“The Talk”

What are you into?

Oh, no. *This* conversation.

Well, it was going to come up sooner or later. But as I’m speeding down the 24 on my way home from an unchallenging day at work, I realize: here it is. I probably can’t charm my way out of this question, can I? But I try nonetheless.

I’m into pleasing you

How so? Be specific.

Ggrrrr. The specifics. Exactly what I don’t want to talk about right now. For a lot of reasons. Namely, the specifics are pretty fucking gory. They’re nasty. Disgusting. Perverted. The specifics usually scare off lesser men. And I like this guy. I don’t want to say something that’s too out there. He might run away. The sex so far has been good, and even if that’s as good as it gets, I’ll be fine with that. Why can’t I just hold onto that?

No, I shouldn’t lie. Can’t set that precedent. I should be myself. If I like him for who he has revealed himself to be so far, I should want him to like me for who I really am, too. Let my freak flag fly. Who knows. Maybe he’ll show me some new stuff. Maybe he’ll broaden my sexual horizons. Maybe this conversation is the only thing standing between me and the best sex of my life.

Well, that’s a tall order. Which brings me to the last reason I’m not in the mood for having this conversation. The ex. Yeah. That one. Here he is, again, permeating all my thoughts. How do I have this conversation without thinking about my ex? I don’t think I can. Because up until now, he has been the person who showed me new stuff. The person who broadened my sexual horizons. The best sex of my life.

Every kink and every fetish and every sexual record I ever set has been with him. Sure, he wasn’t my first for a lot of things, but he did all of those things the best. As I’m playing back through my rolodex of sexual kinks, his name is on every card. Check. Yup. We did that. I can’t even begin to think about my sexual proclivities without thinking about him.

How do I say this. I guess I just gotta suck it up and let the mental sex tapes of me and my ex play back in my head as I recollect all the things that I’m into. This is how I make progress, right? This is how I make new memories. Memories without my ex. This is how I move on. So next time I think about puppy play, the most recent memory I have will be with someone else.

So here goes.

Sex in Public, bondage, golden showers, puppy play, anal sex, roman showers, crimson showers, breath play, anything that pushes my physical and sexual limits.

Was that the right answer? Was that what he was looking for? And is that really what I’m into? God, I just had to throw Roman showers in there, didn’t I. Just to feel cool. Ugh, what if this guy comes over and pukes all over my sheets in the middle of sex. No! Not cool! That’s not what I meant! There’s something very specific about that one! Maybe I should have prefaced it with that. Maybe I should have mentioned my well documented sexual philosophy. Or, maybe he should read my blog and does his own homework and figure out that, yes, I love kink, but kink isn’t something that you roll out on a first date. Kink is something you work up to. I’m not going from fucking him two times to letting him puke on me. Or, maybe he knows that? Maybe it’s implied? Is it implied? Sure, the only way you get from vanilla to kink is through communication. Are we communicating properly? Is this how you do it? Or should I tell him: I’ve only done Roman showers once, and it was with my ex, last month. We had been up partying all night, and I woke up the next day nauseous as fuck. I lay in bed for six hours, moaning and dry heaving. I think he had gotten pretty sick of me getting up once an hour to dry heave in the bathroom, so he followed me in, grabbed me by the hair and stuck his finger down my throat. It was so painful and so visceral and so frightening, and he made me puke five times as he shoved my head into the toilet. At the end, he rubbed the puke all over my face, pushed me in the shower and pissed on me. It was so fucking hot.

But, wait, no, I don’t want to talk to him about my ex! I don’t think that’s the communicating I’m trying to do. I’m trying to get away from that, really. Maybe I should tell him: I want you to look me in the eyes while you’re fucking me and tell me, “If you ever leave me I’ll kill you.” I was really into that one. With the knife at my throat. Seeing the hatred in his eyes. Seeing the beast inside the man. The viciousness. The violence. It was so visceral. So exhilarating.

I don’t know. That seems like a lot. I feel like this is a good jumping off point. A good place to, uh, start. Although, if he asks would I drink his piss tomorrow? I don’t know. Do we have that kind of dynamic? I can’t tell yet.

So I ask him what he’s into. What kind of stuff he wants me to do to him. I realize: hey, maybe I don’t have to be full sub on this one. Maybe we can switch. It’s been a long time since I switched. I haven’t tried my hand at topping in a while. I could get into that. That would definitely get my mind off my ex.

I check my phone. I can’t wait to hear what he’s into. My panties are all in a bunch over it. I wanna hear some nasty, dirty, low down, degrading bull shit right now. That’s really going to get my mind off my ex. I take a shower. I come back out. I look at my phone.

Nothing? Hm. Really? Nothing? I check the time stamp. Oof. Thirty minutes. Seriously? I mean, okay, well, am I – yeah, I’m panicking. I’m definitely fucking panicking now. Who leaves a laundry list of dog dirty kinks on read? Fuck. I know the answer to that question: someone who’s been turned off. Someone who’s not into that kind of stuff. Someone who doesn’t know what to say. Or, maybe someone who’s at work and busy. Or someone whose phone died. Or – ugh, who am I kidding. God damn it. There goes my fucking fantasy. There goes my major boner. Did I just play myself? Seriously? Is this it? He’s gonna leave me at “Roman showers” like some sort of fool? Ugh, I fucking hate this shit. Why can’t a girl just let her freak flag fly? I just want to find a nice, kinky, super hot and highly intelligent man who will fuck me for four hours a day. Why is that too much to ask for from the world?!

Date Rant

I was at the bar, because that’s usually where I am, and I was on a date when I realized, oh, look, isn’t the person standing next to me that guy I went on a date with last year? You know, the one who showed up wasted, then got more wasted, and as I was nursing my first drink, he told me he loved me and we should be together forever, but he was still too wasted to even…make out. Yeah. That guy. He’s standing right next to me. He probably knows I’m here. He’s probably standing right there for a fucking reason. Because he knows I’ll see him standing there, eventually, and what he wants to know is: will I stop talking to my date to say hi to him? I don’t. But my date goes to the bathroom, so you know what time it is. Time for this guy to sit down in my date’s chair (how fucking brazen) and act like he hadn’t seen me sitting right there. Cool move, dude. So we chop it up. I’m cordial. It’s a bar. NBD. My date comes back. This guy makes a big deal about, “Oh, sorry, I’m in your seat” and then he chats it up with my date, too, which is, like, whatever, okay, you’re really trying to cool guy my date right now, so I shoo him away after what feels like a polite amount of time so I can continue my date with a man who is not so drunk that I’m uncomfortable to be seen with him in public. Y’know. Unlike that other guy. Eventually, it’s time to go, so I go to the bathroom and my date waits for me outside. As I go to the bathroom, I see some other random guy I went on a date with last year (same time, different guy), wave hi and dash to the bathroom because I have to pee, okay. When I go outside, that guy is talking to my date and another person I’ve never seen before. I’m ready to go, but that guy blocks my date, turns to me, and proceeds to tell me that he’d been thinking about me, and he’d been thinking about calling me. “But you didn’t,” I respond matter of factly. To which that guy responds, “Oh, I can see you’re on a date now, I should have called you.” Like I make my dating decisions on a first come, first serve basis. I don’t. “So, like, what would happen if I called you?” he asks, to which I respond, “TBD” which in retrospect probably wasn’t what I should have said. I should have just laughed in his face but I didn’t feel like putting that much energy into the conversation so instead I said, “We’re leaving,” and abruptly booked it down the block until my date catches up because what kind of brazen bull shit was that? Like, dude, hello, we’re in our 30s, that whole ‘Imma steal your date’ thing is pretty fucking tacky, and that’s coming from a woman who mastered that art ten years ago. I know from doing that time and time again exactly how tacky that is. I know exactly the type of person who can get stolen off their date: a disloyal one. I don’t wanna be around disloyal people. I don’t want to be a disloyal person. I have too much self respect to be like that (nowadays). So I hoof it over to Ruby Room, where I lose very badly at pool while also having a good time, et cetera, et cetera, and the next day I wake up to a text message from that random guy who was DJing that reads something like ‘Good to see you last night. I can tell you don’t really like me.’ Like, what the fuck is this shit? Did God run out of self respect when he was making 90% of the men out there? I didn’t even fuck either of those dudes. Could you imagine what would have happened if I did? Oh, the fuckery that would have ensured. Thank god I’m a better judge of character these days than I was when I was in my 20s. Cuz, Jesus Christ, guys, calm the fuck down. If I didn’t fuck you then, I’m not going to fuck you now, and it’s not a judgment of your personality and your worth as a human being, it’s just that I wasn’t into it, and that’s it. Sucks for you that you missed my slutty phase, although, nah, that’s probably for the best because I was dealing with some really misandrist attitudes back then that resulted in me experimenting with cruelty in my romantic relationships, and you know already a lot of people got their feelings hurt. Things are much better this way. I’ve learned how to be an adult about this whole dating thing. So can you please stop punishing me for that?

The Five Stages of Falling in Love

This is fantastic. I haven’t fallen in love in years. I thought that maybe I had lost my touch. That I had spent all my ‘fall in love free’ chips at the lottery of love already. That there was a limited amount of falling in love I could do before the batteries wore out.

It’s been a long time since I had a crush. Sure, I have crushes all the time, but I mean one that I’ve actually acted on. I thought that maybe I had found every attractive person in Oakland already. That I had worn out my desires. That my loving days had came and went.

Oh, I was wrong.

I’m going to do this. Even though it scares the shit out of me. I’m just going to see where this takes me. Because I’ve been here before, but the vast far away seems so enticing. I have never been there before. I would like to see what kind of strange creatures live out there. In this new land of falling in love with someone new.

Or is this a mirage, and will I be here forever, in the land of breaking up.

Tinder Date #1

Eiw. Tinder. I’m back on here. The last time I went on a Tinder date was January 2018 (right after my abortion), and before that was January 2015 (with a handsome young gigolo). And before that one time I invited a Tinder date to a Japanther show at Sugar Mountain and had sex (perhaps with my Tinder date, perhaps with someone else? Don’t remember.) in the bathroom. Now, here I am, back on Tinder, and I’m actually trying this time as opposed to just broadening my sluttery. Weird.

I was driving over to the bar after work when it suddenly occurred to me: am I nervous? Should I be nervous? No, I’m not nervous, I don’t get nervous. I’m not that type of person. But I’m feeling…something. Am I scared? Yes, I’m definitely scared. What if this person roofies me and I get in my car and crash it? What if this goes horribly awry? Am I on game? I’m always on game, but what if I was a horrible judge of character on Tinder and something awful and violent happens? No, I’m not that bad of a judge of character. Not the best, but not the worst. In all honesty, worst case scenario is that this guy says something maga-esque and I have a temper tantrum. No, worst case scenario: I like this guy, we date, and he tries to beat me and then I have to kill him. Oh, god. What if he’s ugly? What if I get cat fished? That’s going to bother me. But, okay, here I am, parking my car, walking to the bar, doing it regardless because I try to remind myself that who knows! Maybe this is the next love of my life! I’ll also settle for fun hook up. I’m open to a wide range of options here.

We settle into conversation. Okay, not a magat. Not homophobic. Not whorephobic. He checks those boxes. I can tell that I’m being too effusive, that I’m talking too much. I’m dominating the conversation. I talk about the history of Emeryville for some stupid reason, probably because I love talking about all the old school casinos and Ken Bukowski, the gay mayor who used to own a black night club and then brought Bay Street to Emeryville while also possibly being a meth addict. Ugh, I’m talking too much. I always talk too much. I do that when I’m nervous, or I’m excited. I make eye contact. No! Too much eye contact! That was weird! I sip on my drink, but I remind myself: slowly, girl. Slowly. Don’t come off as a lush. That’s weird.

I inhale and let him talk about a few things. I do a quick analysis. Could I fuck this guy? Sure. Tonight? No, because I drove here and I have a two drink maximum for getting behind the wheel, so this is just a meet and greet. I can already feel out what some of his character flaws might be, although it occurs to me that I’m using my ex as the measuring stick for character flaws, which might be a horrible measuring stick. This guy is definitely not a narcissist. I can tell because he’s not shoving his personality down my throat and actually listening to my rambling in an attentive manner. So why is there some part of me that is waving the red flag? Why is not being a narcissist a problem? Oh, jeez. My ex got me, didn’t he? I’m now categorically attracted to narcissists because there’s something about unbounded and unrealistic confidence that I have acclimated my attraction to. Fuck. But, wait, maybe I shouldn’t be seeking out a narcissist because didn’t I just break up with a narcissist because that wasn’t any good for me? Why am I comparing this person I just met to the last person I broke up with? Am I looking for someone to replace my ex? If I wanted to do that, I could just pick up the phone and call him and beg him to take me back. Sure, it’d be a bit of a gamble, but if I really, really believed that was what I wanted, I would do it. But I haven’t done that. I haven’t texted him or called him or tried to run into him. Because I don’t want that. I want something different. Which is why I’m here.

This is new. This is different. This could work. I could make it work. Oh, no, why am I jumping fifteen steps ahead. I think I’m still in relationship mode, which is chill if I decide I want to jump immediately into a new relationship, but, Jesus, chill the fuck out. This is two drinks and nothing else. One step at a time. Perhaps I should pat myself on the back for having found someone who isn’t an overt meninist because after what my friends told me I was a bit wary that that might be the case.

Okay, I’m cool. I’m back in the dating world. I drive home, feeling weird about the whole situation. Is this how people do relationships nowadays? Are we supposed to…I mean, what comes after this? Do we fall in love? Fuck around? Stay in each others’ lives for the next five to ten years? Ghost each other? Become friends? Or fuck buddies? Let it peter out into nothingness? God. Starting a new human relationship is so fucking complicated and difficult. I should probably be sending pitches to agents. But I’m not. I’m doing this instead.

Wish me luck.

Modern Romance

Swipe, swipe, swipe, swipe. It’s happening. It’s really Fucking happening. I am online dating. Or at least trying. God, it’s like wading into a faceless sea of terrifying dicks again. I used to love doing this. I was so good at this five years ago. I guess the slow grind of pseudo-relationships had really made me feel complacent about finding someone with whom I could actually have a future.
This is terrifying. I talk to my [few remaining single] friends, and, oof, they are not reassuring me. They regale me with stories of loneliness and peril, bad sex and bad men. I used to love hearing these stories from the comfort of a sexually active, consistently affectionate and very adequate relationship. But now. I’m one of them. Out here to have my time, money and emotions wasted in one of the scariest ways possible. Online dating.
In the wake of a break up, I’ve found that I’m drawn to trite aphorisms more so now than ever before. I feel incredibly cheesy admitting this, but, hey, it’s a coping mechanism. As I was swiping through Tinder, I came across a profile that said, “The most difficult decision you’ll ever make is deciding whether to stay and make it work or leaving and doing something new.” Ouch. Jesus. I really didn’t come here to be filled with regret. I didn’t come here so I could sit and ponder whether or not giving up on my last relationship was the right decision or should I have tried harder.
I made the right decision. Even as I sit here and miss the little things about him. Waking up next to him. Listening to music as we drove around together. Wandering around Target. I tell myself that all those things can be replaced by someone who treats me better in the big picture. But as I listen to my friends’ horror stories, I wonder: did I give up something that was good enough? Should I have been content with that status quo?
Or should I want more in life.
I want more.