The Salchow

I started skating too old to ever be good at it, but young enough to think I might be OK and be thrilled by the ride.

For a year, I whizzed through things at a speed that dazzled me. Stroking. Cross-overs. Back crossovers. Mohawks. 3 turns. Two-foot spin. One-foot spin. Waltz jump. Shoot the duck. Patch (in the old day, we did figure 8s for 45 minutes at a time). Salchow.

I never did the salchow. The salchow wrecked ice-skating for me. I spent 6 months miserable about my inability to do a salchow; where I had once seen achievement, now I just saw failure.

In order to do a salchow, you start with a 3 turn (which is a sudden half turn--you are going one way on the ice and all of sudden your blade makes a little 3 and turns itself the other way while you are still in the same position, headed the same direction--it makes a 3 (on its side) on the ice). Normally, you'd check the rotation so that you stopped spinning, but with a salchow, you don't--you let your body start to spin in a somewhat uncontrolled fashion. Then you take you use that momentum to hurl yourself up and over the standing foot, doing a full turn onto the free leg. (Someone has a better description.)

If you ask me, I can do this jump on land. No problem. Easy. I can explain the physics of it. I know how it works. I can feel the 3-turn and I can feel the jump out of the 3-turn in my bones. What I can't do is this damn jump.

You have a fraction of a second to do this jump. You have to do the timing correctly. If you hesitate, you've lost that 3-turn and have to start over again.

You cannot talk yourself into it. Your brain will never get you there. Your muscles have to trust it. Crave it. You cannot have fear and successfully land it. The problem is, without having landed it, your muscles clench because they don't know it is safe. All day long, your muscles keep you safe. As you start to slip in the rain, they so "no--let's keep you right up." That muscle-memory makes it possible to do so much without having to think about it. Anti-skid brakes for our lives. It is an amazing system. But I can't turn it off. I can force myself to do the 3-turn a hundred times in an afternoon. I can force myself to release rotation and spin. I can let go of that much control. But I can't get that final piece. I've tried.

There are 2 ways I could actually do the salchow. I landed one once, when I was at a friend's wedding and I was drunk. The alcohol 'inhibited my inhibitions' as someone might say. But I don't want to be using alcohol like that too much (and it isn't practical--ice-skating rinks don't serve or allow alcohol, except at private parties). Or I could learn pair's skating and have a man throw me into the jump. Practically speaking, I doubt seriously that any coach would encourage a pair to do a throw salchow when the lady couldn't land it on her own. But that very much appeals to me.

I hope that this doesn't remain a metaphor for my erotic life and I can learn the pair jump that I could never do on my own.

Addicted to Dating?

There is an energy going on in my life right now that I don't like to admit. I seem to be slightly addicted to the attention I'm getting from men. I was at a vanilla party tonight and several guys flirted with me. (Cute, professional, sweet guys!) I doubt I'd go out with a vanilla guy because 'that conversation' is just way too overwhelming to me. But I am addicted to men's attention and approval, even when I'm not interested in them.

It isn't addicted in an extreme sense of the word--I'm not going to have a 'girls-gone-wild' moment. But there is a strong sense that I need that attention. I like the fact that I seem to always have at least one man who is interested in me, and I miss him (whoever "he" is at any given moment) when he isn't there. But, truth to tell, since John they've all been rather interchangeable.

Steven didn't e-mail me from 12:59 pm yesterday until 6:32 pm today. Why that is 29 hours! Intellectually, I think 'well, he has a life. Duh, and good for him.' I wouldn't want someone with no life, but, well, I missed him. I missed the validation as well as the terrific conversations we've been having. And, when I saw he'd been on the CollarMe, where we met, twice today without e-mailing me, I started to get rather nervous about the entire thing, re-read e-mails to see if I'd said something wrong, replay phone conversations in my head. Really rather neurotic.

But Steven is the current in a long line of men that have been unable to truly capture me (and, truth to be told, several of them haven't been interested enough to capture me--I'm kindof high maintenance in my own unique way--I don't like fancy meals, but I want to know the depths of a man's soul, which means he doesn't only have to visited it, he has to communicate it!), and yet their energy is necessary to how I currently live my life. I wouldn't want to not have the attention because I thrive off of it. I was even glad that the ex tried, rather clumsily, to get me in bed last week.

I'm not sure if this is really unhealthy, or if it is a little healthy. The unhealthy side seems to be a need for energy that I can't fulfill myself. I'm relying on something I'm getting from others. I need external validation.

At the same time, we all live in various stages of relatedness. We need that relatedness. Maybe it is just healthy that I'm finally admitting I want to have connectedness with others. I am vulnerable and I'm comfortable with the fact that I'm not fully self sufficient.

Meanwhile, I'm having dinner with John tomorrow--and I'm rather nervous about that. I don't know how to be with him as a friend and not wish it could be more. How to not have it cut away at my self-esteem and confidence and just quietly erode my sense of self. I want to try. I value so much about him, but if I have to pick one of the two of us, I'll have to pick me. I think, ultimately, we could maybe be a 'let's-get-together-once-ever-couple-of-months' friends--but I can't have those searing, soul connected, intimate conversations I've had in the past. The fact that he didn't want me enough to persue me rings through our encounters and undercuts the joy.

June to September

So an older man is wooing me---17 years older. I have graciously blown off dozens of men that age, but this one is different.

Most of the older men attempt to seduce me with money. I've literally had men offer to pay my mortgage, or hints of expensive meals, clothes, whatever. I'm not a call girl, and have no intention of being anyone's mistress, however graciously it is shaded. I have a 'sugar daddy' (who shares half my DNA), who paid for my undergrad tuition and helped me get grants for grad school. Having been already bought by daddy, I am so uninterested in being resold at a lower price, however good the loot is.

This man, let's call him Steven, came at me through my weakness--he actually started reading much of what I've written, responding, offering bits of himself and his own vulnerablity. The youth (what little I have left of it)-money tradeoff would never work. But youth for wisdom, for insight, for understanding, sharing, recognition and maybe some great sex thrown in down the road, that is a rather heady possiblity. Secretly, I sometimes sing "Someone to watch over me" in the shower. And "The Man I Love." "I'm a little lamb whose lost in the wood. I know I could, always be good, to one who'll watch over me."

Of course it is all internet right now. He has a ton of office parties, as do I, but I'd gladly make time to grab a drink--he wants to wait till January, which I don't like. Again, it is those searing internet conversations that dabble around hopes, vulnerabilities, fears and wishes. We haven't had the level of vulnerability that John and I shared, but John wasn't as wise, and didn't guide the process. (John will be amazing when he's Steven's age--wow! I hope I can find a way to have him in my life in a way that is healthy and not just numbing me out and making me feel rejected. Doubtful, but more likely if I meet someone else, and I'm willing to try.) I don't know how many times I can bare my soul to a stranger, have it not work, pick up the pieces and not try to armor myself more effectively for the future. And, of course, that armor is what makes me unattractive. But the process of going forth without it terrifies me.

My biggest fear about the age thing is that I would really love to find someone to grow old with. I can't imagine that any man would be interested in me when I'm in my 60s. I don't want to start over then. And yet, I know that is an unknown. I may die before then. If Steven can match me, maybe even guide me, it might be worth risking. Who knows who I might become with someone to watch over me?

Fear and Desire

Why do fear and desire so often accompany each other? Usually, a little fear just wakes me up, excites me, makes me feel a little more alive. Whether it is biking aggressively is traffic and taking corners too fast, roller-coasters or pushing myself skiing, the fear makes it all a little sharper and more vital.

But when it comes to sex, and even more extremely S&M, the fear is much greater even as the risks are less. Surely biking in rush hour traffic, dodging taxis and delivery trucks and potholes is far more dangerous. Cabs don’t stop for safewords and gravity doesn’t check your eyes to see how you are doing.

It is the fear of who I might become, or maybe who I actually am, even as I’ve done my best to play the ‘nice, sweet, innocent, and pure’ part.

A dance concert this week juxtaposed some flamenco dancers with a couple of African women. The European ladies were uptight, upright, controlled, and composed. The African women were uncontrolled, joyous, and spontaneous; it is a tradition so despised in the European world that it has been reviled, mocked and compared to animals. The European composition, control, and denial runs in my very veins. Even in my blog about sex, I’m careful to be consistent in my inclusion of the Oxford comma. Control and denial.

And what are my fears if I follow my denial? On one level, I have rational fears that it could make my job much harder, but those, just like unwanted pregnancy, are dealt with and controlled.

The visceral fears that control my behavior are much more primal—that I will surrender entirely to my desires—that I will lose my sense of self, my chance to impact the world, the respect I have in one long, shuddering orgasm. Think Agave, in The Bacchae, tearing off the head of my own son as I've lost all contact with reality, morality, logic or my individuality. The Greeks believed we needed to balance the primal with the logic. In contrast, since the fall of the Roman Empire, the Europeans have tended towards binary views: the Puritans simply banished erotic yearnings in favor of the logical. In the 20th century, Jung said basically women were ruled entirely by eros while men were ruled by logic.

I still want a little fear--enough to keep me vital, alive and aware, but I hope to find people who can lead me through it and not allow the fear to imprison me in motionless stasis.

Is Maureen Dowd Necessary?

(Apologies to someone or other, who already had that title a year ago, but a very different review follows.)

Maureen Dowd, in Are Men Necessary, and some columns like “Should Hillary Pretend to be a Flight Attendant,” proposes the theory that men avoid women who are as smart or ambitious as they are. Quoting a Slate article, Dowd seems to believe “They preferred women whom they rated as smarter — but only up to a point ... It turns out that men avoided women whom they perceived to be smarter than themselves. The same held true for measures of career ambition — a woman could be ambitious, just not more ambitious than the man considering her for a date.”

There are other reasons to believe that men avoid women who are smarter or more ambitious. The Chronicle of Higher Education reported that only 5% of women with PhDs will get married after completing their doctorate.

I’m an over-educated, ambitious woman; I’m quite smart according to conventional intelligence assessments. And I’m single.

But I believe Dowd and the Slate study have it wrong. The study in the Slate article was odd. It looked only at seemingly quantifiable statistics but asked the daters to rank the opposite sex based on intelligence, looks and ambition. It had NO assessment of actual intelligence or ambition, only looks. (They had someone outside the study rank the looks of the participants. If any quantifiable intelligence testing or ambition ranking happened, the authors never mentioned it.) The participants ranked the potential partners after a 4-minute conversation. In other words, this isn't real intelligence, it is whether someone has an aura of intelligence. Same with ambition.

People of quality don’t date on quantifiable data. We date on how someone feels, their energy, their ability to engage, connect, and develop an interplay and interconnection. Men, at least men of quality, would never say “oh, her IQ is 5 points higher than mine—I’m not interested.” Please! Same with ambition. No man of quality is going to say “well, her dream job is .387% more prestigious than my dream job. Next.” But they will notice a woman who is focused primarily on that. Anyone who is able to convince someone else of 'being intelligent" in a four minute conversation, is probably focused on that. In my experience, real intelligence isn't about using big words that impress, intimidate and don't communicate (although I can deconstruct heteronormative, hegemonic paradigms with superlative if superfluous alacrity).

Maureen Dowd is in the top half a percent of most influential people in the country, and she is trying to prove she is in the top quarter of a percent. She proves herself all the time. She clutches. Her energy has tighter, narrower waves that feel constricted.

Until 2005, very few men found me attractive, and until 2005, I would have bought right into Dowd’s theory. But in 2005, I quit a power job that made me miserable. By 2006, I had as many dates, vanilla and otherwise, that a gal could wish for. I’m not stupider or less ambitious than I was in 2005; in fact, if anything, I’m a smidgen more successful because I stopped making a compromise that made me deeply unhappy. But my energy shifted.

I used to go through life saying “I can do it myself. I don’t need your help.” I clawed my way, not to the top, but to spitting distance from the top. But all I wanted was to reach the top because my life disappointed my soul and I desperately needed a change. I clung to any hope that would transform my life.

Once I quit a job I hated, which I viewed entirely as a stepping stone to a job that I would hate less, I stopped clutching as much. My energy became less tight, less closed, more welcoming and reciprocal. When I proved myself at work, all the time, I also proved myself in the rest of my life. I couldn’t turn that off.

Few of us, of any gender, are interested in lovers, friends, or even work colleagues, who spend sizeable amounts of time proving themselves. It isn’t a warm dynamic.

As I shifted my relationship to work, more men became interested in me, which made me more confident, which meant more men became interested in me. In the last year, I’ve become as picky in my private life as I am in my job. No one would look at me and say “wow—I bet she has multiple men interested in her.” I’m plump, don’t wear too much make-up and spend little energy on my appearance. I mean, my hair is clean, but sunscreen is the only facial product I use religiously.

But I am happy. My energy is good, and that strong energy has room to give and room to accept. I can listen to men and be interested in them. Granted, I won't see them again if they aren't also interested in me, but I no longer demand to be the center of attention.

Now, this does not mean I don’t support women’s achievement at whatever they desire. And there is an unfair result of sexism—it is harder for women to achieve the same level that men achieve with the same effort. That unfair playing field makes it more likely that women will clutch and fight to achieve their dreams. But women need to realize they have far more control over their destinies than the Maureen Dowds of the world give us credit for. We can very much affect how we are perceived by making a life where we are happy and content. And it does little good to blame the individual men we date for the unfair playing field.

Slippery Slope Slouching towards "SLUT"

So, I’ve agreed to meet Ben for drinks on Wednesday, followed by a trip to a hotel room where I will take off my clothes and his belt for what follows next.

This terrifies me. Absolutely petrifies. I can’t think about it. I can’t even get myself off in the safety of my own bed because this is hanging over me, scaring me and I can’t think about sex without freaking out. All I can think about is his hand on my cheek. The feeling of his hand running down my cheek as he looked in my eyes has replaced the feeling of my ex slapping me hard and telling me to shut up. There is a kindness and a cherishing and a taking control there that I need to follow.

Despite that, I feel like the ‘before’ in an anti-drug commercial where the ‘after’ involves some crystal meth addict in a trailer park without an ounce of dignity or soap in the vicinity—like there is this slippery slope and if I have a relationship based more on erotic energy than all the trust, love, emotional intimacy, respect, etc—then I’m a slut and practically a prostitute. Twice in my life I met someone with this intense erotic interaction and both times I ran far away, as quickly as I could, and wondered what it would have been like to follow that.

It amazes me the power of the word ‘slut’ to control my behavior. I don’t even believe in that demarcation, and I certainly don’t intellectually think it applies to people until they are above a certain number of partners (figure their age, minus 16). And yet it resonates in my bones. I may be into S&M, but I’m sure as hell not promiscuous!

In addition to the slut factor, I’m scared of him seeing me naked. I look good in clothes (although I’m more insecure than I think men realize. When I weighed 20 pounds more, men always told me I was beautiful. Many more men try to pick me up on the street, but once a guy has picked me up, he never tells me I’m beautiful any more. Intellectually, I don’t think it is because I’m looking too old—I think it has to do with men not thinking I need to hear it, but I still need to hear it.

But my stomach. It isn’t flat. It jiggles. It’s just not sexy. I keep imaging him looking at my stomach and saying ‘yeah—no thanks!’

Given that I’ve had two men who saw my soul, who saw who I am under whom I pretend to be and said “yeah—no thanks” I spose this is safer. My stomach isn’t all of me, the way John and the man before him saw me deep down.

Ben says it isn’t that he is looking for a fling—he wants a long-term relationship but he wants to establish the D/s dynamic from the beginning. I partly believe him. I believe him enough to try, but intellectually, I don’t think that is the case.

Women Work!

I made dinner tonight. First time I've ever hosted a holiday dinner. Now, that might not sound very impressive, but, as a woman who's done some damn impressive stuff (e-mail me if you want the resume, but suffice to say I've wended my way into three of the Who's Who In American __________ books), I have to say, making dinner took more skill, patience and planning than many of my accomplishments.

A nice dinner, not particularly impressive. My grandmother would have been gracious and lovely, but not the least bit impressed. A stuffed turkey, mashed potatoes, homemade cranberry relish, brussel sprouts, green beans, a salad, some 'fresh' (Pillsbury) bread. Someone else handled desert. My grandmother would have made hordorves (and I don't even know how to spell them!), at least 4 green veggies (2 with beautiful sauces, 2 'just' steamed for the healthy folk), and probably 3 different kinds of potatoes (mashed, scalloped and sweet potatoes), with 2 different kinds of stuffing (maybe 3--one in each end of the bird and a third one baking in the oven) and a homemade pie. Or 3--pumpkin, lemon meringue and pecan so everyone had their favorites.

How the hell did she do it? Just trying to time everything so that each hot item happened to hit its peak temperature at the exact same time when I only have 4 elements and one oven and everything takes longer or shorter and you can't overcook or undercook anything would take the planning of a lawyer. I literally took out a pad of paper, wrote everything down, figured out the order, checked each thing off as it was done and put little stickies in the serving dishes to know what would go where. And still, I forgot about gravy, undercooked the bread and overcooked the green beans.

One top of it, my grandmother was a paragon of patience. PATIENCE!!!! In the midst of holiday cooking, she always had the perfect task that would let me help (yeah, right a 7 year old in her beautiful kitchen helping)--she must have planned them out the night before. I could safely peel, polish and stir without supervision. "Sweetie--I forgot to polish this, and you are so good at polishing--would you please?" ) I nearly yelled at several family member by the time the night conclued. "Please! Let me have my kitchen to myself?!" I felt like I must be channeling unknown women from generations past, but they all knew what they were doing and did it with such grade--it seemed effortless and fun!

After everyone had gone, and the kitchen returned to normalcy, I spent half an hour washing my table cloth. It is about 70 years old. Hand embroidered--white on white linen. All along the edges, about 5 inches in, is a geometric pattern, then another rectangle further in, then beautiful flowers. My grandmother embroidered this. It must have taken hundreds of hours, and there are a few places it is falling a little apart. Stunningly beautiful. Such love and care and skill. I never even realized someone had to clean the tablecloth, not to mention embroider it. She never had a 'career.' I asked once what she did during WWII and she said "just a housewife--I wasn't one of those interesting women." I adored her, but for someone that hates being taken for granted, I'm stunned by how much I took her for granted.

Date Rape

Every communication textbook in the country says something like "Where there is a conflict between verbal and non-verbal communication, humans trust the non-verbal." You know it is true. Someone says "Oh. Great to see you" and the way they say it is all that matters.

And yet, there are young men in prison for trusting non-verbal communication instead of verbal communication. "No means no" intone posters, counselors and just about everyone who is asked. And a firm clear "No" does mean "no."

But what about "no" with a giggle, a laugh, a smile, a blush, a slow and meaningful downward cast, a biting of the lower lip, or an inching of the body closer? What about "Oh, I don't think we should do this?" with a laugh and an subtle arching of the back to raise the breasts just a little bit closer? What does that mean?

We may want to have a model where men must get consent rather than an absence of dissent, but I'd sure hate that. I can't stand it when men ask permission to kiss me! Trust my body language. Trust me to articulate what I need, but lead this dance, please! But in today's environment, a man would be a fool to take that stance trustingly.

The current view on date rape actually disempowers women, because it makes us helpless. 95% of all men (I actually believe higher) would never want to force a woman to have sex, without her acquiescence. But, there are women who do want to be led. "Bodice Rippers" is a very popular romance genre. There are women who don't want responsiblity for their desires. And frankly, given how totally fucked up our society is about women's sexuality, there are quite a few women who do give mixed signals.

Women are socialized to be polite, charming and gracious. We are sent unbelievable mixed signals--something along the lines of "you aren't lovable if you are beautiful. Only a man can determine whether you are beautiful, and he'll prove it by wanting to sleep with you. So if you aren't having sex (or enough sex), you probably aren't beautiful or lovable and you are a failure as a woman. But if you are having sex (or too much sex), you are a slut, and practically a whore and have no worth but your sexuality, which is so cheap it ain't worth much anyway. So it is no wonder women send such mixed signals.

In the face of this confusing mess, we need more conversation, more respectful dialogue. A century ago (more or less), Tolstoy, Ibsen, Strindberg, DH Lawrence and the Brontes were all trying to figure out how the hell we can navigate relationships with women being partners. Today, we have almost no dialogue. We know the models don't work for us, but we're too scared to talk openly about what might work.

Over a year ago, I came close to being a victim of date rape. I met a guy I couldn't stand. I really didn't believe we had any chemistry whatsoever--he'd spent 20 minutes lecturing me on how global warming wasn't happening and the next 20 minutes about how Paul Krugman didn't really understand economics. When he took of his jacket he had a t-shirt on that I found deeply offensive.

He suggested we go to his place to watch a movie. I said "I don't think that's a good idea" and 3 times he promised he would be a "perfect gentleman." Worried someone from work might see me with his t-shirt, and trusting that there was no chemistry, it seemed a polite way out of the evening. Careful to not give a non-verbal opening, I sat on the edge of the couch, as far away from him as possible with a rigidly straight back, with my legs crossed away from him and my arms folded in my lap.

Needless to say, he and I had different ideas as to how a 'perfect getleman' behaves. I don't need to give the details--you've heard them a hundred times. But after fending him off for a moment, I took a step back to try to figure out what the hell was going on and I realized, I was apologizing! "I'm sorry, but...," "I don't think...." "This doesn't seem..." What the hell? I didn't want to be rude! I was taught to be polite. Always. Gracious and warm and ingratiating.

Once I realized what I was doing, I shoved him off me, stood up, got my coat and left. Now, I would never go out with that twit again. Even if I'd been remotely interested, I cannot forgive a man who makes me be rude to him. But once I sent a very clear message that "No, I'm leaving" it immediately stopped. I don't believe his behavior that evening was acceptable, but I also don't believe it should be something that results in years in prison and a life-time label of 'sex offender.'

So Conservative in Private!

I'm a raving liberal in public. I mean really liberal.

So why the hell am I so conservative, in some ways, in my private life? I have never done the casual sex thing. Not once. I've tried to get myself there, but I just can't do it. It feels like it would mortally damage my integrity or numb my soul or something. Which is rather bizarre, because I really don't think there is anything wrong with it. No--it is more than that, I want a fling. I mean, I'd really like a serious relationship, but I don't see one on the horizon. And being fucked to fabulous depths actually makes me a hell of a lot more attractive, and more men show up.

Every single time I've had a purely sexual reaction to someone, I've run away from it.

There was a man in college who I think had some pretty kinky tendencies, and I still regret not getting involved with him. But I couldn't do it.

I think, somehow or other, I picked up that entire 'Madonna/Whore' complex. Different because I'm only interested in having a serious relationship that has amazing sex, but I still want to be the 'good girl,' who doesn't sleep around. Just have amazing sex without promiscuity.

And here I am with Ben and Mike. Ben says it could be ltr, but he wants to establish the D/s dynamic before we do any more vanilla stuff. Mike desperately wants an LTR, offered to introduce me to his family this weekend, wants to meet my sister, and we still haven't kissed! And here I am saying, OK--I'm going to do my damnedest to follow these through and see where it leads. (I have not mislead either guy--I wouldn't lie!)

But I can't sleep at night. I lie in bed and my mind races, because first I get excited about the possiblities with Ben and then I start to freak out. And we can't even get together till December because of family obligations over the holidays. But my gut feeling is that I can't surrender to Ben without giving him far more of my heart than he wants to take responsiblity for. I'm going to try, but I've never pulled that one off.

Seduction in a Feminist, Patriarchal and Aware Society

I sometimes wonder if I really am a feminist, or if I'd better be labeled a humanist. We live in a society that is still patriarchal in many ways, but there are places where the feminist movement has over-reached in ways that are unfair. Specifically, I believe we need to have more honest discussions about sex, seduction, date rape and alimony. I'll deal with the other two later, but let's look at seduction.

I would not want to be a young man today, or frankly, a young woman. Men are not being allowed proper outlet for seductive energy. I do believe the "Antioch" rules were overblown by a conservative backlash. (Antioch has a code that explicit permission must be ascertained before any increase in physical intimacy in pursued by a person. However, Antioch has been quite reasonable in implementation--it is important to note that if both parties are implementing an increase intimacy, then no explicit permission need be given.) That said, seduction is being criminalized at the same time a preschooler is charged with inappropriately touching a staff member. The simple fact is, some men are lacking in social skills and don't know how to read body language, and many women send mixed signals (hardly surprising in a society that tells women they are only as valuable as their physical looks and the only way to prove that is for men to want to sleep with them, and if they aren't having sex, they must be really ugly, but if they are it is because they are total sluts with no morals).

But in trying to deal with the men who are not developmentally mature enough (or will always be clueless) we are not allowing the dance of seduction to occur. Every single one of my vanilla girlfriends wants a man that will grab her hair and take her. (Oh, and for the record gentlemen, the correct way to grab a woman's hair is NOT like a ponytail--run your hand up her scalp then curl each finger individually so that you have a little hair in each finger, then pull your fingers into a fist, but not too tight--don't break our hair! It is many of ours best feature!!) Only when we are fine with it. Only after we have decided we want it. But we all have that same, primal, desire. Men asking permission to kiss us? No! NO! NO!!! Not sexy. Get our permission from our body language. Accidentally brush up against our hands. Notice if we lean in towards you or away. If our hand is on the arm rest in a movie, chances are we are fine holding hands. If our arms are crossed over our chest and we've crossed our legs away from you--we aren't interested.

But don't reduce the dance of seduction to a contract negotiation:
"Pardon me--could I lean in two inches closer to you?"
"Why yes, but only if you don't mind if I hold eye contact a second longer than is normal."
"Well, that would be fine as long as I can accidentally touch your hand when I'm walking by."
"That's doable, as long as I can laugh a little longer at your joke."
"OK--but then I'm going to hold your eye contact for three seconds, smile, and nod like I know what you are thinking."
"Alright, but only if I can realize you know what I'm thinking, blush, look down, get over it, and look back in your eyes with a little more presence."

It's beautiful and elegant and delicious and makes a gal's toes curl. And fewer and fewer men trust their instincts to do it. In part because of all the mixed signals going on right now. But in part because all the fear about sexual harassment is telling men they can't trust their instincts. That they are predators and that is bad and they need to be nice, thoughtful, men who never take the lead. Maybe we need to go back to teaching everyone ballroom dancing--at least then there was a parameter for negotiating the dance of seduction.

Ah, Maureen Dowd

I had planned to blog about Dowd's last column, the one about "Should Hillary Pretend to be a Flight Attendant." The question that seems to haunt Dowd is Why can't she seem to land a rock? She clearly seems to want one. Now that the late, great and much missed Molly Ivins has left for a great political protest in the sky, Dowd is the most visible, competent female columnist in the country. (Of course Coultergeist is more visible, but given all the insane things that woman has said, let's do our best to ignore her?) I'll talk about this issue later, but in the meanwhile, let's look at today's column: "Shake, Rattle and Roll."

This isn't a particularly political blog (although I'm a very political person), so I'm not going to go through a long list of Dowd's insane attacks against liberal politicians. Her vitriol against Al Gore took every nasty right-wing rumor and dressed it up with a little respectability. She has been hounding left-wing politicians with factually inaccurate issues for ages now.

But today's column takes this to a new level. Clearly Dowd knows her way around the BDSM world: Hillary is a "control freak," "the Debate Dominatrix" who "started disciplining" and "has continued to flick the whip," "using her voice, gaze and body language to such punishing effect that Obama looks as if he has been brought to heel." "After a tortured exchange... she owned him."

Meanwhile Obama, being a nice, sensitive guy, is clearly not a real man. He is pussy-whipped. "Obama does care." "He responds to the sort of belittling treatment," which makes sense because "he lives with another strong woman who knows how to keep him in line" and is "a master at the art of the loving conjugal put-down."

Rudy, on the other hand, is a real man. "Rudy will not be so easy to spank." He's probably a top too, and will "will go with relish to all the vulnerable places."

OK. So I don't think the BDSM references are just in my head. Dowd seems pretty obsessed with this stuff. If I were to do to Dowd what she does to everyone else, I would guess she's pretty obsessed with the BDSM stuff, but hasn't acted on it and still keeps it at the 'eww' factor in order to avoid coming to terms with her own desires. If I had to guess (and I do read her columns and even made it through her last book, Are Men Necessary), she would love to submit, but is from a generation where women had to fight for every ounce of power and so it just seems too horrible to admit that, on some level, some of the traditional values, 'men should be in charge' folks are right for some people some of the tim. How the hell can they be right? She's one of the most powerful fivethousand people in the country! There's no way in hell she's going to let her own nature betray her ambition that way. But that sort of arm-chair psychoanalysis of a public figure is silly. Almost as silly as most of Maureen Dowd's columns.


But this kind of talk drives me insane (and not in the good way). It is part of the marginalization of kinky folk and has a voyeuristic, tittering, smirking quality. Maybe most of the "of course, I'm not into that" are really wishing to submit to whatever their desires are. "Can you believe, oh my God! No one should do that." It enforces social norms by shame and humiliation.

Additionally, the idea that if someone is submissive they are weak is a stereotype, that, in my experience, is just not true! Speaking for myself, when I have a lousy job where I have to be subservient during the day, I have no interest in surrendering at night. I only ever surrender at night when I have authority and respect during the day.

Finally, someone who does want to dominate needs to do it with respect for the needs of the person they are dominating (duh). I bought into this stereotyped rendition of treating someone like absolute crap and ran away for a long time because of it. It continues a marginalization that serves to make it all the harder for people coming to terms with what truly excites them.

Dominance & Surrender

I had a pang of regret stuck in traffic yesterday. In many ways, I am doing with Ben what I couldn't do with John. My inability to do it with John may be why we couldn't work. Why, oh why? I care about John much more than I think I will care about Ben, and even if Ben and I work on a sexual level, we would not have the emotional intimacy that John and I exuded in every interaction.

But I realized--John never dominated me. John would say "I'm going to whip you this week" and I'd say "Oh! Too fast" and then he'd pull away. He wouldn't talk me through my hesitation, he wouldn't guide or convince or insist. He suggested, and if I couldn't go along with the suggestion, he relented (although I think he resented it). No cajoling. No looking in my eyes and saying "baby--you know this is right. You need to give yourself to me." I wish I could have given John that without needing reassurance, without needing to be dominated, without needing, on some level, to not have a choice in the matter. I think, ultimately, John wasn't really into the D/s--just the SM, and I swim in the D/s waters. SM is just a way of exploring the D/s.

Ben, on the other hand, hasn't worked to have any intimacy on an emotional level. We haven't talked about our families, our hurts, our vulnerabilities. He doesn't know where my insecurities are, or where I've been hurt or what I want to be when I grow up, or that I still don't think of myself as grown up. None of that. But he looks in my eyes and says "you know you will give yourself to me" and I do. I so wish I could have it all, but maybe the universe doesn't work that way.

Ah... surrender

I layer my moods as carefully as I layer my makeup. We are meeting just after work--I'm in the field today so I go casual: jeans and a casual top, with a wonderbra. In the parking lot I slip into boots with 4" heels give me the sexy-but-casual-look I covet. (He is 6 feet, so that puts me a couple of inches shorter--I always check a man's height and aim for at least 3" shorter.) As I put on powder, I listen to "Here I am"--a pop song with an unusual beat that I always listen to before dates. (Am I the only one with a 'feel sexy' playlist on my podcast? Of course I don't call it that, in case someone starts browsing, but that's what my 'purchased' list is for.) "Here I Am" has an unusual beat and rhythms, and a message that is so apropos to me as a human, it is rather stunning really: "Something calling from deep inside me, voice I knew but I would not hear. For so long I have tried to hide me." And then the release: "Here I am; ready for your love...I'll never run away." So it builds confidence and reminds me that to be vulnerable you have to be strong. Real surrender can only come from a place of strength, where you are matched and respected and then dominated.

After "Here I am" comes "Because The Night." (I've actually practiced this enough so that if I'm ever doing karaoke, on a date, I wouldn't embarrass myself.) It seems almost like a cheesy love song, but the Patti Smith imprimatur gives it a little more darkness. And it is pure sex. "Take me now baby, here as I am. ... Desirous hunger is the fire I breathe. ... Come on now try to understand, the way I feel under your command."

He, we'll call this one Ben (yes names have been changed for anonymity--not fair to blog about people who could be identified without them knowing about it!), is understated. One of the banker types that hit Seattle during the dot.com boom and didn't leave, but the East Coast patina hasn't disappeared yet. His picture is smiling and more casual, so I don't quite recognize him on my way into the bar. He recognizes me and we passionately discuss politics for a good 45 minutes while the first of two very expensive drinks ($64 for 2 drinks each! Ouch! He paid and I was grateful) starts to relax my inhibitions.

My brain suddenly reels to an e-mail exchange we had. He understood my bifurcation where my body is totally turned on even as my soul rebels and I'm unaware that I'm even enjoying what is happening, and how I need someone to dance with both, to bring my soul along for the ride. And I started blushing, and lowered my gaze. He played with my hand, and noticed I got quiet. He commented on the look of total, beautiful weakness in my eyes. He suggested we meet in private next time and almost kissed me. I wasn't ready for sex--he said fine--"work out the limits you need, because you know darn well that I'll be the only one paying attention to them. There's no way you would keep limits in mind. You will completely surrender. I can see it in your eyes."

As we left he almost kissed me, came in for the kiss, felt my anticipation, knew he could have kissed me any way he wanted and then barely grazed my lips. And I went to the ladies room to 'freshen up,' which, in this case, was a euphemism for wringing out my panties.

And the conundrum enters. I've never been promiscuous. Ben says "it isn't just about sex, but you get only one chance to set the right tone in the beginning" and I believe that there is a 20% chance that would actually be true. But, would it kill me if it were just about sex? I've never really had a fling. Yes, I'll get hurt (again), but hell, I'm close to sleeping with the ex. I haven't kissed anyone since early September with "the man that smote me." My ex isn't satisfying sex and it is well-worn territory. I protected myself with John--we never kissed, and yet losing him (not that I should even count is as 'losing') hurt more than I could have ever imagined. Mike is so sweet, but he looks up to me. He needs my advice and my guidance. (He is going through a crisis at work very similar to one I went through after my first job after.) He wants validation. He needs to know that he can survive standing up to his parents. ]Occasionally he'll make suggestions but he hasn't kissed me after 3 dates and so much conversation--I like to talk more than most people, but after 7 hours of flirting in his apartment, the history of European economist systems starts to lose its pull! I just don't see him being able to match me, to challenge me, to open me. (The Portland guy bored me on the phone--there are blue collar guys with real intellectual interests and blue color guys who watch Faux news and he was in the latter category. Good man, but no chemistry for me.)

And frankly, my panties have never been so wet from a meet and a drink. I had to throw my jeans in the dirty clothes. And all from a little hand-footsie (handsie?) and a graze of the lips. I know his name (I saw his last name on his Amex) and I could figure out where he works. Chances are, we'd meet at a hotel room in the city (and I'd insist on the name and room number beforehand) and have a safecall worked out. But I don't see him doing anything to betray my trust. He gets off on that look in my eyes. He'd push me hard. Very hard. Harder than I think I could go. But not so hard as to snap me out of surrender mode and into flight mode.

I'm actually embarrassed by my 'number' because I've slept with so few men. (Of course, I'm a Clinton gal in more ways than one, which means I don't count oral in that number. I'm sure I've blown less than 20 guys, but I don't know the exact number. Real sex though? 4! Should be more like 10-14 given my age.) So what the hell? Maybe I just need to take sex a little less seriously and be a little less careful with my heart. It will die for lack of oxygen if it doesn't get out for some air soon!

Maybe we could celebrate my birthday a couple of weeks late. I could tell him "I don't need any more stuff. This isn't about a present or a cake. I got that already on my birthday. Just one thing was missing..." Yes--that seems right. But maybe I'll chicken out before he gets around to e-mailing...

Tomorrow's Comedy

They say comedy is tragedy plus time. I need time and this will be hilarious. I went to see Dan in Real Life tonight, and I cried. It didn’t feel like a comedy to me—one of the clearest little tragedies, with a happy ending tacked on to make it commercial. In real life, it doesn’t matter if someone touches you so deeply and then they aren’t available. You have to move on and let go.

How can you know you love someone after a few days? How the hell, when it has been nearly a month and we never kissed, how can I still care? Even I have started to feel like I’m melodramatic. I won’t even bother my best friend with this anymore.

And the funny thing is, there are a couple of guys who are interested in me right now. One of them, the younger guy, let's call him Mike, is very sweet. However, he is new to the bdsm, and he doesn't dominate (at least not yet)--he suggests. "Would you like to"? Well, I would like him to make me. Just a look from the eyes that tells me he knows he is stronger than me.

He suggested spanking me and I flashed him a look at that said "I'd like to see you try"--but I did want to see him try. I wanted him to be stronger than me and take the reins. He is a lovely person, but even I can only talk for so much when I'm dying to have him grab my hair and kiss me. He wanted me to take my skirt off and we still hadn't kissed (and far worse, I had nylons on and they had gotten a run in them!) and I said "I'm not ready to do that" and so he stopped everything and we went back to a dynamite conversation. But three dates and we still haven't kissed!

We talked about it later. I told him I would resist a little and he was just the perfect gentleman. Problem is, I don't want to date a perfect gentleman.

Several other men seem like real possiblities. I'm sure one of them will work out. One sent me his phone number today and said "I'm no fool--I want to grab you before someone else does," but he lives in Portland--that seems an awful long distance.

Until someone touches me as deeply as John did, I don't see myself not falling into tears over John. He told me, after we were discussing our family issues "nothing will be as powerful for you as the approval of a man" and he said it just totally accepting. No judgement, no questioning. Just a comment from someone who cared for me exactly as I was. And he's right. The approval of a man in my life is the absolute most powerful thing for me. I yearn for approval. I ache for it. I want to earn the right to be loved even as I also want unconditional love. I need to prove it for me, even as I also need for him to care without that.

The Storm Passes

I seem to have weathered the storm. It is amazing--when I'm in it, I know intellectually that it will pass, but I don't see how. I feel as if I'm lost at sea in a tiny little canoe in the middle of a lightening storm. I'm riding the swells, 30 or 40 feet high. Flashes of intense emotion keep hitting me and I avoid the direct hits. I know the direction of shore and aim that way, with no clue how far away it is. Eventually, I can see the shore, but getting there feels impossible. Each wave seems higher than the next. I try to avoid my emotions, knowing that I'll be crushed under the breaking waves. Then, finally, I catch one, convinced it will kill me, clinging to my canoe for dear life. And I finally hit the shore, the canoe in smithereens and I swear I'll never go back out there, not the same way, not without a paddle, not without a life jacket and a weather report and a GPS system and a cell phone and a private helicopter. But the next day, I'm back, checking out rafts. See a raft will be different. It was the canoe that was the problem.

Had a nice date tonight. For one thing, I'm looking really good! Tight jeans (not too tight, just tight enough), a push-up bra and 4" heels on my boots meant that 2 teenagers or 20-somethings said sexy things to me while I was walking to parking lot. Not bad for a woman being comforted by a client less than half her age earlier today.

Fabulous conversation. So smart, broad ranging and fun. No fireworks (although he had e-mailed me by the time I got home to ask me out again). He seems like a lovely human being, but he is over a decade younger than me. I was born in 69. Summer of love. Hell no, we won't go. The People! United! Can never be Defeated! One of my earliest memories is voting for Jimmy Carter. (OK--it was technically my father's vote, but I got to flip the little red thingies for all the Democrats as we talked about each one, then daddy helped me pull the big lever back.) He was born in 1980. Reagan revolution.

He is smart as hell, and wise beyond his years. Easily as wise as most men my age. But I don't think he could guide me. Maybe I'm wrong. But I caught myself giving him advice at a couple of points, and worse, he appreciated it! Oy. Not a good idea. But I couldn't have been authentic and not have done that. And even if it did work, I could just see me being 65 and him being 54, and what 54 year old man would want to stay with a 65 year old woman? But that is silly--I won't be 65 for a few years, so I should enjoy myself now. I enjoyed myself enough to see him again.

And I will survive this storm, like all the others. And I learned a great deal and I'm glad I knew John. I never had a clue I could fall for someone so hard without even a kiss. But maybe the next guy (whoever he turns out to be) will have John's depth without the cigarettes. Now that would be heaven!

Music to Manipulate the Soul

After blinking back the tears in a bathroom stall, I thought I had an OK persona on and ventured out. I bumped into a 17-year old client on the street, he put his arm around me and said "Miss--what's wrong?" Oy. Hopefully not a true breach of professional ethics, but not something that should become a precedent. I snapped out of it, blamed the sun in my eyes and put on a happy face. Even my blog seems melodramatic! But I need to do a better job with that happy face, and so I turned to music. So I've been reduced to listening to Bon Jovi.

Plato wanted to ban music in his ideal Republic because when the modes of music change, the laws of society must change to accommodate the underlying change of consciousness. "Shot in the heart and you're to blame. You give love a bad name." You'd think this would make me bitter. Angry. Instead, it tucks the hurt into a little manageable corner and let's me get on with my life.

Part of it is that when I listen to music, it seems to me, it takes me to who I was in the moment of my life that I first liked that music. Or, more accurately, each song starts with who I was then, but I can mature with songs I listen to regularly. Beethoven doesn't rush me back to my early 20s, when I first fell in love with him, because I've listened to him repeatedly. But Bon Jovi takes me back to my teens because I haven't listened to them consistently. Rock doesn't seem to do grief well. It does sexy very well. And it does a fake nonchalance, insouciance (I've never actually used that word before)--a 'fuck you, I don't need any of you, and I'll show you by being better than all of you." But it doesn't do grief. It doesn't do yearning. It keeps you more on the surface and avoids plumbing the depths of the soul.

Breaking apart

Well, crying myself to sleep isn't working; I'm crying too hard so my breathing messes up, unless I distract myself. Writing actually soothes. Sooner or later I'll break out the pity album and that will help me cry soft enough to breathe and yet also feel a little cathartic. Bizarre I actually know which album will have that affect on me. Sometimes I think I should just feel everything and get it out of my system--other times I wonder if that plays into my emotions and just makes them worse. And I a Victorian or a Romantic? Probably an outer Victorian and an inner-Romantic. Always keep the appearances up even when the world is crashing down inside you. But is that the best way to be? Could I better deal with my emotions? Or do I manipulate my emotions so much that I don't even know what I'm feeling half the time anyway?

When I was a kid my brother and I had a 'game.' He would hit me as hard as he could and I wouldn't show emotion. If he could see he hurt me, then I was weak, and I'd lost. If I managed to block out what was happening, then I was strong and I won. Most of the time, I won.

I've never let people see how badly they hurt me. I don't know if anyone knows.

My ex was the only one that ever knew a fraction of it and he couldn't believe it. I think he wanted to put it back together, just because he was almost in awe of how much I cared. He said no one had ever loved him that way except his mom. Not his wife of 14 years, not any ex. He really couldn't believe I cared that much. And I couldn't believe that a) he wasn't repelled by my weakness, b) didn't try to take advantage of it and c) that it was any different from anyone else.

Somehow, I've started to learn to be more vulnerable. A hell of a lot more vulnerable. I've consciously made the choice that I have to be vulnerable and gone about trying to do it. Maybe that's why I crave the Ds--the forced vulnerability and having someone to say "be vulnerable--I can handle it and I will protect you." But not with emotional pain linked to whether or not I'm actually loveable. Since I already suspect I'm not, it just destroys me. I shrivel or snap the armour back or numb out on media. I feel SO silly and immature and like I'm still in high school and everyone else is cool, and I can't believe I'm 38 and can't deal with this is a substantively better way than I did at 19. Hell--I can't believe I'm 38 at all! The big day went unremarked and uncelebrated and unspanked. I had SO hoped to have someone by then, but, alas, it is not to be. I mean, my friends are wonderful and spoiled me rotten, but it isn't the same.

I don't know if feel things more intensly than most people, I don't know if that is a good thing or just being melodramatic, don't know if everyone is hiding what they feel, don't know anything at all. Except I can't keep doing this. And I refuse to shut down and hide behind my so-called self defense. But if I keep having no defense and keep getting hurt, I won't survive it. I know the road to wisdom leads through the gate of excess, but need to find wisdom pretty damn soon now!

Three of Swords

I was given a tarot card by a fortune teller once. She said to pick the card out of the pack and that was my fortune. I picked the 3 of swords. A heart, pierced through with 3 separate swords. Getting hurt again and again. And my job is to endure and stay open and not try to protect myself because the protections only lead to more pain.

John is dating someone else, and I'm happy for both of them and absolutely anguished through my tears. Back to the music I've comforted myself with for going on 2 decades now. I feel like I'm back in high school, hiding my tears as I weep. It is amazing how certain recordings come in and calm and claim. And yet the tears don't stop. They are less convulsing and confusing, but my eyes burn and my heart. I just can't do this again. Three swords, this year. How the hell can anyone stay open and get hurt and stay open and get hurt and stay open and get hurt and stay open? And does the ex count as a sword or is there still one more out there waiting to pierce my heart? I'm not this strong. I put up a good a front ('I'm happy for you' I said, the words blurry through my tears). But I'm not strong anymore. I never was. And I'm exhausted from pretending to be.

Maybe now I can move on. Another date tomorrow night--2 dates on the last 2 Monday nights--all at Starbucks. Hopefully the third time will be a charm. But I mostly just want to cancel and cry myself to sleep in a little ball. I even thought about sleeping with the ex--I had coffee with him this week and he was totally looking to get laid. At least that would take my mind off the things I really wanted and put it back on what I tried to settle for. (Oh--ouch. I don't mean that to sound as harsh as it does. The ex is a good man, or at least trying to be. But he is unwilling to look at how his actions impact other people or compromise on anything.)

Can't We Just Be Friends?

This week, the trickle of men wanting my friendship has become a deluge:

• My ex
• A guy I went out with twice that I'm not attracted to (but wish I were)
• A guy I went out with twice that isn't that attracted to me (but I think wishes he was)
• A guy I went out with once, 2 years ago, who made me feel really shitty about myself, but claims it was all him and can't we be friends?
• A married guy, a ferry ride away, that wanted me to be his mistress, but when I said no way, wants to be friends;
• A guy from Asheville NC
• A guy from Egypt

I can't do it. I don't understand how people make a friendship between a single, straight guy and a single straight gal work. I have gay friends that I adore, but that is different. With all the rest, there is an unspoken rejection on one side or the other.

Harry (in When Harry Met Sally) said something like "Men and women can't be friends because the sex thing always messes it up." And I agree.

All of this is underscored by Edmund. I knew Edmund in college. During my first year, he lived one hall over from me, and walked through my hall to get to the dining hall. Somehow or other, we became friends, and I thought he was was flirting with me here and there. Edmund was my height, incredibly thin and had a receding hair line. But he had sparkling, laughing eyes, clean energy and deep wisdom. I actually remember wishing I could fall for a guy like Edmund because he was, pretty clearly, 'in my league' so to speak. Be careful what you wish for.

Throughout college we were friends, but nothing more. After college, he moved to Seattle, and the following year, I did too (not for him--although it didn't hurt he was there). We became the very best of friends. We did everything together--hanging out at least 3 nights a week, watching Star Trek, talking on the phone every night before bed. And I fell for him; but he wasn't romantically interested in me. He would put his arm around me, run his fingers through my hair, kiss me on the eyes, and I would snuggle up next to him in a movie; but he 'didn't feel that way' about me. We shared our hopes, dreams and insecurities. He would spend hours (literally) on the phone, explaining how painful it was to him that 'no woman was romantically interested in him.' I guessed that I, somehow-or-other, just didn't qualify as a woman, in his eyes.

Finally, I literally broke up with him. I confronted him about whether he knew I was romantically interested (and he confirmed he did), asked what the hell he meant when he said no woman was interested in him, and told him I couldn't be his friend. That was 1998. He hadn't had a girlfriend since, when I saw him is 2005. I wonder if he is trying to find his way out of a very deep closet; clearly something is wrong because he would make someone very happy, should he ever figure out what the hell he wants. But I know what I want and a co-dependent, platonic, friendship with a man that sucks out all my romantic energy (not to mention my self-esteem) just isn't it.

All of this convinced me that friendships between straight men and women is something close to emotional cancer, to be avoided at all costs. I have to wonder if the universe is trying to teach me something here, but I don't see a way through this. I'm going to try and see if I can be a distant friend with my ex--I saw him this week and have no emotional stickiness towards him. I couldn't imagine getting back with him. But he feels stuck--he isn't growing, isn't deepening. I don't really see where the energy would come from his friendship. But I also feel like I owe him a little--not a lot, but he was an important part of my life and so if I can do coffee once a month without emotional blowback to me, I do want to do that.

But the rest--I don't know a way through this one. Part of it is my time. Some guy in Egypt or Asheville--I have no emotional stickiness there, but I have real friends, that I've been friends with for decades, and they rank higher.

The one that really matters, of course, is John; I'm attracted to him and I don't think he's all that attracted to me on a sexual level, otherwise, I think he'd try to find a way to make it work. But he does want friendship and I could see our friendship being SO illuminating and rich and enlightening and smart and fun. I kept going deeper and deeper into who I am and what makes me tick with him. In a little less than a month, he and I went deeper than all my therapists ever have. You can easily guess when he and I stopped corresponding simply by looking at the frequency of my posting here. And yet it feels like Edmund all over again. He would take the energy that I need if I'm going to find a partner, and I would be constantly questioning what was wrong with me that he wasn't attracted to me that way, and we'd flirt a little and I'd wonder what the hell it meant and try to believe if I just did something right, he'd finally be interested. I'd put my life on hold, waiting for him, and then I'd grow to hate him for it. John is going to make some woman incredibly happy, and I would watch from the sidelines and feel like my heart had been torn out and all my fire had been replaced with ice as I grew slowly numb. I can't put myself through that slow, inexorable rejection again, and I don't see another way out of it even as I miss him with every cell in my body.

I don't think anyone actually reads this blog, but if you do, and if you have made friendships work with single people of the gender to which you are attracted, I'd love to hear about it in the comments.

Into the Deep

I must believe in astrology, because if part of me didn't find it useful, I wouldn't follow it. Intellectually, I doubt it, but it just seems right an awful lot of the time.

And astrologically speaking, the full moon in my opposite sign means I'm having a hard time: "arguments are raging, conflicts are emerging, stressful situations are arising and misunderstandings keep taking place. It is also why you feel so emotionally vulnerable - and why secretly, deep down within, you feel fearful" (Jonathan Cainer, http://www.bubble.com/).

Well, I'm glad there's a good reason that I feel like hell. I was in the park yesterday, walking and looking down at the city, and I just burst into tears. I could have stopped myself. I've always been good at keeping up the public persona, but it didn't feel worth it. I'm tired of manipulating my emotions, tired of the gaping chasm between my public persona and who I am inside, tired of spending so much energy to protect my vulnerabilities. I did find a nook with privacy, but it surprised me that I just cried in public like that. I hope that isn't the first step towards tinfoil haberdashery, but I guess if that's where I end up being happy, I'll be fine with it by the time I make that choice. I'd rather live fully right now than spend so much energy on trying to stay within other people's definitions of normal.

What have I learned from this roller-coaster ride? Nothing. If I had to do it all over again, I'd do it exactly the same way. And so much. I've begun to actually feel (and not just know) that my biggest weaknesses are some of the best things I've got to offer. I've learned that I won't compromise on human connection. I can compromise on a ton of stuff that isn't essential, but truly connecting with another person, and letting him see who you really are is magical. Terrifying as all hell, but worth risking for, every single time. I've started to connect with people better--I don't multi-task when someone comes in my office to ask me a question. I actually stop what I'm doing and give them my full attention and work is more joyous and present because of it.

I would love to not need another AFOG (Another Fucking Opportunity for Growth), but, fundamentally, I don't believe we get to pick that easily. We have a choice: go deeper or numb out. We don't get to be static.

I spent a lot of energy (and pills) in the last decade trying to feel happy. I can manipulate my emotions pretty easily. Even though I've been off the SSRIs for 3 years, I still can on a short-term level--I have 'happy lists' on my iPod. I can choose what to think about, control my thoughts to be content, at least on a surface level. This seems like the ideal for a Jane Austen heroine, but it wasn't working for me; it kept me on a more superficial level and didn't allow me the level of connection for which I yearn . Not that I need to involve everyone in my own personal melodrama, but I probably need to allow myself to go into it and not view it only as a sign of weakness.

I'm proud of myself for not running away from the pain. It is really hard for me, but I am allowing myself to feel, and I believe I can only connect with another person as deeply as I feel the pain of loss.

My Great-Great-Great Grandfather's Granddaughter

So weird--my last name. It is really unusual--the only family with it in my state. And yet, my family has its share of "Smiths" and "Joneses." Why, by accident of birth, do I happen to have my father's father's father's father's father's last name? Or is there a reason for it? Just like my mitochondria are literally the descendants from my mother's mother's mother's mother's mother's--is there something in my soul that is descended only through the male side?

I was 11 when my father told me that no man would ever love me if I didn't lose weight. I told him to fuck off. Men were scum if that was the only way they judged women and why the hell would I want a relationship that was basically based on me being an object, a piece of meat?

And I simultaneously shut down my heart, learned to stop hoping and never, ever let anyone know I wasn't strong and couldn't take care of myself. I never learned to flirt. Never learned I was, or might possibly be seen as attractive. All I knew was that I would fail as a woman, but if I didn't let anyone know I might yearn for connection, I could still succeed as an asexual human being.

I can tell you exactly where I was standing, what the light looked like. My dad probably doesn't remember that moment, that day, but he remembers being unkind to me on a number of occasions, without even knowing where it came from.

He has tried SO hard to make up for it. And yet, telling me I'm beautiful a dozen times in the last year (which he has done) doesn't erase those marks he never meant to leave. Where did that voice come from? None of us really know, but I have my guess.

I don't know the details of when my father's father turned into a tyrant but it happened sometime after my grandfather proposed to my grandmother and before my father was cognizant of his surroundings. My father rebelled against his father's criticism and discipline. Until I was born. At that point, my father was lost and fell into old patterns. He did his VERY best to change those, but it took time, and my soul still bares the traces not of who my dad is now, but who he was then.

My grandfather left the country he grew up in because his father was such a tyrant to him. My grandmother used to comment that she fell in love with a happy loving man and married a dictatorial tyrant. She didn't know how it happened, and I bet he didn't either.

My great-grandfather hated his father for seeing him as a failure. In Germany you take aptitude tests at an early age and my grandfather ended up in trade school. He never forgave his father for the sense of betrayal the father expressed, and his father probably never forgave his son for failing. Or maybe part of his desperately wanted to forgive his son, but he didn't know how. Who knows?

I don't know much about my great-great-grandfather. But his father, my great-great-great grandfather, was fired from his job as a school teacher in Germany for being too cruel and strict with the students. I could be wrong, but I expect that 'too strict' in Germany in the 19th century meant something very different from 'too strict' today. And I expect that generation after generation, good men have tried to let go of their father's influence, and have been unable. They've all rebelled and they've probably promised to try and be different, and then a family happens and they've lost authorship of the details of their lives and they fall into the only patterns they know.

And so, it is fitting that I bear my great-great-great grandfather's name. To this day, I yearn for someone who is strict and sees the world as right and wrong to tell me I'm OK the way I am. I yearn for the love and the approval of someone in charge. I don't like those scars on my soul, but I accept them. And I realize the power they have for me, both in the erotic context and also with love.

My great-great-great grandfather has a great-great-great granddaughter who bears his name, has all the strength he would have wished for his sons and uses it to try and re-inscribe the patriarchal expectations in a way that is a little more loving and humane, truly, intensely and vitally in this moment.

WD-40 for my Emotional Armor

"Sometimes you're happy, sometimes you're sad. And the world goes round."

So, I had to let John go. I was one of the first two people he met in this world, and he, rightfully, wants a chance to play and not be tied down. He also wants to do piercings, extreme play, far more extreme than I could ever do. And part of me wants to scream 'are you insane? do you know how rarely it is to have this emotional connection? this intellectual connection? How rare and precious to find that with the BDSM?" But I know he needs to go there and he won't be happy until he explores it himself and figures out what he wants. So painful and I find myself again looking for ways to look at how I protect myself and at what cost.

It seems like there is this cost/benefit issue--the more I protect myself, the less open I am and the less open I am, the less attractive I am. For some reason, in the past 2 months I've decided "to hell with it--I'm going for it." And I met these two amazing men. And I have felt so bereft by their loss. Intellectually, I am trying to force, seduce, and tantalize myself to stay open, and I can feel every part of me saying "are you insane? This roller-coaster yet again? I can't do it."

I don't know where the right balance lies. Intellectually I'd rather go through the pain of opening, mourning and learning to be open again, but I just don't know how strong I actually am.

Someone To Watch Over Me....

The ad I run on the kinky website is superlative. I say that not only because I can become occasionally enamored of my own posts, but because women write to say I've articulated what they've always felt and men write saying "Like you, I have no interest in long distance, but wow--you're going to make some man very lucky." A co-owner of the local S&M club contacted me, and he has many more-experienced women, but clearly my ad intrigued him.

Unfortunately, it is a double-edged sword--a man last week was 'shocked' I would say 'slow down.' He was edging perilously close to cybering, and I want someone in flesh and blood. Cybering might be great for someone you already loved who was away, but for me it would only ever be for that. But then he earnestly exclaimed "But I feel like I've known you my whole life, I've been searching for you my whole life, you are my lost half." Which may have been a line, but I believe it has a kernel of truth to it (especially as he then deleted his profile from the site). The problem, of course, is that I didn't feel like I knew him at all. He knew me from my ad--his was 3 sentences.

But this one man, John, this gem of a human. We haven't met yet, and I don't allow myself to fall for men I haven't met. It is foolish (and look what happened the last time I fell for a man, and I'd met him!). Nevertheless, as Joni Mitchell might say "Help me, I think I'm falling..."

I look up to him, a rarity for me. For several years I've attempted to convince myself that I don't have to look up to a man because there are so few that I honestly look up to. I didn't respect the choices my ex was making, and that, fundamentally, is one of the 2 reasons we had to break up (the other is that his erotic mind craved all darkness and I thrive on an interplay between darkness and tenderness). I believe that this inability to look up to most men is egotistical, obnoxious, and self-centered. So I tried to wish it out of existence. Problem, though is that it is true.

John, is so clearly smarter than me, which I adore. (If he didn't appreciate my mind, it would be problematic, but he does.) As we talk, I'm learning things about myself. The quality of our conversations is like nothing I've ever seen. I've never met a man who could match me on that level. If we do hit it off, well, I think we could compile our e-mails into a book. He has only recently come to terms with wiitwd, and I still have much angst. But the angst on both sides is linked to some of the fundamental philosophical questions plaguing gen Xers, the interplay of sexuality and power, of what Eros looks like for both of us.

He had me do one small thing for him last night, and it was a complete surrender. And much of my protective defenses melted in that moment. All of which terrifies me. But his tenderness, his cherishment (is that a word?), his care. Maybe I'm just being a silly girl, but once again, this is worth risking the possibility of getting hurt.

The one strength I've developed in the last few months is the ability to open up to someone, get hurt, accept that, and move on without allowing pieces of emotional armour to ensnare their way into and around my heart. I seem to open more and more with each connection and loss. I don't know how or where that strength is coming from. In the past, I believed I could only open myself up to a limited number of men before it made me hard and bitter, but now it feels like I'm opening more deeply with each person, allowing myself not to run from the emotional pain, and letting go of any recriminations. Compared to my past declarations that "I'm strong"--this is a very different strength. This strength to be vulnerable is an energy that I find enriching. The only cost is allowing myself to feel the pain fully in the present moment.

Bad Feminist!

Since college, a voice in my head has often said "You're A Bad Feminist." It is an authoritarian voice that pops up whenever I'm living as less than the ideal, or, more accurately, as vulnerable or needy. It is a warden that can’t see nuance, only that I’m not living up to a ‘perfect-feminist-ideal’ archetype that is more machine than human.

Now, my definition of 'needy' isn't a very kind one. To me, 'needy' is whenever there is ANYTHING I can't do by myself. The only exception is construction work that is physically impossible for any human being to do alone. Putting up a 6' long piece of crown molding would be acceptable to ask help for; driving across the country in a U-Haul would be unacceptable to ask. After all, I know how to drive! And so the U-Haul broke down along the highway, in Wyoming at night. That’s why you have roaming on your cellphone, and surely, I should have been able to handle that by myself. There was a little traffic on the interstate. No need to feel scared or overwhelmed. If I can’t do it by myself, I can at least pretend.

I've also forced myself to be emotionally strong. Crying in public, or even in front of my ex-boyfriend, was verboten. Somehow, that weeping woman was a stereotype I couldn't stand.

The 'strong' veneer had clearly developed by high school. I had been bullied a lot in elementary school, had an arm broken in a bad tussle, and all the adults said "don't let them see it is bothering you." Somehow, my vulnerability was supposedly a provocation to the bullies. The world is too harsh a place to be trusted with. So, piece by piece, I learned to hide my pain, my exposure, weakness or openness. Anything that admitted vulnerability meant defenselessness. And piece by piece, I learned to hide any remnants of vulnerability behind an iron mask of strength. I've been incredibly strong and independent, and somewhat successful. And so lonely. And so tired of the energy it takes to be 'strong.' The 'strength' is an act that is poisoning me from the inside.

Learning to be soft, to open, to trust, has been quite difficult for me. I'm terrified to admit I want a man in my life, that I feel incomplete without one. But I have to make a choice--either I can start to open, to create places to welcome him in and pray to a God I don’t know if I believe in that he will arrive for that place, or I can continue to harden my heart, making it more bearable to be alone, but also more likely I will be.

One on level I'm complete. I love my job, which is really a calling for me. I love my house, and have good friends. But I ache to curl up next to another soul and feel his breathing, to be woken up with a gentle caress or a harsh kiss , to be needed and to have it OK to need help. To develop roots together, allowing up both to soar into the world. I find tears welling up at the most inappropriate moments, because it reminds me of a moment I thought I had a partner. I yearn for someone to watch over me.

Even writing this, I rush to add, 'that doesn't mean I don't want equal pay for equal work!' I shouldn't have to say that, but given the political environment, I can just see some Republican saying "see, even the feminist liberal bloggers want to just be told what to do, to be told their place. Yes, on an intimate level, that might be true, but I certainly don’t want Washington regulating my private life, and it is only when I get to soar in the world that I’m comfortable yearning for that vulnerability at home.

Rejection and Confusion

Well, The Man That Smote Me, dumped me. Not that it can, intellectually really be a dump. Two dates, some intense phone calls. Nothing more.

And yet, it shattered part of me.

On some level, it hurt me more badly than breaking up with my live in lover. The second was more of a pain, but I knew he never saw the real me. It was part of the reason we broke up.

This is the only man I ever let see me. Every other man I've ever been with only saw the girl I try to pretend to be. The socially acceptable, not too intense, girl who plays games and giggles. This man saw the woman I really am. I sang for him. I was more in touch with joy and love than I've ever been with anyone. He looked into my eyes for about 10 minutes at dinner the second day, and I didn't look away once. Afterwards he said "well, that was better than half the sex I've had in my life." He stared into my soul, saw me at my very best, as I've never been for anyone else, and he said 'ehhy~~I can do without--thanks.'

I realized several things:
I have a much more beautiful energy than I've ever let anyone see. There is a power there I need to get in touch with.

But that famous Marianne Williamson quote that everyone thinks is by Nelson Mandela (who is not dead, btw, Saddam didn't kill him), well that is wrong. It isn't that we are scared of our lightness. It is that we know how fragile it is. To have our purest light rejected is far scarier than having our social mask rejected. Having someone brush off who we pretend to be--we can handle that. Having someone reject who we yearn to be, our soul, rather than just our social mask, that hurts to the core.

I want to find a way to get in touch with the energy he inspired, and I'm terrified. I don't know how I could be that vulnerable and risk that level of rejection. And yet, I must, because it is the only way I can possibly meet a soul mate.

Playing Games?

After one date, I believe I have met what can only be termed as my soul mate. Intellectually, I know how cheesy that sounds, but that is the only way I can describe it. Our energies vibrate off each other in a way that is both emotionally grounded and lusciously sexy at the same time.

I have always played dating games. Always. And this time, I’ve decided not to. This terrifies me! I grew up on the East Coast, and I think West Coast women underestimate the importance of a man choosing to come to you. Games are just a way of taking a step back so that the man can come to you and find the distance that he wants, and in coming to you, he realizes if he cares for you.

And yet, with this man, I’ve decided not to. Several of my vanilla girlfriends have chewed me out for this—saying I absolutely cannot risk that with this man I claim to care about. But here’s the thing: This is the first man I’ve met in my 37 years that just opened me up and I was able to let go of all my self-consciousness, and all the ways I try to present myself in public. I was just how I really am, not who I try to pretend to be. And we just resonated with each other. I can’t expect to have that vital, centered and alive energy if I play games with him.

So I’m letting go of that entire dance of not returning phone calls when I want to and what not. But, I’ve decided on one single game, which is that I’m going to assume that he is my soul mate. This means, I’m not going to ask for reassurances. I’m going to let him set the pace, and I’m going to give him all the space he needs, because I know we are meant to be together. It will work out. I just need to give it room to breathe; I believe we will work.