The Game

I thought about her for days after our first meeting, the way she breathed when I touched her, and how her body felt against mine. I contemplated seeing her again, anticipating–almost salivating remembering how she had pulled my hair–yet also put off by her; and our first date. She gave me nothing of herself, which in a weird way added to the allure, she didn’t fall victim to my ways. Who is this person? I have to know more. Why couldn’t I get what I wanted—information–from her?

I shower, wondering if I’m going to show up for the impromptu invitation to join her. The way she talks—like it’s nothing–messes with my head.

“Man plans aren’t happening. Getting a beer. Want to join me?”

Like she’s just thrown a lasso around my wrists. I’m struggling. She has the power.

It feels like an afterthought, in fact it is an afterthought, her boys’-night-out fell through, I want to say no out of spite but can’t.

“Maybe, let me think about it.”

It’s a tired Friday, soaked with rain. I make the decision to go, the ache in my center is too strong, she has a pull, a force over me, and damn if I don’t hate it. I have an attitude, pissed that her inner bad-boy has won because it’s a game for me and I’m always playing. Hmmm. And she’s casual, so nonchalant, and this fucks with me but I know she wants me; it was all over her face like I want to be—leave my mark, an unmistakable trace.

I find her with a beer. I sit close, but cold—like I don’t want to give off any warmth, she needs to earn it first. I’m not sure what I think of her other than I’m drawn in and can’t say no. She kisses my cheek. The same eyes, deep, intense, the colors, they change with the light and with her intentions. When she kisses me they darken and sear like a powerful message: I want to throw you down hard and press my lips all over you, but I will wait, and you, my prey, will also wait.

The waiter approaches, her breasts brush against me as she turns away, a gentle reminder of what’s under her masculine clothes. She’s a paradox, and one I want to explore, turn inside out and discover. I want to hold my palms out an inch away from her nipples, threatening, teasing, but I keep my hands to myself, nervous fingers fidgeting.

“ You ladies doin alright?” She looks over at me. I smell her in the air when she looks back. My eyes tighten, inner thighs burn. “ We’re ok right now, thanks.”

We talk a bit but not a lot, no need really. We exchange looks, making each other laugh, and wet. She reaches her hand over resting it on the curve of my lower back and pulls me in closer and then just stops and looks at me. I feel the warmth of her hand on my body. I want it under my dress.
We are comfortable yet unfamiliar. It is intense, and yet tame in the worst way. She won’t kiss me. I’m tortured, burning and civilized.

I ask her, “Is this considered our second date? She shakes her head, and says, “No, I told you I owe you a re-do.” I stare at her “Well isn’t this a re-do?” Eyes pleading that it isn’t. She laughs at me and kisses my face. “You’re adorable.” “Adorable?” “Yes, adorable.” I’m turned on by words.

“You’re sexy,” I tell her. She smirks. Things are getting real. I need to take back my power. My eyes search; I grab her by the forearms placing each hand slightly up my dress, one on each thigh. Now I have her, like the opening of a window, I can breathe again.
I try asking questions. She won’t answer. She never does. I hate this.

I have an idea.

“Do you want to go to my car?”

“God yes.” She says.

We get the check. It’s still raining. We run—puddle jumping, laughing—to my car.

Inside, the windows fog without much effort. Summer rain forms steam, warm bodies, blood moving, pupils widening, alert breasts, the two of us, alone.

She’s in the passenger seat. I hold the throne.

I climb over her and reach my hand around to recline the seat.
She is silent and watchful. She is mine.

I straddle her lap, “Is this what you want?” “Uh, huh.” She says.

The sound and smell of hard rain, my mouth inching towards her, hips thrusting down and forward. I pause feeling her thighs under mine; sweat beading at the base of my spine, I’m holding her by the hips. She grabs me by the back of my neck. I loose my breath. She pulls me in and with loud, moan-filled kisses, rapid breathing and upward motions.

She stops to catch herself. I laugh, “What’s the matter? Am I too much for you?”

“Fuck No.” She says, hands around my face. “Are we going to just keep making out in the car like teenagers, or do I ever get to be an adult with you?”

“You’re going to have to wait,” I tell her, smiling, amused with myself.

She groaned. “You’re having too much fun. You’re ridiculous.”

“I know. It’s part of my charm. I like playing with you. When do you want to play again? I have to go soon.”

She reaches up, squeezing my nipple tight between her fingers, kissing me violently as she purses her lips together making a hissing sound. I go weak. She’s on top.
I’m scared. How does she do this to me?

“Get out. I have to go.”

“ Then get off me.” She says.

I kiss her once more, soft and intentional, inhaling as to pull her in; and then move back to my seat disturbed.

She leans over, kissing my ear. “Goodbye, Darlin.”

“Goodbye, Handsome.”

She opens the door, walks away and doesn’t look back.

I sigh–fucked up over her–and drive.

I’m in bed now, awake and wide-eyed, restless and doomed.

She has me. Why won’t she give me anything?

I have her. And I keep putting her off.

Stalemate.

I start planning.

What’s next?

Posted in Choking, Dry Sex, Groans, Lesbian Partnership, Lesbian sex, Rough Sex | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Women

It all started with a woman (Doesn’t every great story?) I blame her. She’s the reason for the re-invention, the changeling before the unveiling of what’s next. It’s happening. Who I’m becoming remains unknown. I’m growing into that woman.

I sat next to her—a different her (because it’s always about a woman) at a bar. “Did you think I’d actually show up?” I asked her. Wow, those eyes, they almost glowed; and the skin, don’t even get me started. Jesus, I was mesmerized. Who was she? She wouldn’t give me a clue–she made me crazy. I am crazy. The voice didn’t match. She spoke of a sardonic tone, a cynical outlook, an outgrowth of statistics and an over analytical mind. “You’re intense.” She said. She met me at my intellectual level, and took me beyond. She pushed my thinking and scared me in the best possible ways.

I couldn’t help myself, my hand saw something it wanted to touch. I ran the soft edge of my middle finger along the natural line of her well-tattooed, inner arm. My eyes grabbed and wouldn’t allow her to look away. She held her breath, I narrated while feeling her, “I’m touching the inside of your arm, and you’re holding your breath. Why aren’t you breathing?” She let out an audible–sexy as fuck–sigh.

I’m in trouble. Where is the air, what’s happening?

The message came through. I was picking up what she was putting down. Her subtle clues were textured with sex. “So Lonely” by The Police, was playing in the background. It reminded me of my best friend’s wife, a hot brunette whom I often talked to about the nuances of dating. I will never hear that song the same way again without thinking of her. The image–crossed-legs moving up and down to the beat–resides in a place I won’t mention. But in my forefront I was distracted and turned on by the kill at hand.

She arrived before I did. I didn’t see her standing there when I pulled up but as I approached I saw her waiting for me. She looked nervous, shoving her phone back in her pocket when she saw me approaching. The first thing I noticed about her was the curve of her shoulders, the dip of her cleavage. The outline of her hair was delicate, and precise. I followed the path down and past thin straps. She said, “You look pleased with yourself,” like she knew I had been thinking about her. My eyes sparkled. I was in my element, a person to toy with who couldn’t be played.

My hand moved down her arm and to the various images, I stayed there enjoying myself. She grew impatient, or hot, (one) and took my hand and placed it back in my lap, I was bothered to say the least.

The bartender overheard me say to her, “Every question I ask you only leads to another.” The full-figured girl said, “Yeah, that’s because you guys have chemistry, I feel it from over here.” We both laughed. I moved around in my chair. The fleshly under belly of my thighs started sweating.

She was completely unknowable, a master at my own game. She had me cornered and I hated it, she was putty and I was pudding. Throw up a wall and I will try my damnedest to climb it, let me in and I lose interest. The mind of madness meets the heart of fear.

All my standards were both failing and working in the same hand. How is this even possible? We were dancing a waltz of wills, and neither of us was willing to back down. This was new for me, another first.

We couldn’t stop looking at each other. The oxygen kept getting caught in my lungs. My jaw begged to grind, my hands aching to clinch. I wanted her. She wanted to devour me. But I would never let that happen. Why spoil the fun? There was still too much to say, too much heat to build. I like to savor, and talk about the possibilities in great detail, nothing, I mean nothing raises my awareness and moistens my spirits more than the talk. If you’ve got my mind then you’ve found my weak spot. If you can make me think about something I’ve never questioned before you might as well consider your hand up my dress with me watching you every inch along the way.

We were outside, it was dark; cars were passing. I saw an opportunity, a firm place to push her and press my body against hers. Who was I? I stepped my left foot in between her legs and my right to the outside of her left, I had my bearings. I was on solid ground. I placed my hands on the brick wall behind her, on each side of her body. I had her where I wanted as I moved in closer. I held her hostage with my gaze. My breasts were on her, my pubic bone inching forward until I met her high-upper thigh. I stopped, and just stared at her, chest lifting and lowering. Eyes open as I pressed my lips to her mouth. Neither of us dared a muscle. We were captivated–lungs filling and releasing, blood pumping, swelling parts, dilated eyes–by our kiss.

And then something happened. Everything changed, a shift in energy.
I found myself up against the wall. There were cars going by, I felt the wind on my face, she had me by the back of the head. Her fingers laced through my hair, my neck exposed, she held me in a firm grip, and I heard myself moan.

My eyes opened and closed. I was nothing but a doll; this is what I’ve been waiting for but will I allow it?

***Disclaimer: So you know, this is my second or fifth attempt at writing a fictional piece. However, within every lie is always an element of truth. You decide.

I’ve been quiet, building a storm, resting and gathering my strength. I don’t know what it looks like yet, but the change is coming. I won’t be held down for long.

Love and a Kiss, Shannon

Posted in addicition, Affliction, alcoholism, Authentic Self, Awareness, BDSM, Break-ups, Breaking Patterns, Car Sex, crossing boundaries, Dating Friends, Dating Lesbians, Dating Single, kissing, Lesbian, Lesbian Breakup, Lesbian Friends, Lesbian Marriage, Lesbian Partnership, Lesbian Relationships, Lesbian sex, Lesbian's and their Ex, loss, love, player, Playgirl, Rough Sex | Tagged , , , , | 1 Comment

Gay Hero

I have nothing to say, nothing to write about. Everything on my mind seems too difficult to mention right now. Are we clear? There’s nothing serious tonight, people, just nonsense. So, what else is there to talk about other than what’s really going on with me? Perhaps some random bullshit will do, maybe I’ll tell you about one of the off putting, and somewhat humorous aspects of my personality: my blunt-force honest style, and lack of discernment; and how this combo platter lands me in all sorts of uncomfortable scenarios such as this:

So I’ve been looking for a gay-boyfriend to hang out with, someone fun, safe and like-minded to run around with and kick up a little mischief. Basically, I need a playmate. I’m not interested in dating anyone, and most of my friends are either straight and married with children, wife’d-up lesbians, or single-lesbians who want to be more than just friends, or single-straight women with different agendas. Again, another case of self-indulgent, dramatic, upper-middle class, gay-white girl problems, this is the real world I’m living in over here in my city- tree house. Blink twice if you think I’m joking.

So I set my sights on this certain handsome fellow. He seemed to meet all the criteria of my desired private boy-toy: Attractive, active, not too flamboyant, and well-dressed. I was in yoga, and he appeared, fantastic, we already have something in common. I saw his ken-doll-perfect hairstyle, almost like he was wearing a helmet. He wore a matching Lu Lu Lemon (expensive and trendy yoga, and athletic wear) yoga uniform, (I know straight, beefy guys wear this shit too, but I’ve never seen one completely match like this before.) He set his designer, and color coordinated yoga mat, block, water bottle and strap next to my yoga set-up. I was envious of his gear, damn the man was straight up more high maintenance than I, which I didn’t think was possible, I loved this about him.

Once he settled on his mat I glanced over and gave him a Wrigley’s spearmint–smile. He smiled back. Class started. We flowed together; we twisted, turned, balanced, and stood on our hands and forearms. Our movements always seemed to be in sync, I was certain we were going to be the best of friends. Or at least go on tour together as a synchronized yoga team.

At one point he did a super fancy trick, I gave him the thumbs up and said, “Nice.” He nodded. That earned him some serious respect. I thought for sure we were going to couple-skate on every gay-bar in town. Well, not really, I’m not that wild, but I thought we’d at least enjoy a few sun-filled patios in mid-town and a couple of bottles of wine together.

Class ended, I went in for the crush. I wiped my Betty Davis–as Sweet Baby Jane—eyes that were dripping-black with mascara and leaned over towards him and said, “Great practice.” He laughed and said, “Yeah, you too. You have beautiful energy.” “Thank you.” I said, “I do what I can.” He took a sip and toweled off. I knew I needed to act fast. “Is this your first time here? I’ve never seen you before. You look like you’ve been practicing for a long time. You’re amazing.” (Cause every gay man loves a compliment. Who doesn’t?) He was mine. He grinned, laughed again, blushed and said, “No, I’ve been here a few times before, but I usually go to a studio in Charlotte. I travel to Atlanta, for business once or twice a month. “ What? That’s a bummer.” I said. “I thought I’d found a new friend.” He was amused. “We can still be friends.”

I was a little disappointed. I needed my new friend to be a little more geographically stable. I said, “How long will you be in town?” He replied, “Well, I usually don’t like to stay all week because I have a daughter.” The gears in my brain sort of hiccuped, but then I thought, well, yes a gay man can have a child, too. So I said, “Oh, who keeps her while you’re traveling?” “My ex has her during the week. We got divorced over a year ago, and that’s when I started yoga. My life was in transition.” I was a little concerned at this point, but I kept moving forward with my questioning, knowing that yes, a gay man can also be married and get divorced, that his ex-spouse could indeed have custody. But just in case, I was very specific and deliberate about my next line of the inquisition. “Does your ex live near you?” “Yes,” he said, “SHE lives a few miles away from me in Charlotte.” I still didn’t fully accept what I was hearing. He couldn’t be straight, no fucking way, not with that accent, tight ass and coiffed hairdo. My mind scrambled. Maybe we were alike: straight to gay. So I went further, and without a drop of couth. There wasn’t any way around it other than to just come out with it, and because I needed to know. “ Listen, you probably think I’ve been hitting you on you but I wasn’t. I thought you were gay.” And then I dropped my eyes on him just waiting for a response.

He scrambled, and laughed uncomfortably. “No, I’m not gay, but you can hit on me.” My dreams and plans for us were crumbling. There would be no walks in the park, no bitchy comments passed between us, no war of the wits, our relationship fell flat in those undefined sexual undertones he set down before me, we didn’t have a chance. I shut that shit down quick. I told him, “I’d probably rather hit on your wife, If you know what I mean? I held his gaze–one eyebrow lifted–until he was forced to look away.

I stood, rolled up my mat and told him, “Well, it was nice to meet you. I’m Shannon, by the way.” He reached out his hand; I took it in mine. He told me his name, which I have sense forgotten, and said to him, “Until we meet again.” And then I turned, dropping his hand, looking over my shoulder, as I walked out the door. I was pissed. How could my new boyfriend be straight? The problem is that he’s not really straight at all, but he just doesn’t know it yet. And to think, he could’ve been mine. We would’ve been so cute together. But I need a real gay man, a man that totally owns his gayness and doesn’t even think he might want or is supposed to want a piece of me. Sigh.

“Where have all the real men gone and where are all the gods?” I’m holding out for a gay-hero until the end of the night, he’s gotta be strong, and he’s gotta be fast and he’s gotta be fresh from the fight.” I need a gay-hero.

Posted in Break-Up, Break-up Sex, Break-ups, crossing boundaries, Dating Friends, Dating Lesbians, Dating Single, Friendship and Free Will, Gay Men, in love with a woman, Lesbian, Lesbian Break-up, Lesbian Breakup, Lesbian Friends, Lesbian Marriage, Lesbian Partnership, loss, love, married to a man, Mending A Broken Heart, Mind/Body Connection, Mourning Sex, Yoga | Tagged , , , , , | 2 Comments

Untouched

I lost a friend recently to a worst-nightmare automobile accident. She was thirty-six, too young to die. It only took a moment, decisions were made by others, a brief risk taken at her expense, and boom, lights out–her fate was sealed. Her death has changed me, not in some drastic way, but for the moment it has made me stop and think. Her death has meaning; for me it wasn’t just a lost cause, she taught me something. I was fortunate enough to attend the memorial service for her and heard the same lesson from someone else. I found comfort in my human frailties and weaknesses–my need to make sense of something so devastating–reiterated by the minister.

She was driving home minding her own business when a passing car set off a chain of events that knocked another car into her–subsequently pushing her in the path of an 18-wheeler. She didn’t have a chance. There was a fire. She was the only casualty; no one else was seriously injured in the accident. I keep rewinding the reverend’s message from her service. He said, “She was untouched.” He was referring to the fire, and her faith. I grabbed hold of his words for dear life.

My friend was the type of person who wore a silent armor of strength; with just one look anyone could see the solid stature behind her small build. She wore long braids and often pulled them back into one ponytail. I always wanted to pull on them, but knew better. (I learned never to touch a black girl’s hair from another friend.) My friend had a sensual beauty with a hint of adorable–from the specks of freckles that crossed the bridge of her nose and cheeks. K’s eyes were soulful-brown like looking into those of a horse. They told a story of things I didn’t know about her but could sense—pride, honor, courage and her love for the human race. However, it was her lips that really drew me in, they were just luscious, pink and perfect in every sense; and behind them was her smile, that sweet, calming, loving smile. It was one that made feel like everything was always going to be ok. It was safe.

She and I both went through a break-up around the same time. We shared similar pain over losing our loves’ but there was a difference between us, her faith was much stronger than mine. It was the first thing I really knew and understood about her—the girl was tight with God, and she believed with a beaming heart that God had her back even in the midst of her agony. I couldn’t say the same, but I watched her. She was finding peace, we were both smiling again, but she was more serene, she trusted God’s plan for her.

In the aftermath of her death I asked another one of our friend’s who was closer to K, “Tell me about some of the bright spots in her life. Tell me she died happy.” I was in a miserable place at the time. My friend said, “She was getting a lot of joy out of volunteering at an orphanage, and the girl’s basketball team she coached just won their championship game. In addition, she was working on finishing her last required course to be a court appointed guardian for children. So yeah, she had a lot of good in her life.”

She was also developing new friendships and changed attitudes. She was taking great care of herself and really trying to improve her life. She was someone I admired. I was relieved to hear that so many incredible things were happening for her. I just don’t think I could stand losing her knowing she was still suffering from a broken heart, and over other things that were out of her control. It made her death feel more palpable knowing she had found happiness again. I can’t imagine how awful it would have been to lose her knowing she was still sad. And this spoke to me, loud and clear. It was exactly what I needed to hear.

I met her at a low point in my life. I feel ashamed saying this but it’s true: I couldn’t really be a good friend to her because I was too stuck in my own stuff. She was just a mirror for me I couldn’t dare look in without feeling overwhelmed. She called me one day to talk about her ex. I listened to her, I squirmed in my seat; it was all I could do to keep my ear to the phone. I don’t think I had anything comforting to say. I was bitter and full of resentment about my own situation. I was useless to her other than being a warm body, that’s what I was, and I guess it was enough.

(Ironically, later than afternoon I saw her sitting alone on a park bench during a festival. I was there with another friend. I said, “ Hey, how are you feeling?” She just shook her head and said, “I’m ok.” I could tell she was hurting but I was too lost in my own pain to really care. I was suffocating. Being there was all I could do. The next time I saw her I hugged her and told her, “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you to walk around with us. I was in a daze. That wasn’t very nice of me.” I apologized for leaving her alone on the bench. But that’s me; sometimes I’m a selfish, self-centered person, I don’t mean any harm by it, it’s just how I protect myself. I’m aware of it, and it’s something I’ll be working on until I take my final nap.)

We weren’t the type of friends who talked all the time, but we knew the intimate details of one another’s lives by the nature of our friendship. The news of her death came at a pivotal moment in my life. I was feeling alone, vulnerable and scared. I was just recovering from a wicked virus, an eye wound that sent me to urgent care and another level of letting go of my ex-partner. I was at my bottom. I didn’t know how much lower God needed me before I surrendered. I pleaded with the Power greater than myself, “What else do you want from me? I give up, please just make this pain go away.” I kept thinking about my children, and how I had to keep myself together for them.

I was suffering. I was fighting to stay in the light and then I got the call, and almost instantly something inside shifted. My friend just died a freak, fucking accident and here I am miserable over another person, a virus and a damn cornea abrasion, get a grip. I told myself, “Listen up little girl, you better get your act together. You need to find something to be happy about every single day. You have your children to love and care for, and raising them is your primary purpose on this earth.”

K’s death reminds me just how powerless I am even over my own life in some circumstances. I have to make the best of my life; find joy, love and laughter in the small things, and in the hardships. I have to tell people I love them before it’s too late. I have to take that extra second of eye contact, you know the pause in the heartbeat of real connection, and not run away from true intimacy. I must be willing to pick myself up off the cold, hard floor of reality and take a look around at all the people, and things that are right in front of me that I have to be grateful for in my life.

Her death has meaning. She rescued me the same way her life and death saved many others that knew her. The minister said,” K’s faith kept her safe from the fire. She didn’t die alone. God was with her. She was untouched.”

I believe this on many levels, medical science alone says that our bodies go into a state of shock if we suffer too much pain. I was so fearful that my friend had burned alive, that she felt the flames on her skin, but I know, call it God, or science that she, or any of us never experience more than we can handle. We aren’t designed that way. There’s a built-in-mechanism to our make-up that protects us from extremes.

This goes for emotions as well, it’s how and why I’m able to see the beauty of her passing. My fragile human qualities require this type of thinking; it’s why I need to reconcile something so tragic. K’s sudden passing jerked me out of my stupor. She made me stand up on wobbly legs and take stock of my life: It has meaning, it’s important. I’m a mom, and I brought life into this world. She died so that I, and the rest of us that knew her could live a better life. She opened our eyes, if only for a brief moment, to possibly the most important time of our lives. More will be revealed.

At her service the reverend took the opportunity to ask if anyone needed to be saved. He said that faith kept her safe from harm and asked if any of us needed to draw on K’s faith. He said, “With your heads bowed and eyes closed raised your hand if you need to be saved today. K gave her life so that the rest of us could come together today to worship and praise. Raise your hand. I see you.” I nodded. I didn’t raise my actual hand but my heart made the connection.

I didn’t care that it was a religion of a certain God that was offering support. I’m not bigger than any definition of the universe. Universally, to most, it means the same thing: Something greater than ourselves, and in that moment I needed something and someone greater than myself to take my pain away.

I have been humbled and brought to my knees by events in my life. The minister said, “Every tongue shall confess, and every knee bend.” And I knew it to be true. He meant it in a certain sense but I felt it globally. He was referring to a certain God, but I was interpreting it as my powerlessness. I need something in my life that’s more powerful than the limits of my understanding. I need K’s faith in order to live a more balanced and harmonious life. This is the legacy she left behind for me, and I’m taking it one breath at a time by finding the positive whenever and wherever I can, this is my tribute to her.

(It turns out she was untouched from the fire. The coroner said she didn’t have smoke in her lungs, which meant she died before the fire. Hopefully she passed on impact, before she knew anything even hit her. Or perhaps she did go into shock and didn’t feel a thing. Either way, the universe took care of her up until her last breath. I have to believe that the same is true for me, and noticeably so when I choose to stop struggling.)

Take gentle care of yourself and your loved ones’.

With much love and gratitude, SJ

In memory of K, good night sweet, and strong friend, sleep well.

Posted in automobile accident, crossing boundaries, Death, dying young, faith, fiery crash, grief, loss, savior, shock, sudden death, tragic death, untouched | Tagged , , , | 1 Comment

Breaking Up With Dating

Busted again. I can’t seem to get away with anything these days, and I used to be so great at it too. I, with best intentions, decided to start dating again as a means to a happy ending after a recent break-up. I wanted to feel better, my plan worked for a while. My ego had suffered a violent hit—one that knocked the wind out of me– when my ex-partner left. I blamed myself for everything that went wrong, my self -esteem plummeted—the fracture throbbed. I needed a fix. Dating seemed like a non-destructive antidote, it involved other people, conversation, and attention–the perfect distraction.

I blogged about dating in my recent post, “Don’t Mate Your Friet’s.” I talked about dating friends, however I didn’t divulge too much personal information other than to say I was seeing a few people, nothing serious. What I failed to mention was the amount of chaos I was creating for myself by trying to date more than one woman at a time. I thought I was doing this because I was confused about the way I was feeling about one in particular. I decided that the best way to sort through my center was to add more options. How clever.

I couldn’t make up my mind about anyone or anything, I felt fickle all over. I thought sampling would be a great way to see who and what I wanted. However, all this did was give me something to obsess over; the good thing about it is that it was working, I was no longer focused on my ex—the drug of my choice was soothing my trauma. But it wouldn’t last.

I’m more aware of myself now–my patterns and motives, my denial and why I operate the way I do—I can’t get away with as much anymore. I caught myself thinking about how one of the women reminded me of my ex-husband (from two relationships ago.) I didn’t label this as a good or bad thing that she (for me) is like him. I just saw it as information, a sign of sorts.

My ex husband loved me in the most unconditional way—to the end and beyond– even though I drove him bananas, and didn’t always treat him with high regard. He was committed to me, and to our family. I don’t believe he would’ve ever left, he was safe and easy; his love and support for me was solid. Just saying this makes me sad because it wasn’t enough for me, and I saw this same kind of wonderful person in one of the women I was seeing.

I wanted to follow my instincts– what felt comfortable and natural to me; I saw in her a sweet and soft place to rest my head, she could save me. But I paused and listened closer. My internal barometer is a sneaky, fearful liar, one that requires my complete focus and attention to read with precision. My feelings for her were based on how she treated me, or what she did for me as opposed to how I actually felt about her.

This conclusion didn’t make me feel good about my character, dating her felt like the path of least resistance, and that’s not what I want for my life, and she deserves more. I don’t want to walk down the same trail twice, I want to be divergent, break away from my ideas about who I think I am, and become something better. And to do this I know that I have to get comfortable with being unsettled–to feel alone, scared and vulnerable; and find a way to make myself at home in that spot, build a nest, set-up shop, and be alone in my own silk-skin.

This means that I had to break-up with dating not just her, but with the others as well. Dating was nothing more than a thick bandage on my exposed wound, the blood and pus spilled over, contaminating those around me, and debris and dirt could still get in leaving my soul open to infection. I have to scar over with help from my Higher Power, through thick layers of my own tissue and flesh before I’m completely healed. Using other people in the process is a temporary solution to an on-going problem. I’ll miss out on the ability to recover from the inside out, the way a deep sore has to mend, and this is what I want for my life—a rich, and complex weaving of The Universe at work, filling in my holes and lacerations with love and acceptance.

I’m getting better with each day. Seeing other people did serve a purpose, it got me through the winter of my sadness, but now my inner light is working to warm me, I think I can take it from here. Dating helped me see just how valuable of a person I am, and reminded me that I’m lovable, and that I don’t have to be alone, I have choices.

I’m a treasure, she, my ex just couldn’t hold out for my brilliance, however that doesn’t mean that it’s not there. It takes a lot of work to find and create something valuable; it doesn’t come without appreciation, and I’m working on building the knowledge of my worth. It’s sad that she had to leave before the miracle, but I haven’t.

By the grace of God, I am going to learn how to be ok on my own. I want to want someone, not need another person before I’m able to be with anyone else again. This is going to be challenging for me. I’m anxious, frightened, and uncertain, but I’m hopeful. There are so many things in my life that I haven’t allowed myself to accomplish out of fear that I’m not enough. I’m done. This isn’t my excuse anymore, and I’m not going to be distracted from my personal progress by my own insanity.

My ego is right-sized again. I no longer blame myself for everything that went wrong in the relationship, however I did learn some things about myself. I don’t feel as broken and in need of something or someone else to cure my aching heart. I ‘m still exposed and tender but I accept that this is where I am and where I’m meant to be, great things are happening here. My best intentions are starting to reveal themselves.

With much love and humility, SJ

Posted in crossing boundaries | 4 Comments

Don’t Mate Your Friet

A casual friend sent me a message asking, “Are you seeing the gal I’ve seen pictures of you with on Facebook?” I responded, “I guess you could say we’re frieting, pronounced, freighting.” I don’t know if this is a Lesbian thing, but I’ve sort of discovered this place in between friendship and dating, I like to call, “frieting”. (Can I have this trademarked please? You know on a hoodie with a caption that says, “We’re just frieting” Or, “I’m with my friet.” Or, “Friets don’t mate,” and “Yes, I’m single, she’s just my friet.”)

I explained this concept to another friend–a friend, friend–a show and tell version if you will. We were at lunch, I said, “Do you see how we’re sitting across from each other with no point of contact? This means we’re just friends. However, if we were dating I might be in your lap or like this,” and just then I scooted over to him pressing the side of my body into his. “But,” I said, “if we were on a friet I would do this,” as I touched my knee to his. “This would be frieting.” A little tension, but not a lot, room to either grow together, or sow apart.

Maybe it’s not a gay or straight thing, perhaps it’s just called being a grown-up. I recently had to answer some questions on the topic of love. One of them asked, “How and when do you usually decide to be in a relationship with someone?” I replied, “I don’t decide, it just sort of happens.” After going back and reviewing my answers I started thinking about these things for a while. I came to the conclusion that perhaps my methods–the laws of pheromonal attraction–for choosing partners wasn’t really the best way to go about picking people for relationship purposes. But wow, those smell-pulls–the notes that just have a secret love life of their own–are hard to ignore, especially for someone like me who is a super smeller.

(A friend said, “If someone makes my heart flutter like crazy, if the near sight of them drives me wild I heard it means I should run in the opposite direction.” For me the saying would sound like this: “if my old factory becomes so intoxicated–drawn in–by someone’s aroma that I want to sniff them all day it means I should sprint, not run away.)

I mean look. I’m almost forty years old and I can’t hold a relationship together for an extended period of time. It’s the smell thing, right? Ok, well maybe not, but it probably does have something to do with my picking stick, or my lack of measuring. Well, that might be a bit dramatic of me. I have chosen some great people, I just can’t keep them around, either by my own making or sometimes the leaving is completely out of my control. And the latter is like having to swallow–whole–a big, sour, choking-pickle.

However, I’m hoping to change my patterns by trying something different. Today I heard this great quote from Albert Einstein, while visiting, The Center For Spiritual Living Midtown in Atlanta, Ga. It said, “We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.” Just think about this for a minute.

For me this means that I have to be courageous enough to see the error of my ways. I must be open to considering something different, perhaps even uncomfortable, the unknown. Honest truth, I’m not too cozy right now. I want a soft and reeking-of sex-shoulder to cry on, I want someone else to save me from myself, but I’m not going to let that happen again. It would be so easy for me to fall into the arms of another woman, and I do occasionally but I have to pull myself back so that I make sure I’m really learning how to meet my own needs. This is my life’s lesson: Understanding, believing, and being patient with myself to know that I’m enough, that I’m lovable; and unable to be abandoned because I’m an adult now, and no adult can actually be abandoned.

For me, this isn’t a slice of pie. My default behavior is to “look” for someone to make me better, and when this becomes my motivation for finding a mate, well shit blows up quite often. I have found myself with one of the “friends’ I date” thinking, “Oh she will love me. She wants to love me the way I need to be loved, just let her,” but I don’t. I resist. However, I still allow myself to get something from her, just not everything, and when I find myself wanting to take more–of the stuff that feels good and healing–it’s a sign for me to retreat a little. I back off when I feel myself wanting to rely on her to be my comfort. It’s a push-pull.

I know I’m not ready for anything other than casual dating right now. For me it’s too hard to date seriously while my heart is still trying to heal. I want to be an adult for once. A friend said, “You should just relax and enjoy your life.” I don’t know what this means other than to live my life from a truthful place. It’s a little like living on the edge though, not that this ever bothered me much before. I could lose one of the friends I date at any time. One said to me, “You get to have your cake and eat it too.” I disagreed. I think cake is like sex. I can look at the cake and think about the cake; but not partaking of the cake, nor having other flavors of cake isn’t really enjoying cake and eating it too. (And I heart a cupcake)

So this is where I am, and I sort of like it, I’m grateful that I have mind enough to have learned some hard-lived lessons. I’m beyond letting a relationship just happen to me, I won’t be falling in love by accident anymore. No smell is going to just drift by me and render my logic useless. Is this a jaded perspective, or the use of wise judgment on my part, I don’t know?

Until I know more I’ll just continue frieting. Another friend recommended I sort of set an arbitrary anniversary date to signify the end of my morning period. I’m not certain I can just call out a calendar date and call it quits with my heart, but it may come to this if I don’t seem to be progressing. I’m trying to be patient with myself. It has been five months to the exact date that my ex-partner decided she didn’t want to work on being in a relationship with me anymore. I don’t know when it’s going to be ok for me to say, “Well, I’m ready to date-date again.” However, my fortieth birthday is four months away. I would like to spend it eating cake. So maybe I will just throw the date of May 23, 2014, out there, three weeks before my big Four-Oh, no pressure, just a maybe. If I need more time I’ll take it. For all I know it will take me a full year to get over her, or maybe two, but it will happen.

Someone keeps mentioning this thing called, “First Girlfriend Syndrome” that may have something to do with my intense feelings, or it could just be love. I’ll have to do a little research on this topic and get back to you, but for now I’ll just keep dating friends.

Bake a cake,

SJ

Posted in Albert Einstein, Break-ups, Center For Spiritual Living, crossing boundaries, Dating Friends, Eat Cake, Freighting, Lesbian, Lesbian birth, Lesbian Break-up, Lesbian Breakup, Lesbian Friends, Lesbian Marriage, Lesbian sex | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Tood Frucks

I saw a heard of people standing around a food truck today like they were lining up for Mecca. I have this thing with food trucks. At first I was super excited about them. The concept of a pimped out truck inspired by burritos, donuts and lettuce wraps suddenly became fierce and interesting, edgy and urban ideas about dining. I was on board. Let me climb through your window sir, over your lap, yes, and serve myself a plate of your fresh idea. I mean seriously, this tapped into all my innate desires. I went straight retro and all nostalgia like in love with memories of food from a truck, and that damn bell. You can ring your bell anytime long haired man with a pony tail, and Chester the molester stash. I will come running to you. Is your van white? Does it roll tight with sliding doors, bubbled out windows, or perhaps a clown? If so, the faster I’ll come. I’ve got two, twenty-five cent pieces in my pocket, my bra is stuffed, toilet paper trailing behind. Look out, ya’ll, I’ll take the bomb-pop and a fudge delight.

This burns me up the way the food trucking business exploits, and abuses nostalgia. They should know I was an inner-fat, yet skinny kid. I could’ve been large the way I hoarded my sweets and devoured many a cones. Thank the Lord Jesus we were too poor for snack foods. Every chance I got I chased packaged dessert with Fanta grape under a shade tree, far from home and away from the fight.

There were times when we couldn’t afford the coveted ice-dream treat from the neighborhood kid-dope-dealer. That dude was like the pied piper with a horn. There was just something about his damn truck. For a kid, he had it all–a van blasting Oreo, I mean REO Speed Wagon, and ice cream. I’d imagine sleeping on a lounge chair in the back of his free-wheelin, ice cream dealing, scream-machine, hand constantly digging around inside that freezer bin for a sundae scoop, or bubble-gum bottom pop.

So what the truck? What’s next, titty-bar trucks, liquor bar trucks, coffee bar trucks–yes, now we’re talking? I think a strip club on wheels would do as well any old lunch wagon. Isn’t the lunch cart the original gravy train? I wish prostitution was legal. I’d serve woman and food to starving men. (pun intended) Don’t laugh, you know I’d be one rich bitch. I’d be the talk of the town amongst the feminist. I can hear them now, “What? You mean to tell me she’s a lesbian-Madam for straight men? That’s ludicrous, such un-lesbian, un-lady-like-behavior.” (And yes, I’m that much of a narcissist.)

Seriously though, back to food trucking, why is the idea of food being served from a truck so exotic to us? Why do we believe the hype that tells us it must be better? Yes, food from a moving vehicle is way tastier, fresher, and cleaner running on fumes from 4 wheels. Like sex. Why is sex in the backseat, steamed up windows, shocks knocking so tantalizing?

Actually, fried food from the gas station is where it is at–fried in a large vat, yep. Gas station food, not gas station sex. I guess that would be called, convenient sex.

So I still haven’t tried food truck, food. I’m almost anti-food truck at this point. Why? I don’t know. I think it’s a shame. I hate standing while eating, it’s uncivilized. I dislike eating outside too, there are flies, bugs, and then there’s the weather. Take it to my car, I don’t think so, relaxing I’d say not. I want to dine people, and dine well. I want an experience to follow my dollar, not just a blue belly. I want the happy ending.

Keep on trucking, and ——-

Love ya, mean it, hug ya tight,

SJ

Posted in Bomb Pops, Car Sex, crossing boundaries, Food Trucks, Ice Cream Truck, pied piper, Strip Club Trucks, Truck Sex | Tagged , , | 1 Comment