like someone and want to keep the burn going, you don’t just forget
about them for a week. Especially since in the beginning his attention had felt
constant and intense, texting me the day after our first date that he was
“still smiling” and when we had a date coming up on Saturday, rhetorically
exclaiming, “Is it Saturday yet?!” I missed those days, I missed the attention
and the sense of consistency, the lack of games. Now I was feeling the age-old
pressure to not seem too eager, to not text first for fear of seeming more
interested than him. How did this happen, I wondered. I wasn’t even sure I was
attracted to him in the beginning. I felt like he had worked really hard to
fish me out of the ocean and then, once I was caught and in his hands, decided
to throw me back. Had I no say in the matter? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">It didn’t help that I hadn’t
been able to talk to him in person since that third and final date. My <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2016/01/growing-pains.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">ex-boyfriend</span></a> </span>encouraged me to be honest with him and express what I want, what I need—but
how was I supposed to do that on text when I didn’t even know if he was back in
town or not? I had preemptively invited Best Guy Friend to come to <a href="http://sfist.com/2016/01/22/dan_savages_hump_film_festival_adds.php" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Dan Savage’s amateur porn festival <i>Hump!</i></span></a> with me
in case this guy bailed, but it was depressing to think I had to prepare for
that. Preparing for disappointment. Why can’t I date someone who is true to his
word, who doesn’t feel like a slippery fish who could slink away at any moment?
And furthermore, what had I said to turn him off? Sure, I had tested out some
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DRauXXz6t0Y" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">feminist rants about abortion rights</span></a> on him, but he seemed to be able to handle
this aspect of my personality—he even seemed charmed by it. Was I really so
deluded and unable to read the situation that when I thought he was watching me
fondly, he was actually thinking, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">get me
the fuck away from this woman?<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I didn’t think so. But I
honestly didn’t know what had happened. And the not knowing was making me nuts.
I didn’t understand a guy’s impulse to work so hard to woo a girl only to lose
interest in her after three dates. Why would he have treated me like this could
develop into something if he knew he didn’t really want it go anywhere, or he
wasn’t sure? Why not play it a little cooler and not say things like, “I really
like you” and “let’s sail to Hawaii”? Or was this all in my head? Would I
receive a text from him any day now stating, “I’m back in town and I want to
see you!” Somehow I doubted it. It felt like it was over. And I felt once again
disappointed, and tired of feeling disappointed by men. Was this what he meant
when he said sex was a contract and women got hurt—was he warning me that I
might get hurt? Is that what had happened?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“I just don’t want to start
over with someone new,” I told Paula. “This guy already knows everything about
me.” She laughed, but it was true. I was tired of small talk, of the whole
getting to know you rigmarole. We had cut through so much of that, and that’s
what I ultimately liked most about him. We got to the real shit. By the third
date, I felt he knew all my secrets—such as they are. Was that too soon? Did I
say too much? Did I show too much of myself? Was I just really bad at dating? I
guess this was possible; I didn’t have a lot of experience. Or rather, I had <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">a lot</i> of experience with first dates and
sex, but not so much with second and third dates. Was it possible I had
actually become something I had been called once by a man: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">undateable</i>? And what did that even mean?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I brought in girlfriend
reinforcement to analyze our text chain. I showed my friend Cheryl how we’d had a flurry
of flirtatious banter back and forth on Monday, and then I hadn’t heard from
him for a week. On Sunday night, I was watching a great documentary called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/movie/the-mask-you-live-in/id1080836920" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">The Mask You Live In</span></a></i> about the culture
of masculinity boys are raised with in this country, and I thought it might
interest him based on some of the conversations we’d had. I texted him the
recommendation and didn’t hear back. Now it was Monday night and we still had
plans to see the amateur porn fest on Saturday. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Cheryl expressed feeling
lucky that she never had to date in the age of texting. She’s been with her
boyfriend since back when people used cell phones to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">call</i> each other, when people used to <i>communicate,</i> and if you stopped liking someone you couldn't just ignore their texts. I could tell by her
text suggestions that she had never done this before, never played these games,
and that she’d been in a LTR for a very long time. She encouraged me to ask him
if he was still coming with me on Saturday night, seeing as we were now within
a week of the date. I texted him and he responded: “Fuck I’ll be in New York!
For work.” Although I knew in my gut that this was coming, it still blew my
mind. I invited him to this event, he said unequivocally <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yes</i>, I asked him when he wanted to go, he picked the date, then he
not only made other plans, but also neglected to tell me about them? Would he
have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i> told me? I flashed back on
something I had said on our second date. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“We shouldn’t make too many
plans.” I said this out loud, as though channeling, as though warning myself from the
future. I didn’t know at the time where this piece of advice was coming from,
but clearly I’m more intuitive than I’ve been paying attention to. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">Inexplicably, I found myself
relieved by the confirmation that he wasn’t coming. At least I wasn’t waiting
anymore. I had my answer. That was it. The end of the road. I thought about
what to write back, I consulted my girlfriends. A sampling of my favorite
suggestions: <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Third time. Not so
charming.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“Put a fork in you. You’re
done.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">“You owe me $25.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;">I decided to give it a beat.
I didn’t want to respond in the moment from a reactive place. I wanted to be
honest. But I also didn’t feel like writing him a novel via text with all my
thoughts and feelings, about how I felt disrespected by his lack of
consideration for my time, for my schedule. I also didn’t feel like calling.
Somehow his lack of remorse made me feel like he really didn’t care to hear
from me, and this made the thought of calling him absolutely sickening. Part of
me wanted to never write back and to never talk to him again, but as we all
know, I’m bad at letting things lie. I got into bed and tossed around. I
couldn’t get comfortable. I wanted to express myself, but I didn’t know how. I
opened my phone and deleted our text chain. Then I considered blocking his
number, so I wouldn’t know if he ever wrote me again and therefore wouldn’t
feel compelled to respond. Instead, I deleted his number. I lay back down.
Still couldn’t sleep. I sat up in bed. Searched his name, he came right up—of
course, the iCloud makes deleting numbers absolutely impossible. I wanted to
keep it simple and sweet. Express myself eloquently and succinctly. Really get
the point across but in a relaxed way that read: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I will be over you in five minutes</i>. “Wow. That’s disappointing,” was
what I came up with. I felt okay about it. I haven’t heard from him since.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 11.0pt;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-33862517992034748642016-02-24T16:15:00.000-08:002016-02-27T14:12:19.351-08:00Sexpectations<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve been seeing someone. Just three dates, but it’s felt
more real than any “relationship” I’ve had in quite awhile. On the first date, we met
at a nice wine bar and had charcuterie, and he didn’t even try to kiss me. On
the second date, dinner of oysters and a whole fish followed by dancing, all of
it planned and paid for by him. We went back to his place and it was late so we both decided I would sleep over. I think neither of us wanted to necessarily have sex
yet—we wanted to take our time—but seeing as I was in his bed, how was that not
going to happen? We had sex and it was nice, and then the next morning (Valentine's Day!), we had sex again, and we both came. (You guys, I had an orgasm on fucking Valentine's Day!!) On the third date, he took me to a self-realization center and
then we went to my favorite restaurant for dinner. Again, he paid. This time,
he picked me up and brought me a tiny vase of handpicked flowers. All of this I
found incredibly romantic and unexpected. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Something happened after we had sex. Something that frequently
happens. I found myself thinking about him more than I had before. Missing him,
wanting to see him again. My female brain had turned on. Whereas before I had
felt casual about our dates, now I felt anxious about the next one and like I
was counting down the days. What was happening to me? It was all the scarier
because I felt I really connected with this guy and didn’t want to fuck it up
by getting obsessed.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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Let me back it up. <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2016/01/growing-pains.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">A month ago, I went on an ayahuasca journey.</span></a> I drank the tea and lay down for a six hour, closed-eye meditation,
and let's just say I saw some stuff. I saw <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/11/halloween.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">John the bartender</span></a> and all the various guys I'd had sex with over the past three years and, in a sudden moment of clarity,
realized that what I had been searching for outside of myself had actually been
within me all along. I was filled with an intense feeling of being in love that
had nothing whatsoever to do with any of these men—in fact, it was a feeling I
had never quite achieved with any of them. I felt in love <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">with myself</i>. I know this sounds very new age-y and some of you
might be getting ready to barf, but it was a big revelation for me and
afterwards I felt truly invigorated. I realized I was happy being on my own, knowing that
I didn’t need anyone else to make me feel good or fulfilled.<o:p></o:p></div>
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Then this guy came along. And he really took me by surprise.
We had met at a place where he works and I was freelancing, and then ran into one
another around the reservoir by my house—him jogging, me walking. He said we
should get a drink sometime. I said yes, enjoying the possibility but also thinking
it might never actually happen, and continued on my walk. Within the hour I had a text
from him saying he had gotten my number from a coworker, he hoped that was
okay, and how about tonight? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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At the wine bar, I found myself telling him everything, even
about my blog—a subject I’ve made it a rule never to discuss on a first date. I
can’t explain it except to say that from the questions he asked, I couldn’t
not talk about the real stuff that was going on with me. I told him about my
ayahuasca journey, about my revelation that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I am enough</i>. There was no small talk. I told him about my three
years of sluttery and how I felt them coming to an end, that I’d recently had
an epiphany that I wanted more than just random sex with strangers. He enjoyed my candor and shared that
he too had been slutting around since his fiancé basically left him at the
altar, and that he was also coming to the end of this period in his life. I was
surprised at how easy it was to talk to him. I had been nervous about the date,
in part because I wasn’t sure if we’d have sexual chemistry, and also because I
was pretty out of practice at the whole dating game. On our third date, I
explained to him, “I don’t date much. I have sex and long relationships.” He
told me I should go on more dates. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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What I liked most about this guy was the lack of games.
After our first date, he texted that he was “still smiling” and wanted to see
me again. Even when I went on my angry feminist rants, he seemed to gaze at me
fondly. As we lay on the grass at the self-realization center, he watched me
watching a couple young kids playing and said, “children laughing is the best
sound in the world.” He seemed to be waiting for a response. What was I
supposed to say to that? When a man says something like this, the woman swoons;
but if a woman pays too much attention to babies on an early date, the man is
likely to run for the hills. It reminded me of that <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uXldnsFfzD8" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><i>Sex and the City</i> episode when Carrie, trying to get back together with Aidan</span></a>, goes to his apartment in the middle of the night and throws rocks
at his bedroom window. In voice over she says, “When men attempt bold moves, generally it’s considered
romantic. When women do it, it’s often considered desperate or psychotic.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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This guy told me that he had talked about me with his best girl friends, and that he'd just bought a sail boat and that “we should sail to Hawaii!” Maybe
it’s just me, but when someone says something like this out loud, I take them
seriously. I don’t assume this is just something they might say to anyone who
happened to be sitting nearby. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe this
guy does act like this with every girl he meets—stares fondly into her eyes, makes
her feel like he’s falling for her—when really he’s just equally interested in
all humans. He told me on our second date that he felt that sex was a contract
and that he was more careful with it now because he knew that women could get hurt.
He said he had tried to have casual sexual relationships with women and it
never worked out for this reason.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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When he dropped me off that third night, a Saturday, we made
out furiously outside my front door. He was ending the night prematurely
because he had to get up very early the next morning to help his friend build a
deck before a baby shower and, as he explained, he liked me and wanted to
get to know me better. Meaning, I guess, he didn’t just want this to be a sex
thing. That honestly didn’t occur to me, as I found myself much more drawn to
his personality and our emotional chemistry than the physical aspect of our
connection. To me, the physical was just an extension of how we were connecting
on so many other levels. He told me, "what I'm looking for is a best friend who also makes me really horny." Aren't we all, I thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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He asked if I wanted to see a movie the following
Wednesday and I said yes. I had already invited him to a concert on Friday, so
now we had two dates for the coming week. My roommates were out of town and I
had said he should come over and I’d make him dinner—he suggested we do this on
Friday before the concert. I warned him that we shouldn’t make too many plans,
but I found myself wanting to make more plans with him, even thinking about
distant future plans that I really shouldn’t have been thinking about. Excited,
I started to design the menu for Friday night.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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On Tuesday night, he called to say he probably couldn’t do a
movie on Wednesday after all because his work week had gotten insane. I put a
smile in my voice and said, “Sure! No problem! What about Friday?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He hesitated, “Well, the thing is we’ll probably be shooting
all day Friday into the evening… but I might be able to make it.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t want to stress you out!” I yelled happily into the
phone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re not! It’s stressing me out that I can’t see you.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No problem!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why are you so cool?” He asked, a delighted tone in his
voice. My face reddened, thinking of the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FSkhnqEvpvg" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Amy Schumer sketch about the “Cool Girl.”</span></a> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m not</i>, I thought. I just
didn’t know I was allowed to <i>not</i> be cool in this instance. After all, we’re
just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">casually dating</i>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, if you can’t make it Friday, please just give me some
notice so I can find someone else to go with me,” I said. He promised he’d let
me know tomorrow. We hung up, and I was irrationally flooded with disappointment. I almost burst into tears. What was wrong
with me? What did I expect? Why had I built this into some big thing? Here we
had made two dates this week, and he had essentially cancelled both of them. But why did I care so much? How could he have known that I already had a full menu planned for Friday night? I
felt emotionally raw and out of control. I didn’t like this feeling. I was having PTSD from the time when <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/04/mr-intimidated.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Mr. Intimidated told me at the last minute that he couldn’t come to the Sleater Kinney concert with me</span></a>, and I couldn’t find anyone
else to use the ticket, so I ended up going alone. I wasn’t going to let that
happen again. I decided to preempt the situation. I invited another friend whom
I hadn’t seen in awhile to come with me to the concert. He said yes. I felt
better, gaining back some sense of control.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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When I told the guy that he was off the hook for Friday, I
expected him to say something like, “Bummer! I wanted to see you.” Instead, he
said, “Haha! Okay!” I suddenly realized that, despite the intimate behavior and loving way he looked into my eyes, he actually did feel pretty casual about this. Maybe all men felt casual about everything all the time. I was apparently incapable of feeling casual about any guy I fucked. And
here he was, apparently not really caring that he would now not see me for over
a week. I suddenly realized I wanted even more than this. Even more than a man
who would bring me flowers and plan interesting dates, I wanted someone who showed
up when he said he'd show up and who understood that I’m a planner and when
I plan something and someone throws a wrench in my plan, it stresses me out.
Maybe he doesn’t know this about me yet, maybe he won’t like me anymore when he
realizes I’m not as <i>cool</i> as he thought, but that’s a risk I’ll have to take.
I can be the <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/annehelenpetersen/jennifer-lawrence-and-the-history-of-cool-girls" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Cool Girl</span></a> a lot of the time, but not all the time. And I need to
be with someone who doesn’t require that of me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know what the future of it is. We’ll probably see
each other again—after all, we do have tickets to attend <a href="http://laist.com/2015/03/09/nsfw_dan_savages_hump_film_festival.php" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Dan Savage’s amateur porn festival <i>Hump!</i></span></a> when it comes to LA in March so,
unless something comes up and he has to bail, we’ll probably still go to that.<br />
<br />
I find myself very vulnerable lately, and also full of
expectation. There is so much I want and I really can’t let the whims of a man
control my emotional state—it happens too easily of late. I know I’ve
said before that I should stop having casual sex but I think I need to take it
a step further and instigate a three dates before sex rule of thumb. The
culture tells us that sex is casual and no big deal, and even I have spouted
this same logic on this very blog. But I think I was underestimating the power
of sex, the power it has over me. I have taken it too lightly, and it's not fun anymore. It's been a learning curve for me to even realize that by saying this, I'm not slut shaming myself, but actually protecting my heart. No matter how casual and cool I try to act, I can’t deny
the effect that sex has on my emotions and my general sense of well-being, not
to mention my ability to focus. I think men don’t really understand just how
hurt we can get. Because we’re literally letting them <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">inside
our bodies</i>. They don’t know what it’s like to be that vulnerable.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-13964950720357912112016-01-07T10:36:00.003-08:002016-02-24T19:42:44.724-08:00Growing Pains<div class="MsoNormal">
“I used to consider myself like this agent of change for men
in unhappy relationships. But I don’t know why I assigned myself that role. I
don’t know why I made that my responsibility.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, that’s a very mature question you’re asking,” says
the therapist. When she says this, I feel like a child.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I haven’t been acting very mature lately,” I respond.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re 29 years old!” She exclaims. I just turned 29. It’s
a week after my birthday and I’m in a therapist’s office. It’s been a rough
week. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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The night after my birthday, I go to my local bar at last
call and <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/09/the-bartenders-brother.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">John the bartender</span></a> is working. This time, from the moment I enter the
bar, the game we have been playing no longer feels like a game. In fact, when I
park myself in my usual spot in front of John’s register, he goes outside and I
can see him talking to security. Moments later, a bouncer awkwardly comes to
tell us it’s time to leave, which is unusual because we are always allowed to
stick around after hours. I march outside to confront John and he explains,
“You make me a bad person, I can’t be around you.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He says that because of me he now has to, “lie to someone I
love for the rest of my life.” He is referring of course to the fact that the
last time I saw him, on <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/11/halloween.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Halloween</span></a>, I sucked his dick in the women’s restroom. Since
then, over Thanksgiving when I was up in the Bay Area visiting my parents, I met
up with <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/09/the-bartenders-brother.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">John’s Brother </span></a>for dinner and sex. I had been excited to see the look
on John’s face since my encounter with his brother—to see if he knew. I still
thought the whole situation was hilarious. Apparently John didn’t know or care
that I had seen his brother again—now he seemed only concerned about saving his
own relationship by getting me the hell away from him. I tell him I want to be
friends and we hug, pressing our pelvises together. He’s smirking under his
resolve, and between telling me to leave him alone, he rubs his finger on my nipple,
hard underneath my dress. Due to the mixed signals and because I can’t take no
for an answer, I continue to push myself on him until he warily relents and
lets me and my friends back inside the bar. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later, I follow him into the storage room and suck his dick
again while he’s distributing his coworkers paychecks in their cubbies. He says,
“you really are crazy,” and drops a check on my head. Then he tells me he wants
to “see something” so I pull up my dress, pull down my stockings and underwear
and take my boobs out of my bra. I rub my butt on his crotch, and then he
watches me as he jerks off to completion on the plastic mat covering the floor.
These are the cliff notes. A long night of back and forth precedes this, a lot
of John saying “please stop” and then, “I want to fuck you so bad.” It all
culminates in this moment in the storage room, and then it’s all downhill from
there. After he comes, John is visibly flooded with remorse. I feel bad for
making him feel bad, and attempt to drunkenly convince him it isn’t a big deal
and now that he’s come we can all move on with our lives. He looks at me like,
yeah right. I follow him to the bathroom where he desperately tries to wipe the
cum off his jeans. I tell him I don’t want to leave him alone, he seems so upset.
He tells me that it’s not my responsibility. That’s true, so I walk away. John
emerges from the bathroom and basically tells us the party is over and to get
out. As we stalk outside, I see him yell at his fellow bartenders: “I’m so
tired of no one listening to me. When I say everyone out, I mean everyone out!”
He looks distressed and angry and sad and I’ve never seen him like this before.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s not until this moment that it dawns on me that this isn’t
fun for John anymore. Maybe it never was. It’s a struggle for both of us, to be
sure, but I thought that’s what was exciting about it—I thought it was a game.
To him, I suddenly realize, the stakes are too high and my sexual whims are really
fucking with his life. The moment I realize this is when I start to feel really
awful about the whole thing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wrote a version of this story that was all chase scene and
sex details. I gave it to my best friend to read and she wanted to know, not
for the first time, what kept me going, what was I getting out of this? Why did
I persist when John told me over and over in no uncertain terms that he <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/molly-fosco/what-if-cheating-actually-makes-your-relationship-better_b_4856316.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><i>did</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not want to cheat on his girlfriend</i></span></a>? I justified
my actions by telling her of all the mixed messages I had been receiving from
him all along. The fact that when I touched him he told me to “keep it under
the bar.” That between telling me to stop and enlisting my roommate’s help in
keeping me away from him, he would lean into my neck and whisper that he wished
we had a time machine bubble and could just have sex one time without any
consequences. I told her about how I’d asked him how his sex life is with his
girlfriend and he convincingly said it was good. To which I wondered, “so you
just want variety then?” And he said, “I’m a very sexual person and I love
women.” I told him it sounded like he wasn’t naturally monogamous. He asked if I
was into girls, and said he wanted to see his girlfriend eat me out. I told him
I am very sexually open and would try most things. He asked if I’d hooked up
with my roommate, said he’d like to watch. I tried to express to my best friend
that it was hard for me to listen to all of this stuff and then to walk away,
that it’s my nature to pursue something to the bitter end even if I see the end
looks dicey. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyNVyuBMzDuu93MWmEY1fk9aGIIhbLdGV21v4E5La8KkcfVkqxWqtqQRnAIYnCapPuJaN3Tim11kJ-VanHa_Sek7U4RhHnasV-HRCQhPyMAczv-OeVfQJkMuvZN88rhQ7eeteVtsH9TN6A/s1600/the+affair.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="277" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyNVyuBMzDuu93MWmEY1fk9aGIIhbLdGV21v4E5La8KkcfVkqxWqtqQRnAIYnCapPuJaN3Tim11kJ-VanHa_Sek7U4RhHnasV-HRCQhPyMAczv-OeVfQJkMuvZN88rhQ7eeteVtsH9TN6A/s400/the+affair.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day I feel more depressed than I have in a long
time. I spend the day sleeping and crying and feeling like garbage. I can’t
stop playing last night’s events through my head and the look on John’s face at
the end of the night is imprinted on my memory. I hate that my actions have
turned this happy, good-natured guy into someone who looks like he hates
himself. It was never my intention to make him feel bad, and that’s what I ultimately
did. In a weird attempt to find some closure for myself, I go to John’s brother’s
Facebook page (John is not on Facebook) and look through the photos of every
single one of his female friends, searching for John’s girlfriend. He doesn’t
have that many friends, so it doesn’t take that long, but it’s still insane
that I do this. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What I discover only makes me feel worse: his girlfriend is
really cool. Smart, funny, pretty, someone I might be friends with—a performer
with plenty of online content I can absorb endlessly to feed the masochistic chasm
that has suddenly opened up inside of me. I watch video after video and cry and
feel even more sorry for myself, and also stupid, because for some reason I had
assumed that his girlfriend was this mousy, boring person and now in the depths
of self-loathing, I feel that I have discovered evidence that she is actually
better than me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suddenly feel the unquenchable need to talk about this
with anyone who will listen, but I also know that I am close to exhausting my
friends on this topic, and I feel like I need to talk to someone who doesn’t
know me. It is fascinating to hear the difference in perspective from the women
in my life versus the men. My male friends, in particular <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/07/sex-club.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Best Guy Friend</span></a> and
<a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/search/label/ex-boyfriend" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">ex-boyfriend</span></a>, are like, “boo hoo John, you got a blow job.” They laugh when I
imply that I feel like a sex offender—both say he is a big boy and could have
shut it down if he wanted to. The women in my life, by contrast, tell me
that John sent very clear signals that he didn’t want to cheat on his
girlfriend, and they all wonder why I persisted anyway. My social worker
roommate rounds out the two perspectives by musing that because men have their
sex organs on the outside of their bodies, it’s harder for them to control
their urges, and that while his head was probably telling him to stop, his body
was full steam ahead. This explains the mixed messages, and temporarily makes
me feel better.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPShjjO7c97LgV1UoDfsmFfPmNimuV2XhqlbCoDUwINr_s2AyuajQiIKhqPoNtp3Hx6VNYOB87YOv0ZVh590BH1zdH_1HTRaJYly-_IWIPZjLPJokXjJkmScQC3DWvZTzASsbPo7XHeIyl/s1600/sopranos.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPShjjO7c97LgV1UoDfsmFfPmNimuV2XhqlbCoDUwINr_s2AyuajQiIKhqPoNtp3Hx6VNYOB87YOv0ZVh590BH1zdH_1HTRaJYly-_IWIPZjLPJokXjJkmScQC3DWvZTzASsbPo7XHeIyl/s1600/sopranos.gif" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I decide I need to talk to a therapist. My best friend
agrees.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m very pro-therapy,” she says. She suggests I Google
search “sex positive therapists in Los Angeles.” I don’t really know what to
look for in a therapist, but this gives me a place to start, and finding
someone who advertises themselves as sex-positive makes a lot of sense to me. My
friend Paula recommends this woman who is into Jung and dream work and
archetypes. She sounds cool and is nice on the phone so a week later I go in
for a consultation. I am late getting to her office because I go to the wrong
address and park and then walk around in the gusting wind desperately trying to
find her and feeling sorry for myself and already like I might cry. I
eventually find her and, within minutes of sitting down on her couch, I burst
into tears. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know this is supposed to just be a consultation,” I gasp
through the waterworks, “but I’ve got a lot on my mind.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tell her about Saturday night, and how bad I feel about
what happened, that I don’t understand why I always have to push it so far. I don’t
tell her about internet stalking John’s perfect girlfriend, or about the fact
that I wrote him a remorseful letter and left it in the mailbox of the bar—a
move that I now regret and actually went back to retrieve the letter only to
find it was already gone. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It sounds like you’re outgrowing this older version of
yourself. This old idea you’ve had about who you are.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think about this, about the possibility of saying goodbye
to this person who throws herself at men in relationships whom she’s decided
are not happy. I wonder who will take her place. I haven’t seen the therapist
again. I plan to, I just haven’t had time and the acute pain has subsided. Now
I just feel lonely and tired. I wonder if I’ll ever meet someone and find a
connection with a man that isn’t just about sex—the longer I go without it, the
more distant it feels. I’ve stopped drinking for a month because I’m going to
do <a href="http://www.vice.com/print/ayahuasca-will-make-you-cry-vomit-and-feel-amazing-918" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">ayahuasca</span></a> at the end of January and you’re supposed to not drink, do drugs, have
sex in preparation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You want to pack light for the journey,” the woman tells me
on the phone. “You don’t want to be carrying any extra baggage.”<br />
<br />
I’m hoping this journey will give me some clarity about
where I’m going and what I’m doing. This final episode with John definitely
felt like a wake up call. Even as I was sobbing on the bathroom floor on Sunday
night, I had the sudden clarity that this must be progress, that something good
must come out of all this pain, that I must be growing or it wouldn’t hurt so
much.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Jl1Lru2t3K32yqbaGxazdWELS_g-d5umIASP-CsEeWy8cKWh4oO6kniixcS8MFC3YNiHdZ8BHNmU_kl2EIwF8mkQ9eUxKVqzJHfkQJXnYlkCp2TI6PTF0FNe-4Bmb_T5b5jP0QV7VrMB/s1600/grow+up.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Jl1Lru2t3K32yqbaGxazdWELS_g-d5umIASP-CsEeWy8cKWh4oO6kniixcS8MFC3YNiHdZ8BHNmU_kl2EIwF8mkQ9eUxKVqzJHfkQJXnYlkCp2TI6PTF0FNe-4Bmb_T5b5jP0QV7VrMB/s1600/grow+up.gif" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-6015292849707321332015-12-29T10:51:00.002-08:002015-12-29T22:46:32.376-08:00My Favorite Things: 2015<div class="MsoNormal">
It's time to look back on some of my favorite things of the past year. Not all brand new, these are the things that enhanced my year and brought me joy. It was a good year for sex and feminism.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Fave Films:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-hlIuHYhj1c" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Magic Mike XXL</span></a></b><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I thought that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trainwreck</i>
was going to be my feminist anthem of the summer. I liked a lot about <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trainwreck</i>—obviously I love Amy and
found many of the jokes hilarious, but I ultimately left the theatre
underwhelmed by the clean-up-your-act moralism of the story. I left the theatre after <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Magic
Mike XXL </i>(both times) feeling exhilarated. Sitting in that audience, I felt
something I’ve never really experienced before in a movie theatre: enthusiastic
camaraderie amongst women (and gay men) and a shared sense of sexual excitement. The sex-positivity and feminism of this film are astounding. The fact that it
was written, directed, and produced by all men and yet embodies the female gaze is a revelation and should not be
underestimated. Furthermore, the fact that there is a market for women wanting
to see sexy comedies with sexy men doing sexy things seems obvious but has been
so far untapped and can no longer go ignored. Hallelujah!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNaSbPCK_41qQeUti08rQxEFm1BB4UIQ4kZFu4YtB-wYpa-6QrR3DsNU59A9RAIwv7c3Sdmv26S9MPJFSMS90lUBAR3a9kfElfPixlNxsJZ1VzhN1woHkxlaczAvnVJ3HQcE2XFSOIDIKW/s1600/mmxxl.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNaSbPCK_41qQeUti08rQxEFm1BB4UIQ4kZFu4YtB-wYpa-6QrR3DsNU59A9RAIwv7c3Sdmv26S9MPJFSMS90lUBAR3a9kfElfPixlNxsJZ1VzhN1woHkxlaczAvnVJ3HQcE2XFSOIDIKW/s400/mmxxl.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M9LNsSjnqBM" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">The Diary of a Teenage Girl</span></a></b><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This film reminded me so much of being a horny, obsessive
young teenager who wants nothing more than to bang any number of hot older men-children.
I loved the unapologetic, exposed way the story unfolds, with little judgment
or moralism. Minnie is not a victim or an innocent, she is a self-possessed and
wily young girl who knows what she wants (or thinks she does) and goes for it.
Needless to say, I can relate. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3jBVRkBn-NN_PFhd5_lOCBB2jewNPHEIqOWmvpQMNTr7_XFLd3n4FrOVQ1bKm-0cp4CZMt17B9n0cYLBi6bwMTziDg4RBa4KWV2fUTDX_8hbeBuaAMOICd8iMLXiHrWutgBYyNCM6WYg7/s1600/Diary+of+a+Teenage+Girl.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3jBVRkBn-NN_PFhd5_lOCBB2jewNPHEIqOWmvpQMNTr7_XFLd3n4FrOVQ1bKm-0cp4CZMt17B9n0cYLBi6bwMTziDg4RBa4KWV2fUTDX_8hbeBuaAMOICd8iMLXiHrWutgBYyNCM6WYg7/s1600/Diary+of+a+Teenage+Girl.gif" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRnhEjP3R-c" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Sisters</span></a></b><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I almost didn’t go to see <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sisters</i> because of the bad reviews. And then I read this <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/valerie-alexander/i-am-so-over-the-male-gaze_b_8842868.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">great article about the male gaze and male film critics</span></a>, and I thought: Fuck You, I’m
going! So glad I did. What a joyful two hours spent with two of my favorite
women of comedy. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sisters</i>
takes the usual trope of male bodily function humor and boys behaving badly and
recasts it with all women. The results are revelatory. Watching it, I thought
of course these male critics don’t like it—we're talking about vaginas and
periods and a guy gets a ballerina music box stuck up his ass. I loved every
minute. <o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhleirkxaiALdYjp0RRPvWAXthX1lu23irqih1sxzNAkshd5VW690q72KTAGnEVU-3ODPEQ8MWTNbjFHMZtiR3WeUEArOFaXp29gFbq_KOsixL-6cDvQMvdDPWqETbSVSRMmDpkkwiqfnox/s1600/sisters+movie.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhleirkxaiALdYjp0RRPvWAXthX1lu23irqih1sxzNAkshd5VW690q72KTAGnEVU-3ODPEQ8MWTNbjFHMZtiR3WeUEArOFaXp29gFbq_KOsixL-6cDvQMvdDPWqETbSVSRMmDpkkwiqfnox/s1600/sisters+movie.gif" /></a></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DT6QJaS2a-U" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><i><b>Anomalisa</b></i></span></a><br />
I won't give anything away about the latest masterpiece from the imagination of Charlie Kaufman, except to say that it has one of the best, most realistic sex scenes I've seen in cinema.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrnO7MK5zCTVITIQv8ELB3vxlM1QOPIsWX82jGeq_2zeR4yNYJONkujrXOiCtTaXz2nFmTn-79b9cEoadDJX7WgPfybmeWr8Dy-wA3R4Z-qMC3tz0KVrJh3PIRj3cCh82Kd5-aeg9K8VCK/s1600/anomalisa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrnO7MK5zCTVITIQv8ELB3vxlM1QOPIsWX82jGeq_2zeR4yNYJONkujrXOiCtTaXz2nFmTn-79b9cEoadDJX7WgPfybmeWr8Dy-wA3R4Z-qMC3tz0KVrJh3PIRj3cCh82Kd5-aeg9K8VCK/s400/anomalisa.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<u>Fave TV Shows:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b><a href="http://www.hbo.com/getting-on/index.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Getting On</span></a></b><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How sad am I that this show got cancelled? I ask friends of
mine if they watch it, and pretty unanimously, people find it depressing. Not
me! I could watch Laurie Metcalf strut around talking about atrophied
vaginas and stool samples for a hundred hours. I love this show. I love the
bold, unapologetic way it approaches aging and dying, and goddamn the
characters are good. Real, flawed, self-absorbed, hilarious. This show might
have the best roles for women of any show currently running. And now they’re
gone. I will miss them all.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVkbrJtLrUbwN8nCR0aB_nMqErdY4vVf3uyXaXanVxfvNZRh_Wy-OXJXkEo9cqnXAg2-JOZXrHWSQhFySI0XE90bpc_s1xyoxHJtelLhmOukpyGjmMEgcUGmhqrExjZxSDHnKKE67WFskq/s1600/getting+on.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVkbrJtLrUbwN8nCR0aB_nMqErdY4vVf3uyXaXanVxfvNZRh_Wy-OXJXkEo9cqnXAg2-JOZXrHWSQhFySI0XE90bpc_s1xyoxHJtelLhmOukpyGjmMEgcUGmhqrExjZxSDHnKKE67WFskq/s1600/getting+on.gif" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Transparent-Season-1/dp/B00I3MPZUW" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Transparent</span></a></b><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Season Two is even better than Season One. The original cast
members are in full flower, and there are some new additions that are
amazing, namely Cherry Jones and Anjelica Huston. This show has more sexless
nudity in it than any other show on television, and I love it for that. During a scene between the two sisters set in the Korean spa, I yelled at the
screen: “Jill Soloway, get out of my head!” The Yom Kippur episode and the one
set at the Idyllwild Wimmin’s music festival are standouts. I love all the stuff between Ali (Gaby Hoffmann) and her girlfriend played by Carrie Brownstein, especially Ali questioning the obligatory monogamous rules
of straight relationships, and the scene in which they're having a conversation and Ali's nipple is casually exposed the whole time. Also, Amy Landecker is sexy as fuck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4tXCHsD-V5f_80RoKvuamnfJhvK-koSdfrxypqgCqPoDlDE1jd6D2XwR4_MEiX_NDnDoDIYU1QmlsODQQwTRkM8ncMq85ZOXJ8dOSspkcT7S8l5HrvmF9Vedaa3UdSHA2O9rw4OU-eh31/s1600/transparent-yas+queen.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4tXCHsD-V5f_80RoKvuamnfJhvK-koSdfrxypqgCqPoDlDE1jd6D2XwR4_MEiX_NDnDoDIYU1QmlsODQQwTRkM8ncMq85ZOXJ8dOSspkcT7S8l5HrvmF9Vedaa3UdSHA2O9rw4OU-eh31/s1600/transparent-yas+queen.gif" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b><a href="http://www.sho.com/sho/the-affair/home" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">The Affair</span></a></b><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I love the questions posed by this show about being identified as <i>the
other woman</i> and getting slut-shamed for it. Not to mention the structure of the
story unfolding from different characters’ perspectives. I especially love
seeing the world through Helen (Maura Tierney)’s eyes. And there’s a lot of
hot sex. And Josh Stamberg's penis. Or it's his double's penis. Either way, it's nice.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNt6NT3ePBBETOTZ0q5w0vy-Z0dtg5W-0yDNCLdikC0Q9bkcuXt_Ethy9rEeSraF47zwYxIbI65Lzl_pz0pKGZiW5AJa-ojcWSVzK7Gzi4tM83DjiMCuDyEaEsMtt5jIwwbr43Dj3r1Q7r/s1600/the+affair.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNt6NT3ePBBETOTZ0q5w0vy-Z0dtg5W-0yDNCLdikC0Q9bkcuXt_Ethy9rEeSraF47zwYxIbI65Lzl_pz0pKGZiW5AJa-ojcWSVzK7Gzi4tM83DjiMCuDyEaEsMtt5jIwwbr43Dj3r1Q7r/s400/the+affair.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
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<u>Fave Docs:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b><a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/movie/amy/id1011670639" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Amy</span></a></b><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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I didn’t realize that Amy Winehouse was a genius.
I didn’t realize the scope of her talent and vision. I also didn't realize how incredibly young she was. This doc is amazing
because of the footage they were able to find. This I suppose is a benefit of
the record-everything generation. Amy’s fall from a spirited, cheeky teenager
to an emaciated shadow is fast and brutal. Even harder to
watch is the lack of support around her, particularly from her awful, fame
whore of a father. Hearing the music stripped down and not so over-produced, her
voice shines and you see the incredible talent that we lost.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCqrkQMFllDI28eC5BrPeBuWX6zt6nMjnNiXeSsmEX5RLeZDZ-2-Tuwszi66Ytno4RCdXdeF7n-BdkCTfT6QNa0znIShDdab91xRDNqzYO36u5Lg1A_ZqzGbbx9oStFDkFwYiC15u7u1Oo/s1600/Amy+Winehouse.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCqrkQMFllDI28eC5BrPeBuWX6zt6nMjnNiXeSsmEX5RLeZDZ-2-Tuwszi66Ytno4RCdXdeF7n-BdkCTfT6QNa0znIShDdab91xRDNqzYO36u5Lg1A_ZqzGbbx9oStFDkFwYiC15u7u1Oo/s1600/Amy+Winehouse.gif" /></a></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b><a href="https://itunes.apple.com/us/movie/the-hunting-ground/id1029428797" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">The Hunting Ground</span></a></b><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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This is a tough one. The film follows two college graduates
who were both raped while in school and have become activists to expose the
astounding frequency of rape on college campuses and to create a community of survivors.
It’s unbelievable to see these formidable institutions denying and actively covering up
the ubiquity of rape on their campuses, particularly when the scandal threatens to
expose top athletes and frat houses. It’s hard to watch, but essential, and
should be required viewing for everyone, particularly men and women entering
college.<o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5uNW-zZbA39sky5oNz9-zyPmzITwD4igOiSOj2vksb1fkV9AmydWCjCvH3bOiM2aEh09q1JzPIFQnUHAY3Eq3hM5aW-pPXSN8INM7sxOlCZWpLqO3zn2oGmUX_-Z5gAdeWk4qpfTbCp9/s1600/hunting+ground.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih5uNW-zZbA39sky5oNz9-zyPmzITwD4igOiSOj2vksb1fkV9AmydWCjCvH3bOiM2aEh09q1JzPIFQnUHAY3Eq3hM5aW-pPXSN8INM7sxOlCZWpLqO3zn2oGmUX_-Z5gAdeWk4qpfTbCp9/s400/hunting+ground.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<u><br /></u></div>
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<u>Fave Books (Non-Fiction):</u><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Wild-Oats-Project-Midlife-Passion/dp/0374290210/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1451345346&sr=1-1&keywords=wild+oats+project" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">The Wild Oats Project: One Woman’s Midlife Quest for Passion at Any Cost</span></a></i> by Robin Rinaldi</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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This is a memoir about a woman who opened her marriage for a
year and went on an adventure of sexual exploration and awakening. I love this
book. In it, Robin Rinaldi shamelessly and honestly explores the topics of monogamy,
sexuality, female pleasure, and the link between sexual desire and maternal
longing. It is a woman’s journey of self-discovery through sex—a story I not
only relate to, but find profoundly important.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb6U4D5Ca6D27uEoDW7-6QlqyZL9iI4f8RVB5EofsjjG7CYxA57pVavcYPNWChBJeufbSADvjU1pPMDBlYUe1wzCkYc9aCuCPFsTeCfNXvujlK_H09u3Vm2MsyGUfaoMyPyrK9RO93F2mF/s1600/wild+oats+project.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb6U4D5Ca6D27uEoDW7-6QlqyZL9iI4f8RVB5EofsjjG7CYxA57pVavcYPNWChBJeufbSADvjU1pPMDBlYUe1wzCkYc9aCuCPFsTeCfNXvujlK_H09u3Vm2MsyGUfaoMyPyrK9RO93F2mF/s400/wild+oats+project.jpeg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sacred-Prostitute-Feminine-Psychology-Analysts/dp/0919123317/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1451348102&sr=1-1&keywords=sacred+prostitute" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">The Sacred Prostitute: Eternal Aspect of the Feminine</span></a></i> by Nancy Qualls-Corbett</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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This book explores an ancient time when
women’s sexual power was revered and honored, rather than squelched and
controlled. It’s both empowering and heartbreaking to read of where we’ve come
from and how far we’ve gotten away from our essential connection to the divine feminine. This book is not always easy to find—probably
because the patriarchy doesn’t want us to read it!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ITeXajH_No9ghekpwXCRz2Ooi3n_w-ZdazfyKznVgT__sP6HE9aqgHRkuYSusbjuuf-LFtTu_MjRuie0x9PMIZxVzHLqDZdQge-EuauSXCmiV4mTNbTqKSm4kSlAP3RKIcMTr4QDORja/s1600/sacred+prostitute.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-ITeXajH_No9ghekpwXCRz2Ooi3n_w-ZdazfyKznVgT__sP6HE9aqgHRkuYSusbjuuf-LFtTu_MjRuie0x9PMIZxVzHLqDZdQge-EuauSXCmiV4mTNbTqKSm4kSlAP3RKIcMTr4QDORja/s400/sacred+prostitute.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
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<b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sex-Dawn-Stray-Modern-Relationships/dp/0061707813/ref=sr_1_2?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1451348195&sr=1-2&keywords=sex+at+dawn" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Sex at Dawn: How We Mate, Why We Stray, and What it Means for Modern Relationships </span></a></i>by
Christopher Ryan & Cacilda Jetha</b><o:p></o:p></div>
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Similar to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Sacred Prostitute</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sex at Dawn</i>
looks at the ancient civilizations and contemporary tribes that live and have lived in
nonmonogamous cultures, and debunks the notion that humans are fundamentally, biologically monogamous. This book delves into the societal reasons why and how monogamy
became important to us and begs the question, in our world today, are these reasons still good enough?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1S1c-eyPH2S1lRLglL8os7kgOZEQxS0ic-4E3J5BLjPFl1R4saVNjiNEQjl10a6qZv6RFN_GH729fCIA1rl0KqvvjCGJfSv3Ej-Ph4i6Y3ctUvbAIZ5FbpF7NW6IuxJTia0PqOHvPa79B/s1600/sex+at+dawn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1S1c-eyPH2S1lRLglL8os7kgOZEQxS0ic-4E3J5BLjPFl1R4saVNjiNEQjl10a6qZv6RFN_GH729fCIA1rl0KqvvjCGJfSv3Ej-Ph4i6Y3ctUvbAIZ5FbpF7NW6IuxJTia0PqOHvPa79B/s400/sex+at+dawn.jpg" width="265" /></a></div>
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<u>Fave Podcast:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><b><a href="http://www.savagelovecast.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Savage Lovecast</span></a></b><o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Not a new podcast, but still great after all these years!
Dan Savage introduced me to the term <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/gregory-cason-phd/monogamish_b_2806022.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">monogamish</span></a> as well as the true definition
of <a href="http://www.spreadingsantorum.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Santorum</span></a>. I don't always agree with his advice, but I always love listening to him talk. He remains the sex-positive uncle I wish I had.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1leCeA9P1xqUoD04xQBFQCUYx9Y4vAGgi7IoaDYwl3X92ojcJW7xLQGxHAAnlHmnkQ5QbKTtMWlHyspGArrZJxXsLTjH7VPwmyxujc0nVAjQoSEwV58cy_hfYvlP6N4zBbXKtg24YHyqb/s1600/savage+lovecast.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1leCeA9P1xqUoD04xQBFQCUYx9Y4vAGgi7IoaDYwl3X92ojcJW7xLQGxHAAnlHmnkQ5QbKTtMWlHyspGArrZJxXsLTjH7VPwmyxujc0nVAjQoSEwV58cy_hfYvlP6N4zBbXKtg24YHyqb/s320/savage+lovecast.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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<u>Fave Male Feminist:</u><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b><a href="http://www.bustle.com/articles/84407-7-times-oitnb-actor-matt-mcgorry-promoted-feminism-fought-to-change-the-stigma-it-unfortunately" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Matt McGorry</span></a></b><br />
The star of <i>Orange is the New Black</i> is hot and talented and, since learning the definition of
feminism this year, has been on a social media campaign for gender equality.
Nothing hotter than a male feminist!</div>
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<o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUKr8RzFsgCJsxuTP9kAuMKzBDY91fzxrz9tOuMNquqBiD1FoDNOXHTG-0E5aoxcJE5C9nw9LfSCz9nqtCZyG2HUqs0-KroObjt4F8zFN7MkFKf0qlM8K1yd4pLFvJmXHqtdaDrUqMcmVb/s1600/Matt+McGorry-feminist.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUKr8RzFsgCJsxuTP9kAuMKzBDY91fzxrz9tOuMNquqBiD1FoDNOXHTG-0E5aoxcJE5C9nw9LfSCz9nqtCZyG2HUqs0-KroObjt4F8zFN7MkFKf0qlM8K1yd4pLFvJmXHqtdaDrUqMcmVb/s400/Matt+McGorry-feminist.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-37028188231654133192015-12-24T11:02:00.002-08:002015-12-24T17:58:50.546-08:00The Bartender's Brother Part Deux<div class="MsoNormal">
*Readers forgive me. As it is now Christmas Eve, this post
is late.*<o:p></o:p></div>
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It’s Thanksgiving week and I have a date with <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/09/the-bartenders-brother.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">John’s brother</span></a>. John, if you’ll remember, is the bartender whose <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/11/halloween.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">dick I sucked on Halloween Night</span></a> in the bathroom of the dive bar where he works. John who still
lives with his girlfriend. Whose brother is an incredibly hot trainer I fucked
over Labor Day weekend. The brother who lives in the Bay Area, where my parents
also live. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I actually set up this date before I sucked John’s dick. I
wanted a booty call prepped and ready to go for when I went home for the
holiday, so I texted John’s brother in mid-October that I would be up that way
the following month and we should “grab a drink.” He responded enthusiastically
that he would “love that.” After my encounter with John, I wasn’t really sure
what would happen. I was half expecting the whole thing to blow up in my face.
My roommate reassured me that, “John is not going to tell anybody about that.”
I figured she was probably right, John is probably trying to convince himself
the incident never occurred, not telling his brother (whom he knows I fucked)
about it. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The brother suggests we meet at this upscale new restaurant
where one of his clients works. I check it out on Yelp and notice the three
dollar signs indicating this place is pretty damn expensive. This makes me
slightly uncomfortable, as I picture sitting across from a one night stand at a
fine dining restaurant, when I would have been happy with a couple beers at a
dive bar followed by some heavy PDA culminating in a lot of hot sex. But the
other part of me—the less cynical, more romantic part—is excited to be going on
a real date.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“We’re having dinner!” I exclaim to my mom, who rolls her
eyes when I tell her this guy is a trainer at a gym. No wonder I’m such a snob.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwPdKnlBZlqRC9QXoLscpZN3XJJRz6eTlKkV7tX1fr0MxV9kP3_UWqyork_bwhUkoPjn7IkPDxcXurv4_VKHCZ0foUf1UAxma7wU1cc9YrC4ZQbaSunFZBlLsLihyphenhyphenmLdoG-mGIrtc96o20/s1600/Hemsworth.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwPdKnlBZlqRC9QXoLscpZN3XJJRz6eTlKkV7tX1fr0MxV9kP3_UWqyork_bwhUkoPjn7IkPDxcXurv4_VKHCZ0foUf1UAxma7wU1cc9YrC4ZQbaSunFZBlLsLihyphenhyphenmLdoG-mGIrtc96o20/s1600/Hemsworth.gif" /></a></div>
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I wear less clothes than I should because I want to look
sexy, and it’s fucking freezing. I drive over the Golden Gate Bridge with my
parents’ Fast Trak in my car, and arrive at the restaurant fifteen minutes
early. I park like a block away and realize I’m shaking—I can’t tell if it’s
from anxiety or the cold, but I do feel suddenly quite nervous. I’ve only
interacted with this guy once, and we were both very hammered, and then we had
sex. Will I be able to spend a whole dinner talking to this person?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m there before him and snag a seat at the bar so it feels
a little less formal, and I can rub up next to him after we’ve had a drink or
five. I stare at the cocktail menu and think it’s probably a good idea to get
some alcohol in my system before he arrives. I’m still shaking. He arrives
right on time and at first I don’t recognize him. He looks different from the
Facebook photos I’ve been stalking since we had sex—really my only frame of
reference since I haven’t seen him in two months. He doesn’t seem very happy to
see me, but I now know this is guy code for nerves on a “first date.” I get up
to hug him and it’s a little stiff. He sits down on the stool to my right
rather than the one I’d been saving for him on my left. The bartender puts down
my drink and I offer him a taste.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You like grapefruit cocktails,” he teases, I guess
remembering from last time. I’m pleased he remembers this detail about me. He
orders the same and I say I thought he was making fun of my cocktail choice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Simmer down,” he jokes. At least I get a little smile out
of him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We look at the menu and he says, “I eat everything. I’m not
picky.” Good, because I hate picky eaters. We order three small plates to
share. He tells me he just came back from diving in Mexico, where he swam with
whale sharks—“the biggest fish in the sea.” He shows me a photo of how big they
can get; they look terrifying. He tells me about his work schedule—he works
from 5am to 6pm most days. He says he has to get up the next morning at 5am, he
doesn’t have a client until 6am. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“After we made this plan, I thought maybe Tuesday is not the
best day after all,” he laughs. I tell him we could have changed it. He shrugs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We talk about the bar where we met, where he used to work
and John still does. I casually ask if John hates his job.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, they all do. They’re all musicians and artists and
they’re not doing their art—they’re just working at the bar.” I tell him that’s
just LA.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He loosens up as he drinks and eventually asks me about what
I’m working on. I tell him I’m in transition, looking to do more of one of my
jobs and less of the other, that I’m doing a lot of different things right now,
and I feel a change coming. He says he’s jealous of that, that he gets bored in
his job because it’s the same all the time.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, I’m bored all the time!” I declare.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYFRJp6JzKFIQFyAXL__WSJaX9d2crlkWmeKiQnVHPI7Z4sh7CK4_RRlArt-OV8Z5oC50GmxRXQ9ZuZE5MbjOHLmLpNifQKogljvED5m73oH-NZ5yKPh7p46IW2SWhH56HG5aNGmznXtBm/s1600/Tina+Fey.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYFRJp6JzKFIQFyAXL__WSJaX9d2crlkWmeKiQnVHPI7Z4sh7CK4_RRlArt-OV8Z5oC50GmxRXQ9ZuZE5MbjOHLmLpNifQKogljvED5m73oH-NZ5yKPh7p46IW2SWhH56HG5aNGmznXtBm/s1600/Tina+Fey.gif" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He tells me that he didn’t work out for a whole week in
Mexico, so the other day he took two spinning classes. I tell him about my
spinning-related vagina injury, prefacing the story with, “It’s a little early
in the night for this story,” and then diving right in. I leave out the fact
that this spinning class was on Halloween morning and that same night I ripped
the bandages from my crotch as I was crouched on the floor of the dive bar
sucking off his brother. I tell him instead about how I feel that spinning
decreases the sensitivity in my crotch area, and that I don’t want that—I want
“maximum sensitivity.” He smiles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We order more cocktails and he starts smiling more and laughing
and enjoying himself. The food is pretty good. A couple times I reach under his
arm and run my fingers along his bicep, which is big and buff and satisfying to
touch. I rub his back a couple times. He grabs my knee and tickles me. I touch
his ribs and it makes him squirm. I remember that first night, when I boldly ran
my hands over his chest and sucked on his finger, making him hard and begging
me to stop. I wonder if he would respond to that behavior now, in this very
well-lit and classy restaurant. I wonder if he’s disappointed that I’m not
being quite so frisky tonight, but his body language doesn’t invite my touch
and when I do touch him, he seems slightly uncomfortable.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He asks if I want another drink and I tell him if I order
another one I’m not going to be able to drive home. As it is, I’m going to need
to sober up a bit if I plan to make it back to my parents’ place alive. He says
tentatively, “Well, my house is nearby. You could come hang out there for a bit
or whatever.” I can’t tell if he wants me to do this or he’s just being polite.
I wonder if he’s worried about pressuring me, as the first night we were
together when he suggested we go back to my place I held him off, not sure at
first. He had said at the time that he felt “creepy” to be pushing it. I wonder
if this guy is just really sensitive and is taking everything I say really to
heart—I wonder if he’s worried about pressuring me to come over and have sex,
when all I want to do is come over and have sex. At the same time, I can’t really
tell if he likes me that much. I remember him mentioning that he moved to San
Francisco for his girlfriend at the time, and I wonder now if he got his heart
broken and that’s why he seems so guarded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We agree that we’ll go back to his place. We walk outside
and it’s fucking freezing. I shiver. He says, “I’d give you my jacket but it’s
not that warm.” I drive us the two blocks to his house and I really shouldn’t
be driving but it’s not far and he tells me he’ll “point out the stop signs.”
His place is nice—it’s a house he shares with two siblings, a boy and a girl,
and another girl who is Airbnb’ing it. We go into his room that has his bike
from when he did the AIDS Life Cycle ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles. He
turns on the overhead light and it’s really bright—I wish he had better
lighting. He takes off his shoes and I take off my shoes. I don’t know if he’s
expecting that we’re just going to sleep next to each other and I’m not sure he
would have made a move if I hadn’t swooped in on him. I put my arms around his
neck and kiss him. He reciprocates, grabbing my body. I love kissing him. He
pulls my pants halfway down and takes off his shirt.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We need to do something about this lighting,” I declare. He
hits the light and it’s suddenly pitch black. I think this is fortunate because
I just got my period today and had been debating whether or not to tell him—now
with the lights off, I don’t have to! I have light periods anyway, and if <a href="http://www.thefrisky.com/2015-06-29/period-sex-6-reasons-you-should-definitely-get-down-when-aunt-flow-comes-to-town/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">he’s the kind of guy who won’t screw a girl on her period, I don’t want to find out right now</span></a>. I take off my shirt. I can feel he’s already hard and I move down,
pulling his briefs down as I go. I take him between my lips and he grabs the
back of my head, thrusting into my mouth. The aggressiveness of this act turns
me on, as it belies a need he has been so careful not to show me all evening.
He fucks my mouth and I take him all the way in. It’s a much more satisfying
blow job than I gave to John’s at half-mast.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ioVmiuHLbpPCOTZZZhhbXIliS8F2YqR8EDmddGueqbyT2KLmdjG3xrQoOUId6X7UE3ImBCtXCwGiDAkXdWY-s8dmvXwfdPoz8azGRJh1M9cGXS3rsg-3JBF-l53s7iDi_zk9JOFGBxcz/s1600/Amy+Schumer.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1ioVmiuHLbpPCOTZZZhhbXIliS8F2YqR8EDmddGueqbyT2KLmdjG3xrQoOUId6X7UE3ImBCtXCwGiDAkXdWY-s8dmvXwfdPoz8azGRJh1M9cGXS3rsg-3JBF-l53s7iDi_zk9JOFGBxcz/s1600/Amy+Schumer.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I come up to kiss him again and he moves me back onto the
bed, pulling off my panties. He starts going down on me and it’s hard for me to
fully enjoy myself because I’m thinking about getting blood in his mouth. At
the same time, I don’t want to discourage him from doing this because not
enough guys do and even he didn’t the first night we were together. He moans as
he eats me out, which I find incredibly hot because it means he’s enjoying
himself, and guys who love eating pussy are the hottest. I let him do it for
awhile and then I tell him to “fuck me.” I pull him up and wet my hand. I reach
down and am thrilled to discover he’s still hard. I put him inside me and he
feels so good that after just a couple minutes of thrusting, I feel like I’m
going to come. I wrap my legs around him and moan louder, but I guess this is
too much for him and he has to back off, bringing my feet to his chest so he
can thrust from more of a distance. The impending orgasm dissipates, never to
return, and I think how unfortunate it is that, as a woman, if you want to keep
the sex going, you have to sometimes forfeit your own orgasm in favor of making
it last longer because, if you come, it might make him come and then it’s all
over.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He moves my leg down across my body so he’s now thrusting
into me from behind but with my body twisted so my chest is still facing him.
Then he turns me over completely and fucks me with my stomach flattened against
the mattress. He then lifts me up and fucks me doggy style and whips out this
very cool move whereby he intermittently, between thrusts, darts his tongue
into my pussy. I cringe a little bit as I imagine his tongue dipping into my
bloody vagina like a pen into a red inkwell. Regardless, I love this move and
don’t want to discourage it. After awhile, he says if he keeps going he’s going
to come. I know by now I will not come, so I tell him I want him to.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fuck me,” I whisper, guiding him to orgasm. He pulls out
and comes on my back. I collapse on my stomach and he gets a towel to gently mop
up his splooge, like a true gentleman. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we lie down, I laugh in a way that’s meant to sound
apologetic and say, “I think I might have gotten my period while we
were having sex.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, I didn’t taste anything,” he says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You like ordered a steak medium and it came bloody as hell
and you just decided to eat it anyway,” I weirdly say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He laughs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So did you just forget or…?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I knew it was coming but was hoping it wouldn’t come
right now.” I guess he believes this lie, and doesn’t seem to care that much
anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I guess we’ll find out in the morning.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I go to the bathroom and indeed he has fucked some blood out
of me. I hope I didn’t get it all over his white duvet cover. When he returns
from the bathroom, I ask if he had blood on his dick.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A little,” he says and lies down.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t sleep well and neither does he. We both toss and
turn. I wake up after a couple hours of fitful sleep to find he’s sitting on
the edge of the bed, hunched over, trying to rally himself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is it five?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s 5:15.” He grabs my foot affectionately as he walks
naked out of his bedroom and heads for the bathroom. I watch his beautiful,
spinning-class toned ass as he goes, then I lie back down to get a couple more
minutes of shut-eye. He turns the light on in the living room outside his
bedroom so as not to bother me, and gets dressed out there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drag myself up and collapse facedown on the foot of his
bed, moaning. He laughs at me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How do you feel?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Like garbage,” I say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I look down at his bedspread in the light shining from the
living room, and am pleased to see there’s no blood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There’s no blood!” I report.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s a good thing,” he says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnaci4ndfCC6bDutH_BPX3KFhmcbSvh6hcOltTgFaIynz7KYwCp-czfFNjZz8nMh0ONXqe3-0Y6ZZZU03JvC49_OeAjk9sQpV9NyiWh6sVcf24xs8YYnkzLvPx83pB-zIDvwa_dfUjzQDj/s1600/ass.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnaci4ndfCC6bDutH_BPX3KFhmcbSvh6hcOltTgFaIynz7KYwCp-czfFNjZz8nMh0ONXqe3-0Y6ZZZU03JvC49_OeAjk9sQpV9NyiWh6sVcf24xs8YYnkzLvPx83pB-zIDvwa_dfUjzQDj/s1600/ass.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drive him to work at the gym, and ask if I kept him up
last night.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know if it was you or me. I like to spread out in
my bed. At one point, you moved over and I was like, yes!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, you could’ve told me to move.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I didn’t want to like kick you out. Maybe next time,” he
laughs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I was trying to get closer to you because you were warm,” I
say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I write this exchange, I realize it sounds a little sad.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stop outside the Coffee Bean where he’ll fuel up on
caffeine for the long day ahead, and he hugs me goodbye. I go in to kiss him
and he makes it short. I drive an hour and a half home, crawl into bed and go back to sleep. A
couple hours later, my phone rings and it’s a San Francisco number I don’t recognize.
I don’t answer it, but have a feeling I know who it is. There’s a message and
it’s from him. He left his phone in my car. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I put on a sweater and some shoes and head into the kitchen,
where my dad is emptying the dishwasher.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hi honey,” he kisses me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The guy left his phone in my car,” I explain as I put on some
shoes and head outside into the freezing morning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sure enough, his phone is between my seats and I fish it
out. There are five missed calls from the gym where he works and three from
another number. The Find My Iphone app has been activated. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I get back in bed and call the number back and the
receptionist at his gym says he’s with a client and is there a message. I say
no message and give them my name. The receptionist says, “hold on” and I can
hear him telling John’s brother that it’s “your friend with the phone.” He gets
on the line and feels terrible and stupid for doing this. I ask how he found my
number; he says the iCloud. He doesn’t have a car and isn’t sure how to get his
phone back. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You weren’t planning on coming back to San Francisco were
you?”<br />
“Uh, not today.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I suggest he meet me halfway. He’s not sure how to do that. I
know I’m being overly accommodating when I say, “Well, if you can that would be
great, and if not I’ll do what I have to.” I guess I like this guy. There is a
part of my female brain that is excited to have an excuse to see him again.
After all, I’m on vacation and running out of things to do at my parents’
house. He says he’ll try to borrow a car and will call me back in a couple
hours.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I spend the day not doing much but anticipating this call.
I’m very tired and hung over so I sleep for awhile. I feel petulant and
teenage-like with my parents and I think there’s something about the contrast
of having sex with a guy and then having to come back to your parents’ house
that feels rebellious and like high school. My parents keep asking what my plan
is and my mom gets mad at me that I can’t make plans with her because I’m
“waiting on a galloot.” I say I don’t mind so why should she. He calls me in
the afternoon and we make a plan to meet at a Starbucks halfway between us at
6pm. I have to find the address for him because if he gets lost there will be
no way to track him. What the fuck did we do before cell phones? I get on the
road and he texts me from a random number, saying he borrowed his friend’s
phone <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> car and he’s running
fifteen minutes late. Still, he beats me there. I arrive and he’s sitting at a
table with just one chair at it, the one he’s sitting in. I approach and stand
over him, handing him his phone. He doesn’t stand to hug me or get me a chair.
He just looks at his phone as I awkwardly wait there, and then awkwardly pull
over a chair and sit down. He says he feels terrible and wants to treat me to
dinner. I say, “yeah, I’d like to see you again.” I can’t tell if he wants to
see me again or just feels obligated because of the phone thing. We hug
goodbye, I kiss his cheek and he half-heartedly kisses mine back. I think to
myself, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">we’ve had sex dude, a little
affection wouldn’t kill you!</i><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drive home and kick myself for not saying, “don’t worry
about it, there’s no obligation” when he offered to buy me dinner. But then I
realize I only would have said that trying to get a response out of him, and
“I’d like to see you again” was actually more honest. Which is good, I think. I
vow to not be the one to text him first, to let him come to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXvg9OPKseqTX6CRqnUsQLrhhPPw-fJ9nPH1ONtOETR2aqxY6kdPnbPPLUU_6UYwGgKpmLWUXvhWYlpJvJU9nM76B_D6YZlN6pC5QdQveJajF7xcEmGf42WWot-4W3sD3nX4mQk4dVcBoT/s1600/home+for+the+holidays.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXvg9OPKseqTX6CRqnUsQLrhhPPw-fJ9nPH1ONtOETR2aqxY6kdPnbPPLUU_6UYwGgKpmLWUXvhWYlpJvJU9nM76B_D6YZlN6pC5QdQveJajF7xcEmGf42WWot-4W3sD3nX4mQk4dVcBoT/s1600/home+for+the+holidays.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day at 11am, I text him. “Hey! You busy tonight?”
I’m in the car on the way to hike with my parents. I’m expecting he’ll text me
right back. He doesn’t. We go on the hike and have a yelling argument
overlooking a beautiful vista when I tell them about the time that I met this cool
male celebrity whom I really felt I connected with and muse on why I don’t meet
more guys like that, and they explode back at me with, “but he’s a
Scientologist!” I then try to explain that just because <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2011/02/14/the-apostate-lawrence-wright" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Scientology is a creepy cult</span></a> </span>doesn’t mean everyone in it is an evil asshole. To which they think I’m defending
Scientology, and it devolves from there. We return to the car, and I can’t wait
to get away from them and into the bed of John’s brother. But there is no text
from him. I then start to have a panic attack that he spoke to John on
Thanksgiving and that John has told him about the blow job and warned his
brother that I am this crazy slut who is trying to fuck both of them. I think
about how I would react if they accused me in this way, and am disappointed to
find that I think it would actually hurt. I thought I didn’t care what they, or anyone,
thought, but I suddenly find myself feeling vulnerable when faced with the very
real possibility that someone I had sex with and have a crush on would think I
was being vindictive by trying to fuck both him <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i>
his brother. I think about how I would explain this to him. That I am a single
woman and free to have sex with whomever I please. And that I am attracted to both
brothers and don’t think it’s my problem that they’re related. I feel better
once I reason this out with myself, knowing that I am still within the
parameters of my own moral code.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At 5pm, he texts back, “Hey! So sorry to leave you hanging!
I was sailing all day and just got back to shore. How was your day?” I tell him
that sounds lovely, that my day was chill, we hiked, and that I’m planning to
leave the following day. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well shit, I’m in Santa Cruz and we’re hanging out here for
a little while. What time are you leaving tomorrow?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tell him I will probably leave early. Then I say, “I
wanted to get you in bed once more before I left.” Hoping to entice him back to
the Bay.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He responds, “Haha. Well if not I should be coming down to
LA soon enough.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I leave this alone and go to bed early, thoroughly
disappointed to not be getting a follow up booty call, especially because my
period is now gone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next morning, I decide to try one final time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hitting Tartine on my way out of town if you’re
interested.” He doesn’t write back. I do drive past Tartine but the line is
long and out the door and I can’t face it. It’s cozier standing in a line like
that when you have a warm body to rub up against.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Feeling like I want one final adventure before leaving the
city, on a weird whim I text <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/07/childhood-crush-part-one.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Childhood Crush</span></a>. He texts back right away that he is
out of the city for the day, but how long am I in town. I explain I am driving
back to LA now and just killing time before getting on the road. He says he’ll
be in LA soon and that “it would be fun to say hi.” “Word,” I respond
noncommittally. The last time he was in LA and texted me, I basically ignored
him and was proud of myself for not allowing more of the mediocre sex to occur.
Now I’ll have to cross that bridge all over again. I hope I will lose interest in the whole John situation soon, as I have with Childhood Crush. It feels good to be over it.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I start to drive out of town and immediately feel better. Amy
Winehouse blasting, I feel lonely and liberated. I get a text from John’s
brother: “Oh man, I really slept in today. Feel kinda shitty. How are you?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tell him I got loads of sleep and feel great and am en
route to LA. To which he responds, “Awesome! It was good to see you and have a
smooth drive down.” Do I detect an air of glad to be rid of me?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back in LA, I get drunk with my roommates and we head out to
the local dive bar where John works. But he’s not there. I play dumb and tell
the DJ it seems like the usual staff has changed. He says, “oh there’s just one
guy that’s usually here and isn’t tonight. John.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh yeah, I know John. Where is he?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He just drove down from spending Thanksgiving in San
Francisco and wanted the night off.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What?! John was in San Francisco when I was?? Is it possible
that John’s brother spent Thanksgiving with John and when I asked what his
plans were, he said he was having a <i><a href="http://www.latimes.com/home/la-hm-erskine-20151121-column.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Friendsgiving</span></a></i> and essentially lied by
omission by not telling me John was with him? I can’t believe it. Why would he
not tell me, unless he knows about me and John? In which case, why would he
still want to see me? I haven’t seen John since Halloween night and am also
very curious to know what information he does and doesn’t have. Does he know I
went on a second date with his brother, that I fucked him again?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The DJ invites us to sit in his “VIP area” and we proceed to
get wasted. I am wearing a skimpy tank top with no bra because I was hoping
John would be here. Instead, I’m approached by a boring RN who keeps stopping
me from dancing to ask, “what do you do?” over the incredibly loud music, and a
grumpy looking guy who tells me I’m “rude” when I don’t take the hand he
extends to me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I can’t stand it anymore, I text John, “Where you at
fool?” Which I think is neutral enough that it wouldn’t be terrible if his
girlfriend saw it. He texts back right away. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Home.”<o:p></o:p></div>
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To which I send the emoticon with two lines for eyes and a
line for a mouth. Unimpressed, nonplussed, bored. This emoticon perfectly suits
my mood.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD3nvEMuuVF-oNtUgxGyR9vnCo-sJpKL_XIILpsDa37AzoWngtI2n9hlTjl3SMPH_4y7YAZq0v6UFPjxRHCxfQ2DywBS23AlRdMsw4UFmcQ2B379i-cdlh8KRleWKpcFMvtocgYpKFIBip/s1600/the+comeback.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD3nvEMuuVF-oNtUgxGyR9vnCo-sJpKL_XIILpsDa37AzoWngtI2n9hlTjl3SMPH_4y7YAZq0v6UFPjxRHCxfQ2DywBS23AlRdMsw4UFmcQ2B379i-cdlh8KRleWKpcFMvtocgYpKFIBip/s400/the+comeback.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-6162328388450836782015-11-04T10:53:00.000-08:002015-11-15T16:09:41.406-08:00Halloween<div class="MsoNormal">
**Mom, don’t read this one**<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I grab my phone out of the toilet and desperately suck the
toilet water from its lower holes. I don’t even really think about the fact
that I’m doing this in the moment, I don’t second guess my impulse to save my phone
at any cost. The fact that I’ve pulled it out of a public toilet in a dive bar
at 2am on Halloween night doesn’t really register. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTUsTsSy2f-aw5W0UgBlAq1OGZbOUO4sN0V9Ohb0IzhrGEKlNCH1bSFigdQpPVAZsuYfYCitBO4XQw9AoDRvpj91hNW61R41sZuErNfID_YCUsbDoMr9ifzzXonCcJlKu-tstXvR_kf-S/s1600/drunk+baby.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSTUsTsSy2f-aw5W0UgBlAq1OGZbOUO4sN0V9Ohb0IzhrGEKlNCH1bSFigdQpPVAZsuYfYCitBO4XQw9AoDRvpj91hNW61R41sZuErNfID_YCUsbDoMr9ifzzXonCcJlKu-tstXvR_kf-S/s1600/drunk+baby.gif" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I remember why I’m in the restroom in the first place
and I try to mentally prepare for what’s to come. I put my phone on top of the
toilet next to my purse which is still unzipped, it’s opening aimed at the
water—the cause of the accident. I see that the lid to my lipstick is still
floating in the bowl. I try not to think about the fact that my phone is
probably dead. <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/09/the-bartenders-brother.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">John the bartender </span></a>enters and locks the door. He turns to me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I dropped my phone in the toilet,” I say, pointing to it,
still wet beside my purse. As I point, I notice that my house key has
landed in the no man’s land between the seat and the back of the toilet.
I vow to remember to grab it later. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
John doesn’t understand, or he doesn’t want to deal with
this right now. He grabs my waist and pushes me up against the wall. We’re
making out and his hand is up my dress and digging around inside my tights. That’s
when I remember the bandages.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Earlier this morning I preemptively went to spinning class
to “detox before retox,” as my instructor so eloquently put it. Not used to the
<a href="http://www.cosmopolitan.com/health-fitness/news/a10172/cycling-nerve-damage/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">incredible friction in my crotch area</span></a>, I chafed something terrible and
discovered later that the skin just inches from my outer labia was rubbed raw
and actually peeling off in stinging sheets. I smeared on globs of Neosporin
and bandaged the area. I vowed to not let any man anywhere near the region because all the bandages made it look like I had recently undergone
<a href="http://www.salon.com/2015/02/22/the_search_for_the_perfect_vagina_why_labiaplasty_is_suddenly_booming_partner/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">labiaplasty</span></a>. Not to mention additional rubbing would definitely hurt like hell.
I decided my wounds would help me make better decisions, as I would have to
weigh the man against the guaranteed pain involved in hooking up with him—would
he be worth it? I didn’t consider as a real possibility that I would find
myself in this dilemma with John. I just never imagined we would actually get
to this point in our epic 11 month flirtation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGyUlumuHni8sP0UFpbTdXRqBugqZnBKGnzyPmk-hYf3enWVo2BZzOk_NIbD5E2M3qhCf-XJCZLtH4K5OELSdwyChrvam3pMidv-B4htlnicTO-N3s6JIgSY_6ZO8aVz0uxpl-N4n9bRCI/s1600/Romy+and+Michelle+spinning.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGyUlumuHni8sP0UFpbTdXRqBugqZnBKGnzyPmk-hYf3enWVo2BZzOk_NIbD5E2M3qhCf-XJCZLtH4K5OELSdwyChrvam3pMidv-B4htlnicTO-N3s6JIgSY_6ZO8aVz0uxpl-N4n9bRCI/s400/Romy+and+Michelle+spinning.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Earlier in the night, when I first arrive at the bar with my
roommates in our matching understated yet elegant costumes of all black
ensembles and masquerade masks, John greets me with a warm hug over the bar. I
kiss his cheek and, when he says “Oh!” in a pleasantly surprised manner, I ask
if I can have a real kiss later.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m pretty sure you don’t get any more kisses,” he eyes me
suggestively. I obviously know what he’s referring to—<span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/09/the-bartenders-brother.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">the last time I was here I went home with his brother.</span></a><span style="color: red;"> </span></span>Why this trumps the fact that he still lives with his girlfriend, I'm not sure.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why?” I smile coyly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You know why,” says John. But he doesn’t look upset; he
looks amused. I like this about him—he doesn’t seem to take it all too
seriously. Underneath it all, he seems to understand that it’s just sex. Who
cares that I fucked his brother and I still want to fuck him? He doesn’t slut
shame me for it. He still wants me too. I find this incredibly hot.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I haven’t really been drinking lately so after a couple
vodka sodas with a lemon and a lime (and a cherry that John adds without
asking), I am completely hammered. I’m on the floor dirty dancing with a Jewish
guy dressed as a Rasta. His dreadlocked hair keeps getting caught in my mask,
so I take off my mask. I freak with the Rasta like I’m at a middle school
dance, twerking my ass into his hips. He grabs my waist and tries to reach his
hand into the top of my dress, grabbing at my boobs. I enjoy dancing with
him—he’s fun and he can move (or at least I’m drunk enough, I think he can)—but
I don’t want to fuck this guy and when he tries to kiss me, I hold my face
away. When he tells me to come home with him to Pasadena, I laugh in his face
and say, “Yeah, that’s not happening.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I carry my friend’s vaporizer loaded up with weed to John at
the bar and offer it to him. He takes it and puffs. I order a couple more
drinks for my friends and “a shot of your choice” for John. I do this several
times throughout the night but apparently he puts none of it on my tab because
my bill comes out to $18 at the end of the night. When John hands me my drinks,
I rub my fingers on his and we linger there for a moment. Later I make him lean
in so I can tell him something and I lick his ear. Later still I suck on his
fingers, which taste like lime. At some point, he declares, “You had sex with
my brother.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I say, “So? I like both you guys.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He asks, “Was he good to you?” I think this is a classy
question. Also kinky. I wonder not for the first time if these are the kind of Irish
twins that would fuck the same girl in the same room at the same time. If this
is a possibility, I need to do everything in my power to make it happen.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjky1799EeWDN8nMWfrzFWD2aFGRL32k2rtjsJq8ZHrf-jWGpgsIN6TokUnx4HTUct4YywPp3I7pqmGFcYU1z-OFgURU4Ky4zZ2dZ1csj2CGRjf0KhKGX6ATN8Y_mzzS-8ZjpWPWNOMDqVV/s1600/dreamers.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjky1799EeWDN8nMWfrzFWD2aFGRL32k2rtjsJq8ZHrf-jWGpgsIN6TokUnx4HTUct4YywPp3I7pqmGFcYU1z-OFgURU4Ky4zZ2dZ1csj2CGRjf0KhKGX6ATN8Y_mzzS-8ZjpWPWNOMDqVV/s1600/dreamers.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Suddenly, it’s 2am and the lights are coming on, the heavy
metal designed to thin the crowd blasting out of the speakers. John comes
around to sit in his usual spot at the bar to do the tip out on his computer.
Naturally, I plop down next to him, and this is when things take a turn. I try
to kiss him and he pushes his face into my neck and says, “I want to bury
myself in you.” I try to get his number, asking if we can be friends. He says,
“How am I supposed to be your friend when all I want is to fuck you?” I guess
that’s a fair question. I can see that he’s struggling. He punches his number
into my phone anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He tells me I’m causing problems in his relationship. I tell
him it’s not me. He doesn’t understand what I mean. I want to point out that if
it weren’t me, it would be some other girl. He’s just not monogamous, at least
not at this stage in his life. I decide not to get into it. Instead, I run my fingers
down his back and along the top of his pants to the front. He grabs my hand and
puts it on his fly. He’s hard. He reaches under my dress and grips my crotch. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Now that just kills me.” He seems to be referring to
the heat coming off me. He lifts his hand away from my crotch and runs it under
his nose, along his lips. It's about this time that the DJ says, "This one's for you, John," and proceeds to play <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LOZuxwVk7TU" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Britney Spears' <i>Toxic</i></span></a>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
John won’t kiss me but seems to want me to keep grabbing his
dick. I guess because it’s under the bar and he thinks his coworkers aren’t
seeing what’s going on between us. I ask, “Why can I do this but you won’t kiss
me? Because it’s under the bar?” He nods. “So, do you want me to get under the
bar and suck your dick?” I ask. He nods, slower this time. Wow, he actually
thinks that we are being stealth enough to get away with this. I’m so drunk I
actually consider it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghw7J0ycW5PR3u_Qt-fZgZI7a0rmLmkCwoO7JnPBUyt_mGv1irQGh2D-YElnGOWaybgASWVpN0yXFdbOlM0rGSllAnbWavuC1602eX1I0695So8dZ6uJlJfB2lmNwcxrv_iJi7HRzPnLiX/s1600/Britney+Toxic.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghw7J0ycW5PR3u_Qt-fZgZI7a0rmLmkCwoO7JnPBUyt_mGv1irQGh2D-YElnGOWaybgASWVpN0yXFdbOlM0rGSllAnbWavuC1602eX1I0695So8dZ6uJlJfB2lmNwcxrv_iJi7HRzPnLiX/s1600/Britney+Toxic.gif" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friends are ready to hit the taco truck, so I bid John
farewell. He looks disappointed, like he always does when I leave, and I want
to say, “Make up your damn mind!” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you need to go to the bathroom before you go?” He asks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At first I don’t register what he’s really asking and I
almost say no. Then I realize the meaning of this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes,” I answer and grab my purse. I march towards the
restroom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Inside, the first thing I do is put my purse down on top of
the toilet, and then a couple seconds later register that I’ve dumped the
entire contents into the toilet. I fish out my phone, lipstick, Altoids.
Thinking at the time that all of these items are salvageable, even the mints.
This is when I suck the toilet water out of my phone and immediately turn it off,
remembering the advice I received the last time I dropped my phone in the
toilet. That phone didn’t make it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With John’s hand up my dress, I remember my bandages and I
really don’t want to have to explain them to him. Instead, I move down and unbutton his jeans, squatting on the ground. I take his penis in my mouth. As I’m
sucking on him, I reach into my tights and rip off the medical tape and gauze
strips covering my outer vagina wounds. I drop these on the floor beside
discarded bits of toilet paper.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Naturally, as I suck John’s dick, I can’t resist comparisons
to his brother. I notice immediately that his brother was in much better
physical shape and therefore (as is my experience) his dick got bigger and
harder. John’s is hard but could probably be harder if he hadn’t been drinking
so much. He’s been working long sweaty hours and there’s a faint smell of BO
emanating from his nether regions. It’s not that bad and I don’t mind it. He’s
smiling down at me in a very appreciative manner—that’s nice.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsoWezws4GwBcocEPCUFYQGonFn2rAILtx16D7ZPIOtWh1U-a_WrQaCDQ4EkpNqc-qF1UfGMkaGgbMyGtfb9AaRM1hyphenhyphenzLTFlIPA6Bjn2yEo_qZnfozH97tkOB1yREEm9Xv5gVPzEjueeP6/s1600/Gilbert+Grape.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsoWezws4GwBcocEPCUFYQGonFn2rAILtx16D7ZPIOtWh1U-a_WrQaCDQ4EkpNqc-qF1UfGMkaGgbMyGtfb9AaRM1hyphenhyphenzLTFlIPA6Bjn2yEo_qZnfozH97tkOB1yREEm9Xv5gVPzEjueeP6/s1600/Gilbert+Grape.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not getting anywhere with his dick in my mouth, so I
stand up and pull down my tights and underwear and turn away from him, putting
my hands on the wall and pushing my ass into his crotch. I fumble for his
penis, willing it to stay hard for just a little while longer. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I can’t have sex with you without a condom,” he says in a
moment of sudden clarity. I respect this decision, for his girlfriend’s sake. And
because sex without condoms is a bad habit I need to stop. For some reason I
haven’t brought one with me, probably because I really had no intention of bringing my vagina out tonight.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lean with my back against the wall, underwear down, tit
sticking out the top of my dress. John stands at the sink, staring at me and jerking
off. He ravages me with his eyes. I can’t remember who decides we’re done here.
Probably he says, “I should get back.” I pull up my underwear and tights but
leave my tit out. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Put that away,” he instructs before taking it in his mouth.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then he’s gone. My roommate appears in the doorway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I just sucked John’s dick,” I declare. “And I dropped my
phone in the toilet.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s time to hit the taco truck.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After I order my nachos, I text John, “Hey John, it’s me.
Let’s be friends.” With a winky face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Him: “What”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “What what”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Him: “Ok. Yes.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Me: “Yes what?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Him: “I don’t know”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Our interactions are like a <a href="http://www.theguardian.com/culture/2008/dec/25/pinter-theatre" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Pinter play</span></a>,” I declare to my
friends. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s that?” They ask.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tell my best friend Sadie about this experience and she
asks why I want to fuck John. She thinks my story doesn’t sound very
passion-driven and feels more like a challenge I’ve set for myself. She wonders
if by fucking his brother, I simply upped the ante in this game of trying to
fuck John—actually making it harder for myself, adding a new level to the game.
I tell her I find the combination of John’s inability to have sex with me and
his desire to do so incredibly hot. I wonder aloud if people who don’t know me
would think my mission in life is to home wreck happy relationships. She
doesn’t think so—she thinks it’s clear from my perspective on infidelity and
monogamy that I don’t consider myself the cause of these men’s relationship
problems. I’m a symptom.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sadie says it sounds to her like I’m bored, that if there were
anyone more exciting to come along, I wouldn’t be interested in John anymore.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, of course. But isn’t that always the way it is? You mess
around with people that aren’t the real thing until something more interesting comes
along?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She concedes this is probably true.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If John said he was leaving his girlfriend and wanted to
fuck you all the time, would you want that?” She asks. Probably not, but there
are a thousand what ifs I could go through that have nothing to do with the
actual situation.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What will probably happen is it will turn out that John’s
girlfriend is like your blog’s biggest fan.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I laugh, “That’s what happens in the movie version of my
life.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The brother will fall in love with you,” she goes on, “and
you’ll fuck both of them and get pregnant and won’t know which one of theirs it
is and you’ll all end up raising the baby together.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tell her about how I’ve made plans to see John’s brother
over Thanksgiving when I’m up in the Bay Area visiting my parents. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I wonder if he won’t want to see me anymore if John tells
him I sucked his dick,” I muse.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She bursts out laughing. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You are building yourself a fucking garbage fire.” Maybe
she’s right. Maybe I am bored.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23h2Kh_gHOVuUKUZGFL0oyHMV4GY2O367R_ElFx9DQsj1aqai77Ljl2MBkuLB3W-0bmgtfNkwm-Zgm_wmuQdgIkhzUOvxZl7gbpoowXTcC6Emn3YT9SKrREru8x1INhuAoIq51nkt7sEM/s1600/Amy+Schumer+white+wine.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh23h2Kh_gHOVuUKUZGFL0oyHMV4GY2O367R_ElFx9DQsj1aqai77Ljl2MBkuLB3W-0bmgtfNkwm-Zgm_wmuQdgIkhzUOvxZl7gbpoowXTcC6Emn3YT9SKrREru8x1INhuAoIq51nkt7sEM/s1600/Amy+Schumer+white+wine.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-86238915566751465992015-10-21T17:44:00.000-07:002015-11-15T15:45:14.130-08:00Grandma's Got a Boyfriend... and I Don't<div class="MsoNormal">
“How’s your love life?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Not as exciting as yours, Grandma.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My grandmother is 86 years old and she has a long distance
boyfriend. She’s just been telling me about how every night at 8 pm her time
and 10 pm his time (she lives in New Mexico, he lives in New Jersey), he calls
her and asks, “Ready to pour?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They drink one gin and tonic and talk for an hour before bed.
This happens every night. She tells me that he’s started calling in the
mornings too, “Just to say Good Morning.” I ask how they constantly find things
to talk about.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know, honey, we just do. We talk about politics and
the people we used to know. We tell each other about what we did that day.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember that feeling of wanting to tell a partner
everything—purposefully remembering things from your day just so you could tell
them about it later, every mundane little detail. I had that with <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/04/mr-intimidated.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Mr. Intimidated</span></a>,
which is how I knew I actually really liked him. Grandma tells me that her boyfriend admitted to making notes throughout his day so he wouldn't forget to tell her things.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He makes me feel like a girl,” she tells me earnestly. “I
never thought I’d feel that way again.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My grandmother and her boyfriend, Bob, grew up together in
the same tiny New Jersey town where he still lives. They knew all the same
people, most of whom are now dead. Bob remembers more than she does about their
high school days together—he remembers things about my grandmother that she doesn’t
remember herself. Like about that time they were playing tennis in gym
class and she got a cramp in her leg and had to sit down and the gym teacher
came over and asked Bob, “What did you do to her?” Or when she fainted outside
the school and knocked down a professor.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bob remembers these details because he’s been in love with my
grandmother for 60 years. My grandfather died three years ago and this man—a widower
himself—waited a respectable two years before swooping in on the long lost love
of his life. She wasn’t sure at first and she resisted him for several months—I
think she felt some moral obligation about being faithful to the memory of my grandfather.
But Bob just kept on coming, undeterred by her reticence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I feel silly now about resisting him,” she admits.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL7zqeN6UdCDoVbR_SlBZbeqvjmEKgPHR4MHlgEH6X4APOEtrYNOTQlX7pq7nVBG1YYI_xwPpC_bnhqgpn9cbZkGot9KH65sH71-W7-kdU-7ZWSImGk49cHx-RPOQa_kilqpDPYc9Uj9Ky/s1600/golden+girls.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL7zqeN6UdCDoVbR_SlBZbeqvjmEKgPHR4MHlgEH6X4APOEtrYNOTQlX7pq7nVBG1YYI_xwPpC_bnhqgpn9cbZkGot9KH65sH71-W7-kdU-7ZWSImGk49cHx-RPOQa_kilqpDPYc9Uj9Ky/s1600/golden+girls.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Bob came to visit her in Santa Fe several months ago,
my grandmother laid down the ground rules: “Hopper seat down” (she calls the
toilet a hopper), “you have to help with the cooking, and... NO SEX.” Her
boyfriend joked: “If you wanted to have sex, I’d have to bring someone in.” At
first I interpreted this to mean a prostitute and I was momentarily shocked.
Then my grandmother laughed, apparently charmed by his little joke. I guess he
meant a doctor or something. Someone to administer the Viagra? I don’t know. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One of her favorite things about Bob is the fact that he can
keep the names of her three daughters straight. The fact that he remembers that
her granddaughter lives in Los Angeles. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He has a good memory and he obviously cares about you,” I
say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I consider telling her about the guy I had been chatting
with on OKCupid for a couple weeks who then, a year later when I got back on
the site, opened with the same pick up line he’d used on me the first time
around. I remembered the line and I remembered him. We had gone so far as to
exchange numbers and had texted on a daily basis—we were pretty close to
actually meeting in person before it fizzled out. He’d apparently forgotten all
these details and was starting from zero with me. I wondered if he still had my
number in his phone. I consider telling her about the chef I was chatting with
recently and was really excited to meet. We had made a date, he had to cancel
at the last minute, he wanted to reschedule. I said okay and then never heard
from him again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When my grandmother asks about my love life, I’m tempted to
mention the fact that I recently deleted all my dating apps after reading a
particularly depressing<span style="color: red;"> <a href="http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2015/08/tinder-hook-up-culture-end-of-dating" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">article about Tinder in <i>Vanity Fair</i></span></a></span>. Midway through the article, I grabbed my phone and
promptly deleted ALL the apps: Tinder, OKC, Hinge, Happn, even Bumble. I
decided I didn’t want to feed into this culture that was turning men into
sociopathic pussy-monsters and women into simpering attention whores. I decided
I would meet someone the old fashioned way: IRL. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t explain any of this to my grandmother because it
simply wouldn’t make sense to her. On a fundamental level, her generation
doesn’t understand having a game on your phone where you swipe through millions
of human faces trying to find someone to have sex with. Her boyfriend has been
in love with her for 60 goddamn years! They talk on the phone every night.
She’s living in some nostalgic <a href="http://www.salon.com/2012/06/27/nora_ephrons_romantic_comedy_revolution/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Nora Ephron romance flick from the 90s</span></a>. Every
time she tells me about Bob, I get off the phone and quickly jot down some
notes.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I have to write this story!” I tell myself. It’s too good
to be true. This isn’t real life. It’s some relic from a sweet unattainable
past.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmIQt4fh-NKsPG36EjM61lJHgWeXJWxf_nRObG-_F-gJ0S8FH1L8I3urRT52z_n2lz3ZKbMjvicJMw2piWs_PmH05efT1MPpywbJ7cjlfWPe3C2PgVH5NO2ctcdNFfRTqOobe9ABCigOx2/s1600/aziz.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmIQt4fh-NKsPG36EjM61lJHgWeXJWxf_nRObG-_F-gJ0S8FH1L8I3urRT52z_n2lz3ZKbMjvicJMw2piWs_PmH05efT1MPpywbJ7cjlfWPe3C2PgVH5NO2ctcdNFfRTqOobe9ABCigOx2/s1600/aziz.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember my grandmother watching this short film I made in
which the three young women gather in the kitchen explicitly talking about sex
and masturbation. I had been nervous to show it to her, but her reaction was
amazing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you girls really talk like that?” She asked, intrigued.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, we do,” I told her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s really great,” she said to my surprise, “In my day
you simply didn’t talk about that stuff.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think about the fact that my grandmother has only had sex
with one man her entire life. The fact that she got married right out of high
school, didn’t go to college, and had three daughters. I think about how she
was the star of all her school plays, a real beauty, but didn’t have enough
belief in herself or encouragement from her parents to pursue a career in acting. The fact that
she is also a poet and a painter, and considers these talents to be just
hobbies. And that she never really liked to cook—my grandfather was the one who
loved being in the kitchen. My grandmother grew up in a generation where women
were expected to stay home and bare children. And that’s it. And I think if my
grandmother had been born of my generation, she wouldn’t have chosen that path.
She probably would have been an artist. Maybe an actress. She would have had a
choice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I ask my grandmother if she has any plans to visit Bob
in New Jersey, she says she doesn’t have any desire to, that she really doesn’t
want to stay with him. She insinuates it’s because she doesn’t want to have
sex.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If I were your age maybe I’d want to visit him…. You can
guess what I mean.” She laughs. I laugh too. Last time I saw my grandmother she
declared that she’d never have sex again. I just stared at her, mouth dropped
open, like ‘how could you ever say that?’ Especially after having had sex with
the same man for my entire life, I feel like I’d be chomping at the bit to see
what else was out there.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I just don’t want to anymore,” she said at the time,
resigned. I guess it makes sense. Biologically speaking it makes no sense at
all for a woman to still want sex at age 86. Still, I can’t imagine myself ever
saying the words, <i>I’ll never have sex
again</i>. Maybe on my deathbed.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Considering the generation my grandmother grew up in, it’s
not totally inconceivable that she never actually enjoyed sex in the first
place. It’s even possible she’s never had an orgasm. When I sent her a DVD of
the first season of <i><a href="http://nypost.com/2013/10/12/how-one-woman-ended-up-at-the-forefront-of-the-sexual-revolution/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Masters of Sex</span></a></i> for
her birthday, her response was that she found it “silly to even study these
things.” I explained to her that before the studies of Masters and Johnson, female
sexuality was cloaked in shame and misunderstanding and that, although
imperfect, even just the fact of their study was a step in the right direction.
Despite finding it silly, she still said, “I’ll probably watch the rest of the
seasons.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although I don’t idealize my grandmother’s generation and I
certainly wouldn’t want to go back to a time when women had no sexual freedom
to speak of, I think something has been lost in this age of endless choice. I’m
nostalgic for a time when, if you wanted to talk to the person you had a crush
on, you had to call them on the phone or drive to their house. You couldn’t
just send them a text or stalk them on Facebook. There was more risk involved,
and therefore more investment. You couldn’t swipe through a hundred potential
dates a night. You had to talk to one person at a time and risk actually liking
that person. Is romance dead? No. But it’s definitely old and potentially
dying. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr5bZvUpvUdStdwq3Zm30hP-0pswYkNDP4XH9xtHw7CZrR8P75V0GCimYTVHus8E_AeQpeuuB9yGGRxWk0rfOXwC2gdgxJtVwJUrixqTDp7nPht_uekBZ59RFLD41beUGEyoEhuWD9pgmo/s1600/swiping+left+for+love.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr5bZvUpvUdStdwq3Zm30hP-0pswYkNDP4XH9xtHw7CZrR8P75V0GCimYTVHus8E_AeQpeuuB9yGGRxWk0rfOXwC2gdgxJtVwJUrixqTDp7nPht_uekBZ59RFLD41beUGEyoEhuWD9pgmo/s1600/swiping+left+for+love.gif" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-17255774530428329872015-09-10T12:53:00.002-07:002015-11-15T15:17:06.239-08:00The Bartender's Brother<div class="MsoNormal">
On Saturday night I find myself all riled up with nowhere to
go. I’ve just had a couple drinks with some friends in Hollywood. One of these
friends is a <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/pablovaldivia/celebrities-that-defintiely-put-the-f-in-dilf#.tg8xNK4dR" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">DILF</span></a> on whom I’ve had a persistent crush for quite awhile. The
crush remains because there’s just enough flirtation to keep it going and yet
absolutely nothing can be done about it because he’s in a committed
relationship and has, well, kids.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So the
crush just lingers weakly in the background and flares up from time to time
when conditions are right. This particular night, emboldened by alcohol,
I find myself pulling his hair, leaning into him, and generally taking it a
little too far. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That chapter ends without incident and I drive home,
energized and not at all sleepy. I come to a fork in the road where I can either
take a right to my house and my bed, or left to the local dive bar where I
always make poor decisions. I head left. I park and purposefully walk into the
bar. It is last call and the lights are coming up. The drunk crowd is streaming
out. I blow past my friend the doorman and swim upstream towards the bar. The
bartender I tried and failed to make out with on <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/02/valentines-day.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">New Year’s Eve</span></a> (he also lives
with his gf) is working and I make a beeline for him. He looks happy to see me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Where have you been?” He beams.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey John, you still live with your girlfriend?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes,” he says, “but my brother doesn’t.” He gestures to the
bar where his brother sits drinking a beer. I smile and sit down, introducing
myself with the line, “I tried to make out with John on New Year’s but he was
very resistant.” I laugh. John shrugs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Don’t you know that kissing doesn’t count as cheating?”
(Side Note: this is something <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2013/08/my-first.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">my mom</span></a> told me when I was 18 and I’ve been using
it to my advantage ever since.)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His brother smiles, unperturbed by my verbal diarrhea—I like
him already. He is built like a brick shit house, big muscular arms and a wide
torso. He tells me he used to work at this same bar, now he’s a trainer in San
Francisco. My haven’t-had-sex-in-over-a-month self is happy to see him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Iyy5YSxcUBcgeEW69K2rgnAIH9ca2AGmsulEa9QmRXOSzLuckEJ-CB4AE6G1JdnQu3WtHtCkooOTaK3Ho_ysSXEr6nK_qsiaA1muKt-cFviU8J0QPQi7MwdHR6qOu4RuDn-XNADzi4O4/s1600/Winklevoss.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Iyy5YSxcUBcgeEW69K2rgnAIH9ca2AGmsulEa9QmRXOSzLuckEJ-CB4AE6G1JdnQu3WtHtCkooOTaK3Ho_ysSXEr6nK_qsiaA1muKt-cFviU8J0QPQi7MwdHR6qOu4RuDn-XNADzi4O4/s1600/Winklevoss.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
John makes us some delicious lime-tasting shots and the
three of us throw them back. The crowd has thinned to real locals and friends
of the bartenders. Aggressively loud wall-of-noise death metal blasts from the
speakers. One of the bartenders has stripped down to his underwear and is
smashing glasses on the floor. I’m not sure why any of this is happening but
it’s pretty hilarious. As John counts the night’s tips, I canoodle with his
brother. I feel on his arms and put my hands on his chest and back. I ask if
I’m bothering him and he assures me I’m not, smiling.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I have a pretty girl touching me.” Then he adds this
feminist-adjacent sentiment, “God knows we objectify you guys [women] enough.”
He’s really batting a thousand with me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
John keeps refilling our beers as he counts his cash. At
some point I grab his brother’s face and start making out with him. After this
first kiss, he looks at John and flips him off. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fuck you, man,” he says, laughing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I join in, also flipping off John. It isn’t very nice but
I’m really enjoying this game. Despite the pissing-contest-ness of this moment,
the brothers obviously have genuine love and affection for one another. There
is the sense that John is happy for his brother in this moment, even if he does
have mixed feelings about the scenario. I express this to them, saying that if
I had a sibling, this is how I imagine we would be. We would share men and be
cool about it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At some point, John plops down next to me so I’m now sitting
between the two brothers who are a year apart in age and both ridiculously
good-looking. This night has really taken an excellent turn. John occasionally
glances at us sideways, watching us make out, and when I catch his eye
sometimes he smiles and sometimes he looks playfully hurt. When his brother
walks off to go to the bathroom or to get cash from the ATM for John’s tip jar,
John grabs my leg under the bar. I suppose still wanting to stake some claim. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I was here first</i>. I really don’t mind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Both of the boys enjoy dancing and I enjoy watching them. John
goes off to take the mini-stage with some of the other bartenders who have now
connected a mic to the speaker system and are singing along to music that vacillates
between abrasive metal and 90s hip hop. John’s brother stays with me at his
seat and dances with his muscular little arms over his head like a go-go boy. It’s
absolutely adorable.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCdFZzsjl7NWl-pjErm5gDEb-QpYedo6Iq5hifmQvA2qS99LRUOf1SbmqlPdygGgYgIXUoWimMy5fkmJYBwcDbczbQ_r8sDloK-ll_IiHdO_HI9Cyij7yNESQSKdL9DfRPk_VsDbCFRplK/s1600/threeway.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCdFZzsjl7NWl-pjErm5gDEb-QpYedo6Iq5hifmQvA2qS99LRUOf1SbmqlPdygGgYgIXUoWimMy5fkmJYBwcDbczbQ_r8sDloK-ll_IiHdO_HI9Cyij7yNESQSKdL9DfRPk_VsDbCFRplK/s1600/threeway.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While his brother is off peeing or something, I turn to John
and ask how he’s doing. He starts talking about the night of New Year’s.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You know, just because I didn’t make out with you doesn’t
mean I didn’t want to,” he says. I know this already but it’s satisfying to
hear him say it. I ask how things are going with his girlfriend.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m trying to get her into other girls,” he says. I try to
school him that this is not the direct path to what he wants.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You need to be honest with her,” I say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t know if monogamy is for me,” he states the obvious.
I ask how long they’ve been together. Two years. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And you already feel this way?” I want to tell him this is
not something that’s going to get better with time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I tell him, “John, this is my jam. I will be here for you as
a friend.” I might be a little drunk.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But then he says, “But I wouldn’t want her to do the same
thing.” Wait, what?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So, you want freedom in the relationship but you don’t want
her to have the same?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He nods.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well then, go fuck yourself.” I pat his back. I’ve
encountered this before. Men who want to fuck around but can’t deal with the
idea of their partner doing the same. The obvious hypocrisy and need for
control is infuriating. How do they expect their women to be open-minded about
this if they refuse to be?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I return to his brother. We keep making out and now I’m
feeling on his crotch. He is very hard in his jeans. He cups my ass and puts
his hand up my shirt. I lift my bra so he can slip beneath it. I take his
finger in my mouth and suck on it—this is apparently too much for him and he
holds me back, which only makes me want to do it more. He suggests we leave and
go back to my place. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why not John’s?</i>
I want to say this as a joke but think better of it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For some reason I’m not sure I want to take him home. I’m
enjoying the dynamic of making out at the bar with John watching and I’m
thinking about the uphill walk to my house. And then there’s the fact that I’m
trying to cool it on the one night stands. But he’s leaving on Monday and if I
want to have sex, this is probably my only chance. I’m on the fence, trying to
decide what I want. I’m not sure why what comes out of my mouth is, “I’m not
sure if we should have sex. I actually like you.” He looks confused. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I mean, I don’t know you that well but I’ve enjoyed our
time together,” he says, diplomatically. Then he turns away to talk to another
bartender and I think I’ve blown it. Why did I say that? I guess what I meant
to say was, “I’m trying not to have sex with strange men because my female body
and brain sometimes create attachment feelings that take a lot of energy for me
to deal with.” Or, "If I have sex now after having not had sex for so long, I
feel like the dam will burst and I’ll need it all the time. And you don't live
in town and I am currently without a reliable <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Slam+piece" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">slam piece</span></a>. If I just keep not
having sex, I won’t need it and will be able to stay more focused on the other,
more important things in my life. I’ve got shit to do! And the longer I don’t
have it, the less I need it. Also, I haven’t been grooming my lady bits really at all lately."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t say any of these things out loud.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Give me five minutes to decide,” I say. I don’t know what’s
wrong with me. He tells me he feels like a creep for pushing it. This is not
the turn I wanted the conversation to take. We keep drinking and making out.
Eventually, I decide we should probably just follow the natural projection of
where this night is going. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay, let’s get out of here.” He heads for the door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I turn to John and tell him I’m leaving. He makes a face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Because it’s time.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I lean in to hug him and he grabs my face and tongue kisses
me. He tastes like his brother. This is my favorite moment of the night. I turn to leave. His brother hasn’t seen the
kiss. He is already outside, apparently without saying goodbye to John. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2PEXxoj_Hk6rU2pzYLQEkGHCt_MMYZFNHxpwrrJop1edz7Rj3YmVvDVDo_RvBHCe8LfN6xR83RUFJ2s6QmiY490ZenKfZ5xNojO3PSF9LSeICxyAtijhT6De2X2SrYVp7TGRm5Jbi0mT/s1600/titanic.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv2PEXxoj_Hk6rU2pzYLQEkGHCt_MMYZFNHxpwrrJop1edz7Rj3YmVvDVDo_RvBHCe8LfN6xR83RUFJ2s6QmiY490ZenKfZ5xNojO3PSF9LSeICxyAtijhT6De2X2SrYVp7TGRm5Jbi0mT/s400/titanic.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We walk to my house. He takes my hand but this weirdly feels
too intimate and we eventually drop it. We walk up the monster hill I live on.
Even though he lives in San Francisco, this is still a struggle for him. In my
house, I pour us two glasses of ice water and turn on the fan in my room. I
head for the bathroom, where I do some quick crotch grooming. Just a little
bit. It’s a rush job so fortunately I have the lights set nice and low in my
bedroom. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I return to my room, he has set up the fan so it’s
blasting from the foot of the bed. He is in his briefs. They are tight and
accentuate the bulge of his crotch. He looks even better with his clothes off.
I crawl on top of him and start kissing down his body. I take off my shirt and
bra and run my nipples over his chest. I suck on him and he’s got a really nice
penis. He doesn’t go down on me and that’s slightly disappointing. Again, as
always, I’m tempted to ask why this is, but I don’t want to ruin the mood. He’s
pretty good with his fingers. We have sex and it’s fun but I don’t come.
Afterwards, I turn off the light and try to go to sleep. It’s five a.m. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At six a.m, the sky is already beginning to lighten and I’m
woken from half-sleeping by him groping me from behind. He spoons me and slips
it in. Then he rolls me over onto my stomach and finishes like that. I enjoy
the spontaneity.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At nine a.m, I’m fully awake. And I have a splitting fucking
headache. I get out of bed, put on my PJs, and head to the bathroom where I take
two Advil. My mouth tastes like garbage so I brush my teeth and wash my face
and remove my eye makeup. It’s rare that I don’t do this before bed, but I
haven’t had that much to drink in awhile. I pound some water and return to bed
where he has put on his briefs and is chewing gum and looking at his phone. I
crawl in next to him and put my arm across his chest. He moves in closer to me.
We start making out again. He lifts my shirt and sucks on my breasts. My PJ
pants come off and he crawls on top of me. This time I do come. He’s really
good at grinding on top of me in just the right way. He doesn’t do the jackrabbit
pounding preferred by so many porn-raised dudes of 2015. The orgasm magically
disappears my headache. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Afterwards, I ask if he wants any tea or coffee. He asks
what kind of tea I have. I tell him about my hippie selection. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll take coffee,” he says. I put on my PJs again and head
for the kitchen. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I ask if he wants a piece of toast.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, thanks. But that’s nice,” he says. I know I’m breaking
<a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2014/10/sex-like-man.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">one night stand</span></a> etiquette by offering to feed him. It’s an uncomfortable
negotiation for everybody.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I return with the coffee and he scoots off the bed so as not
to spill any on my sheets. He stands and peruses my walls. He asks about a
painting of a woman’s naked body from behind. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There’s a lot of naked people up here,” he says.<br />
“I’m kind of obsessed with nudity,” I explain.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He asks about a calendar I have of three naked women in
different shots doing various tasks backstage of a theatre. I explain that this
calendar was a fundraiser I did for a theatre I’m involved with. I point myself
out, topless and wearing a giant blond Afro wig. He tells me he too posed for a
calendar, for one of his clients who is a drag queen. He takes out his phone
and shows me the picture. He is dressed as Santa with his shirt open and is
flocked by four drag queens dressed as the Golden Girls. One of them
(presumably Blanche) is perched on his lap. He wins so many points with me in this
moment.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You were born to do this,” I tell him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDLYt2aV1BFDN3PiQMqnNlrZgxt72TLiDwVVPrjEWt4dgxXgxf-25gCYGxD02UNzvY4CVDrNHnpy5CQMpK-F1nhpcfZmM-K_2MrQFgnUvZL7Ozv_ULaXY65s8y0t15iC4LymjAAbeih_hs/s1600/golden+girls.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDLYt2aV1BFDN3PiQMqnNlrZgxt72TLiDwVVPrjEWt4dgxXgxf-25gCYGxD02UNzvY4CVDrNHnpy5CQMpK-F1nhpcfZmM-K_2MrQFgnUvZL7Ozv_ULaXY65s8y0t15iC4LymjAAbeih_hs/s400/golden+girls.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We finish our coffee and he gets dressed. He goes to the
bathroom and I change into shorts and put on a bra under my T-shirt. We walk
together down my hill, heading to retrieve my car. As we pass the bar from last
night, a guy is opening the door and John’s brother knows him. He crosses the
street and gives him a big hug. The guy takes us inside where there is glass
all over the sticky floor. And a mirror over one of the booths is shattered.
This guy is tasked with cleaning up the mess. We laugh at the wreckage and
continue on our way.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I offer to drive him home (to John’s house).<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“John’s going to be pissed at you for showing me where he
lives,” I joke as I round a corner.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you going to stalk him now? Don’t get weird,” he says,
teasing me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Last night I thought I was going to roll in, have one drink
at the bar, and head home. I had no intention of staying until 5 a.m. and then
taking home John’s brother.” I laugh. He does too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pull up in front of John’s house and he gives me his
number for when I’m next up in the Bay Area. We kiss goodbye and I drive off. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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It is not lost on me the fact that I began this night
lusting after one unattainable man, only to move on to another unattainable
man, only to finally settle on an attainable man whom I wasn’t sure I wanted to
sleep with. Why was I unsure about this third man? Because it was too easy I didn’t
have to fight for it? Friends of mine have told me that I enjoy the chase, that
I like the challenge of an unavailable man. But do I really? That’s not at all
what I think I want. But then why is it so tempting for me to try to lure said
man out of whatever current situation has him lusting after me and unable to do
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The last memorably good sex I had was with <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/05/romance.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Burly Man</span></a> in the
elevator—because we both wanted it so badly and we knew we shouldn’t have it
(again, his girlfriend), which only made us want it more until the tension
built up to such a boiling point that when we finally did fuck, it was explosive.
That is what I want—that level of passion and spontaneity that feels
undeniable. I want my rational mind to be too overcome to get involved. I want to
feel out of control. And what tends to come with that feeling of late is unattainable
men in relationships.</div>
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When I ask John why he’s still with his girlfriend, he says,
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love with her</i>, or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she’s my best
friend</i>. But, “She’s the best person.” Burly Man gave me a similar response
when I asked about his relationship. And to me this sounds like each of these guys
has put their respective woman on a pedestal where they can view her from below
as this perfect being. And, not to take this analogy too far, but in this scenario,
<a href="https://www.psychologytoday.com/blog/apologies-freud/201205/are-we-still-madonnawhore-society" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">if she’s the Madonna, I’m definitely the Whore</span></a>. I guess this justifies why John
doesn’t want his girlfriend fucking other guys—if he sees her as this Madonna
figure, the idea of her sleeping with other men would spoil her for him. <o:p></o:p></div>
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“I’m not a Madonna and I’m not a Whore. I’m your wife and
I’m sexual and I love you.” Forgive me as I quote <i>Sex and the City</i>. When I went to look up the exact wording of this
quote, I found that my memory of it was word perfect—either I have watched way
too much <i>Sex and the City</i> or this
phrase stuck in my mind for some reason. Probably it’s both. Charlotte says
this to Trey as she’s trying to get him to have sex with her (he’s having
trouble performing in bed, but likes to yank it to <i>Playboy</i> in the bathroom). This is an old story. In <i><a href="http://time.com/2968372/masters-of-sex-showtime-sex-scene-orgasm/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Masters of Sex</span></a></i>, Bill Masters sees his
wife as this perfect woman and the mother of his children—and he can’t bring himself
to have sex with her. Meanwhile, he sleeps with flirtatious, sexually-liberated
Virginia Johnson at every available opportunity. There’s always a sense in
these illicit affairs that once it stops being illicit, the mistress becomes
the wife and inevitably the free, spontaneous sex stops and “real life” begins.
In this scenario, it is definitely more fun to be the woman outside the
relationship tempting the man away from his quaint home life. But even as I’m playing
the role of the <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2013/08/sticky-sweaty-salty-sour-sex-and.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Other Woman</span></a>, I can relate to the wife/girlfriend back at home.
I can see myself in her shoes and I wonder what’s her story, what are <i>her</i> fantasies? And I hope that she’s having some fun, that she’s taking care of her own needs. And my hope
for myself is that when I am on the other side of this equation, I will be with
someone who sees me not as a Madonna or a Whore, but as a multi-faceted person
who has qualities of both these archetypes, and more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9bUfQl7a562gHUJbqqC5GCbgK-oQP7nk4lZ0joNt3zCXvDUKjbXA8-6aXSURFgDzOeyKav8WIPJESiZ-Y9KacxjnPpN0cKp346oEAg6Xam1nJXOZJznfGX26rj6ZF74QESzEoESzfadwm/s1600/masters+of+sex.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9bUfQl7a562gHUJbqqC5GCbgK-oQP7nk4lZ0joNt3zCXvDUKjbXA8-6aXSURFgDzOeyKav8WIPJESiZ-Y9KacxjnPpN0cKp346oEAg6Xam1nJXOZJznfGX26rj6ZF74QESzEoESzfadwm/s400/masters+of+sex.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-82014023749452003112015-08-06T10:08:00.000-07:002015-08-06T10:08:09.721-07:00Childhood Crush: Part Two or How I Got My Gold Back<div class="MsoNormal">
I see <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/07/childhood-crush-part-one.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Childhood Crush</span></a> once more before he heads back to San
Francisco. He comes over on Sunday afternoon for a couple hours before he’s due
somewhere for dinner. Again, I feel unclear about what he’s doing here. He
doesn’t want any coffee; he doesn’t want to sit outside even though it’s a
beautiful day; apparently he wants to hang out in my room. He seems anxious,
like he’s waiting for something.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He sits on my bed and tells me about his fucked up family. He
calls his mother, “the neediest woman in the world.” She is always broke and
asking him for money, and she never pays him back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Once I had to borrow $10,000 from my dad to give to her,”
he tells me. “She is not his favorite person.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His dad is a pretty famous writer who remarried a much younger
Chinese woman and now has two kids with her. I wonder how his father could hate
the mother of his first born child, and also see how that could really fuck up
said child.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Me and my dad don’t get along,” says Childhood Crush, but
it’s also clear that he really looks up to his father. I know from my mom (still
living in the small town where we grew up) that there is also a history of
neglect there. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR1T8sBAvV2dgW8Kgo4uhniwLlwjIyDHrJIK8SZdBvvF3E57uoS1E3Akep5QK_1TAfWR858L4JnaV1Xy2TLmiUfImk1eojuAmhuzb3iO3AmwB07GBleKBi6iYMon3QsGjfgeBwpVJwgzVm/s1600/Stewie.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR1T8sBAvV2dgW8Kgo4uhniwLlwjIyDHrJIK8SZdBvvF3E57uoS1E3Akep5QK_1TAfWR858L4JnaV1Xy2TLmiUfImk1eojuAmhuzb3iO3AmwB07GBleKBi6iYMon3QsGjfgeBwpVJwgzVm/s1600/Stewie.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can’t help but draw the parallels between Childhood Crush
and <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2013/09/f-you-gaffer-guy.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Gaffer Guy</span></a>. Another wayward Man Child, Gaffer Guy also didn’t respect his
mother and had a kind of hero worship/loathing for his rich and powerful
father. This I see is a recipe for disaster with young men.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No wonder you’re so angry,” I say, playing the therapist. I
actually enjoy hearing the more personal details of his life. It’s far more
interesting to me than the laundry list of his professional achievements. I
realize we are both in a transitional phase of our lives, we are both bored and
wanting change, and we are meeting one another at this specific moment for that
very reason. Perhaps to show us both what we don’t want anymore—letting go of
old habits.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He gets up and starts pacing around my room. He eventually
sits down in my desk chair. He asks me to close the blinds because the sun is
shining in his eyes. It’s very warm and I can feel myself getting sweaty. My
face feels hot and I think it must be bright red—it gets redder as I think this.
He tells me about the friend he’s staying with, who is at this very moment
getting dumped by his girlfriend. He won’t tell me how his friend knew he was
going over there to get dumped.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Man, I told him he should just break up with her first.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Maybe you’re not the best judge right now,” I laugh.
Considering he’s still reeling from getting dumped himself eight months prior.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He’s my friend but he’s kind of a pussy.” He tells me about
how his friend can’t fix anything around the house. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Men should be able to fix shit,” he says. I have to agree.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just like women should be able to cook something,” he goes
on. I laugh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He says his friend is “stuck on the models.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You should know about that,” I say.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Nah, I’m done with models.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have to say his history of dating models makes me feel
weird despite myself. He seems generally obsessed with hotness and youth. He
talks a lot about “hot girls.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He opens my bedroom door.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Where’s the bathroom?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkeaG-ezTIxaT1sntT2DCruiB7mdyaTyzp2g4U8Iu118uqt3h65Bd0pv84Cxt2zf5coN42ySrTlpASbNbJqjNj0NhLeRQpXHCXfNmiSI2pcprKHPDopO0X6OCfT-sMcMhr-1TQVY4r1yiI/s1600/Zoolander.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkeaG-ezTIxaT1sntT2DCruiB7mdyaTyzp2g4U8Iu118uqt3h65Bd0pv84Cxt2zf5coN42ySrTlpASbNbJqjNj0NhLeRQpXHCXfNmiSI2pcprKHPDopO0X6OCfT-sMcMhr-1TQVY4r1yiI/s1600/Zoolander.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While he’s in the bathroom, I lie down on my bed. When he
comes back, he lies down next to me. It’s almost time for him to leave for his
dinner. He stares at my breasts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How big are your boobs? D cups?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I laugh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, C. I actually wore a 36-B most of my life and then I
got fitted a couple years ago and the lady told me I was actually a 34-C. It
was awesome. I gained a whole cup size that day!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He continues to stare, unamused by my story. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Was that uncomfortable?” I think he means being told I was
a cup size larger than I had thought my entire life leading up to that point,
and I start to respond when he interrupts me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, I mean wearing the wrong bra size.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, no. I don’t think so. They’re pretty similar.” I
realize we often have moments like this, lost in translation—on a fundamental
level, we don’t understand what the fuck the other is talking about.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If you want, after your dinner you can come back here and
we can have sex in this bed.” I smile at him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fuck later. How about right now?” He chuckles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He remains next to me and puts his arm under my shoulders.
We start to kiss and he takes my breast out of the top of my dress, sucking on
my nipple. The exchange feels oddly sexless, as though performed from a sense
of duty rather than any real impulse. He awkwardly crawls on top with his arm
still under me. It feels like a lazy choice—exerting as little energy as
possible. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He gets between my legs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s pretty sweaty down there,” I warn him, half-jokingly,
but actually I’m serious. I can feel the heat and moisture between my legs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh.” This seems to interest him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I go to pull my dress over my head and he says, “No leave it
on, I like the dress.” He fingers me a little bit and then takes a condom out
of his pocket and starts fucking me without taking my underwear off. He buries
his face in my neck and pounds into me. I try to slow him down—he keeps
pounding. He kisses me, his whole weight pinning me to the bed. He doesn’t look
at me. Eventually, without a sound, he comes. And it’s over. He rests his face
in my breasts for a moment, and I pat his back. He gets up and takes off the condom,
tying it off and dropping it in the trash. He pulls on his jeans and heads for
the bathroom. I fish the condom out of the trash and wrap it in a tissue. That
familiar feeling of post-coital disappointment washing over me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sorry to bang and dash,” he says when he returns. I walk
him downstairs and kiss him goodbye.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll give you a shout later,” he says and bounds up my
steep driveway.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t see him again before he leaves. When he’s back in
San Francisco, he texts to ask if I used the rest of my fancy condoms yet. I
realize he thinks, probably from things I’ve said, that I’m constantly fucking
random guys when the truth of the matter is he probably has a lot more sex than
I do. I wonder if this is the reason the sex felt like he was masturbating
inside of me and also why he didn’t go down on me at all—because he thinks I’m
a slut, and not necessarily in a good way. My response to his text is to send
him a picture of my boobs. I can’t explain this except to say it turns me on to
do so.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu6HrlFl9IfytzxlKsQnvV_bPPYl8_DKQtsrClcyqqSA_4tVNApbEyfvDMd2dsoBQZdAmjLq0MUmXT6GvXGDG65GO3VhsVlv7U2WiZdCSrKknhj5ZD2q_unY0l0LyejzCJaP3M6dZQ0Hz2/s1600/Amanda+Seyfried_mean+girls.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu6HrlFl9IfytzxlKsQnvV_bPPYl8_DKQtsrClcyqqSA_4tVNApbEyfvDMd2dsoBQZdAmjLq0MUmXT6GvXGDG65GO3VhsVlv7U2WiZdCSrKknhj5ZD2q_unY0l0LyejzCJaP3M6dZQ0Hz2/s1600/Amanda+Seyfried_mean+girls.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m on a hike with my forty-something friend Paula and I
tell her about Childhood Crush. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did you get your gold back?” She asks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I just stare at her, a quizzical expression on my face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She explains: “When you’re young, you admire people and look
up to them because you think they’re special. But it’s actually not them. It’s
you. You’re projecting all your good stuff onto them because you’re not ready
to hold it yet. So, I wonder if you got your gold back from him and realized
what you thought was special about him was actually you.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This idea had never occurred to me before. She explains it's from a book called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Inner-Gold-Understanding-Psychological-Projection/dp/0977333825" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><i>Inner Gold</i> by Robert Johnson</span></a>, and offers to lend it to me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I wish I had known that for the last 28 years of my life.”
She nods.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And the answer is no—I didn’t get my gold back from him.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When I was younger I remember my mom warning me about
sleeping with guys too fast, not for any punitive reason but because she said,
“one tends to fall in love with men when you have sex with them.” At the time I
took this to be a very old-fashioned idea, and until recently I’d considered
myself immune to this cliché notion of sex-induced female attachment. But I
suddenly understand what she means. I think there’s something chemical that
happens to a woman when she has sex with a man. Maybe because they literally
put their things inside us, inevitably some remnant is left behind. A glue that
binds us to them, despite ourselves. It must be biological, because it feels
completely out of my control. It makes sense—in nature if a male has sex with a
female, it is to impregnate her and her impulse then would be to keep him
around to help provide for the baby. Right? This is the only explanation I can
find for the fact that after I have sex with a guy, I can’t stop thinking about
him. No matter if the sex is good or bad or whether I like him or not. I find
that it takes a couple weeks for this to cool off—and often the more I don’t
see him, the more obsessed I become. When I see the guy, usually it’s
disappointing. By that point I’ve made up so many stories in my head, his real
life presence can’t possibly live up to my expectations. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now that I know there’s perhaps a biological reason for this
cycle, I can stop being so hard on myself about it. Or perhaps, practice not having
sex right away. This could be the solution to my problem—if I don’t have sex
with douche bags, I won’t think about them so much. It’s too late for Childhood
Crush, but a good lesson for the future. I’ve had my fair share of bad sex, and
as I age, it too gets old. It’s no longer worth the emotional roller coaster it
causes. I feel like at this point my expectations are so low that if I met a
man who was interesting, attractive, funny, and remotely good at sex, I’d fall
in love instantly. Now that’s a scary thought.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju7LUfoUYljZaQH_t-JrInozNwgnUDgYHnY1GBMFNEQxmULvnL_bjvTI9HnV_uPzNm3TUJZH-F77nyzwxS_NKDopI5IRdmJUYVdibDxV3Xmzcfejp4tbJy0gQ7AokWvdDbYCNXpDVgXoYN/s1600/get+thee+to+a+nunnery.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju7LUfoUYljZaQH_t-JrInozNwgnUDgYHnY1GBMFNEQxmULvnL_bjvTI9HnV_uPzNm3TUJZH-F77nyzwxS_NKDopI5IRdmJUYVdibDxV3Xmzcfejp4tbJy0gQ7AokWvdDbYCNXpDVgXoYN/s1600/get+thee+to+a+nunnery.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-57056149747284119692015-07-23T11:36:00.001-07:002015-11-15T14:42:46.424-08:00Childhood Crush: Part One<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I'm sitting at the bar of Night + Market, a popular Thai restaurant
on Sunset Blvd, next to a guy I had a crush on in Middle School. He was 25
then. He’s 40 now. My 12-year-old self is doing cartwheels.<br />
<br />
Childhood Crush and I grew up in the same tiny hippie beach
town in Northern California. Recently when I was home watching the 4<sup>th</sup>
of July parade with my parents, he cruised past with his crew of local kids on
motorbikes. I spotted him instantly, as I always do, and felt that old familiar
pang of a 15-year crush. He nodded in recognition, my name on his lips, and
continued on in a cloud of exhaust.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3VcISDmR8CVj96zfFPNK7m8ZKpfE1jIRNzv9dcpSWdnHH4NnVSX_x7UhTb8y0DxvONAQ6A_udJNxRhrMNovHWZAtL7UE9FNrS_kXi9G2SCmdn4_E_XtBYg0cC3oJhkZ2P63AsctHAsssq/s1600/SOA.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3VcISDmR8CVj96zfFPNK7m8ZKpfE1jIRNzv9dcpSWdnHH4NnVSX_x7UhTb8y0DxvONAQ6A_udJNxRhrMNovHWZAtL7UE9FNrS_kXi9G2SCmdn4_E_XtBYg0cC3oJhkZ2P63AsctHAsssq/s1600/SOA.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In seventh grade I played Demetrius in our school’s
production of Shakespeare’s <i>A Midsummer
Night’s Dream</i> (there weren’t enough boys and I was tall). Childhood Crush was
friends with our director and filmed us doing the play. I think that’s when
we first met and the crush was instant. He was at NYU film school and
to me represented the glamorous world of filmmaking I so longed to be a part of.
He was also short and wiry and blond and had that kind of white-rapper-ish
aesthetic that is still totally my jam. He was a fast talker, a hustler, confident
and energetic, and even as a kid I felt he would be successful. And he was. He
went on to make several well-received documentaries, one about the modeling industry that I
watched when I was considering making my own documentary about actresses in
Hollywood and body image. On that project he collaborated with his girlfriend at the time,
a gorgeous runway fashion model. I was very impressed with their work and reached
out to him for advice about my own doc. That was 2011 and the last time
we interacted before I saw him on the 4<sup>th</sup> of July. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the night of the 4<sup>th</sup>, as I laid in my childhood
bed, I did some lite stalking on Facebook and decided to message him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey! It was good to see you today. I was hoping we’d get a
chance to catch up—I wanted to hear what you’re up to! Hope all is well…”
Pretty benign, but I felt a flutter as I hit Send. Not long after, he wrote back.
Apparently he was going to be in LA the following weekend helping a friend
write a script. We made plans to meet.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll take you to <a href="http://www.gq.com/story/soho-house-global-expansion" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Soho House</span></a>,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Fancy,” I replied.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So here we are, pre-Soho House, sitting at the bar of Night
+ Market. When we finally get the waitress’s attention, I order a lychee and
vodka cocktail and he gets a Thai iced tea (he’s not drinking because he
challenged himself to stop and now he’s seeing how long he can keep it up.)
Apparently he likes to challenge himself—he tells me how he enjoys running up
the incredibly steep hills of San Francisco, where he currently lives. He
orders Pad Thai and I joke that he’s having “the white man’s special.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“People have said I’m the whitest person they know,” he
smiles. “Also the straightest.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I order fried pigtails and he asks, “Wait, are you seriously
ordering that?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As an icebreaker, I ask him what his perception of me was
when I was twelve.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That in fifteen years you’d be hot,” he jokes. “No, you
were bold. You called me and asked if you could be in this silly little student
film I was making.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I had a crush on you, you know.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Really?” He seems completely shocked by this admission and it suddenly occurs to me that I wasn’t on
his radar at all. This might sound obvious, considering the significant age gap between
us, but when you have such an intense crush on someone as a child, it’s hard to
imagine they don’t feel the same way. At least for me it was hard to imagine. I
always assumed my crushes were reciprocated. <o:p></o:p><span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt;">Maybe because one of my mom’s big lessons to me
growing up was that all the boys were in love with me and all the mean girls were just jealous.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
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<br />
As we talk, I’m struck by the fact that I don’t know this person
at all—I don’t think we’ve ever actually had a real conversation. I had thought
he’d be sophisticated and academic, and had even been nervous about coming off
as not smart enough. This fear is quickly assuaged.<br />
<br />
Childhood Crush lived in New York for eight years and now
lives in San Francisco, and yet he is still someone who uses the word “fag” in
all seriousness. (He only does this once, which is enough.) He also calls women
“chicks”—I bring this to his attention and he seems to not realize he’s doing
it. He calls me “dude” a lot and I’m reminded of <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2013/09/f-you-gaffer-guy.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Gaffer Guy</span></a>, who used to call
me “man.” This is not the only aspect of Childhood Crush that reminds me of
Gaffer Guy. He talks a lot about his last
girlfriend who dumped him out of nowhere, or at least that’s how he puts it. He
qualifies this by saying, “I neglected her, I didn’t pay enough attention.” I
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Mostly what I enjoy about his company is that we come from the
same small town so he gets references that no one in my contemporary circle of
friends would ever understand, and he knows all the same people from my childhood. He
tells me about how he lost his virginity to this beautiful girl I idolized when
I was a kid. He explains how she summoned him one day so he stole a rowboat and
rowed across the channel from our town to the neighboring beach town, and then
pretended he wasn’t a virgin when they had sex for the first time. He was thirteen. She was
sixteen. We talk about the other kids we grew up with, about the ones who are
married with babies now, the ones who went to prison, the friends of his I also
had crushes on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Did you ever consummate any of them?” He asks.<br />
"Unfortunately, no."<br />
We talk about what a unique childhood we had because of
where we’re from. Boys and girls played outside together, we biked everywhere,
we climbed trees, we smoked weed. He expresses that he could see raising kids
there. I’m not sure if I could go back.<br />
<br />
Inevitably, we start talking about sex and it’s soon revealed that we’re
both pretty big sluts. He tells me about how he had a threesome with his last
girlfriend and a friend of hers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“A woman?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He scoffs, “That’s the only kind of threesome as
far as I’m concerned. Two guys and a girl, I don’t know what that is.” I ask if
he’s homophobic and he tells me that he’s not, he doesn’t care what other
people do, but the thought of having his penis next to another guy’s absolutely
disgusts him.<o:p></o:p></div>
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“Is that coming from you or the culture, though?” He
seriously thinks about this.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, it’s coming from me,” he says finally. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He tells me that when his girlfriend went out of town, she
told him he could fuck her friend. And he did. On Skype, so his girlfriend
could watch and give him instructions. He beams.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, I don’t know how I feel about monogamy,” I say, “I
felt really different about all that stuff the last time I was in a
relationship so it’s hard to know how I would be this time. I don’t know if
it's for me anymore.”<br />
“Well, I’ll tell you right now, I don’t want any chick I’m with to be fucking
other dudes. No guy wants that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So, you’re allowed to fuck around, but she’s not?” I ask.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He shrugs. He asks how long I’ve been single.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Four years.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why, no one will have you?” He laughs out loud.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9CDkVgWXgEXk5RkPGsSAwcyeNMZvN-Zl0ngJDZf6hE93c8GbnOeTGJ4JZWIKM9rhomGi3zX-9n6V2lXQiCrk09D3nuWBnq8_nBwuyZM8z99m6MJqFU-uZ1i4vfH1SlJiMFsg336zUloZJ/s1600/slut.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9CDkVgWXgEXk5RkPGsSAwcyeNMZvN-Zl0ngJDZf6hE93c8GbnOeTGJ4JZWIKM9rhomGi3zX-9n6V2lXQiCrk09D3nuWBnq8_nBwuyZM8z99m6MJqFU-uZ1i4vfH1SlJiMFsg336zUloZJ/s1600/slut.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wanting to match his threesome story, I tell him about the
<a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/07/sex-club.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Sex Club</span></a> in Portland. He seems very interested and asks a lot of questions, but
I also get the sense it’s making him uncomfortable hearing me talk so frankly
about sex. I somehow feel like he doesn’t think it’s cool for women to be as
big of sluts as he is. Regardless, I find myself unable to stop telling him
things. I don’t know how to justify this except to say that the fact that he’s
known me since I was twelve and that he’s from my hometown makes me feel oddly
comfortable around him. I tell him about how I cheated on my first boyfriend
with a 43 year old man who had a kid. He seems to deduce from this disclosure
that I am incapable of being faithful and asks if I “cheated on <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/03/single-for-life.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">[my] last boyfriend</span></a> a bunch.” When I say that no, I never did, he doesn’t appear to
believe me. He mentions cheating on a past girlfriend (the top model no less!)
but concludes that she was probably cheating on him too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He makes several joking remarks alluding to the fact that I’m
a slut, but when I reveal my insecurity that he’s gotten the wrong idea about
me, he says, “Girls are always so worried about that.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah because guys are allowed to be as big of sluts as they
want but if you’re a woman and you talk openly about sex, you get shamed for
it.” He agrees that this double standard is “fucked up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He catches on pretty quickly that I’m a big sex-positive
feminist, and seems wary of this. He says he grew up surrounded by feminists
and it’s not that he doesn’t believe in it, but he doesn’t seem to understand quite
what it means. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You know all it means is equality between men and women,
right?” I try to clarify.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah yeah, I know,” he says, sounding tired.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We leave Night + Market and walk to Soho House, where he is
a longtime member. We squeeze through the incredibly loud, schmoozy crowd in the main bar and head
into the quieter, plant-filled dining room to sit on one of the couches with views
overlooking the whole city. He has a nonalcoholic beer and I’m sipping a
Campari and soda slower than I would be if I weren’t drinking alone. At this
point in the night, now on my second cocktail, I’m in the mood for some heavy
canoodling. Unfortunately, any sense of flirtation we might have established in
the restaurant seems to dissolve the moment we step into Soho House. He seems
to have pivoted into “workin it” mode and, as his eyes scan the short skirts
that surround us, I find it hard to keep his attention. Maybe it wasn’t a good
idea to come here after all.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Even as we sink side-by-side into the couch, I can’t tell if
this is a date or a business meeting. Ostensibly, one of the reasons we got
together was to talk about work, and Soho House feels perpetually like the
place you go to “make a deal.” But if we were going to talk business, I feel
like it should have happened earlier in the night. I mean, we’ve already
established that we’re both sluts and I had a crush on him when I was twelve.
What more information does one need to get this thing going? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil1qPmiwgpu9Nv8D2J6-tzWDimKO94Yt7JJbXAXTQsW_mKCr9MwP7uFe2C4oCgPxARkU1Ntw8uXZXtAnqgQui88SsVU9ctYp9XufU99p-Qk5LAD52i4GpnD1PthRxj1Iw-kiuqg4yKAJip/s1600/Bobs+Burgers.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil1qPmiwgpu9Nv8D2J6-tzWDimKO94Yt7JJbXAXTQsW_mKCr9MwP7uFe2C4oCgPxARkU1Ntw8uXZXtAnqgQui88SsVU9ctYp9XufU99p-Qk5LAD52i4GpnD1PthRxj1Iw-kiuqg4yKAJip/s1600/Bobs+Burgers.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead of leaning over to kiss me, he decides it’s time to
start telling me about The Biz. <a href="https://www.guernicamag.com/daily/rebecca-solnit-men-explain-things-to-me/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">He proceeds to monologue at me for a good twenty minutes</span></a> about film festivals, sponsorships, how to get your movie
funded, commercial viability, blah blah blah. I stare into space as he talks, leaning
back on the couch, and consider closing my eyes. I play a game of how long I
can go without saying a word to see if he’ll notice. He doesn’t. <o:p></o:p>I’m not exactly sure why he’s telling me all this, but he
seems to think it’s stuff I need to know—it might very well be useful
information but I’m too bored and confused to really listen. While he’s talking,
I decide to give up on the idea that my 12-year-old self is going to have any satisfaction
tonight, and resolve myself that it’s time to go home. I finish my drink and say, “Shall we get out of here?”<br />
<br />
He wants to show me the members-only screening room so we
walk along a couple of abandoned corridors and enter a small-ish David Lynch-esque
room filled with red velvet arm chairs and chests full of cashmere blankets. We
lean back in the chairs facing the screen and talk some more, and I wonder why
we haven’t called it a night yet. <span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We both seem to be waiting for something to
happen, and for whatever reason neither one of us apparently wants to leave the
other’s company.</span> I consider reaching out and taking
his hand, just to do something different. But his energy is strangely
uninviting. We just sit there, enjoying the quiet of the room, until another
couple comes in and we leave.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we walk back to my car, we pass a Jaguar dealership, and
like a little kid, he jumps up on the cement block and bounces excitedly.
“Jaguars!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I laugh,
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<!--StartFragment--><span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi; mso-fareast-font-family: "MS 明朝"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US; mso-fareast-theme-font: minor-fareast; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">watching his tight, compact little ass move in
his jeans. W</span>e get in my car and he asks, “what now?” I just assumed I was taking
him back to his friend’s place, considering how he’s been saying he’s tired and
he seems quite bored. Again, I’m reminded of Gaffer Guy.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Wanna go up to Mulholland and look at the view?” He asks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Aren’t you tired?” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m tired but life is short,” he says.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I laugh. “You should make a T-shirt.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m gonna put that on Facebook,” he announces and takes out
his phone.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I find myself irrationally
happy that the night will not end here.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We get up to Mulholland and I park at a lookout with a view
that’s blocked by bushes. He leans way back in his seat so it’s almost
horizontal, and stares at the ceiling of my car. I do the same.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What are we doing?” I ask, laughing.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He closes his eyes. Eventually I decide to make a move, so I
reach over and start stroking his hand. He smiles, keeping his eyes closed. After
awhile, I ask if he’s asleep. He wakes up. I wonder why he hasn’t tried to hit
on me all night, I wonder what we’re doing up here. I take his hand and put it
on my breast. This enlivens him somewhat and he starts stroking me. He gets his
fingers under my shirt and pinches my nipple. He tries to undo my bra but can’t
from this angle so, in one quick move, he swoops over me, unclips my bra, and
lies back down. He fondles my breasts, but when I glance over he still looks like
he’s sleeping. Eventually, as though resigning himself to the task, he leans
over me and starts sucking on my nipple. He doesn’t try to kiss me and I wonder
if he’s got a <i>Pretty Woman</i> thing
about kissing. Too intimate for this seedy car encounter with someone he
remembers as a child. Finally he does kiss me. And then his hand is down my
pants and he’s fingering me. Then his cock comes out and I’m sucking on it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you want me to come in your mouth or fuck you?” He asks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I want you to fuck me.” Duh.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJEfGAZQm1s_Kvb8YKFPtxzDgb0DxUu-YZdHGrBo9i8ihEoezA3VZgxjxfpkDEyiAmFNbe6ZkvxaLnC3oq2-xW7iHwbDJhu43gwwL2qqN6YukICvtCOe9OHwlGPLP7EjY8iRhaKf29LiJH/s1600/Pretty+Woman.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJEfGAZQm1s_Kvb8YKFPtxzDgb0DxUu-YZdHGrBo9i8ihEoezA3VZgxjxfpkDEyiAmFNbe6ZkvxaLnC3oq2-xW7iHwbDJhu43gwwL2qqN6YukICvtCOe9OHwlGPLP7EjY8iRhaKf29LiJH/s1600/Pretty+Woman.gif" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
We move into the back seat and try to find a position that
works.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It has to be from behind,” I say and pull down my pants. A
condom materializes and I appreciate that he’s taking care of that so I don’t
have to worry about it for once. He fucks me for a bit, awkwardly trying to
position himself. The windows steam up and it gets very hot and sweaty. He
stops suddenly, throwing the car door open.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I need to take a break,” he busts out of the car with his
jeans around his ankles.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s so hot and cramped in there,” he says, pulling up his
pants. “I mean, not like I have a cramp, it’s just small.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So you didn’t throw your back out then?” I tease him.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We return to the car and I unearth my purse from the
wreckage of the back seat to retrieve one of my Skyn condoms. We get into
position again, but this time it’s even more challenging and he’s losing steam.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ll just finger bang you for awhile,” he says. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Let me get on top of you,” I move around, but he’s already
out of the car. Too uncomfortable and needing air. This time we don’t continue.
We laugh about what a high school moment this was—fucking in the car at make
out point. I lament wasting one of my good condoms.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drive him home and pull up in front of his friend’s house.
He still doesn’t get out of the car. We keep talking and then he shows me some
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=90qpDg5y7Lo" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">YouTube videos of Chris Rock</span></a> doing standup. He thinks I won’t like some of them
because I’m a “wretched feminist” (his words). I give him a head massage as we
sit there—he still seems tense. He closes his eyes and enjoys it. I tell him
that I’m trying to stop attracting <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/analuisa1234/23-signs-that-youre-dating-a-manchild-fxd2#.iv8jlZe4V" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">men-children</span></a>, but I guess I have this maternal
instinct that continues to attract them despite myself. I tease him about
dating younger women. We both know we have a problem. He says he’s never dated
anyone his own age, that that would make him uncomfortable. I tell him it’s
probably because he’d have to stop calling them “chicks.” It’s after four a.m.
and we’re still sitting there. I wonder why. At some point, he says, “why am I
looking at YouTube?” And he leans over to kiss me. It escalates. I suck him off
and he comes. He smiles at me as I wipe my mouth, “Well, you’re not twelve
anymore.” I tell him I need to go to sleep—he still doesn’t seem to want to
leave my car, even after the blowjob. I wonder what more he wants from me tonight. He
doesn’t seem to want anything, except to not be alone. I suddenly realize he is
painfully lonely, and it makes me feel for him despite his abrasive
personality. Underneath it all, he’s so vulnerable, and I’m still drawn to him
despite myself. Eventually I say, “you have to get out of my car now.” And he
does. We kiss goodnight and I drive home, finally getting to sleep at five in
the morning. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6synEHVGKGBuJ_vtLvICr34Af_n95H6GuRCGQ_mGdlfpnM5v6qMhDCjNph0u0S4qHIYq4MktNuTQrFm_BIz-VUBa6y6vjiFk9fkNrZ5gUMzRXRkC7pszmXh9tU2IbnhtucCu2DUbX0YA6/s1600/Lana+del+Rey.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6synEHVGKGBuJ_vtLvICr34Af_n95H6GuRCGQ_mGdlfpnM5v6qMhDCjNph0u0S4qHIYq4MktNuTQrFm_BIz-VUBa6y6vjiFk9fkNrZ5gUMzRXRkC7pszmXh9tU2IbnhtucCu2DUbX0YA6/s1600/Lana+del+Rey.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-71359657966846541182015-07-09T10:13:00.000-07:002015-11-15T14:11:45.443-08:00Sex Club<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">"Do
you know what kind of place this is?" The pretty young woman at the front desk asks us as we check in and pay the $30 "couples" membership fee.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">"Yes,"
</span><a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/05/romance.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">Best Guy Friend</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"> </span></span></a><span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">and I reply in unison.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1a1a1a;">Ron
Jeremy is apparently an investor in the club, and therefore his name is used to
promote the place: “Ron Jeremy’s Club Sesso Swingers Club.” I have to say my
only hesitation in visiting Club Sesso is the </span><a href="http://ronjeremy.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Ron Jeremy</span></a><span style="color: #1a1a1a;"> affiliation. His
association evokes a certain level of sleaze and creep-factor that, upon
entering, I realize is not the vibe whatsoever. While doing my extensive</span><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: #1a1a1a;"> </span><a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/ron-jeremys-club-sesso-portland" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Yelp research to find the best sex club in Portland</span><span style="color: #1a1a1a;">,</span></a></span><span style="color: #1a1a1a;"> I discover that Club Sesso has 5 Stars and
all the reviews are positive and enthusiastically written by women and men in
relationships. There is a wholesome vibe to the reviews that initially
attracts me, a sense that this is simply a sex-positive environment where
like-minded people gather to have fun. The reviews are spot on.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYy-KDJ0WK_ALkOg3JXVNXNW3fz74-uBTEwAXkaQKKu-rH2hvtXVBz0yrejAkt2CiHphk8PgjR7cNo4erP6cYhhit_qUH_CEZo9G7-FZV3-eQT6j4BuLo2LQVJKOOc6l-R4udcR8P2s4fq/s1600/Ron+Jeremy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYy-KDJ0WK_ALkOg3JXVNXNW3fz74-uBTEwAXkaQKKu-rH2hvtXVBz0yrejAkt2CiHphk8PgjR7cNo4erP6cYhhit_qUH_CEZo9G7-FZV3-eQT6j4BuLo2LQVJKOOc6l-R4udcR8P2s4fq/s400/Ron+Jeremy.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">First
of all, when we first walk in, we are greeted by a friendly, tatted young woman
who politely checks us in. Then Eileen, the “Madame” of the establishment, a
petite 70-something woman</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> with
cropped blond-grey hair and a youthful spirit</span><span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">, materializes to give us the grand tour. She
also asks if we know what kind of place this is. We smile and nod. She leads us
into the small bar where several couples sip drinks and furtively glance around
to see who has just walked in. There is porn playing on a small TV near the
ceiling. The empty dance floor has two cages with poles inside and some
multi-colored directional lighting. As new members on our very first visit to
the club, our first drink is on the house. I order a Campari and soda. Best Guy
Friend asks what they have on tap. I glance up at the balcony above us where one
couple and several single guys stand separately peering down, assessing the
fresh meat. I try not to hold eye contact with anyone for too long, but enjoy
the intensity of their gazes. The sense that everyone is openly here for the
same reason cuts through some of the usual bullshit of going to a bar to find
someone to hook up with. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">I think there are a
surprising number of people here for a Wednesday night, even one guy I find
pretty hot who keeps making eyes at me as he passes with his girlfriend. I hold
his gaze for a beat longer than usual. Eileen assures me that “this is
nothing” and says we should plan to come back the following night for Gang Bang
Night or Friday for Wet T-Shirt Night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“School Girl Night is really
fun,” she says. “All the girls dress like school girls and the men dress up
like professors. It’s very sexy.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">She indicates the empty dance
floor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“On Wet T-Shirt Night, all
the girls get in the cages. They love it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">She informs us that her
husband, who owns the club with her, has Parkinson’s so he doesn’t make it down
so much any more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“But when he does, I get up
on that pole and I fuck his face,” she shares nonchalantly. I want to be this
woman when I grow up. I feel immediately fond of her, not in small part because
she reminds me of my ex-boyfriend’s mother, someone who has always been one of
my grown-up heroes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Eileen shows us the
“complimentary dinner buffet”, reminiscent of a janky school cafeteria and I
congratulate myself for ordering us a couple apps at the bar where we pre-gamed
before coming to da club. She </span><span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">then leads us upstairs where there is porn playing on a bigger
screen behind a bar with a mattress on the floor instead of a bartender. This
is the first "play area." All the other play areas are small separate
rooms equipped with a large mattress, several towels, and condoms scattered on
the bed like chocolates. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">One
smaller darkly-lit room has a sex swing. </span><span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">There are doors for privacy and windows where voyeurs can peek
inside if the couples inside are kind enough to open the blinds. No one is
having sex as far as we can see, but it's only 10 p.m. We can hear some distant
groaning coming from one of the private rooms, but the door and curtains are closed
and uninviting.</span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOW1DbPKRqYq1Vd9DMAfYCIIX7jQbKC8YRtTKeUB4sPBr0Lbh8LUjZ-HxDTlnfasl9wPCALjOAhHhimpkVjtJzqqORexvvThaRJdNhXCHG8oWXuQAOY6xu39-I8TKZ6VFDH8_I7xKKmpKw/s1600/Shakira.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="326" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOW1DbPKRqYq1Vd9DMAfYCIIX7jQbKC8YRtTKeUB4sPBr0Lbh8LUjZ-HxDTlnfasl9wPCALjOAhHhimpkVjtJzqqORexvvThaRJdNhXCHG8oWXuQAOY6xu39-I8TKZ6VFDH8_I7xKKmpKw/s400/Shakira.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Best Guy Friend, who has
frequented sex clubs in Germany where he says the rooms are all open and people
fuck anywhere and everywhere, asks Eileen about this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“Are there any rooms where
people can have sex out in the open in front of people?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“The third floor room is all
open, but it’s closed on Wednesday nights. On Gang Bang Night, people really go
for it up there.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“Do people ever have sex in
the bar?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“Oh no. But on Wet T-Shirt
Night, someone might get a blow job or eaten out in one of the cages,” Eileen informs us. Apparently we’re here on the wrong night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Eileen tells us that it’s
very important to stay active at her age, and says she pole dances regularly to
stay fit. She shows us her muscular thighs and encourages us to feel how strong
they are. We do. She talks joyfully about sex and pleasure, and about how the
city is always trying to find excuses to shut down the club. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“Really, even in Portland?” I
ask.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“People hate sex in this
country,” says Eileen matter-of-factly.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Best Guy Friend, being
German, doesn’t understand this mentality.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“America was founded by
Puritans,” I inform him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">As a fairly attractive
“couple” in the club, we attract a good amount of attention, and soon a pretty and
flirtatious African American woman is hovering close and smiling at me. I tell
her that Best Guy Friend and I are platonic friends, and she tells me, “I want
to have what you guys have with my boyfriend.” This confuses me, seeing as Best
Guy Friend and I don’t have sex. It makes more sense when I realize she has clearly
dragged her boyfriend to the club, probably because she wants to hook up with a
girl, and he’s not really into the experience. She points him out talking to
another guy that I guess is trying to pick them up. She repeats several times,
meaningfully, “I would rather hook up with you than that guy, I’m actually
pretty into girls.” I play a little dumb because I don’t want to get sucked
into whatever weird energy is going on between her and her boyfriend. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">The hot guy and his girlfriend
are still meandering around, him catching my eye every time he passes. I point
them out to Best Guy Friend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“Maybe we can swing with them,”
I suggest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“She’s not interested in me,”
he says. She doesn’t seem very interested in the club in general and isn’t
checking anyone out, or even really looking around at all. I wonder if there’s
ever a case when one partner isn’t dragging the other one into this experience.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz9hdWYsd6d52XPNJpzVTDwVz2Fnor49Eles6mQ2Z4rDLQgJmiWuY8vv4ObkV1HZDwTeKm9BX_RiThvjeYvYlVoRM4SIqa7EqP7Xmwftro3iE8R0nYt3REfMRLwFQfRrGjbsTP4QNYaAQ6/s1600/wet+t-shirt.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz9hdWYsd6d52XPNJpzVTDwVz2Fnor49Eles6mQ2Z4rDLQgJmiWuY8vv4ObkV1HZDwTeKm9BX_RiThvjeYvYlVoRM4SIqa7EqP7Xmwftro3iE8R0nYt3REfMRLwFQfRrGjbsTP4QNYaAQ6/s1600/wet+t-shirt.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;">A young heavy-set girl with a
long-standing membership to the club takes it upon herself to be our hostess
for the evening. She also up-sells the Wet T-Shirt Night and encourages me to partake because: “you have great tits.” Still, no one is having sex publicly,
which is slightly disappointing for a sex club. </span><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #1a1a1a;">I’m struck by the fact that it’s probably
much smarter to bring someone you're actually fucking rather than your platonic
best friend (duh) and marvel at how even the couples who would choose to come
to a sex club on a Wednesday night are still shy about doing it in front of
people. I think about how my </span><a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/04/mr-intimidated.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">ex-boyfriend</span></a><span style="color: #1a1a1a;"> and I would have cleaned up in our
heyday.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">An attractive, wiry Israeli Dude
introduces himself. He is from Tel Aviv and works in New York and is in
Portland for business. He invites me and Best Guy Friend outside to smoke weed
out of his Audi. As we stand there smoking, I complain that no one’s having sex
and he says meaningfully, “If you want something to happen, you have to make it
happen.” Best Guy Friend raises his eyebrows at me: a challenge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">When we return from outside,
everyone’s spirits have lifted somewhat because “a girl is being tied up
upstairs.” Our hostess leads us up the stairs to where a big-breasted woman is standing
on the mattress behind the bar, her arms over her head, tied up and blindfolded.
A large man with rainbow-colored hair is smacking her ample ass. She writhes
with pleasure and anticipation as he teases her, methodically perusing a selection
of tools he might use on her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“This is called a scene,” explains
our hostess. “When you’re tied up and blindfolded, your senses are heightened
and you have no control, leading to a feeling of euphoria.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“You’re the hostess with the
mostess,” I say stupidly. Best Guy Friend laughs and rolls his eyes. The large
man lubes up a dildo and starts fucking the woman with it, and I find myself
giggling like an embarrassed school girl as I watch this very private moment
made public. Soon the woman is untied and the scene is apparently over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Club Sesso allows single guys
in (most swingers clubs don’t), so there are a lot of random dudes slinking
around in the shadows, watching and waiting. There is a sense that everyone is
waiting for something to happen, and I get impatient with this. Flirtatious
woman is still hovering nearby, so I try to encourage her and her reluctant boyfriend
to grab a room and have sex so we can watch. I also attempt to volunteer our
hostess. She says she’s more of a “watcher.”
Israeli Dude keeps repeating in my ear, “If you want something to happen, you have
to make it happen.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHTL6s3IF4etWLCGRSxMjQdT2cwkjVklcrq8y8KobNUts2Hpt7G7Zaz38prFrRlqsg7e4QuX00sJE1FvhM9J6xCp6bazEqYQZlxgq3b9qDiZV0yxZxDDML6yhx-xEvH801g8Ucg1OlJaIA/s1600/Magic+Mike.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHTL6s3IF4etWLCGRSxMjQdT2cwkjVklcrq8y8KobNUts2Hpt7G7Zaz38prFrRlqsg7e4QuX00sJE1FvhM9J6xCp6bazEqYQZlxgq3b9qDiZV0yxZxDDML6yhx-xEvH801g8Ucg1OlJaIA/s1600/Magic+Mike.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Finally, the hot guy and his
girlfriend start getting it on in the corner of the upstairs room. Literally
everyone in the club (mostly dudes) gathers around to watch. I feel almost
uncomfortable watching them because everyone else is. My instinct is to give
them their privacy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“They want us to watch,” says
Best Guy Friend, a sex club etiquette aficionado. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">The hot guy puts down a towel
on a couch in the corner of the hang out area and his girlfriend crawls on top
of him and starts slowly moving up and down.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">I suddenly realize that many
couples must come here just to get turned on so they can then go off and fuck
each other in private, rather than actually coming here to find someone new to
have sex with. This idea bores me, and I decide to be part of the change.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Israeli Dude keeps casually
suggesting, “we should just get a room.” I agree. We should. We start trying to
negotiate which room, but I can feel every guy in the room watching me trying
to pick a place to fuck, which makes me self-conscious.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“We should do the swing
room,” Israeli Dude suggests.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“Okay,” I say. Go big or go
home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Flirtatious woman follows us,
ingratiating herself. “Can I join?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“Sure!” exclaims Israeli Dude.
But I’m not sure I’m ready for my first public sex experience to also be my
first threesome experience, and this girl’s cloying energy is kind of annoying
me. She’s asked me about a hundred times what Campari is, and even after I’ve
explained it to her and let her taste my drink and she’s made a disgusted face, she
continues to ask: “But what <i>is</i>
Campari?!”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“Maybe later?” I suggest.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“Okay,” she negotiates, “when
you’re ready, give me a sign and I’ll knock on the door and you let me in.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">I vaguely agree to this plan
and push her out the door. I open the curtains on both sides so people can
watch. Immediately, a sea of male faces fill the two large windows. Best Guy
Friend stands off to the side with an amused smile on his face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">We start to kiss and Israeli
Dude tastes like beer and weed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“You’re about to see a lot of
tattoos,” he tells me.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">He takes off my shirt and his
own. We make out and try to negotiate how we’re going to have sex in this
bed-less room we’ve chosen.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“Let’s get you in the swing,”
he says. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Why the hell not? He puts my
legs up in the straps and I’m amused by the fact that I’m now spread-eagle in
front of a bunch of strange men. I can check that one off my Bucket List! He
starts to eat me out, which probably looks sexier than it feels as I try to
balance my ass on the straps so that I don’t unceremoniously fall out of this
contraption. My skirt is still on and I try to free my legs so I can get it
off. He tries to help.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“You need to take my legs
out,” I inform him. I’m glad the guys watching can’t hear our negotiating from
behind the glass. I imagine this is reminiscent of what it must feel like to shoot a porno. </span>He frees me and I stand up.
Skirt comes off. Now I’m standing in boots and a bra, and that’s it. I go down
and start to suck on him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGIGKSpDDJmasqlXv0lVqFVinaV9wMABUe9NJPTeFPnyRsQ5YyF343C9Tz9lhcBHHfqgdLyN4lZfVwMCx1i20zs7-n0NP3TVBbBKntQE5zHhBL7X1v_IuPAm_KSNKfjIMXnkiJSXmpxO2V/s1600/OITNB_underwear.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGIGKSpDDJmasqlXv0lVqFVinaV9wMABUe9NJPTeFPnyRsQ5YyF343C9Tz9lhcBHHfqgdLyN4lZfVwMCx1i20zs7-n0NP3TVBbBKntQE5zHhBL7X1v_IuPAm_KSNKfjIMXnkiJSXmpxO2V/s1600/OITNB_underwear.gif" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Then, he gets me up against
the wall and eats me out again, and he’s good at it and I much prefer this to
the swing. I arch my back, aware of my audience. Best Guy Friend tells me later
that at this point the guys outside were yelling for Israeli Dude to take off
my bra, but we couldn’t hear them. Eventually, bra does come off and I bend
over the straps so he can take me from behind. As he does this, I am facing the
side window and can see many faces peering in at me. I avoid their gazes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“What do you want me to do?” Israeli
Dude keeps asking. At this point, I feel like I’m kind of done and ready to
call it a night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“I want you to come,” I say.
He doesn’t. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">I straighten up and we make
out again. I lean into him, laughing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">“There are so many people
watching us.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">He asks again what I want and
I say, “I think I’m good actually.” There’s no way I’m going to come in this
situation and I feel like I got what I came for.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">We turn to our audience like,
show’s over folks. I pull the curtains shut and start to get dressed but he
won’t let me. He’s very hard and doesn’t want to stop. He starts kissing my
neck and my breasts. I decide to finish him off, and I have to say the situation gets a whole lot sexier the second our audience is gone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">I hear banging on the door,
which I know is flirtatious woman wanting to join in. I ignore the pounding,
and he does too, or he doesn’t hear it because at some point he says, “I want
that other girl to come in here and for both of you to suck me off.” Yeah,
that’s not happening. Eventually I hear her being escorted away by a club
employee as she pleads, “I was supposed to join them.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">I get dressed and head out.
Flirtatious woman is nowhere to be found, and Best Guy Friend seems to think
she and her boyfriend went off to have sex in a private room. I guess the
affect of the club worked on them after all. The three of us leave the club and
Israeli Dude offers us a ride back to my Airbnb. Best Guy Friend wants to walk
and process the experience, so we say our goodbyes and head on our way. Best
Guy Friend shares that it was interesting for him to see how I have sex. I’m
pretty proud of myself that on my very first trip to a sex club, I found a
stranger to fuck and did it in front of people. I find myself suddenly ravenous
and so we do something I never do: stop at McDonald’s for a sirloin
burger.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNGpWLVgtqyk8-vWPzHpqIgaQFlQrbkHAsZ64j9VQ6Yz6qkOlntM-MEX5d393xvIIdItwmMJb3-Rb_1IH_XUhBwzQX-zxmByRH4etponN6KD1outSJM5222ACNMsJqnpHNV-Ltb-Js4_M/s1600/Magic+Mike_2.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgNGpWLVgtqyk8-vWPzHpqIgaQFlQrbkHAsZ64j9VQ6Yz6qkOlntM-MEX5d393xvIIdItwmMJb3-Rb_1IH_XUhBwzQX-zxmByRH4etponN6KD1outSJM5222ACNMsJqnpHNV-Ltb-Js4_M/s400/Magic+Mike_2.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com38tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-32480037207895765332015-06-17T12:18:00.000-07:002015-11-15T14:03:36.112-08:00Slut Shamed?<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I recently experienced some conflict with a dear friend of mine in regards to a subject that is very important to me. Neither
of us is right or wrong in this instance, the situation is complicated and I
don’t pretend to have all the answers. This is simply my perspective on events.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">So, it finally happened. Something
you would think I experience often but oddly don’t, something I write a lot
about but often feel impervious to. I was slut shamed. By a close friend,
someone I love whom I had always thought encouraged and supported my life
choices, because she has always responded that way to me and my stories. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The incident in question was when I
fucked</span><a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/05/romance.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> </span><span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Burly Man</span></span></a><span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">, the guy with the girlfriend, in the elevator. During the
events leading up to the sex itself, my friend had been so encouraging of the
whole scenario I figured she was on board with it. She egged us on, telling him
not to invite his girlfriend back to her and her boyfriend's place so it could be
just the four of us. She all but put out an air mattress and turned off the
lights.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIujApTpFhB6wJ7vRnfnyN1e08y5bG6aOC9jq4bf-s3K4vB9-mPFDcqk183G8AbVRXhug2WcavXPuPW9tM_ARB1cwgQQ0gVQJxLo1a3uCgTx8PRrmGl4F4x_WlAemepQDgKj4N4wkSPhO4/s1600/SATC_gossip.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIujApTpFhB6wJ7vRnfnyN1e08y5bG6aOC9jq4bf-s3K4vB9-mPFDcqk183G8AbVRXhug2WcavXPuPW9tM_ARB1cwgQQ0gVQJxLo1a3uCgTx8PRrmGl4F4x_WlAemepQDgKj4N4wkSPhO4/s400/SATC_gossip.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">After we left her apartment and did
the quickie in the elevator, on my drive home I received a text from my friend that
simply said "So........." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">So, I told her what happened. She
wanted details and I provided them, because I know it's thrilling for her and I
really don't care to keep anything to myself anymore. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The next day, when I brought up the
fact that she had told Burly Man about my blog, she scoffed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">"Well I never thought you'd
actually fuck him!" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">This stung for a moment, but I wasn’t
sure why so I let it go. Later I thought, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i>?
After all the canoodling and groping at the bar and her helping push it
further, she didn't think it was even a possibility we might have sex? Truth
is, I didn't think we’d actually go through with it either because he seemed
pretty adamant about not wanting to cheat on his girlfriend. So I was going to
respect that, while respectfully pushing it to the limit. He was the one who
stuck his hand down my pants and initiated the kissing that led to fucking in
the elevator.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">After it happened and I texted her
the gory details, she asked, <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">"How are you?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Fine. You know I don't take
responsibility for other people's relationships." </span><br />
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“He should be able to
sleep in the same bed with a porn star [and not do anything]," she responded.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I took this to mean she agreed that I
wasn’t responsible, that we were on the same page, but when I felt the
disapproving vibes coming off of her the next day, I asked her about it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">"Yeah I do disapprove. It went
too far." <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">"What's going too far and why do
you get to decide that?" I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">"Fucking him in an elevator is
going too far!" She laughed through the phone, incredulous that I didn’t
obviously see her point. I asked why she had encouraged the hookup if it made
her so uncomfortable. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">"I can understand it's fun to
walk that line," she admitted. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">"Don't you see how it's a little
crazy that you would encourage me to do it and then disapprove when I actually
go through with it?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She didn't seem to agree that this
was a crazy thing to do. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrnsCfr8jrNWmutWcrde7slhIauCPjuKe2xDuo57ycVz1HoFFc_7oSIKF4j1fbrneGxGhBQdEDFYn07yeHlNwl-z_MOQX7AJfw0Gorxxz5jX7n1T5x4QqsjKxUy9dkRoILjv17bCMVouFt/s1600/OITNB_Ruby.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="286" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrnsCfr8jrNWmutWcrde7slhIauCPjuKe2xDuo57ycVz1HoFFc_7oSIKF4j1fbrneGxGhBQdEDFYn07yeHlNwl-z_MOQX7AJfw0Gorxxz5jX7n1T5x4QqsjKxUy9dkRoILjv17bCMVouFt/s400/OITNB_Ruby.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I understood in that moment a couple
of things about my friend: that’s she's a person in a long term relationship
and it might be fun to live vicariously through me in these moments of wild
abandon, but that she maybe has some of her own feelings of guilt about
actually living out these fantasies. My problem was, why hadn't she told me she
wasn't okay with it beforehand, but also why was she making this my issue? I
don't have a boyfriend, and Burly Man's relationship with someone I don't even know
is not my problem. I didn't understand under what moral code I was meant to
feel guilty for this and why it's okay to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">want</i>
to fuck someone else and cheat on your significant other but the second you act
on those impulses you've done something bad. Isn't wanting to do it cheating in
itself and following through on it just the natural progression?</span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I asked why she had never told me
before that she disapproved of my life choices. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">"I didn't want to hurt your
feelings,” she said. “I didn't want to slut shame you." I wondered why it
would even occur to her to slut shame me, why I was being </span><a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/leora-tanenbaum/the-truth-about-slut-shaming_b_7054162.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">slut shamed</span><span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> </span></span></a><span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">now for doing
something that in my eyes was not a bad thing. Something I didn’t feel bad
about then, and I still don’t now. Why should I hold myself accountable for
anyone else's moral compass, even hers, which I never before realized bent this
way?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">In the moment I felt good about this
conversation, I felt good that we’d cleared the air between us and set some
things straight. But upon further reflection, I realized I was pretty angry and
felt wronged by what had transpired. I also realized I was really sad because I
felt a great trust had been broken that I wasn't sure we could get back, now
that I knew I was being secretly judged by my friend.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The day after this talk, I headed to
Portland for a month. Arriving in this new city, I thought I would be filled
with wonder and excitement. Instead I felt depressed. I wandered the streets
trying to get out of my head, but found myself back where I started. Within a
couple days, I got more sick than I have been for as long as I can remember and
was bedridden for four days. During these four days, I sweated profusely and
moaned, my body aching to the point that I couldn’t stand up. I crawled to the
bathroom and threw up and then lay on the floor staring at the ceiling. I felt
like absolute shit, but coming out of the sickness was like coming out of an
exorcism and I felt oddly cleansed. Like I needed to purge my body and get back
to zero in order to move on from this emotional ordeal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmQNWAH4w_MqEq1ZojjJzRFeWMB2zNc-ov9wAntnQ7AfUdtx3HbG4oKSWaLPOiQqBVg9uYz47H11sIdEpZzgDYzdjBf8NsQfYZYXz5Tvg2HoqNix8VdSdPkAEOBwMknR2mq4h8D-zP7tAa/s1600/shame.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="232" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmQNWAH4w_MqEq1ZojjJzRFeWMB2zNc-ov9wAntnQ7AfUdtx3HbG4oKSWaLPOiQqBVg9uYz47H11sIdEpZzgDYzdjBf8NsQfYZYXz5Tvg2HoqNix8VdSdPkAEOBwMknR2mq4h8D-zP7tAa/s400/shame.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I’ve thought a lot about what
happened with my friend and how initially it didn’t feel that bad, how it was
subtle enough to sort of fly under the radar, only to emerge with these intense
feelings of anger and frustration. And I started to really wonder why women do
this to one another. Why we constantly judge one another, but also why we hold
single women responsible for other people’s relationships. Why are we so quick
to call another woman a “</span><a href="https://www.facebook.com/Shes-a-Homewrecker-405510306163771/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">homewrecker</span><span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">,</span></span></a><span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">” as though the man in the scenario had no
choice, or no self-control, so it’s up to the single woman to hold the line? That’s
one of the great benefits of being single—not being beholden to anyone else’s
feelings or the rules of a partnership, so why should I take on that responsibility
for someone I don’t even know? Maybe I can’t control myself either, maybe women
should be allowed to be as impulsive as men are allowed to be. Why are we
supposed to always stand on the moral high ground?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I remember what it was like to be in a
relationship, to deny certain impulses in order to stay in that relationship
past when I maybe should have. I think we all do that—we don’t admit to certain
things in ourselves or in the person we’re with until we’re ready to maybe let
those things go, or let the relationship go. I guess what I would wish for
myself for my next relationship is that I would demand honesty of myself and my
partner and have the kind of relationship where I don’t need to keep my desires
and fantasies a shameful secret. I don’t know if that’s possible—I haven’t been
in a relationship for four years and in that time my views on all of this have
changed immensely.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">I feel like I have my own moral code
and it has a lot more to do with honesty than it does with being “faithful” or
“moral” or “good.” I think truth and honesty are harder and nobler goals than any of
these things combined. I think we should be honest about our human impulses.
And look at them, and talk about them. Rather than sweeping them under the rug
and pretending they’re not there. Once we look at these human impulses and
moments of vulnerability, we can start to accept ourselves for who we are and forgive
each other a little bit more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #1a1a1a; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 13.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-29114183600552601282015-05-27T10:39:00.000-07:002015-11-15T14:10:47.859-08:00Romance<div class="MsoNormal">
I had sex in an elevator. With a friend, a colleague, a guy who
lives with his girlfriend. It was the second to last night of our collaboration
on an all-consuming project that had us working long hours and forced us to get
close very fast. We had been strangers a week ago and now we suddenly felt like
old friends. That’s how it is on these kinds of intense projects. On this
particular day, the flirty banter of the day before when we likened moving
furniture to trying different sex positions, had escalated to some pretty
touchy behavior. While we waited for the rest of our crew, I sat on his lap in
the backseat of a friend’s car as he massaged my back and put his arms around
my waist. The more he touched me, the more I felt like a cat in heat. My pelvis
throbbed and I responded by digging my butt into his lap. He was big and burly
and I hadn’t had sex for like a whole month. You do the math.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Z6axBLL7IaRpy2LKkA2HfGZKMjDsMJ5Koo1MNIfrHvRUiBbXiyy8DYF1rKzagdRVdgxjc7l6-Rol_WI-mJWVjcerNkDakT7z1frVm_DzPaYuBVKCuLdbxvts7ZhmX6z45Ns6wsZH4sY9/s1600/muscle+man.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0Z6axBLL7IaRpy2LKkA2HfGZKMjDsMJ5Koo1MNIfrHvRUiBbXiyy8DYF1rKzagdRVdgxjc7l6-Rol_WI-mJWVjcerNkDakT7z1frVm_DzPaYuBVKCuLdbxvts7ZhmX6z45Ns6wsZH4sY9/s400/muscle+man.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My friend Adrienne and her boyfriend were also working on the
project and our plan was for the four of us to all go out for drinks after
work. I heard Burly Man talking to Adrienne's boyfriend about inviting his
girlfriend, whom none of us had met yet. I had to run a couple errands before I
could meet them at the bar. I called him from the road to ask a work-related
question.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When will you make it to the bar do you think?” He asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Actually I don’t think I’m going to come.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I just don’t really want to be the fifth wheel with the two
couples. You guys are gonna start talking about real estate and I’m going to be
like, why am I here?” Having had my fair share of experience as the
only single person surrounded by couples, I now try to avoid this scenario at
all costs. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I don’t think my girlfriend is coming to the bar.” I suddenly
found myself in the awkward position of deciding not to go because his
girlfriend was invited and then changing my mind now that she was being removed
from the equation. Even to me, it sounded like I was trying to fuck this guy.
And I honestly didn’t have any intention of actually fucking him, but I would
be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the attention, the groping, the flirtation,
and I wasn’t in any hurry to replace this situation with one in which I would be forced to keep a polite distance while he canoodled with his girlfriend. Who
would want that?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I arrived at the bar and he gave me a big bear hug. It was
delicious. Everyone else was a few beers ahead of me, so the conversation
quickly veered towards sex. As Burly Man massaged my calves with my feet resting
in his lap, I wondered aloud why he was allowed to massage my calves but not my
breasts.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Because breasts are sacred,” he said, half-jokingly.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What if I do this?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat up, took his burly man hand in mine, and put it on my
boob. He squeezed. A ripple of energy went through my whole body.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You better be careful. It’s been a long time for me,” I
said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How long?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I looked to Adrienne, who knows my sex life as intimately as I
do.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Like a month,” I raised my eyebrows.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That’s a long time to you?!” He seemed almost offended.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Adrienne whispered in his ear, asking if he needed a safe word, if he needed to set some boundary he wasn’t allowed to cross. He hesitated, clearly reluctant to make any promises he wouldn't be able to keep.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There will be no penetration,” I declared.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Between trying to help him set boundaries and safe words,
Adrienne egged us both on, encouraging him to spank me while I was bent over the
bar. I glanced around the room, which had filled out substantially since we’d arrived
in the late afternoon on a Tuesday. Everyone was obliviously chatting away—was
no one noticing the raunchy goings-on in the corner of the bar?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhElAdKCcIMN7HXIOBW7xKJh0GdHItA9mm_5EkeJrdyCIJLtlbJTOH01hfY1cvmMzFTCfe4f0XoiJcsgFs5hdWQ6dPXBlXwMM9MqklB8huHEB6HpVGTHnohwRvUYmYch8EUB2zV66TghS0L/s1600/Christina+Hendricks.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhElAdKCcIMN7HXIOBW7xKJh0GdHItA9mm_5EkeJrdyCIJLtlbJTOH01hfY1cvmMzFTCfe4f0XoiJcsgFs5hdWQ6dPXBlXwMM9MqklB8huHEB6HpVGTHnohwRvUYmYch8EUB2zV66TghS0L/s400/Christina+Hendricks.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sat on Burly Man’s lap and he grabbed my crotch. This
surprised me. It occurred to me this was a new level of crossing whatever
boundary he had or had not set for himself. He dug his fingers into me from
outside my pants. I wondered if our friends saw this happening and were
politely ignoring it, or if they really had no idea. I tried not to moan out
loud.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What’s going on down there? You feel ready to go,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I am,” I whispered into his face.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then our friends started making plans for us all to go back
to their place. The guys wanted to invite Burly Man’s girlfriend to join us,
clearly intending to put a stop to whatever the hell was escalating between us.
I said if she was coming I would probably go home. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I don’t think you want the two of us in the same room right
now,” I scoffed. Clearly he hadn’t thought this through.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“If I’m alone in a room with her, I’m going to have sex with
her,” he pleaded with Adrienne, pointing at me, looking genuinely worried. I have
to say his lack of self-control was thrilling.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Adrienne made the call: “Why don’t you two come over for an
hour, and then your girlfriend can come over. Or you can just go home.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I laughed. We all agreed to this plan, knowing it was a lie.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Back at their place, we drank more beer and ate some pizza.
I was tucked in with Burly Man and when I sat up to grab a slice, he unhooked
my bra, bringing his hands around to cup my breasts. I took off my bra and put
it on the couch. Adrienne picked it up and studied it, musing that she wouldn’t
ever wear a bra that wasn’t padded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We settled in to watch the latest episode of <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=69V__a49xtw" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Silicon Valley</span></a></i> and he grabbed my crotch
again, again digging his fingers into me through layers of clothing. I wondered
if he’d dig a hole in my pants. I glanced over at Adrienne and her boyfriend on
the other end of the couch—was it possible they didn’t see what was going on
next to them?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Adrienne got up to get some blankets. She put one on herself
and tossed one next to me, as if to say: ‘Now you can have some privacy.’ The
second the blanket was on us, his hand was down my pants and his fingers were
buried inside me. I could hear fabric ripping, so I quickly and quietly unbuttoned and
unzipped to make it easier for him. I tried not to moan as he dug into me. My breathing
involuntarily quickened. I held the blanket aloft in an attempt to mask the
aggressive movement going on underneath. I reached over and felt his crotch. His
cock was hard in his pants. We continued to laugh at the appropriate moments in
the show, but I honestly don’t remember a single thing that happened in that
episode.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the show ended, I reluctantly re-zipped and buttoned my
pants.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay, I’m gonna go,” he announced to the room. I went to the bathroom and
prepared to leave myself. I got a text from a coworker with some annoying news
and I was back in work mode. Well, that was fun while it lasted, I thought. We hugged our friends goodbye and the two of us walked towards the elevator, me staring at my phone, wondering aloud how I should
deal with this issue. The second the elevator doors closed, he was on me. He
kissed me, and I remember thinking that kissing was the biggest boundary crossed
so far—one I thought we wouldn’t cross. He reached down my pants again and
pulled up my shirt. I had left my bra off. He started sucking on my nipples as
he fingered me. We hadn’t pressed any buttons in the elevator, so it just sat
there. I waited for someone to walk in on us. He took his penis out. It was pink and beautiful and I wanted it the moment I saw it. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We can’t do that,” I said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“We’re not going to,” he replied.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then he tried to stick it in me. Facing one another with
my pants around my thighs wasn’t working, so he bent down to take off my boots, and I thought: fuck no, there’s no way I’m going to be the one who's completely naked if and when we get caught fucking in this elevator. Instead, I
turned around to give him easier access from behind. He pushed on my low
back, holding me down as he fully entered me. My face flushed hot and I felt filled
with that old familiar feeling. After probably about five minutes, he pulled out and came on
my back. I still had my purse hooked around my arm, and for some reason decided this was the moment to let it drop. I reached down into the convenient bag of clothing I had left at my feet and took
out an old sweater. He mopped his cum off my back and then, seeing that some
had spilled onto the floor of the elevator, I wiped that up too. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I buttoned my pants, he pressed the Ground Floor button on the
elevator, and we walked out of the building, stunned and grinning.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So, that happened,” I said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, it didn’t,” he said.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“What happens in elevators, stays in elevators.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’ve never done that before… Cum that fast.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I laughed. “Oh, I thought you meant had sex in an elevator.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, that too.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He walked me to my car. We kissed goodbye.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Okay, see you tomorrow. Bye!”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day at work, he asked me if I planned to tell our
friends. He told me not to write about him (Adrienne had told him about my
blog—I’m hoping he forgot the name of it). He told me we should do it again
sometime. I asked if he wanted to go find an elevator. He told me I would meet
his girlfriend that night. He laughed when I told him I thought she was probably really cool.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“That was like a dream. It’s like it never happened,” he
said. Whatever helps you sleep at night, I thought.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We finished our all-consuming project and we all went back
to our normal lives. I went back to my nights of watching TV in bed by myself,
and was suddenly struck with a strong sense of loneliness I don’t usually feel.
I watched a sad, romantic indie flick on Netflix called <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rXUFUp6vsxg" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><i>Beginners</i> </span></a>starring Ewan McGregor and just bawled my fucking eyes
out.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On Saturday night, I went to <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/04/mr-intimidated.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Best Guy Friend</span></a>’s apartment for our
weekly ritual of getting high, eating dinner, and having deep stoned talks in
the hot tub followed by watching a movie. In a stoned stupor, I told him about
how I realized watching this film that I feel really starved for romance in my
life, and that I’m suddenly craving it. I struggled to articulate what it was
about Ewan’s portrayal of the character in <i>Beginners</i>
that had so affected me. How the way he is with the French girl he falls in
love with in the film is how I want a man to be with me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“When he looks at her, he really sees her. He listens. He
sees her whole self and appreciates everything about her. He wants her fully
and completely. He’s sensitive and sad and sexy.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We mused on whether this character was in the writing, or
was it just the quality that Ewan brings to every role he plays. Then we tried to find a female equivalent
for Best Guy Friend—a famous actress who brings something to all her roles that
he could actually see himself in a relationship with. We continued down this
stoned rabbit hole for awhile.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, you can have that,” said Best Guy Friend. I didn’t
hear him, and he pointed that out too. “You could fall in love next week.”
I thought about whether I believed him. “I don’t know if that’s actually what
you want though. You’re so busy. Do you have time for it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know if I have time for it, if love would derail me
from my life mission right now. But I want to feel that again. That feeling of
being in love. That all-consuming, I want you every minute of every day
feeling. I don’t know if it’s healthy, and my logical mind says it sounds
codependent, but there’s no doubt I’m craving it. It's been awhile for me. Sometimes I worry that my biological
clock has started ticking, and that these feelings are connected to a deeper
yearning. I am suddenly at an age where several of my close friends and colleagues have babies, and when I'm around said babies, I do feel a persistent
throbbing in my ovary-area that’s slightly alarming. Every time it happens I
have to remind myself, there’s time for that and now is not the time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-36548761015941071192015-04-29T10:18:00.000-07:002015-04-29T11:26:52.725-07:00Mr. Intimidated<div class="MsoNormal">
I haven’t written in weeks because life and work have been
keeping me too busy for the moments of reflection I need to blog about it. I
guess the main thing to report is that I got rejected by <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/04/its-match.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Mr. Intimidated</span></a>.
Which, although I sort of felt it coming, was still a bit of a shocker.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As a refresher, this is the guy with whom I had three consecutive
dates. On the first, we had sex and he initially expressed that he felt
intimidated by me and that he was going through a bit of a life crisis. On the
second, we saw <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It Follows</i> and when he
dropped me off and I went in to kiss him goodnight, he kept his lips pursed
tightly shut. On our third date, we ate ramen and talked and laughed and when
he dropped me off, I decided to not initiate the pursed-lip kiss and he didn’t
either so instead we sat awkwardly for a moment until I shouted “okay,
goodnight!” and ran into my house.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If you remember, I liked this guy a lot despite his obvious
baggage and the awkwardly sexless nature of our interactions. I felt that he
wasn’t quite what I was looking for and that I had a lot more going on than
him, but still enjoyed spending time together and wanted to give it a try.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A couple days after our third date, I booked tickets to see
Sleater Kinney perform at the Hollywood Palladium and, with no angry feminist
female friends excited to go with me, I invited him. He said yes, that he loved
Carrie Brownstein and was excited to go. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s gonna be like an episode of <i><a href="http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2012/01/02/stumptown-girl" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Portlandia</span></a></i>,” he said. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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“<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ldQGPwuHhkM" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Cacao</span></a>,” I responded.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWf_TOwoojHZfgQFZPCf5IgjHADBiMNgAbAx3ib_iqqnvqyBahi0vjRRBc3sOSTtfyqImVmPzdmsxcZpIReIo53petKhyphenhyphengdaLhgSQAwC_BgjXUQwunqIaHpSFI1EjxoAOVZbN-p0VXPQs9/s1600/Cacao.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWf_TOwoojHZfgQFZPCf5IgjHADBiMNgAbAx3ib_iqqnvqyBahi0vjRRBc3sOSTtfyqImVmPzdmsxcZpIReIo53petKhyphenhyphengdaLhgSQAwC_BgjXUQwunqIaHpSFI1EjxoAOVZbN-p0VXPQs9/s1600/Cacao.gif" height="224" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I didn’t hear from him for two weeks. A mutual friend told
me he was out of town at a movie premiere. I texted him “congratulations and
have fun” and he sent me a pic of his premiere outfit. I felt something was up
when I didn’t hear from him again. A week before the concert I texted to check
in. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, are you still going to the concert with me next week?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I headed into a meeting and forgot about it. During the meeting,
I was midsentence when my phone vibrated and I glanced down at it. I caught the
following on my lock screen: “Hey. I know I sort of fell off the map these past
few weeks. I appreciate you inviting me but I don’t think I want to go...” My
words caught in my throat and I lost my train of thought. I thought it best to
wait until after the meeting to read the rest, but having no self-control or
patience whatsoever, I couldn’t resist. It continued: “I’m sorry. I’m just not
feeling it. I know I expressed to you how I feel this is a weird time for me,
and my lack of sex drive. I think I just don’t want to be going on dates, and
want time alone to just figure shit out. Hope you understand.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The coldness of the message unnerved me. It had none of the
usual rejection niceties: “It’s not you, it’s me. You’re amazing. I like you a
lot but (fill in the blank). You’re too good for me…” etc. I was also frankly
surprised to be rejected by this guy who I felt was (I know this sounds
douchey) lucky to have my attention in the first place. I wanted to write: “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’re</i> rejecting <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>?
Seriously?” But I didn’t. I wrote: “I understand. Thank you for your honesty.”
I did appreciate his honesty. And I actually did understand—after our very
first date, in light of his personal crisis and recent breakup, I had told a
friend of mine, “He probably shouldn’t be dating anyone right now.” But I was
still taken aback by how quickly and cleanly he had cut it off.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I sort of felt like crying. I thought we had fun
together, and that was worth something to me. For whatever reason, I actually liked him more than most of the men I meet. But then I was also grateful, and
felt profoundly that I had been let off the hook. I would have let it go on for
weeks because I liked him. Even though it was awkward, and I knew I wanted
something more, and it clearly wasn’t the right thing for either of us at this
moment in time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinHCjC9-IkAfQqoT1-hQzzmBuOEZpQ70cBw980_fW55vka8oLrEyJQj101utlWIcOwmU9WQwsieBT18-c0koRD50glA5E0AGuKLTHAEszrPFa9oQiRy46aY4ophRf6-71xDuBnNvXJYGhG/s1600/Buffy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinHCjC9-IkAfQqoT1-hQzzmBuOEZpQ70cBw980_fW55vka8oLrEyJQj101utlWIcOwmU9WQwsieBT18-c0koRD50glA5E0AGuKLTHAEszrPFa9oQiRy46aY4ophRf6-71xDuBnNvXJYGhG/s1600/Buffy.gif" height="298" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was also slightly annoyed that he hadn’t told me sooner he
didn’t want to go to the concert. Would he have told me at all if I hadn’t
asked, or would he have let the day roll around and offered some last minute
excuse? I scrambled to fill his spot, and decided to invite my friend the DILF,
a 40 going on 25 year old Man Child I had sex with over a year ago. He said yes
immediately, although he didn’t know the band. Then, apropos of nothing, he
texted: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I am so angry today. I gotta meditate before shooting this
gig.” Immediately, I regretted inviting him. Not knowing what to say, I asked
why he was angry. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m just frustrated with everything and blaming myself
therefore taking it out on the world today.” <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied lamely, not wanting to
hear any more.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Why are all the men I attract carrying so much baggage, and
why do they all feel the need to take it out and show it to me without my
asking to see it? Why do I feel more like a mother figure to these lost boys
than an equal, a partner, a lover? Where is my equal and why can’t I find him?
I went on Facebook seeking distraction and soon found myself stalking the <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2014/10/sex-like-man.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Hot Guy</span></a> I slept with at my Housewarming Party back in October. I found a photo of
him lying on the beach next to a girl kissing his sweet bearded face, #staycation.
A wave of sadness passed over me. Not because I necessarily want to be with
this guy, although I did have a slightly desperate moment of trying and failing to see him again after
that night we slept together. And I haven’t seen him since. But I suddenly
viscerally felt the reason people feel sorry for single folks, and this is not
a feeling I usually relate to. In a way, I also felt relieved. Because I could
let it go—that weird distant hope in the back of my mind that I might someday
run into this incredibly hot man I slept with once, and we would go on that
follow up date. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re strong, you’re like a sturdy tree, that’s why these
guys are attracted to you,” said a wise friend. I guess that’s true, but I also
think these men somehow think I’m stronger than I am. They don’t see my
vulnerability and therefore feel intimidated or insecure around me. Maybe this
is my fault. I know I do present with a lot of confidence and bravado, and
maybe I’m looking for a man who has the strength and confidence in himself to
help bring out my vulnerable side. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU1Dl4XBqWBR85e_YvjYVnvs7z9-3utLOBz6uvawS257i10tbO0OHdgjV_M8ZXxyIxgDGJP7FogEG4euYJS2KwmocSObA2YWBrASaS7k-S0OTyLY_yRgr2armofMfqVYB08fm_ldJjClAH/s1600/Meryl.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU1Dl4XBqWBR85e_YvjYVnvs7z9-3utLOBz6uvawS257i10tbO0OHdgjV_M8ZXxyIxgDGJP7FogEG4euYJS2KwmocSObA2YWBrASaS7k-S0OTyLY_yRgr2armofMfqVYB08fm_ldJjClAH/s1600/Meryl.gif" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was chatting to this guy on Tinder, a kinkster looking to
get into some dom-sub play. Naturally, he wanted <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> to dominate <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">him</i>. He said
he was into “feet, ass worship, objectification, voyeurism, domestic servitude,
to name a few.” When I shared that I was from NorCal, he shot back: “I was just
telling my roommate how San Fran women are so masculine. They need men to
inspire their feminine side.” At the time I thought this was an incredibly dumb
thing for him to say and showed an extreme lack of good sense. What kind of man
thinks it’s a good idea to call the woman he wants to sleep with “masculine”?
Masculine to me means I have a mustache and big calves. I value people putting
thought into how they communicate, and his word choice was so thoughtless it
was virtually irredeemable, and a big reason why I never ended up meeting up
with him. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now I think part of my strong reaction might have been that,
poor word choice aside, maybe this guy was actually onto something. Maybe I do
need a strong man to bring out my feminine side. The best relationships I’ve
had with men have been when they could see past my feminist rants and loud
mouth opinions and crude jokes into the sensitive and thoughtful person
underneath. They have been with men who feel empowered, rather than belittled,
by my strength. Despite my know-it-all personality, my <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/03/single-for-life.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">ex-boyfriend</span> </a>always knew
how to find the softness in me, and he always understood his value in our
relationship. <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/04/its-match.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Best Guy Friend</span></a> will debate me all day long—he knows how to
find the weak spots in my seemingly ironclad arguments and enjoys poking holes
in them. This is the kind of give-and-take I need in a man. I think I often
like to be right and I get frustrated when people argue with me, but conversely
it’s hard for me to respect anyone who doesn’t have their own strong opinion. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realized after my second date with Mr. Intimidated that I
didn’t know what he thought of the movie we had seen. I didn’t remember him
saying one way or another. I asked him about it on our third date, shoveling ramen into my mouth. <o:p></o:p><br />
"I just realized I don't know what you thought of the movie."<br />
"What?" He looked surprised that I would bring this back up.<br />
"I don't think you ever said what you thought of <i>It Follows</i>."<br />
"Oh. I loved it," he responded flatly.<br />
"You did? Really?! You didn't tell me that."<br />
"Well, you just seemed so weirded out by it I guess I just didn't know what to say."<br />
I stared at him. Something in me felt disappointed. I couldn't imagine being in a relationship with someone whose opinion they wouldn't share for fear of disagreeing with me. I would eat that person alive. I pictured a future of me monologuing and him nodding vaguely by my side. This image made me shudder. I should have called it right then and there--at that moment, I knew instinctively that this would never work.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU319XJ2cTtl77y1vx854fe93o2dxPtqZ1MNRcsMLsjMisOZby_oc6dpbxVZ9S1zD5qLOCDA8kFrj0gWvwQpSTJO5S-QazagLyW367VvkOsquREBGpWwN5x3Mw1K1Hu90siGi2lPXQcqhv/s1600/Cry+Baby.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU319XJ2cTtl77y1vx854fe93o2dxPtqZ1MNRcsMLsjMisOZby_oc6dpbxVZ9S1zD5qLOCDA8kFrj0gWvwQpSTJO5S-QazagLyW367VvkOsquREBGpWwN5x3Mw1K1Hu90siGi2lPXQcqhv/s1600/Cry+Baby.gif" height="255" width="400" /></a></div>
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<!--StartFragment--><!--EndFragment-->Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-6253549285107958372015-04-01T09:58:00.001-07:002015-11-15T13:14:50.441-08:00It's a Match!<div class="MsoNormal">
I went on two dates last week. With the same guy. They were
real dates, not just sex dates. And he planned them, which was awesome. On
Monday night we met for drinks at a classy whiskey bar and ended up sharing a
pizza. The conversation was varied and flowed easily. He listened intently as I
talked, seemingly very interested which inspired me to be even more
interesting. At some point, we moved from the bar to the lounging couches in
the corner of the restaurant. I started touching the veins on his arms (I love
the veins on men’s arms). He smiled and lost his train of thought. We kissed a
little bit. He smiled more. It was nice. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We shut down the bar and he walked me to my car. I then
drove him the two blocks to his car. I parked and left the engine running,
music blaring as we made out furiously. I felt his crotch and he pulled my tit
out of my shirt. I could feel he was hard in his pants and I started to
unbutton his fly. I pulled out his dick and decided to put my mouth on it right
there in the car. What can I say, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aFqNFdkFKz0" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Florence and the Machine’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Only If For a Night</i></span></a> was blasting and I
felt inspired. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Can I invite myself over?” He asked.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGyslQJ5zsnw1oBcqXMAViSzvaTNodRh_HdnNLKkdVaT9jk7cadm1BeXPmzNZ2e8A1zdP8spgFBOUuWJO4SrJys1Y1HMdLG2DzLhiatIQQ67hiTzRG4IWA0ZZcQ7JADOJXubyK5n5Q_0DS/s1600/Megan+Fox.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGyslQJ5zsnw1oBcqXMAViSzvaTNodRh_HdnNLKkdVaT9jk7cadm1BeXPmzNZ2e8A1zdP8spgFBOUuWJO4SrJys1Y1HMdLG2DzLhiatIQQ67hiTzRG4IWA0ZZcQ7JADOJXubyK5n5Q_0DS/s1600/Megan+Fox.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He followed me home in his car and we huffed and puffed as
we struggled to walk up the incredibly steep hill I live on. When I got him in
my bed, we proceeded to continue where we had left off. Only problem was, he
was no longer hard. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Ahh, my dick!” He lamented.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I reassured him it was fine. It happens. He was clearly
nervous around me. We had talked earlier in the evening about the phenomenon of
emasculation. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you feel emasculated by me?” I asked now.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sort of,” he admitted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Why?”<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You’re just such a sexy woman,” he declared, grabbing my
ass.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Obviously, this was the right thing to say. I was flattered.
But I also wondered why this keeps happening to me—the fact that my being a
sexy/strong/ambitious woman actually makes guys <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lose</i> their erections. This has happened before. With men that were
apparently really into me, and then when push came to shove, they had trouble
performing and claimed to be “intimidated.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pulled out some tried and true sex-ninja moves and managed to successfully get him hard. We had sex and we both came, and I felt more satisfied than 90%
of the time when I first sleep with someone new. But he obviously felt
embarrassed and frustrated and in his head about the penis thing, and I
couldn’t get him out of it. We fell asleep and in the morning we talked in bed
for awhile. He shared that he had recently stopped watching porn because it was fucking with his self-esteem (you know, the big dick factor).<br />
"Porn is ruining men for real sex!" I declared, vindicated.<br />
It was nice to lounge in bed with someone—it had been awhile for
me. I made us eggs and coffee and we had more good conversation over breakfast.
All in all, it was a lovely 14 hour date. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On Thursday, he asked me out again. He picked me up, which
impressed the hell out of me (it doesn’t take much) and we went for a couple
drinks and then to see a late night showing of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=96Itg4gjtts" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">It Follows</span></a></i>. After the movie, he drove me home. And then it suddenly
felt awkward, as if the ghost of last night’s sex loomed over us. As if there
were some weird expectation on us now—we’d already had sex, so we should probably
do that again. But he was still in his head about how from his perspective it
had not gone very well. I leaned over to kiss him goodnight. He kept his lips
pursed tightly shut. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next day, via text, I brought up the awkwardness I had
felt at the end of our date and he was very forthcoming about the fact that he’s
been "going through some stuff" and that he just came out of this
relationship that left him feeling less than confident about his manhood. He expressed his hope that this wasn't "TMI." I reassured him that, in my book, there is no such thing as TMI. I
appreciated his vulnerability in telling me the truth. It was a welcome reprieve from the posturing
I usually encounter from insecure men who, instead of
admitting their insecurities, overcompensate with this big macho act that is really
off-putting and I can completely see through anyway.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWzZFr0obymMFB7Mh3UTNvt3YUQUlqYMBclSQ7rG-ycuv6lOfO-WL7CgZEH1a3YKZAGpwOaQ2ZEenbCXif_EYkxkictXzey3msBFxNMlG-j37gkptimNklr8oZcKw_gwh8-i05YC_9Kl-0/s1600/Akward.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWzZFr0obymMFB7Mh3UTNvt3YUQUlqYMBclSQ7rG-ycuv6lOfO-WL7CgZEH1a3YKZAGpwOaQ2ZEenbCXif_EYkxkictXzey3msBFxNMlG-j37gkptimNklr8oZcKw_gwh8-i05YC_9Kl-0/s1600/Akward.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I talked to my <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2014/12/pubes.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Best Guy Friend</span></a> about this. About the fact
that I actually really like this guy. I like spending time with him, I love our
conversations, I like myself when I'm around him, and I appreciate his candor and
transparency. But if I'm being honest, this is not the person
I see myself dating. I have had this fantasy of dating someone as ambitious and
driven as me, possibly more successful/farther along in their life and career.
Best Guy Friend has had a similar vision for himself. We’re both looking for
the opposite-gender equivalent of ourselves. But I don’t know if that’s
possible—I don’t know if that would truly be a match. Maybe every relationship
needs that yin and yang, perhaps both partners can’t be equally ambitious
because that would never work, maybe we both need to accept the fact that we are
destined to be the more powerful partner in the relationship, that we will perpetually
be in the driver’s seat calling all the shots.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If I’m honest with myself, I say I want a partner who makes
decisions so I don’t have to, but the truth is I actually enjoy calling the
shots. In every aspect of my life, I am in control, and I like it that way.
This comes naturally to me. I’ve been looking for a dominant, but maybe <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> am the dominant. I don’t know if I
could actually let someone else be dominant over me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve always had this fantasy that with the perfect match,
we’d have like this mutual admiration society. But maybe admiration flows more
naturally one way or another. I have to say, I love to be admired and
appreciated. My favorite interactions with men are the ones where they want to
hear a lot about what I’m doing and think it’s really cool and interesting. My
least favorite interactions are the ones where they show off and talk about
themselves the whole time and learn nothing about me. Maybe it’s not meant to
be equal. Does my preference for being admired point to the fact that I’m naturally dominant?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think of my mom. My mom is very ambitious and strong and
opinionated, she is a leader and a control-freak. Like me. And she married my
dad, who is much softer—he acquiesces, he takes her side, he is her support
system. And although when she’s frustrated with him, she likes to complain that
she wishes she were with someone more ambitious, driven, “successful,” I don’t
think she would actually be a match with that person. And I don’t think that
guy would put up with her shit. I mean that endearingly—I don’t know if that
ideal mate I envision for myself would put up with my shit either. My parents
probably have the best example of a marriage I have witnessed, and they’ve been
together over thirty years.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Best Guy Friend and I came to the conclusion that maybe the
reason we’re looking for that support system in a partner is because we don’t
feel 100% confident in our own ability to support ourselves. And once we truly
find a sense of security within ourselves, we’ll let go of needing it from
another person. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
In my new favorite (and now cancelled) show, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Lp7rkNYOtE" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Looking</span></a></i>, there is this great storyline
in which the main character Patrick, an upper-middle class, college educated
white boy, starts to fall in love with a lower class, Hispanic hair dresser,
Ricky. And he feels really conflicted about it—he did not imagine himself with
this person. And he can’t deal with it. He ends up cutting it off before it can
go too far. And then throughout the rest of the season, the what-if of what
that could’ve been hangs over his head. Every time he sees Ricky with his new
boyfriend, there’s this sense of that could’ve been me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I relate so profoundly to Patrick’s conflicted emotions
about Ricky. Because this might have been a true love-match for him, and indeed
it sure felt that way. But Patrick’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">idea</i>
about the kind of guy he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">should</i> be
with came along and sabotaged any potential future he might have had with this
person he could’ve loved. I feel this level of conflicted about most of the men
I have chemistry with—they’re actors and bartenders and waiters, and they’re
hot and they like me and there’s an obvious attraction. And whereas when I was
younger I would have pursued it at least just for the sex, now I find myself looking
into the future. Do I really want to be in a relationship with another struggling
actor? Not really, no. But why do I keep attracting them? Why do I never seem
to attract that incredibly successful, powerful “man of my dreams”? Am I
destined to be that person in my relationship? Should I just relax into that
role and embrace it rather than constantly holding out for this imaginary
powerhouse I have yet to meet? This person that supposedly “matches me.”<br />
<br />
I guess this is my fundamental issue with online dating.
Because online dating is all about being good on paper. And it doesn’t account
for chemistry. When I think about my <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/03/single-for-life.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">ex-boyfriend</span></a>, whom I was with for four years, if I
had seen him on an online dating site, I probably would have dismissed him.
Because on paper, we are not a match. But in life, we were. It ran its course,
we’re not life partners, but my relationship with him was wonderful and I don’t
regret a moment of it. As much as I like to think I want to be with the male
equivalent of myself, I probably would find that person completely impossible
to be around. My first boyfriend was very similar to me—intellectual,
ambitious, Type A—and we fought all the fucking time. I ended up hating him in
the end. So I guess in conclusion I’m going to try to keep an open mind—to not
be so quick to write people off because I don’t think we’re a “match”. Because
you never know. My true love match might turn out to be the opposite of what I
expect.</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-63366385096859344642015-03-19T12:07:00.000-07:002015-03-19T12:07:00.671-07:00Single For Life<div class="MsoNormal">
I know I’m supposed to be writing about sex this week. And
BDSM. I was supposed to have gotten myself into some epic kinky fantasy adventure
so I could come back and report on it. That didn’t happen. Unfortunately, I
find myself presently more celibate than I have been in quite some time. I’m
not sure why. Probably because my focus of late is on other things besides cock,
which I know is shocking and appalling to all of you. I even recently tried to
get back into Tinder and the one guy I started chatting with turns out is good
friends with the roommate of <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2015/01/high-school-lover.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">High School Lover</span></a>, so I kind of had to put the
kibosh on that one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve also been in a bit of a strange state because my dear
friend Heidi is moving away to North Carolina with her husband and the baby boy
I watched come out of her body nine months ago. On Sunday we had a little
impromptu going away party for them at their house in the valley, and looking
around the backyard, a melancholy rendition of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Baby It’s Cold Outside</i> playing out of my ex-boyfriend’s iPhone, I
realized I was the only single person at this party. I found myself surrounded
by five couples, one of which was my ex and his girlfriend. And I didn’t feel
bad for myself or that I particularly wished to be part of a couple, but I did
suddenly feel like an outsider. Like I didn’t belong. This was no longer my
tribe. And that was an odd feeling.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Earlier in the day, we had all gone out to Barney’s Beanery
for some goodbye nachos and beer. As we headed for the car, I was planning on
riding with Heidi, her husband, and the baby. As I got to the car, I realized
our friend Adrienne and her boyfriend had the same idea. Without missing a
beat, I headed for Heidi’s brother’s car instead, asking if I could ride with
him and his wife. I thought no one had noticed this small moment of single
person awkwardness, but Heidi, being an ultra-sensitive observer, spoke up when
we got to the restaurant.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You just had one of those single moments. When we were back
at the car. One of those moments of, I have nowhere to go,” she laughed
compassionately, clearly feeling for me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It’s okay. I’m the leftovers,” I joked back.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Something strange is happening now that I’m in my late 20s.
People are pairing off in a more serious way and it suddenly feels like the
party is ending and everyone is trying to find someone to go home with so they
don’t end up alone or paired off with the only other person that remains:
everyone’s last choice. I found out today even <span style="color: red;"><a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2013/09/f-you-gaffer-guy.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Gaffer Guy</span></a> </span>is engaged. Fucking
Gaffer Guy?! Truly the last man standing. Even Mr. Sociopathic alcoholic womanizing
misogynist doesn’t want to go home alone. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Heidi and her husband moving away to build a <a href="http://www.motherearthnews.com/green-homes/cob-building-basics-zm0z13onzrob.aspx" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">cob house</span></a> from
scratch and start their real life as two adults with a child, that feels like a
new chapter for all of us—a chapter that for me feels a million miles away. And
I wonder what that means for these friendships. All of these people are going
to start getting married and having children probably years before me—it’s
already starting to happen. Where does that leave me in this group? Am I
forever to be that single friend that is perpetually called out when a group of
hot firemen walk by? Am I really going to be that cliché?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes I feel like the gals in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sex and the City</i> when they go to their friend’s baby shower and
they remember her as this wild single lady and find she’s now a stay-at-home
mom living in a no-shoes-allowed house in the Hamptons with her husband and two kids. When Carrie arrives at the shower, the woman asks her to take off her
Manolo Blahniks and Carrie’s like, “but this is an outfit.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes being the kind of woman with
screaming babies and toys lying around the house feels so foreign and far away,
I wonder if that’ll ever be me.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last year, one of my girlfriends had a birthday party for
which her boyfriend organized a scavenger hunt and assigned each of her friends
an hour to take her on a surprise adventure. I didn’t know about this. I was
invited to the “after party” later that evening. I arrived at the apartment
where a group of their friends sat around reminiscing about the fun they had
had that day taking my friend through her various birthday activities. As I
tried to laugh along with the general merriment of the group, I found myself
instead feeling like a tourist and asking myself, why as one of her best
friends, was I left out of the scavenger hunt component of the day? And then I
realized that every single other guest at the party was part of a couple. I probably hadn't been left out on purpose as a punishment for being single, but it didn't matter--at that moment, I felt like the last girl in middle school to be picked for kickball teams. I sat there watching the couples ooh and
aah as my friend unwrapped the giant set of luxury pots and pans her boyfriend
had bought her for her birthday, and thought: this isn’t my world.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Less than a year ago, the six core members of our particular
group were having a dinner party in the very dining room now filled with
packing boxes. My ex and I were still in a rather undefined post-relationship
stage in our friendship. His girlfriend was still a pretty new presence in his
life, and he was resistant to even calling her that. Now they live together and
I swear I can see marriage and kids on the not-so-distant horizon. Seeing how much
has changed just this past year, I can’t imagine what this group will look like
a year from now. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It’s interesting how defined we are by singlehood or
coupledom. Lately I feel my identity is so entrenched in being single that I
literally can’t picture myself in a relationship. And when I’m with other
single people, I feel more connected, less alone. I can’t help it, surrounded
by couples, I usually feel like the odd one out, no matter how close we all
are. One of my girlfriends recently told me that if she’s invited to something,
she just assumes her boyfriend is invited too. This drives me insane. The
couple of times it's happened that I’ve had plans with a girlfriend and she’s showed up with her
boyfriend, I become so irrationally angry. To me the time between friends,
particularly girlfriends, is sacred and to assume you can invite your boyfriend
is like admitting that you’re so codependent he’s essentially just another
appendage and therefore barely counts as a separate person. It’s like when
people become part of a couple, they have amnesia about what it was like when
they were single. I guess I do too. I can remember back to a time when most of
my decisions were made as part of a unit, but that time feels ever so long ago.
I can’t imagine that for myself now. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
There are so many seemingly inescapable qualities of coupled
people that make me want to never be part of one again. Certain subtle freedoms that
simply don’t exist, and as a single person I completely take for granted. Like
the fact that if I want to leave a social gathering, I don’t have to quietly
negotiate with my partner and decide in hushed tones when we want to leave and
if we want to have another drink and who’s driving. I can just say goodbye and
walk myself out of the house and drive my ass home. There are none of those
awkward public disputes where you have to go off to the side to quietly fix
whatever the issue is, or passive-aggressively pretend that everything’s fine
when everyone in the room can tell by the shift in energy that something is up
between you two. The fact that if there’s a hot single guy at the party, I can
flirt with him openly and unabashedly without keeping an eye on where my
partner is or feel his eyes watching me across the room, monitoring my
behavior. The list goes on.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrrdylWteEM_ZI8gmeDXmfrMooIIcePcDWjmC467Jf0wGDDflEnitfHeZboyWn92V9vLLUgL672niak0wL3nIxYbwaiBzM-ERj0VSJQ2LSsFR772hNH1lvYImU6NUvwpXRya8059X5TBb1/s1600/couples.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrrdylWteEM_ZI8gmeDXmfrMooIIcePcDWjmC467Jf0wGDDflEnitfHeZboyWn92V9vLLUgL672niak0wL3nIxYbwaiBzM-ERj0VSJQ2LSsFR772hNH1lvYImU6NUvwpXRya8059X5TBb1/s1600/couples.gif" height="220" width="400" /></a></div>
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Things like this I remember about being in a relationship,
and I see with my coupled friends, make me want to stay single forever. But the
truth is that, obviously, I don’t want to be single forever. Who does? But I
know myself, and my track record. I don’t date people casually. I fuck people casually,
and then I meet someone I actually really like and I end up seriously dating
them for four years. Although I would like to meet someone I like, I’m not in a
big hurry to give up my hard-earned identity as an independent single woman. Being
on my own has become so a part of who I am, and I’m proud of it. I think it’s
made me a stronger, better person. I like that I can show up at a party by
myself and find someone to talk to and I don’t need a familiar crutch to lean
on. I like who I am when I’m single. I like not having to compromise or check
in with anybody. I like that I can do what I want 100% of the time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That said, I do get tired of making all of my decisions
alone, and generating all of my own energy, and never having anyone to lean on.
It does get tiresome, and lonely. I’ve been thinking a lot about this as I
watch Heidi and her husband take this next step in their life and relationship.
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Heidi met Alex a couple years ago, she was already entrenched
in a relationship with her first boyfriend and they lived together and seemed
to be in it for the long haul. Then she met Alex and her world got turned
upside down. Within a short time, she broke up with her longtime boyfriend, he
moved out, and Alex moved in. Not long after that, they got pregnant and
decided to have the baby. And then within a year they were making plans to
leave LA and start a new sustainable lifestyle in North Carolina where they found
they could fully commit to the living off the land model they had been trying
to create in the backyard of their home in the valley. I think about if Heidi
hadn’t met Alex, how her life would be different now. Meeting him changed her
world and her priorities, allowed her to fully commit right now to a dream that
felt very far in the future. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8N_RTuV7mFmC2hQWhyphenhyphenYnI3BRzYTSXXHRBK9JOHhKX-hw5GT8xujbtkzxa7U5-EnYitFPmLeezPLYi4HMBYdtEzO1nT8_TYeJrYOVMaeI5XE0k4eFzE3cm3ootMNr85Lg8zdrDYkmnzRlW/s1600/alone.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8N_RTuV7mFmC2hQWhyphenhyphenYnI3BRzYTSXXHRBK9JOHhKX-hw5GT8xujbtkzxa7U5-EnYitFPmLeezPLYi4HMBYdtEzO1nT8_TYeJrYOVMaeI5XE0k4eFzE3cm3ootMNr85Lg8zdrDYkmnzRlW/s1600/alone.gif" height="223" width="400" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I feel like it is often the woman in a relationship who will
adjust what she wants to compromise with what her partner wants in their life
together. I guess one thing I love about Heidi’s relationship is that the
opposite happened. She had this dream of building a cob house out of the ground
and living a sustainable lifestyle, and Alex totally got on board with that dream,
and it became their shared purpose. Now Alex is going to be the one doing the
internship and learning how to build their house from scratch, as Heidi takes
care of their baby.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I had this idea, and I thought I would be the one doing it,
and now he’s doing it instead,” she marveled. I could tell she had mixed
feelings about this, part of her wanting to be the one to execute their dream.
But I suppose that is constantly the balance and dilemma of motherhood: wanting
to be with your baby all the time while they’re in those first precious couple
years you’ll never get back, but also wanting to live your full life and continue
feeding the passions you had before the baby came along. Mostly, Heidi seems in
awe that she has found a man who shares her vision and wants to put his whole
self into living it with her. She knows how rare that is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I realize, watching them head off on this journey, that this
is the kind of relationship I want. The kind of relationship that will inspire
me into the next chapter of my life. Someone I can truly co-create with.
Someone who supports my dreams and whose dreams I want to support. Or better
yet, someone who has the same dream as me. I know now that at this moment in my
life, I won’t settle for anything less. Until I find that, I’d rather be alone. </div>
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Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-4977788393013075382015-03-04T08:17:00.000-08:002015-03-04T08:20:18.084-08:00Tie Me Up, Dammit!<div class="MsoNormal">
I wanna be tied up. And fucked. And you might say that’s
just because <a href="http://io9.com/the-latest-cgi-trend-adding-pubic-hair-to-fifty-shades-1689349920" target="_blank"><i><span style="color: red;">Fifty Shades of Grey</span></i></a> just came out, and yes I did think that movie was hot as hell, but that’s not
the only reason. It just seems to be something that keeps coming up in my
world. I just started listening to an amazing podcast called <a href="http://risk-show.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Risk!</i> hosted by Kevin Allison</span></a> because my
roommate told me I would love the <a href="http://risk-show.com/podcast/kevin-goes-to-kink-camp-part-1/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">episode where he goes to Kink Camp</span></a>. And on
this journey, Kevin finds that all his preconceptions about kinksters—that
they’re a certain type of person, namely not super attractive people who got
into kink because they couldn’t get laid rather than just, well, because they’re
kinky—that these preconceptions were false. I too had similar misconceptions—that
kinksters are all nerds or punks or some other fringe counter-culture group I
don’t necessarily identify with. But what Kevin Allison found at Kink Camp was a
huge variety of people—young and old, conventionally hot, fringe, and
everything in between. Listening to his experience, I thought, maybe this world
is for me after all. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I listened to another <a href="http://risk-show.com/podcast/slave/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Risk!</i> installment entitled “Slave,”</span></a> in which self-described “Perverted
Negress” Mollena Williams describes her experience with kink. Even though she’s
a strong empowered black feminist, she found herself wanting to be dominated in
a violent, racially-charged scene that really turned her on until it suddenly went
too far and ended rather traumatically. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although my only beef with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fifty Shades</i> was their need to justify Christian’s kinkiness with a
tortured past (rather than just allowing him to be kinky), I find myself posing
the same question to myself: why is it that I, a self-proclaimed “angry
feminist,” finds the idea of being tied up, called whore, and fucked hard, so
fucking hot??<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3wTbtvlvqcy07uSLod3iiL02DJ9kVhrxqEEX0xQnvXE_8Tq4B2KQZdoPr1Q7e13WPSwQXK2YFk7bhzi78V1fbBkICRaxYjaSC6LlWEJi98jlJXXJHn9v2A5HjUykjPcjdnbkMEhULyAbE/s1600/fifty+shades.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3wTbtvlvqcy07uSLod3iiL02DJ9kVhrxqEEX0xQnvXE_8Tq4B2KQZdoPr1Q7e13WPSwQXK2YFk7bhzi78V1fbBkICRaxYjaSC6LlWEJi98jlJXXJHn9v2A5HjUykjPcjdnbkMEhULyAbE/s1600/fifty+shades.gif" height="160" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think back to my long ago experience with <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2014/04/12-minutes-slave.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">BDSM Guy</span></a>—truly
my very own Christian Grey, complete with all-American Jon Hamm good lucks,
sparkling blue eyes, crisp grey suit, the whole fucking package. I remember
when, within minutes of our very first text conversation, he started calling me
“whore” and “slave” and my feminist brain was pissed while my confounded body
was wet and excited. And I remember feeling really conflicted about my angry
thoughts v. my aroused feelings. And what did this mean for my identity as a
feminist? Was I betraying my strong beliefs and the community of women I
respected and admired so much? But the more I learned about BDSM, the more I
realized that some of the most passionate kinksters are the most progressive, socially-conscious,
un-hetero-normative, non-racist, un-gender-conforming, uber-feminist people. In
fact, from Kevin Allison’s description of Kink Camp, they seem primarily like a
bunch of fun-loving hippies. Perhaps because they have this extreme outlet for
their deepest, darkest inclinations, they are more evolved people in their
regular lives. Perhaps kink is like a form of exposure therapy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wonder how my feminist anger translates into hot sex in
the bedroom. And I’ve come to the conclusion that anger and frustration and
other strong, heat-inducing emotions are intrinsically linked to arousal. There’s
a reason why the people that hate each other most in rom-coms always end up
getting together. And maybe the angrier something or someone makes you in life,
the hotter things can get in bed. I think about how arguments between couples
sometimes end in fucking. And about how the jealous feelings inspired by seeing
your significant other flirting with another woman or checking out someone else’s
ass on the street can feel both crushing and totally arousing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYTDm0Tedfa4wiasRj_6Vg1t01CNgGWO_6NXVJ-zBsA0pgw9UEMhaXKsvJzqI_XN2h-VVetcrFDg3iAhxMxc8lN4zVKIoekJyiIzss73631wgAeTOTVP-zQB05Ojwy7jSUdmN5nPdeV8y7/s1600/Christian+Grey.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYTDm0Tedfa4wiasRj_6Vg1t01CNgGWO_6NXVJ-zBsA0pgw9UEMhaXKsvJzqI_XN2h-VVetcrFDg3iAhxMxc8lN4zVKIoekJyiIzss73631wgAeTOTVP-zQB05Ojwy7jSUdmN5nPdeV8y7/s1600/Christian+Grey.gif" height="320" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Amanda Hess puts her finger on the connection between humor
and the erotic in her <a href="http://www.slate.com/blogs/xx_factor/2015/02/12/fifty_shades_of_grey_is_a_great_bad_movie_it_s_perfect_for_hate_readers.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">brilliant review of <i>Fifty Shades</i> for Slate</span></a>: <span style="color: #1e1419;">“Pairing
the humorous with the erotic produces a sensation of nervous, off-kilter
euphoria; laughter and sex both leave you flushed, tingly, a little out of
control. I left the movie feeling like I’d just been on a first date with
someone I’d secretly crushed on for a long time.” </span><span style="color: #1e1419;">She also talks about how the
haters have contributed to the success of that book as much if not more than
its fans. People love to hate-fuck </span><i style="color: #1e1419;">Fifty
Shades of Grey</i><span style="color: #1e1419;">. No one is neutral on this subject. And people’s response to
the material, be it anger or excitement or frustration—these are powerful
emotions full of heat, and I would argue, sexual energy. One of my coworkers
called it “the smuttiest piece of filth [she’d] ever seen.” Her face flushed. She
looked offended and pious and, dare I say, turned on?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1e1419; mso-bidi-font-family: Times;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #1e1419;">I have to say, I loved this movie. I went by myself on a Thursday night, bought myself a seat in the last row, and sat back with a large popcorn and soda to enjoy. I loved the sheer camp of amazing lines like "I'm fifty shades of fucked up." I found myself turned on to the point that I considered rubbing one out in the movie theater. I felt the thrill of girlish delight as Christian takes Ana up in his helicopter and </span><span style="color: red;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AJtDXIazrMo" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Ellie Goulding's <i>Love Me Like You Do</i></span></a> </span><span style="color: #1e1419;">swells as they soar over the city. In fact, I loved the whole damn soundtrack. If it hadn't been for the asthmatic mouth breather sitting next to me, it would have been a totally perfect date with myself. A girlfriend of mine described going to see <i>Fifty Shades</i> with her boyfriend, and while she wanted to enjoy the campy pleasure of it all, he just laughed through the whole thing. My advice, ladies: See This Movie Alone. With lots of salty sweet things to put in your mouth while you're watching it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4QX0pzPKN8YOLcgNHsRgs9GUb0aix-fXZjh1oJmoldIxCCWl9QxVGdIxUFHjNWeIA11uhhLuaVlKNOt1Bt_FLIhPMEGfWNJ7aNAsLSD1hqbnjlY7-_FoAgkGB8pNvQQxDTJuGGBM84Nc/s1600/helicopter.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB4QX0pzPKN8YOLcgNHsRgs9GUb0aix-fXZjh1oJmoldIxCCWl9QxVGdIxUFHjNWeIA11uhhLuaVlKNOt1Bt_FLIhPMEGfWNJ7aNAsLSD1hqbnjlY7-_FoAgkGB8pNvQQxDTJuGGBM84Nc/s1600/helicopter.gif" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In my life, I’m always in control. I work hard. I’m
responsible. I take care of my shit. And all I want in the bedroom is for
someone to take control. To render me powerless and truly dominate, to have
their way with me. But I honestly don’t meet many men that I think are capable
of dominating me. Because a lot of the men I meet or at least the ones I
usually end up in bed with, I think tend to be a bit intimidated by me, or at
least I find myself calling the shots more often than not. It’s hard to imagine
a man who could really gain status over me in the bedroom. Perhaps the last
person who did was BDSM Guy, and it was fucking hot and I wanted more.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When <a href="http://www.diaryofasluttyfeminist.com/2014/03/women-are-crazy-because-men-are-assholes.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">BDSM Guy</span></a> first started rolling out the “slave”
narrative, I asked why he knew I would be down for something like this. He said
he “[knew] the type who [needed] it.” When I probed further, he shut down the
line of inquiry. His slave was asking too many questions. I had requested that
he “ease me into this BDSM shit.” Then, when we were having sex that he would
later describe as “vanilla” and I thought was amazing, I told him “you can call
me whore if you want.” He slapped my face and said, “I’ll ease you into that.”
That was it. No more BDSM shit for me. The red ropes he had sent me a photo of
earlier never came out. There was no more talk of master and slave. Apparently
I had blown it with all my questions, and he had already concluded I would not
make a good slave after all. A couple days after we had sex, I texted him that
I wanted to be “tied up, blindfolded and fucked hard.” I never heard back from
him, and I haven’t seen him since.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But how did he know that I even had it in me to want to be
part of his slave narrative? Was it because his introduction to me was seeing a
play in which I had the role of a young actress who used sex to manipulate
situations in her favor but underneath it all was oozing insecurity? Was it the
catfight at the end of the play in which the other actress straddled my back
and yanked on my hair? Did he see something deep inside me that I didn’t even
know was there? Or is it just that every woman secretly wants to be dominated? That
might be true. Why else would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fifty
Shades</i> be so fucking popular? Maybe my coworker and all the other haters
are really lying to themselves. That wouldn’t surprise me, considering how
little we still know about female desire, and how much shame is still
associated with what really turns us on. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having blown the opportunity to have my very own Christian
Grey, now here I find myself, dying to have all four limbs tied to the
bedposts, rendered a helpless starfish, and where is he now?<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivbOWm2-Izv5mYmFcDoBIsvTrlorR8I01kqAFVfwe7VzVFbpgSf3g_2HB20Mw2o6DFs3iUR0VhS3p_l0ogQYCTFNcevSPm9YyDp-NeDaZShVZ0d1UG0Nhchev2L63A8YGMFIN20HR0dyH9/s1600/shibari-ronnie-belcher.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivbOWm2-Izv5mYmFcDoBIsvTrlorR8I01kqAFVfwe7VzVFbpgSf3g_2HB20Mw2o6DFs3iUR0VhS3p_l0ogQYCTFNcevSPm9YyDp-NeDaZShVZ0d1UG0Nhchev2L63A8YGMFIN20HR0dyH9/s1600/shibari-ronnie-belcher.jpg" height="400" width="270" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was listening to my other favorite podcast <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="https://soundcloud.com/guyswefucked/che" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Guys We Fucked</span></a></i> last week and, whaddaya
know, Krystyna shared that for V-Day her boyfriend tied her to all four
bedposts and she came harder than she ever has in her life. Meanwhile, my Best
Guy Friend recently attached a permanent restraint system to his bed. Even my
ex-boyfriend told me just the other day he was practicing <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/pandoradraven/shibari-fetish-and-bondage/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Shibari</span></a>—a Japanese
form of bondage—on himself, getting ready for the scene he was planning to play
out with his girlfriend that very night. So, literally everyone’s getting tied
up but me.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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The last time I wrote about BDSM Guy in my blog, a friend
from college reached out with the name of a mutual friend of ours who has apparently
mastered the intersection between BDSM and feminism. I didn’t reach out to her
at the time. Probably because I wasn’t ready. My interest was purely
intellectual. But now, it’s personal and I think it might be time to make that
long-awaited phone call. What will be my first voluntary step into the BDSM
world? We’ll have to just wait and see.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTXYMFwTgmOE3FayDpQVeJ6vLIT60mpQHoaoL2HU2DCoRaIwNrxQUeOfPAm26Bco_tGS98gpjJ6l5eOUpjz2HTbAHqo1mK51araN_8TtK-Zf1HqeGAIWuJpPHZQ03ma0-tv4W7psGXS7Pq/s1600/Family+Guy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTXYMFwTgmOE3FayDpQVeJ6vLIT60mpQHoaoL2HU2DCoRaIwNrxQUeOfPAm26Bco_tGS98gpjJ6l5eOUpjz2HTbAHqo1mK51araN_8TtK-Zf1HqeGAIWuJpPHZQ03ma0-tv4W7psGXS7Pq/s1600/Family+Guy.gif" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-9007197732313276692015-02-18T12:08:00.001-08:002015-02-18T12:18:01.959-08:00Valentine's Day<div class="MsoNormal">
“You look like a present,” says my roommate. I’m wearing a
cherry red, skin-tight dress with a big bow in the back and lots of tits in the
front. It’s Valentine’s Day and we’re throwing a big ol’ house party. Per
usual, I’m dressed to attract a mate for the evening. It’s V-Day after all and
the evite instructed each guest to “bring a single friend, or 7 single
friends.” <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPL-IFvSkA-SomEhLnVk72e_DB9lvyUnz3sOY89JNTj5lLBX4iNvozu4lOxfaLsGUHhG8ahz8eG1xjQsNa8Q5Z_7PNM-PEc4gLtK89M7YlG6EBbkW_aKyHDl_cmF8LQnMnG-nfAIGVBf9t/s1600/V-Day_family+guy.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPL-IFvSkA-SomEhLnVk72e_DB9lvyUnz3sOY89JNTj5lLBX4iNvozu4lOxfaLsGUHhG8ahz8eG1xjQsNa8Q5Z_7PNM-PEc4gLtK89M7YlG6EBbkW_aKyHDl_cmF8LQnMnG-nfAIGVBf9t/s1600/V-Day_family+guy.gif" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
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As I wander through the party, searching for someone to
bone, I’m surprised by my own lack of interest in the various prospects. There
are indeed several attractive, single men in my midst, and yet I continue to
wander rather than setting my sights on the most promising option and digging
in for the night, as is my custom. I find myself dodging a handsome, somewhat
boring insurance guy who is probably my best bet. I realize I’m less interested
in sealing the deal with him than chatting with friends I see all the time and
generally flirting with no one in particular. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Where is my usual ambition to get laid no matter what? To
find the hottest guy in the room and focus on him all night until he’s
completely incapable of walking away? To tenaciously manufacture chemistry even
when there is absolutely none? I suddenly realize that, oh my god, has the
moment finally come when I am actually bored of the random hookup?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Feeling very drunk, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom,
thinking I might throw up. Instead, I stare at myself in the mirror over the
sink: long, kinky blond hair; cleavage to the chin; red bow framing my ass. I
come to the sudden realization that I may have outgrown this party costume. I
do feel sexy but also with perhaps a sprinkling of trying too hard. I stare at
myself in the mirror and wonder, who is this peacock? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf9GuxPVwAGcB7JZdc3G6068XOxJO11smJTMCRpsQZT276TvJ_mK6AMTFgifIol74gvigTP21xgyXbswNoApTONF_5mIBcztNVVZvrehf1vU2LaS3ctlq8SayUOz4NCQBvLBdDbAd5mzWl/s1600/peacock.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf9GuxPVwAGcB7JZdc3G6068XOxJO11smJTMCRpsQZT276TvJ_mK6AMTFgifIol74gvigTP21xgyXbswNoApTONF_5mIBcztNVVZvrehf1vU2LaS3ctlq8SayUOz4NCQBvLBdDbAd5mzWl/s1600/peacock.gif" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I have the double realization that this costume
positively screams one night stand. Why did that never occur to me before? I’m
fond of asking myself and my friends, why am I attracting this certain kind of
guy over and over again? Two kinds actually: the skeezy loser who likes me more
than I like him, or the upstanding guy I go to bed with and then try to parlay
the one night stand into a real date and never hear from him again. Why has it
honestly never occurred to me that this dress and the attitude that goes with
it might have everything to do with who and what I’m attracting?<o:p></o:p></div>
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Yes, dudes pay more attention to us when we dress sexy. But
I think T&A is honestly so distracting for them that they are fundamentally incapable of seeing past the
basic instinct to fuck. Obviously. When I’m shoving my tits in a guy’s face,
what do I honestly expect? And I’m not slut-shaming myself. I think maybe I just didn’t
realize until this moment that what I’ve been working to attract is actually
not at all what I want.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’ve had this fantasy that when I finally meet the right
guy, he will see past my cleavage-baring dresses and loud mouth outspokenness
to the thoughtful and smart individual underneath. I guess it didn’t occur to
me to lead with these qualities. Probably because in these instances, I’m
usually looking for sex, not great conversation. But the fact that I often
feel dissatisfied by these encounters has never before made me think I need to
change anything about my behavior. I think my belief that attracting men is all
about dressing as sexy as humanly possible has actually been attracting the
wrong kind of man. Shocking, I know.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguX_jWwu15JONxwGDrGPnioQgmEzo3253bwjNF7pr0kMR_VuY04LbTy9ehzE3qnJYwmfdTvntA7FZ8Q4ih61MJeU1GkPRmPwYpbn-L0hzMRuQQ3cSEe1C3rPj68o0R684d9wq4SogFsGOz/s1600/Elvira+tits.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguX_jWwu15JONxwGDrGPnioQgmEzo3253bwjNF7pr0kMR_VuY04LbTy9ehzE3qnJYwmfdTvntA7FZ8Q4ih61MJeU1GkPRmPwYpbn-L0hzMRuQQ3cSEe1C3rPj68o0R684d9wq4SogFsGOz/s1600/Elvira+tits.gif" height="212" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I think back to New Year’s Eve night when I zeroed
in on the hot bartender who was giving me lots of exciting mixed messages. I pleaded for a midnight kiss and, when he wouldn’t give it to me, asked if he had a
girlfriend. “Yeah,” he scoffed, “If I was single, your face would be wet right
now.” Obviously, I didn’t leave him alone for the rest of the night. Later, as
we shared a joint outside with a group of my friends, I stuck my hands in his
jacket, feeling on his chest. I pushed my body into his and reached for his
crotch. You might say I was being a little forceful, but the smile on his face
made me believe he was very close to giving in. Naturally, I was rocking my
gold sparkly ensemble and, per usual, lots of cleavage. My animal instincts
told me he was barely able to resist. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
About a week later, I returned to said bar and parked myself
right in front of this same bartender’s station. He barely looked at me all
night. I don’t know what I was expecting—for him to leave his girlfriend for
me? No, but I thought we could at least have one night of fun, no strings
attached. I realize now what this must have looked like: a very sexually
uninhibited girl who keeps trying to have sex with a guy even after he’s made
it abundantly clear he lives with his girlfriend. What kind of future could there
possibly be and why on earth would he jeopardize his relationship to be with me
for one night? He wouldn’t. Especially when he’s probably reading the vibes
that this girl has no intention of making him her boyfriend, she’s truly just
in it for the sex. Even man’s deep and primal instinct to fuck is not strong
enough to overcome the doubt and uncertainty inspired by this
situation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFUPaDN6zy0jgYeeD7tJqLBKWszlJXCbP83D7sZWf6jQeny3maJoJiJmy7SURYz7AxrOdZHnJujKVQiJJZrW1cryIsy_8IKbo0Bh2qIG3kUjw5Ur1wlNcV3y0ZR1oqR3B5Q7aBQ67G9NTP/s1600/Barbie+girls.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFUPaDN6zy0jgYeeD7tJqLBKWszlJXCbP83D7sZWf6jQeny3maJoJiJmy7SURYz7AxrOdZHnJujKVQiJJZrW1cryIsy_8IKbo0Bh2qIG3kUjw5Ur1wlNcV3y0ZR1oqR3B5Q7aBQ67G9NTP/s1600/Barbie+girls.gif" height="223" width="400" /></a></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
All this to say that, when I dress up as the Barbie, I think
I might be sending a confusing message, because although I know how to peacock
around, I’m ultimately playing a role that is not who I am. I am not going to
be some perfect piece of arm candy. That’s just not me. I'm too loud and opinionated for that shit. And it is not by
pretending to be that person that I will find the right guy for me. Because
there are plenty of women who actually fit that description and the
guy that wants that woman will get a real one, not the one who’s just flirting
with the role for tonight and in the morning goes back to being very serious
and career driven.<br />
<br />
And please understand, I am by no means saying that being
sexy and strong are mutually exclusive. Because obviously those are both qualities
I admire and hopefully embody, but I’m coming to realize there are different
kinds of sexy. And some kinds are more understated, not quite so in your face,
leave a little something to the imagination. <a href="http://www.buzzfeed.com/erinlarosa/moments-when-stella-gibson-was-a-total-badass#.yxeM0z2B1" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: black;">Like </span>Gillian Anderson in <i>The Fall</i></span></a>. So strong, so sexy, so doesn't give a fuck. But I digress...<br />
<br />
My mom’s favorite expression “mutton
dressed as lamb” is suddenly hitting home in a very real way. While she has always
used this expression to refer to women who dress too young for their age, it
suddenly seems to me that it is actually more about maturity. Maybe that’s what
being a grown up woman is all about—being so confident in yourself and your sexuality that
you don’t have to flaunt it like you’re 21, you can simply know what you want and say it out loud.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
As I stand in front of that bathroom mirror, staring at the "present" reflected back at me, I think I'm only 28 and I already feel too old for this frock. </div>
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Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-33833810653686433082015-01-21T14:24:00.000-08:002015-11-15T12:42:05.399-08:00High School Lover<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->I conduct myself like a grown ass woman should, in most areas
of my life. I haven’t asked my parents for money in over a year, I live in a
nice house, I’ve got my own health insurance. Pretty adult-like I’d say.
Except in my “love life” apparently I’m still in high school. Literally. I’m sleeping
with a guy I had a crush on in high school. Although I <i>consider </i>myself a grown
ass woman, apparently I’m still attracted to the same boys I was
attracted to as a teenage girl. <br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last time I saw High School Guy was seven years ago when
I was visiting my best friend Sadie at her college in Rhode Island and we spent
one night in Boston where, on a rebound from a recent breakup with my first
boyfriend, I ditched her and went home with him. That night, he became the
second guy I’d ever slept with, after my four year relationship that
took me from high school to college finally ended. Now, seven years later,
Sadie and I are home for the holidays and I run into him again, this time at
the local bar that serves as an unofficial reunion spot for our high school. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRarnka4jW-MiUOeJfclQmrqi1dS0USVWpBOk7UeM33I48O_c4bjY-5Xh7kv60srsz_PKV2-K5EAbZX-9xqYU2YE88jv9Lh8qTWerr63g4ET-M0E8Kjwiqlcw14-Biiu64tqltbkka_buU/s1600/Go+fuck+yourself.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="187" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRarnka4jW-MiUOeJfclQmrqi1dS0USVWpBOk7UeM33I48O_c4bjY-5Xh7kv60srsz_PKV2-K5EAbZX-9xqYU2YE88jv9Lh8qTWerr63g4ET-M0E8Kjwiqlcw14-Biiu64tqltbkka_buU/s1600/Go+fuck+yourself.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The circumstances are oddly reminiscent of that first night
in Boston. Again, I’m with Sadie and we’re both single and aggressively on the
prowl. High School Guy shows up and we’re immediately drawn to one another and
basically don’t leave each other’s side for the rest of the night. We get drunk
and go outside to make out in the cold. He tells me to come back to his place.
I feel like I shouldn’t ditch Sadie. I tell her we’ll be back in “five
minutes,” which is an unintentional lie. Neither of us has condoms, so he has
to pick some up at 7 Eleven. In Boston seven years ago we took a cab to his apartment. In
Northern California seven years later, it’s an Uber back to his parents’ house.
I seem to remember that seven years ago we were better about using the condoms.
This time, he says he wants to come inside me and I let him (I know). Both
times, he wants to have sex three times in a row, I come once, and very early
the next morning he takes me to meet Sadie and we’re both exhausted and she’s vaguely
angry about my ditching her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
High School Guy and I establish that we’ve both lived on the
east side of Los Angeles for the past seven years. We make a plan to meet up
when we’re back in the city. And we do. I hit him up the weekend after New
Year’s and suggest we see a movie. He suggests watching something at his
place—I’m fine with this, I’m still exhausted from New Year’s. He texts me that
if I haven’t had dinner we could “make something together.” I think this sounds very
sweet and date-like. But I've already eaten. I show up and parking is a
nightmare in his neighborhood. It’s raining and he doesn’t have a parking pass
so I have to circle the block, bypassing the restricted parking signs that are
everywhere. When I finally get to his place, he opens the door wearing sweats and
his eyes are incredibly bloodshot. He tells me he just smoked and is “very
stoned.” I don’t have a big problem with this, I know he’s a stoner and we’ve
smoked together before. But I find myself surprised as always by these guys who invite a
girl over and then make no effort at all to even like put on some real pants. As
a girl preparing for a sex date, of course I showered, shaved, put on sexy
underwear, artfully chose an outfit the right amount relaxed and suggestive. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He’s apparently so stoned he’s not able to function at all,
so I go get glasses out of the cupboard for the wine I brought. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“So, how were you planning on making dinner,” I joke. He’s
sunken into the couch.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I start to peruse the options on Netflix. We settle on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6VvB7S-4Hl4" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kingpin</i></span></a>, which I’ve never seen and he
loves. We both love <a href="http://mashable.com/2014/11/23/woody-harrelson-snl-extra/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Woody Harrelson</span></a>, and when I tell him that Woody is like my
number one celebrity crush, he seems surprised and encouraged. I get the sense
that he likes Woody because he relates to him: stoner, “bad boy” with a good
heart, unconventionally attractive but with that charismatic sex appeal. In
general, I start to get the sense that High School Guy doesn’t have very high
self-esteem. Like he knows he’s stuck in the past but unable to escape it. It
seems most of his friends are still guys from high school and I don’t know how
that works seeing as most of them don’t live in LA. One of them is his
roommate. His room is also a bit of a time capsule, filled with Superman and
Spiderman posters, a lava lamp, a Playboy Bunny throw pillow on his bed. Walking
in there with the intention of having sex, I suddenly feel like we’re back in
high school again, except without all that giddy nervousness. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMpjvxAn_dQNpWAAjqPqUU4lrcEgTryRxHtcigN47kCXXXmSDFXOk8jdKRhjxVkkOzshMAJl4bBBOC3l8KaEPtTRGaMLHokQE4aKLXQ_y6zt8b7H5xQGJJYf1GFvQwVUmtSoHKJ0AOUlWA/s1600/Woody.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMpjvxAn_dQNpWAAjqPqUU4lrcEgTryRxHtcigN47kCXXXmSDFXOk8jdKRhjxVkkOzshMAJl4bBBOC3l8KaEPtTRGaMLHokQE4aKLXQ_y6zt8b7H5xQGJJYf1GFvQwVUmtSoHKJ0AOUlWA/s1600/Woody.gif" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He is a very intimate, sensitive lover. He doesn’t want to
take me from behind or come on my ass. He constantly wants to be face to face,
he buries his head in my neck, he thrusts slowly and gently, he wants to come
inside me again. As I prod him about the last time he got tested, he reveals
that he’s only been with four people in the past seven years. He says he
doesn’t like having sex with people he doesn’t know. He doesn’t ask me for my <i>number</i>. Gone is the callous, indignant “bad boy” I thought I knew in high
school. As his face hovers inches from mine, I experience the familiar
realization that sometimes it’s in the most intimate moments with someone that
you suddenly recognize you don’t really know them at all. Again, he wants to
have sex three times and I come once. The orgasm is very satisfying, as it
tends to be with him, probably because he likes to thrust slowly and sensually
rather than the ever-familiar jackrabbit pounding.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next morning, he shares with me that he didn’t get to
walk at our high school graduation because he failed math his senior year. This
obviously had a big impact on his psyche, and I feel badly for him. We talk a
lot about the guys we knew in high school—most of whom are still his best
friends. We talk shit about them and I wonder if he even still likes
these guys, or if he’s just settled into the fact that these are his “friends
for life.” He tells me about several instances in high school where he and
another kid both did something bad (like drag-racing in the middle of the day
on one of the residential 30 mile per hour streets of our home town) and only
he got in trouble for it. It seems this is a theme for him—getting himself into
shit and then feeling like the consequences of his actions are unfair. I
listen and nod, understanding but also not really. I wonder, as I often do
after sex with the guys I tend to have sex with, what I’m doing here. What
brought me back to the bed of this person I slept with seven years ago? Has my
taste in men really not evolved at all in the past seven years?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The next week I go get tested, and I spend another week
paranoid that I have HIV and/or a baby growing inside me. My period is a
day late which sends me into a tailspin of fear and paranoia. I’m on the pill,
but I remember after having sex with High School Guy over the holidays, I had
been a little late with my first pill of the new cycle, which is a bad one to
miss. I finally get my period and breathe a sigh of relief. I think maybe it’s
time to be more of a grown up in my sex life. To stop “playing Russian roulette
with my vagina,” to paraphrase Jenny Slate’s knocked up character in <a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/double_x/doublex/2014/06/obvious_child_finally_an_honest_abortion_movie.html" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Obvious Child</i></span></a>. I’m tired of going to get
tested every time I don’t enforce condom use with a partner. I’m tired of the
fear of getting those results. When I was younger, I was so nonchalant about
unprotected sex, but now every time I do it my imagination runs wild and that
fleeting enjoyment of sex without a condom is simply not worth the stress that
follows. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I might see High School Guy again. I don’t know. But I think
I’m ready to attract something different. I’m ready to attract a grown ass man.
Someone who enforces his own condom usage because he doesn’t want to get a girl
pregnant when she has the sole responsibility of choosing to keep it or not,
and therefore the power to change the course of his life forever. Someone who is
not so flippant with his life decisions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I don’t have to be the only one making the
responsible choice and then feeling bad about myself when I alone fail to do
that. I think <a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a>a grown ass man would be good for me. I
think I’m finally ready to graduate.</div>
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Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-30059543712362811302015-01-07T14:30:00.000-08:002015-01-07T14:30:34.028-08:00Happy Hump Day! Now here are 10 Things You Didn't Know About Vaginas.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdFvKZ9Igd0iItBLdi4mFS8-QU_Deea2qAbQde_niK8lX1JOwU6cyQtzzWQ8aU-N60X9I_6Ka_mY5ksF3R6uHas2GJSgTiqge4zEcQqZUpNFw4HSIDiVklWSPhZ8NBg2fCtBVOybJuzv6-/s1600/Vaginas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdFvKZ9Igd0iItBLdi4mFS8-QU_Deea2qAbQde_niK8lX1JOwU6cyQtzzWQ8aU-N60X9I_6Ka_mY5ksF3R6uHas2GJSgTiqge4zEcQqZUpNFw4HSIDiVklWSPhZ8NBg2fCtBVOybJuzv6-/s1600/Vaginas.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7795869707174122423.post-65981065355128707482014-12-30T14:46:00.003-08:002015-12-28T17:01:19.971-08:00My Favorite Things: 2014As I look back and reflect on 2014, I realize it was a great year for women's voices and stories, especially in entertainment. Feminism became cool this year and there were so many moments of inspiration. And by feminism I mean not only the movement, but also just the general equality of voices heard and stories told. Here were some of my favorite moments in entertainment...<br />
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<u>Three Fave Films: </u><br />
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<i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tn2-GSqPyl0" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Wild</span></a></i><br />
Besides the fact that this is just a great human story and a beautifully written/directed/photographed/acted movie, I was particularly struck by how groundbreaking it felt. I suddenly realized how rare it is not only to see a female adventure story, but also to simply see a major movie with a wide release that is centered around a real, complicated, flawed woman character. Now that I've had a taste of this "genre," I want more.<br />
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<i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r2GN3wdfqbA" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Obvious Child</span></a></i><br />
I love everything about this movie. I love Jenny Slate, I love seeing a hilarious woman tell fart jokes, I love the fact that it's a comedy about abortion where the main tension of the film is not will she or won't she get an abortion. She's getting one--that's just the set up. It also portrays a particularly beautiful and honest relationship between two people and has one of the most likable romantic lead male characters I've seen on film in quite some time.<br />
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<i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y0oX0xiwOv8" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Boyhood</span></a></i><br />
As a child of the 90s, this movie feels particularly sentimental to me, in the best way. Even just the soundtrack, which traverses everything from old school Coldplay to contemporary Arcade Fire, sent me on a bittersweet trip down memory lane. This movie somehow captures the human condition so beautifully in its literal slice-of-life storytelling. The scenes have incredible tension but, like in life, most tension peters out and doesn't end in the big explosion I found myself expecting. And Patricia Arquette's performance is such a beautiful representation of all the complication of what it is to be a mother.<br />
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<u><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTIogIwn8U0" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Fave Doc: <i>The Empowerment Project</i></span></a></u><br />
"What would you do if you weren't afraid to fail?" In 2013, Sarah Moshman asked herself this question. Her answer was, she would take an all-female crew across the country to interview "ordinary women doing extraordinary things"--from an astronaut to a mathematician to Miss USA 2012. This doc is truly empowering and should be required viewing for every young person everywhere, particularly young girls.<br />
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<u><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-3Q2W0I2Xc" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Fave New TV Show: <i>Transparent</i></span></a></u><br />
There are so many awesome things about this new Amazon show, created by Jill Soloway. What strikes me in particular is the representation of female sexuality, which is shown in all its wonderful complication in a totally unique way I've never seen before on television. The cast is perfect, the writing is hilarious and heartbreaking, LA looks beautiful. I just want to live with these characters awhile longer.<br />
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<u><a href="http://bust.com/" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Fave Periodical: <i>Bust Magazine</i></span></a></u><br />
<i>Bust</i> is not a new magazine--it's been "BUSTing stereotypes about women since 1993." But I'm still shocked that not everyone I know reads it. I myself stumbled across <i>Bust</i> when I moved into a new apartment in New Orleans and the woman who lived there before me had a subscription. That was back in 2011; I've been hooked ever since. <i>Bust</i> always seems to be talking about exactly what I'm thinking and feeling at that particular moment in my life. It has its finger on the pulse of the coolest developments in feminism, pop culture, entertainment. I'm constantly introduced to new female voices that soon become my faves (like the <i>Guys We Fucked</i> podcast, see below).<br />
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<u><a href="https://soundcloud.com/guyswefucked" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Fave Podcast: </span><i><span style="color: red;">Guys We Fucked: The Anti Slut-Shaming Podcast</span></i></a></u><br />
Corinne Fisher and Krystyna Hutchinson. I love these gals. Every week I tune in to their podcast to hear them candidly talk about my favorite subjects: sex, masturbation, porn, you get the idea. Their desire to unveil female sexuality is totally in line with everything I believe in. Not only that, but they are also fucking funny and I simply enjoy hanging out with them as they riff on everything from monogamy to butt plugs. They're my kinda gals.<br />
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<u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Are-All-Completely-Beside-Ourselves/dp/0142180823" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Fave Fiction: <i>We Are All Completely Beside Ourselves</i> by Karen Joy Fowler</span></a></u><br />
There is nothing feminist about this book--it's just a great story with great characters and it happens to be written by a woman. The story unfolds gradually and surprisingly in an unexpected and compelling narrative. It reads like a young woman's memoir with an incredible twist, and through her telling of events, we gradually come to realize she may not be the most reliable narrator. I don't want to give anything away--you just have to read it for yourself.<br />
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<u><a href="http://www.amazon.com/What-Do-Women-Want-Adventures/dp/0061906093" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Fave Non-Fiction: <i>What Do Women Want? Adventures in the Science of Female Desire</i> by Daniel Bergner</span></a></u><br />
I was convinced a woman wrote this book. The deep exploration of the many extraordinary facets of female sexuality is endlessly interesting. Some of the experiments Bergner writes about made me realize things I didn't even know about my own sexuality. If you've ever been curious about the inner workings of female desire, this is a must read.<br />
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<u>Fave Epic Moment for Feminism: Emma Watson's UN Speech</u><br />
I don't know what to say about this that hasn't already been said, but I just appreciate that this happened in 2014. I appreciate that one of the most popular 20-something actresses of the moment stood up for feminism this year. That was pretty fucking great. Especially in making "feminist" a cool thing to be, an identity younger generations of girls and boys can get behind.<br />
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<u>Fave Male Feminist: Aziz Ansari</u><br />
Thank you, hilarious man person, for clarifying the definition of feminism for those who are still unclear--that men and women should have equal rights--and for encouraging people who believe that to call themselves feminists. "Because that is how words work."<br />
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<br />Diary of a Slutty Feministhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02199655527413695167noreply@blogger.com2