Pride and Prejudice. And Shame

It is pride week in New York (I'm here for business), and a friend wanted to see the parade. And so we went.

I think the gays and lesbians have a secret agenda to destroy our hearing--every float seemed to be trying to out-amplify the next float. It was good, however, to see JP Morgan/Chase, Pepsi, Nair and Laser Hair Salons all out there to show their pride!

I have a hard time with "pride." Pride without a response to an underlying prejudice just seems arrogance. "Proud to be an American" is silly. Grateful to be, maybe? I know how lucky we are. But what the hell did I ever do to be an American? Why on earth should I be proud.

But, then came a group of maybe 14 or 12 or 16 gay men in leather, all couples from the "Fire Island Leather club" walking hand in hand. A few had floggers or cuffs or collars. No commercial endorsements there! And I felt shame and envy. But no pride on my part. They had pride. They were open in who they are. No embarrassments. I, on the other hand, am not. Part of me wonders what my life would be like if I were open. And then, of course, every single one of them had a partner. Someone to share that journey with. And as they walked by, there I was--this unnoticed vanilla-looking, blond straight chick. Wishing to belong to someone and also to a community that I could be proud to make my own.

It made me blue in a way I can't describe.

Bitchiness v. Vulnerability

This pull has run through much of my interactions with men for the last few years. On the one hand, I want to be open, trusting and able to connect deeply. On the other hand I want to protect myself. Rightfully so.

The fact is, men create bitches. What I'm beginning to see is that men divide women into two categories: "hot" or "not." And the "not"s are most of the women, most of the time. When a 'not' becomes 'hot' to an individual guy, it is lovely (if he treats her nicely). I'm still a 'not' to 60% of the population (whereas I used to be a 'not' to 99% of the population). But, and I shouldn't say this, but it's true, in the kinky world, the standards are lower. Maybe I'm a 6 or a 7 in the vanilla world. But I'm a 9 in the kinky world.

(Since my weight and size comes up, I'm a size 14 or 16 (very rarely, a 12), depending on the manufacturer. This means I wear a large to extra large in the regular sizes. There was a time when I was bigger--size 20 at my height. It is a huge difference in how people treat me, but I don't feel any different! I don't exercise any more--I just moved from avoiding fat to avoiding carbs. Aside from my size, I'm actually pretty beautiful. And I photograph well.)

But men don't just create bitches. They like them. Just like women often fall for the 'bad-boy-with-a-heart-of-gold' (see Dirty Dancing, for example), men want the woman who is a bitch to everyone but him. I used to try to do all this work to stay open and vulnerable. To not be a bitch. To not let one man's inappropriate behavior impact how I dealt with another man. Lately, I've been saying "ah, to hell with it. Y'all are assholes unless you can prove to me you ain't." The thing that surprised me is how many more men are pursuing me than when I tried so hard not to be bitchy.

Of course, the other issue is that I've fallen a little for Michael. (Michael is someone I knew long ago who popped into my life more recently. I flirted with him long ago because I could tell he was kinky, but he had no clue I was. Recently, I dropped a hint that we were simpatico in that area, and he said a few things that indicated we might be more than just friends, but hasn't followed through with any of it.) Intellectually, I know how foolish it is. His actions (despite his words) bely any hope I might have. And I swore after Edmund that I wouldn't do that again!!!

So here I am. Bitchy on the outside. But sweet on the inside. Not interested in the guys that want me and pining for a guy that doesn't care. It'll be an interesting summer.

Probing the pieces

I've avoided dealing with this because I thought it would pass. But yet another night reading a dirty novella only to find ennui and tedium and this conundrum isn't beginning to unravel. I don't see the way out. I thought, perhaps, if I didn't look at it, maybe it would pass quicker. And, of course, it isn't exactly in line with my blogger persona. But it has been three months, and I'm committed to exploring the elements as they are, not as I wish they would be. So here goes.

Something inside me just broke, to steal a line from that magnificent and prescient Stephen Sondheim. When the Republican was an asshole. It wasn't that big a deal. I've been through worse. But it was the last straw. Something just broke.

I could feel part of me shattering, in slow motion, as it happened. I tried so hard to fix it at that moment. If I'd just been able to get his approval then, it would have been OK. But he withheld it. I think he knew what he was doing--he wanted me and was trying to pull me in closer, but he overplayed his hand and I rebelled.

Part of me has been willing to consider seeing him again because, as much as I intellectually know how dumb this sounds, emotionally I feel like he could find the pieces to put them back together. But only if he would do it my way. He hasn't been willing to do it my way, and I haven't been foolish enough to do it his.

But that leaves all the fragments on the ground. Just lying there in odd combinations.

The funny thing is, my life is going really well. I got this new job that I'm very excited about. My friends are joyous and fun. I've finished the first draft of the romance novel, and I think it is really darn good! All the energy I used to have for sex seemed to go into that manuscript. But now it is done, so it does feed that creative energy and I left slightly numb and slightly needy.

I go through the motions of my old self, but without my heart being in it. I tried reading some vanilla erotica, but it was as boring as always. I haven't changed my profiles. What would they say. "Damaged girl seeks someone to comfort her?" Intellectually, I'm fine. But "I'm fine" has always been a masque to hide vulnerability.

And it all sounds so melodramatic. I'm embarrassed. It wasn't that big a deal. I've been through much worse. I had to go to the police because of a borderline stalking. After I changed my number, I bounced back after a couple of weeks. I don't even try to comfort myself the way I initially did. I don't crave physical contact. My favorite nightie is washed and put away for another day.

I miss that part of me. I miss feeling erotic, orgasms, abandon, not thinking for flashes of moments. Surrender. And I miss that strength and that joy and that stillness. At the same time though, it is sort of like missing Europe. Much as I love Paris, London, Florence--you can't live there. I glance through my scrapbooks once a year to remember. Intellectually I'm scared my sex life will become like a long-ago trip to Europe.

Did you ever read The Golden Compass (books 2 and 3)? You know how he used the knife to cut between the worlds that were very similar but very different? In a way, that was almost an analogy for who I was. It really did feel like I had these 2 separate beings--public woman and private gal. And with a slap they collapsed into one. In a way, I'm much less bifurcated. Which, ironically, is something I have long wished for. Be careful what you wish for. But collapsing the two worlds leaves private gal's world vanquished. Kapish. No more. And it isn't like I've all of a sudden sprung a vanilla sexual orientation. I've just lost all sense of eroticism. Part of me is scared that with aging (I'm almost 40!), well women's sex drives do often diminish. But not, I think, overnight. The weeks before I met the Republican, I couldn't keep my hands off myself. 2 or 3 times a day. I probably would have masturbated even more frequently if I could have found the time. It was embarrassing. Now it is 2 or 3 times a month, and always with a 'well, I really should do this because hopefully I'll find my erotic self again with some looking.'

Or maybe I need to go back on eharmony and find a nice vanilla boy who doesn't care about sex either. But I still expect to bounce back some way or other. I just need to get out of the tribute to John Paul Sartre and, as the once again brilliant Sondheim would say: "Move On. Stop worrying where you're going. Move on. Just keep moving on. I chose and my world was shaken. So what. The choice may have been mistaken. But choosing was not. You have to move on. Look at what you want, not at where you are, where you'll be."

Give me head with hair

I had long beautiful hair. Shining. Steaming. Gleaming. Flaxen. Waxen.

And I cut it off. It barely covers my ears. My earrings hang below my hair. You can see my neck in the back!

My brother told me that if he'd been dating me, he would have broken up with me over it. But then, I've never been cute enough for my brother's league. (Not that I'd date my brother, but his clear and consistent condemnation of women who look like me has sent me a clear signal.)

My ex forbid me to cut my hair. And, of course, I went along with it. But it was a huge mistake. Neither of us realized it, at the time, but it had the result of ordering me to "let myself go." I cut my hair about a month after we broke up, and he was SO much more attracted to me after I did that.

Since then, I've cut off 6 inches 3 times and only grown about 6 inches back, so it is about a foot shorter than it was this time last year. And I'm cuter than I've ever been. Tonight I even put a picture of me, without any makeup, on the vanilla dating site I'm on.

To the extent that I am vain, I'm vain about my hair. For years, my hair was the only thing I thought was attractive about me. It was weird to watch it fall, in long locks around me. It was kind of scary while it was all wet. No body. Thin little strands, snipping, falling, flocking around the floor. And then unceremoniously swept into a dust bin to be thrown in the trash. All that preening. All that sense of self.

I think most men prefer long hair. But I also think long hair has a way of distracting. Instead of noticing me, you notice my hair. This is shorter, bouncier, perkier. But less glamorous. And that's OK.

For years, I defined myself by my career and my hair. I watched my career fall apart, and even as it has come back, it has come back to a different position in my life. It is part of me, not an all-defining albatross. Something I can wear lightly, and know that it isn't everything. My hair seems to be moving into that space as well.

Is it better to be right than loved?

Growing up, my dad would try to teach me to not care about 'being right.' "It is better to be right than loved" he'd say, sarcastically. And, he was right. In our society, a woman who insists on being right can find it hard to be loved.

The problem is, these weren't over things like "He said/she said." These were over facts. You know, those pesky things you can look up in a book, or verify. What century was Shakespeare? Did Ghandi have an affair? Can we buy dog shampoo at one store or do we need to make a special trip.

I seem to have this weird fetish for facts. I tell myself "drop it" and I can't. Tonight, I got in a big fight with my mother because she was talking about how the "Goddess cultures" and matriarchal societies predominated the world before the Hebrew culture, which was a reaction to the Goddess cultures, came in and wiped them out. And I said it wasn't true. I had wanted to believe it, but it was based on poor evidence and some of it was made up. And she went on about Isis, as if that meant the Ancient Egyptian culture was centered around glorifying women, and the fact that Isis was one of several gods didn't mean anything.

I could tell my mom was getting really pissed off that I kept saying "I don't think that's true" and she kept going to mythology to back up her view of history and I tried to change the subject several times, but she kept coming back.

Now, my mother will love me, no matter what. But, this same dynamic plays back and forth. And maybe I'm wrong, and the last few years have uncovered new evidence, but the more interesting reason becomes: 'why does my sense of the facts become more important than the relationships?' Why the hell can't I just say "you're right; I'm wrong" when I don't think that is the case?

And the other question is, was my dad right: Do I have to pick between being right and being loved? Emotionally, I'd rather be loved, but for me, it isn't love if I'm pretending. And not correcting that Shakespeare died at the beginning of the 17th century, not the 15th century would drive me crazy! I'll do most anything a person I love wants. I take incredible care of the of the people I love. But I can't pretend black is white.

It drives my best friend crazy, and for some reason, with her, I've learned to shut up. She says "we parked on the left side of the parking lot" and we're walking to the right where the car is, and I don't say anything. But I can't seem to translate that skill to other people.

But at the same time, and I guess this adds to my ever-growing list of demands and weird things about me, it would be awfully nice to find someone that would say "Hey--let's look it up and find out" rather than "I know I'm right."

Way back when...

Had lunch with Edmund yesterday (if you care, Edmund was introduced last year in the "Can't We Just be Friends?" entry--given that I'd forgotten his nom de blog, I assume no one else remembers him.)

Long, long ago. Say 1990. I wished that I could be attracted to Edmund. Because long, long ago, I thought he was flirting with me, and I just wasn't attracted to him. And long, long ago, I thought if I could just fall for men in my 'league' and not go do something crazy like fall for a John, it would all work out. And I fell for Edmund. Somewhere along the way. And he appreciated that for his ego. He kept me hanging on. But he never reciprocated.

Edmund and I were definitely in the same league looks-wise. He was 5'5", very thin (although he isn't any more), with a receding hair line in college. So his rejection of me, which was tied with confused manipulation, flirting, and keeping me interested because it was good for his ego, even as he'd complain at least every week that no woman was interested in him, hurt my self esteem greatly. (I should say, I don't think it was conscious on his part--he is a good man and I don't think he ever meant to hurt me. It just happened.)

Edmund was my best friend for 5 years. We got together for 3 or 4 times a week, spoke on the phone every day, for hours each week. I loved him dearly. He is the only man I thought I would marry.

There are also very clear reasons we would have been a disaster; mostly that he is vanilla to his core. And I knew that, and knew I wasn't, and still thought we would marry, and I would have an active fantasy life and not try to deal with that. And, if you believe in astrology (and I do), I have a ton of fire in my chart and no earth, and he has quite a bit of earth, and no fire. And that is a fair representation of the differences between us.

Edmund didn't date for maybe 5 years after I 'broke up' with him, as a friend. (We'd get together every couple of years, so I'd keep tabs on him, but recently, I hadn't kept tabs.) But we had lunch, and as he sat down I noticed his ring. I'm very happy for him, but it was a poignant happiness.

I met his wife, and she is a small town girl, who will be a wonderful mother (they are pregnant with twins) and they have a 20 acre farm, with horses and chickens and pigs. And Edmund is happy. (And just to make this too bizarre in blog world--they are naming their kids Jane and the "John" of this blog's real name. Now, obviously, Edmund's real name isn't Edmund, but Edmund Burke, who I named "Edmund" after, was married to a Jane! --I'd looked up what I wrote about him before we had lunch, so his favorite philosopher to hate was fresh in my mind. And, of course, I kept thinking about John.)

But his wife is such a polar opposite to me. And she is what men are far more likely to want. She is thinner than me (or was, before her pregnancy), wears make-up, laughs easily, is warm and easy-going. She is sweet and genuinely kind. I'm harsher, abrasive. I dislike lots of things (although I'm loyal to the core for the people I love). I have enough of a prissy streak that shoveling out a barn would just not be on my radar, and I love the city. But Edmund and I had scintillating, smart, fast-moving conversations that jumped from idea to idea, plumbing one in depth only to swing like trapeze artists onto another and make connection deep down and spread out, bringing in more ideas and more ideas and more ideas. That, and his laughing, sparkling, dancing eyes were why I loved him SO much. His wife isn't dumb in any way, but she is thinks and talks slowly. Edmund seems on a different speed setting with her than the Edmund I knew.

I'm happy for him, but sad for me. It seems to me, a lot of the time, that I'd make a much better man in our society than a woman. Or a better Dominatrix than submissive. The Republican is e-mailing me once a week saying things like "I wish I had you in a cage right now" (because it would kill him to just ask me out for coffee) and another young'un (25!) can't remember my name but e-mails me every couple of days for a 'kinky massage,' and then this sweet man, who is clearly a little kinky but not very, is maybe smitten with me (although we haven't met, so how can he be?) but I just don't know that I could be attracted to him!!!! I wished once to be attracted to someone I wasn't. I'll never make that wish again.

An explanation and a checklist

I was re-reading an earlier posting, and I've updated it to more accurately reflect what I felt from a less analytical point of view. But, I never felt like John was just handsome and smart and had a good job so I wanted to go out with him. If I wanted a checklist, I'd date the young'un (and encourage him to not give up his 6 figure a year job, even though he is miserable in it.) I didn't mean that. I adored John deeply. To my core. For a time, it felt like those animated cartoons in Hedwig and the Angry Inch, where someone has been cut from half of themself. I loved his willingness to open up with me, the way he allowed me to open up with him and hold me with that vulnerability. I loved the speed of our conversations. The understated sense of humor. The expansive nature of our conversations. And the subtext that wiitwd was part of both of who we are but not an all-encompassing part. And that, in a way, we were both playing at it.

One time he implied that I was just fine the way I was. That I didn't need to be shaped or molded by a guy, the way most D/s guys end up trying to do it. And the idea that someone like him could think someone like me was just fine the way I was, it was a gift.

But I was able to keep some sense of emotional resilience (months after it fell apart) in the mess that was John and my's often beautiful and yearning, but confused and mistaken attempt at going together, because I never expected someone quite as handsome and having life together so well as that.

I think we all have checklists of what we are looking for. But mine doesn't include being handsome or wealthy. It includes integrity and a joy in daily life and sparkling, exciting, engaging, sexy conversations.

Sexism and Sex

Some 50-year-old jerk e-mailed me out of the blue to say “Seems there’s no shortage of uneducated, self-absorbed, fat women here.” And it really, really bothered me. I wrote him back to say “I may be many things, but with a doctor associated with my name, I’m hardly uneducated” and he had blocked me.

Now, I had not contacted him--he went out of his way to insult me for no reason, except posting a personal ad.

I know I’m sposed to let this roll off me, and I always do in time, but the way some men treat women just really starts to wear me down. I know my profile is self-absorbed--it is my profile. And I know he’s wrong about me being uneducated. Anyone that can put "doctor" in any combination of their name just isn't. So the fat comment starts to weigh me down. It has been several years since someone called me fat, since I lost weight. And I know how subjective that comment is. And intellectually, I know how foolish all this is, but emotionally it hurts.

I don’t understand the society that says it is OK for men to treat women this way. But given the treatment that Hillary Clinton has received, it isn’t all that surprising. But I feel like in the last 6 months, I’ve lost some of my sense of humor and bounciness when it comes to dealing with sexism. I’ve been shocked at the way she has been treated, even though I didn’t support her (and part of me wished I could have supported her--but the media was just too mean for her to win). And that treatment, the liberal men on my liberal mailing list who sent me photos of her photoshopped to look old, or said “I don’t dislike her because she’s a woman; I dislike her because she’s a bitch” without realizing that the term works to keep all women in their place.

The jerk who e-mail me--I take full responsibility for letting it bother me, but that is in a context of societal rules and expectations that tell me what is and what is not valued in a woman. And there are times in my life when I’ve said “I don’t need any of that--I will focus on my career. That’s enough for me.” And there are times when I’ve acknowledged that I do want a partner. It is lonely. And my career has been less important to me. But I’ve never felt like I have been defined by societal expectations of women. Lately, though, it feels more difficult to break out of that box.

The Republican

The Republican seems to be slightly back.

And part of me says "run!" Run hard and run fast!

And the other part of me feels that something inside me broke with him. I pretty much lost my sex drive after that. I miss the person I was with him and I want that part of me back and don't know how to find it.

I've been quite clear with him on what my requirements are and that he has to meet my requirements first. I've never really had that level of confidence before. I didn't say it, but the undercurrent was "you've spent the last couple of months obviously thinking about me. I can tell you want me more than I want you. So here's the deal."

In a relationship where one person would give up the power to the other, the person surrendering the power needs to know that their needs would be met first. And the fact that he has contacted me regularly means that he is clearly smitten enough with me that maybe he would take it my way. We both want the same destination--it is the journey to get there we can't seem to agree on.

It's funny--he is SO obsessed with not wasting time. He really, really doesn't want to waste time on anyone who isn't going to turn out to be what he wants. He is like the guy version of the gal who demands to know exactly where it is going because her biological clock is ticking and she can't possibly waste a month getting to know someone that isn't going to lead to kids! Ionesco would have had fun setting the two of them up on a date. So would Jerry Seinfeld.

At the same time, I've been spending more and more time with the ex. And we have fun together. It is a shame that we have different sexual turn-ons and don't have the same goals for the future.

But part of me feels like if I can stay strong I'll meet someone that will really click with me. Both my ex and the Republican would be unhealthy in different ways and I shouldn't go that way. But truth be told, there is a third man. Who is very sweet and very kind. Who I met on a vanilla site, but he picked up on the clues and has gone out of his way to assuage any concerns I might have, both about whether he picked up on the clues and about whether he would cherish and protect me. And, as horrible as I feel saying this, he bores me. What the hell is wrong with me? Why would I be more interested in the asshole than the sweet guy? (Now, granted, the asshole/Republican (and you know, listening to McCain's speech--I do think they are synonymous), we spent a lot more time together. I'm definitely going to give this man time to see what happens, and maybe he'll get under my skin. But I just don't see how he'll begin to intrigue me.

And part of me feels like that is foolish. I must compromise so that I don't just end up alone, with only my regrets. I'm going away for 2 weeks. I've never been a 'just have a fling while on vacation' type, so maybe something will become clearer about my life by the time I get back.