Dating in the Drowning Pool Part III

“I feel so comfortable around you. I love the way you make me laugh, and I always look forward to seeing you.”

He’s gazing lovingly into my eyes, holding my hand, and comes in for a kiss. I kiss him back, but as I’m sitting there, at the bar, lip locking with some man, all I can really think about is how much I’d rather have that martini, which is at the moment within arms reach, pressed to my lips. Ugh.

This is the second date I’ve gone on with this guy, and, sure, we knew each other in passing on professional terms before this, but I can’t help but think: isn’t this a little much? The fawning, the doting, the asking to take me home. Or am I just cynical. I hate this. My friends have already approved of this guy, and I always feel very beholden to my friends’ opinions of the men I see because (in case you haven’t been following my writing for a while) I tend to go for total scum bags that my friends tell me I “can do better than.” So as I’m sitting there being disinterested and affectionate with this man, I try to force myself to see the good in him. I try to connive a connection because according to everyone else I’m supposed to be attracted to him because he’s good for me or something. The fact that I’m not feeling it makes me feel broken, and hence all the second guessing.

Because what I’m really thinking is: I have absolutely no interest or connection with this person. And I don’t even know if I want to. Sure, I could see where this goes. I could give him a chance. He’s a “nice guy” and I know how much “nice guys” insist that they deserve the chance to sleep with me. I am also keenly aware during this, the week in which my father died, that despite all the feminist trappings I dress myself in, I was still raised as a woman who was trained to kowtow towards the will of men who claim to love me, and somehow that translates into a second date situation. I hate this.

He’s kissing me, and he’s telling me he’s so into me, but all I can think is: he doesn’t know the first thing about me. Nor has he asked. Which is part of where the frustration comes in – I’m fairly honest about who I am as a person, and I have no problem about talking about various aspects of who I am or what I do, be it the sex blogging, the activism, the penchant for high fashion, an interest in cultural violence, my twisted family history, my blood lust and ambition, my hopes and dreams, or whatever. But, curiously, none of that has come up in conversation. And it’s not because I haven’t been talking or asking questions – it’s because he’s been talking and not asking questions. In fact, he’s been talking a lot about things that I already know everything about, which is boring to me, and then every time I start to expound on some topic of conversation of which I have a modicum of insight, he cuts me off and tells me, “You’re so interesting!” Buddy, you don’t know the half of it, and you probably never will if you keep cutting me off.

I’m halfway through the second date, and I’ve given up on the idea that he might be interested in who I really am. Which makes me mad, because what the fuck is he so attracted to? Having had plenty of sex worker friends, I know how to play the, “I’ll be anything you want me to be” game, so it disappoints me when the anything he wants me to be is a dumbed down version of a fraction of myself. Like, really? How boring is that! Of course, I’m still sitting here, letting him tell me about things I already know more about than he does, and it hits me, yet again, during this, the week of my father’s death, that, oh, yeah. Having been raised by a misogynist, I still on some level believe that men are smarter or better than me, which is why I haven’t left yet, and why I’m still entertaining this guy, and why I’m probably still going to sleep with him because I am *not* too good for this man because by the very nature of being a woman I will never be better than any man and in fact will always be not good enough for every man. Goddammit. I hate this.

And now I’m feeling angry about the whole thing, mostly because I also feel very guilty about not wanting to be here. I thought that by this point in my life I would be good at filtering out this kind of bullshit, but I’m not. Instead, I’m still wasting my time with men who buy me things but who for some reason have no understanding of reciprocity or fundamental people skills or how to carry a conversation and build a relationship. Who did this? Whose fault is this? He’s sitting here, professing some state of love to me, and I’m totally indifferent – who allowed this to happen? And why is it my problem because he has no sense of what’s appropriate on a second date with someone you don’t know very well. I know, I know – I’m going to be the asshole here. I’m going to ghost this guy. I can already tell. And then he’ll go online and look at memes that validate his sense of being wronged by a woman who is too callous to say, “This isn’t working.” But the reason I don’t want to say, “This isn’t working” is because I’m already so emotionally drained from having to sit through this date that I don’t feel like I owe him that. Instead, I feel like I owe myself the time alone that I’d rather have right now. I also know that if I say, “This isn’t working,” he’ll ask, “Why?” And I really don’t give enough of a fuck answer that question and explain, “You don’t know me,” because then I’ll have to hear the whole, “But I want to know you!” And isn’t this just way too soon for relationship problems. I’m sure he’d love to learn from this experience, but can’t this just be convenient for me. (Of course, I guess it’s ironic that I don’t want to tell him why it’s not working out but here I am going through the struggle of writing an entire blog post about why it’s not working.) On the other hand, as a woman, it’s kinda easier for me to ghost a guy because, I’ll admit it: in my heart of hearts, I am still deathly afraid of men, and if I reject him that might be a whole world of pain for me, and I don’t know him well enough to put myself at that kind of risk. Although, it’s not like ghosting minimizes that risk, it just delays it in a weird way.

On the other hand, if I don’t ghost him, and I keep playing along with this, I know what will happen. Because it’s happened before. I buy into the idea that this is the type of person that I want to be: I want to be the type of person who is happy being in a relationship with a man like this, who is kind and warm and simple and gainfully employed. I find a way to enjoy it, to really believe it, to make it work. And he’s happy with me, but then eventually I get frustrated because, actually, I am not that type of person, nor will I ever be, no matter how hard I try, and I revert to being my true self, which is pretty scummy and a bit duplicitous and given to unhealthy behavior such as drinking too much and sleeping around and being an all around asshole. He’ll see that side of me, tell me I’ve changed, try to change me back into the person I’m not, make me feel bad about who I am as a person, and get angry at me for being who I am. Then we’ll both be miserable, because by that point I’ll feel even more beholden to him and like I owe him me being someone other than myself but still in a nice, warm, fuckable body, and it will be a total mess. He’ll learn to hate me for not being the person that we both want me to be, and then I’ll hate myself, too, for being who I actually am. I really don’t want to do that again, because after the last time I allowed that shit to happen again, I told myself: Never Again! And I try to keep my promises.

So I deal with this situation the same way any sane woman would deal with this situation. I pull away, pat him on the leg and tell him, “I’m having a great time, but I have work tomorrow so I should probably go home.” (I don’t have work. My dad died two days ago, and I’m on bereavement leave. I didn’t even tell this dude that my dad had died because the idea of having him talk to me about my dad dying seemed super tedious.) My date, of course, jumps up and offers to walk me to the cab stand, but I deflect his offer because I lied about, that, too. I’m not walking to the cab stand – I’m walking five blocks to some other dude’s house so we can get high and drunk and watch tv and fuck all night. My date for sure cannot walk me to the cab stand because there’s no way I’m paying $7 to cab it five blocks to fuck some other dude who would never make me feel any of the things that I’ve already enumerated in this blog post, and also I kinda wanna shake off this bad date before I show up at this other dude’s house. So I find a way to slither away, and I show up radiant and drunk on his dime and ready to fuck at someone else.

Because, omigod, you guys, there’s something about my dad dying that has made me super horny. Which is why I went on that date in the first place – my need for male sexual attention this week has absolutely shot through the roof, and while, yeah, I had a lot to complain about on that date, I already know I’m probably going to go on a lot of bad dates in the next couple weeks because my dad died, okay, and we all mourn differently, and maybe I just need to go on bad date after bad date after bad date so that I can use the internet as a way to emasculate men and the entire concept of masculinity because clearly your girl got some issues. On the bright side, this is definitely less self harmful than what I thought would happen, which was some mixture of getting back with any of my exes who totally hate me and then making them engage in some hardcore BDSM fantasies, which this week turned out to be a combination of golden showers and bloody play. Yes, I’ll admit it, I did text Gangsta Boo and ask him if he would stab me during sex and drink my blood. He said yes, but I’m doing the harm reduction thing and not texting him again until whatever the fuck this is gets out of my system.

Stay tuned for more bereavement shenanigans!

The Daddy Issue

My dad died yesterday.

We had a complicated relationship. He ran an ultra-conservative Catholic magazine out of the house where I grew up, and I…well, here I am. Don’t think there’s much to say about that.

I hadn’t really thought much about my father recently, or his so-called legacy, but upon his death I made the mistake of combing back over some of the Internet archives of his magazine. Damn, y’all…that shit is dark. Upon reading some of the hate-filled gems on that site, I realized: wow, I really, really, really spent the last fourteen years deleting these things from my memory, and accidentally revisiting that shit is making me feel somewhat physically ill.

Here are some of the bullshit ideas that my father propagated in his magazine, that he gave voice to by publishing. These are not things that he himself wrote, but, rather, ideas he stood behind. I clicked on six different articles and already half the shit on there is laughably ridiculous – I really can’t dive any deeper than this.

I don’t doubt that the vast majority of believers who practice Yoga are blissfully unaware of its true nature and purpose, and they probably view it as “simply exercise.” But herein lies its greatest danger. When Yoga is written off as a mere physical discipline with little or no regard for its spiritual underpinnings, we run the risk of being misled about something that could have a significant bearing on our own spiritual well-being.

In traditional monogamous marriage, sacrifice is willingly accepted for the sake of the children. It can be said, then, that anything that is inimical to the best interests of children should, in a good society, be resisted. That includes abortion, homosexuality, out-of-wedlock births, hedonism, day care, “alternative” forms of marriage, and all the rest, including feminism, which obviously tends to marginalize children.

There is a network of people and groups dedicated to helping those with same-sex attractions — and their parents and friends — to face the condition, understand it, and change it or control it. They say that properly handled efforts to change the homosexual tendency — especially in teenagers — have a much higher chance of success than the public realizes. They also suggest ways to prevent the condition from developing in the first place, an approach that can save much heartache all around.

I disagree with all of it. My father considered himself a champion prizefighter in the Catholic culture wars waged against mainstream America, and I’m keenly aware of the tactics that they use to push their agenda. (I never thought I’d live in time where those tactics finally pushed their way into the mainstream, but here I am.)  Reading these vile things reminded me of how I felt when I first started getting my pieces published: a profound sense of duty to counteract Catholic hate speech. And my father’s death is a reminder that I need to re-focus on that goal.

On the other hand, part of me feels like: do we really have to do this. I watched my father wage this war for my entire life, and it was exhausting. Now that he’s dead, I can say with confidence: he didn’t have any friends. His funeral is next week, and my family decided not to invite anyone. Because who would show up? No one.

I know that at one point in my life, I would have showed up to that funeral with a profound fighting spirit in my heart. My brother has taken over that magazine, and while his tone is mollified it still embodies the same ideas. Part of me wants to show up and change them, or educate them, or find some other way to stop them from putting these dangerous ideas out into the world. But it’s exhausting, and, ultimately, ineffective. Rather than letting them drag me into a zero sum battle, I’m going to let them wither into obsolescence. And, in revenge, I will thrive. I have stolen their tools, and I’m going to build something better. I’m going to let them stay in the past and eat themselves.

Despite that, I am still my father’s daughter. I can feel it, even as I try to drown it. Part of me wants to kill everything inside me that is in any way like him – mostly because I’m afraid that I’ll turn out just like him: a bull horn of insanity and loneliness. A wingnut. The perpetrator of pain in other people’s lives. But in a bid to be more optimistic, I’m trying to understand how I can utilize the skills that I have inherited from him – the wit, the ability to write, the cutting humor, the ability to manipulate people with language, the intense sense of right and wrong, the lone wolf mentality, relishing the fight, getting off on making enemies in moral fist fights, a tendency towards extremist dogmatism, a knack for mind control – and make something good with it. Or, can something good be made with that.

Fuck, I’m trying.

There is so much to this that makes me feel physically ill, and I realize that there’s probably only one antidote to all of this: be a more famous writer than my father. 2019, here I come.

 

Manifest Feminist

The day at the airport was a milestone in my life. There was the great pain of seeing you torn away from Mama & me, and also the great satisfaction of knowing you were embarking on something grand, something you had worked so hard for and deserved.

The next morning – this morning – was very difficult for me, because your absence was so absolute, and this so keenly felt. It was a very weepy morning (I’m sure there will be more such times). But my tears are more of joy than sorrow. Yes, sorrow, because you are gone, and I can measure the depth of my love for you by the size of the hole in my heart. I couldn’t really do that before today. But also joy. Because you have undertaken something difficult – and the most rewarding activities in life are often the most difficult. Also because I find myself pinching myself and saying to myself, “***** really loves me!” There is so little genuine love in this world, and the family in America is in such pitiful condition, that one almost expects to be disappointed – taken for granted – by one’s children. But, no!

As it turns out, we have an extraordinary family. Amid the quotidian routine, there are moments, epiphanies – such as yesterday – when it is unmistakable that this family of ours is really a living out of love, such as, if I may be forgiven the pride, one seldom sees – anywhere.

But love is hard-won, and when, as a Father one sees that the love given, however imperfectly (and I’m sorry for the extreme and unfair things I said to you when we were having our difficulties long ago), has been more than fully reciprocated, one feels that life is complete. One could die instantly, and not feel cheated. Of course, if you hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have felt these things so sharply. That’s the paradox.

And, of course, the nature of love is to give itself away, to pass itself along. Nothing – not education, not career – is more important for you than that you plant and nourish the gift of love in the would of your marriage and family. Yes, it’s hard at times, but it’s worth every effort. If the day hasn’t already come, one day it should hit you like a ton of bricks (or spark plugs) that “[my husband] really loves me,” and should you die instantly, you would not feel cheated.

It’s horrible to have you gone, but I know it’s necessary. We are marking the days’ till your return.

Hi. My dad is dying.

He sent the above letter to my oldest sister back in 1994, and as I’ve been trying chew on the weird emotions that the death of a parent can elicit, reading this letter really helped me cement exactly how I feel about all of this: what an asshole.

My father ran a conservative Catholic magazine out of our house, and his philosophies including propagating ideas such as gay conversion therapy, that masturbation is a sin, abortion is wrong, and he also made us go to Latin mass. So I guess it’s not shocking that I turned out the way I did: militant radical and the exact opposite of all that bullshit. Upon pondering the death of my father, I realize that I’m so far removed from my relationship with him that I almost forgot how I became the person I am today, which, by the way, is a person I really enjoy being. It’s so natural and easy for me to be myself these days – I had forgotten the insanity and pain that forged me.

Reading that letter was a stark reminder of exactly the crazy bullshit that made me into the crazy person I am today. I mean, like, god damn, there is a lot of psycho bullshit to unpack in that letter, particularly the fact that this is a weirdly creepy love letter to his daughter? Like, yuck, that made me pretty fucking uncomfortable. I mean, I guess it’s supposed to be sweet, but, oof, the purity ball overtones of the whole thing made my skin crawl.

What I do like about this letter is the sheer force of emotion and conviction that inspired it. While I disagree with the convictions (for example that a marriage is more important than a career or education), I’m trying to find a reason to be generous in my heart with a man who at this very moment somewhere across town is dying. The overwhelming emotion that he expresses has a remarkable depth – a depth that I don’t see many people, particularly men, express. The fact that he cried because his daughter left for a year – well, for a while now I’ve had a fetish for seeing my male sexual partners crying, so, yeah, this one struck a chord with me.

But there is something so fundamentally unsettling about this letter. This letter is, if anything, unbelievably manipulative and a way to exert control over a woman while she’s half a world away. The disarming emotion, the vulnerability play a very interesting role in pushing the propaganda of the family unit as the only method to achieve love in life. The fact that he capitalized “Father” when referring to himself even though he’s a Catholic and “Father” can only refer to god belies the god complex that seems to underpin the entire mentality that he propagates in the letter: this man was controlling as fuck, and he called it love.

What struck me in this letter is that it seemed to echo ideas that run parallel with philosophies such as manifest destiny and white supremacy. The letter was intended to reinforce the structure that upholds these philosophies, because without that structure and without the obedience of the people who comprise those structures, those philosophies have nothing to stand on. In such, this letter is a fascinating glimpse behind the curtain, a way to unravel how these philosophies build, grow stronger and self perpetuate. The coercion of obedience from the arbitrarily selected second class citizens is crucial to their functionality, and this is their methodology and language laid bare.

Because even though I don’t agree with the family first philosophy that clearly treats women as second class citizens, it’s the language of love that makes it confusing. As though to disagree with these ideas is to be against the very idea of love. Which is not what I think at all. If anything, this is a very myopic vision of love, one that fails to acknowledge that love exists in myriad forms, beyond the family, in different states. Love is not an object to be given – it is a living creature, a vibrant idea, something that is in constant flux, just as we, as people, are in constant flux.

But I’m not interested in sitting here and rebutting this letter, combing through, point counterpoint. No, I’m not here to argue. To argue would be to give his ideas validity. No. I’m here to learn. I want to learn how to work the tools that these conservative, cis, white, heteronormative have used against us all this time. How does this knife cut, and where do I make my cuts.

Because in my father’s death, all of this dies with him. And, me? I’m still here. I am the progeny of this, and I am the future. So how do I take the ideas of the new world and propagate them? What are the intimate ways in which I communicate and reinforce the new world order among my peers?

Love is intoxicating.

In all honesty, reading this letter over and over again is giving me hella anxiety. Probably because it’s a trap that almost killed me, and it’s a trap that killed people I love, so standing on the edge peering in is like looking at a future that I was supposed to have but never wanted. I also know that I am the same as my father, and all the evil and manipulation and control and baiting in that letter – yeah, I do the exact same evil shit. It’s hard for me to write about that letter because I find myself oscillating between wanting to write a thoughtful analysis of intimate, interpersonal mind control tactics and also exploding with emotion about who those things did or didn’t work on me. And at the same time, I’m so repulsed by that letter, but as I write, and I can hear my father’s voice, his thought process, his cadence as I type out these words – I am repulsed by myself. I try to be better, but I fail frequently.

Or do I want to write about: what is the nature of love. And after having forged a different path, is there love on the dark side of the moon? Certainly the exploration I did on the sex blog encompassed that idea: finding love in dark places. I did find it. You can read all about it.

I don’t know. Like I said, my dad is dying, and this is just a tornado of emotions, which isn’t making for a very cohesive blog post, but…fuck. What else am I supposed to do. I am my father’s daughter. Brace yourself, blog readers, for a lot of daddy issues-related posts and perhaps some undercurrents of incest. Because, well, isn’t that what you’re here for.

My Demon Is Dying

“It’s only a matter of days.”

Okay. Okay.

I think I’ve been waiting for this to happen for ten years, so now that it’s finally happening I feel like I’ve been hit with a shock wave of reality. It was easy to pretend that this had already happened, that the goodbyes had been said, that when it actually happened it would feel like nothing because he had died a thousand times in my mind already. But now that it’s actually happening – well, I was never going to be totally prepared for the reality of this situation.

Every emotion. Every possible fucking emotion. Which frustrates me because I’d like to think that I’m emotionally stable enough to pick an array of emotions to feel about this and just stay within that limited but manicured set of emotions until those emotions dissipate. But I don’t know how I feel, and I don’t know how I want to feel. Part of me is preparing a paroxysm to parade around, some gushing of tears, the histrionics, wailing and gnashing of teeth, but, honestly, I’m too exhausted for that. Another part of me is filled with wrath, wants to jump up on table tops and shout with joy and spew bitter invectives and churn out harsh truths in a shocking fashion – but I also don’t want to give this that much energy. I want to be polished in whatever shape my sadness takes. Or, I mean, I don’t know if it will be sadness per se. I don’t know if I will cry. Am I supposed to cry? I know that crying is expected and natural, but I don’t know if there are tears in me for this. Am I just going to be…stoic? Unmoved? Indifferent? Is that who I am in the face of the death of my demon?

I would like to feel some sort of release, but I know that’s too much to ask. If anything, all I feel is frustrated. This is so fucking inconvenient. I feel like it’s a last ditch effort to drain me, to cajole me, to make me feel like a little kid all over again. It’s his last ditch attempt at hurting me, and I do not want to be hurt by this all over again. I definitely don’t want to relive all the hurt that he inflicted on me over my entire fucking life time. I will not give that to him. Nor will I dance on his grave – this is my quiet victory, one that I hold close to my heart. I will weather this like a woman, brave and strong. I am not going to sit there and watch him die – I do not want to be filled with bitterness and wrath all over again. That is just another way that he would win.

I want to let this go. I want this to be over with. I want the sadness to come and go. I want the tears to fall down my face or never show up at all. I want the condolences and looks of pity to pass and dissipate. I want to be months away from this already, just as it took me years to get away from him. I want this to be over with. I want him to be over with. I have always wanted him to be over with, and now that the end is near – I want this end to wash over me, and I want my new beginning. Right now.

 

Dating in the Drowning Pool Part II

I roll up to the bar with my new python clutch because, y’know, fuck it, gotta look swagged out at Radio on a Thursday night, right? He notices as I set on the bar and immediately comments, “Oh, you bought yourself a new bag?” Yes. Yes, I did. I also cashed out on a ton of make up and am wearing a lot of it on my face right now because I want to look beautiful even under these red 15 watt light bulbs.

But I know what he means. I know what the implication is here. The implication is that I’m selfish. Blowing money on designer goods isn’t exactly PC here in the Bay Area, but that’s fine, I’m not a PC person.

I also know what the extrapolation of that implication is: selfish women are only out for themselves. Sure, I get it, someone somewhere got burned by some girl who scammed him for a Louis purse, blah, blah, blah, I don’t care. I rue the implication because I see this judgment being levied against so many women I know: if you take care of yourself, try to look good, and exude confidence, you must be some kind of slut who’s out to run men for their money.

WRONG

Yo, it’s almost 2019 and I’m kinda getting sick of people’s very limited, preconceived notions about the concept of love. It’s almost as though people think that we have a limited amount of love that we can dole out in the world, and if you spend all that love on yourself then there must not be any left to give to anyone else, such as a potential boyfriend. Yuck. That’s so small minded.

From personal experience, let me tell you: the more love I have for myself, the more love I have to give to other people. It’s a self reinforcing philosophy, almost as though the more that I practice love inwardly the better I am at showing it outwardly. Crazy, right? The fact that I treat myself with kindness and respect means that I know how to treat other people with (or without) kindness and respect. And the more you practice, the better you are.

I mean, I get why this guy is so miffed by my new purse. That’s a pretty absurd amount of self love. But I don’t believe that there is an upper limit to love, and that’s something that I enjoy exploring with myself. Although, perhaps the real confusion comes from him wondering: how come I have so much love for myself and none for him? That’s easy – he hasn’t earned it.

That’s another piece to the puzzle – how do we earn other people’s love? Love, as a concept in our society, is kinda tacky and commercialized, so there hasn’t been a lot of cultural instruction on how exactly we earn love, receive love, and return love. I find it to be pretty sad because after all these years on Earth, I’ve found that loving people and being loved in return, while laborious and often times quite painful, is my favorite thing to do.

Anyways, so what does it take. I’ve found that there’s a certain amount of time and intimacy that are needed for me to love a person. It tends to be a lot of time and a lot of intimacy (which, honestly, always makes me squeamish, so that’s a hard one to tackle). Also, in terms of romantic love, I’d say that the lower limit for number of orgasms I have to have would probably be 10 (which, in all honesty, could be spread over anywhere from as little as three to as many as twenty sexual encounters).

So, I look at this guy, and I ask myself, is he going to earn my love? Nah. I’m not going to spend any more time with him, and I doubt I’ll ever be emotionally intimate with him, let alone have a satisfying sexual experience with him, so…whatever. I mean, I don’t think I’m every going to earn his love, but I’m also not going to try, so no broken hearts over here. Although, maybe if he spent more time practicing his own brand of self love, we would have gotten a little bit further in this rigmarole because fluency in the language of love – well, as I’m sure you already know, I’m a polyglot.

What Kind Of Secrets Are Buried In An Open Book?

He tells me we’re demons, and I believe him because I know I’m no angel. But as he takes my hand and drags me down, I start to wonder: just because I’m no angel doesn’t make me a demon. It just makes me human. But what is a human on a path like this, down the dirt road of demons. Just another lost soul at the mercy of the devil.

I bump up and swig back because fuck it, I’m here and there’s nothing better to do. This neverworld nepenthe is hitting me straight in the heart, and, as usual, my mouth opens up and the words flow out. I don’t need drugs to talk too much, but when I do drugs I talk even more. It feels almost other worldly as I start saying the stupid things that I always say. Well, it’s not that my stories are dumb but I know they’re a ruse. After years of talking too much, I have learned that not everything I say is true. There just isn’t that much truth in the world. And even though I believe the things I say to be true, it can’t be proven. I talk too much because it’s a good place to hide. The false show of vulnerability. The stories spill out of my mouth – but they’re the same sharply manicured stories that I tell time and time again. The ones that make me look good. The ones that make me look fun. Or crazy. Or interesting. Or fuckable. Or wild. Stories that are true in a sense but that only offer a simulacrum of vulnerability. I am not the person that these stories might make you think I am. Or, rather, I am more than the person in the stories I tell about myself. I know this. The stories that I tell are generally shocking and a bit grotesque, which is meant to make them seem deep and personal. But they’re not. The truly deep and personal stories – you won’t find them regurgitated on one of my blogs or trotted out at party time to make me seem cool. I keep those stories locked up in the back in my mind. You know, the stories that I would actually have to tell if I wanted someone to know who I am and why I am. I don’t tell those stories. Instead, I tell stories that sound good when on a journey of mutual intimacy. They’re good stories. Funny stories. Weird stories. Stories that are meant to make the other person feel like: oh, wow, she’s really opening up and talking about some personal shit. It’s probably safe for me to do the same. It’s not. It’s not safe. Then again, people don’t call me and ask me to come over to fuck because they want to feel safe. Quite the opposite. Which is how I justify the ruse to myself all over again.

Sex & Drugs

I’m high. Do I like myself? Do I like what I’m saying? Do I look okay? Am I being totally ridiculous right now? Am I a total asshole right now? Oh, yeah. This is why I don’t do drugs – the compounded anxiety is almost unbearable as I glide through moments that are lubricated with a sort of stardust and high pitched gleefulness. Sure, I’m high because I wanted to see if it would be more fun to fuck on drugs, but, honestly, after years of fucking and drinking and doing drugs, sex is only marginally better when on drugs. I don’t know. Have I loosened up? Am I being freaky? Am I feeling this too much? The weird thing about sex on drugs is it always makes me ask for waaaay too much kinky shit, and after years of experience, let me tell you, there are not very many people who respond enthusiastically to “Fuck me in the ass and choke me til I pass out.” And the people who do respond enthusiastically probably aren’t the type of people that I actually want in my life. Which is probably why I don’t do drugs and fuck – I don’t need any deeper access to that twisted sex and death fantasy that has defined me for my entire life. I have my inhibitions for a reason – to protect other people.