And Fin

1 Apr


Sister72 / Foter / CC BY

So, I’m single again. I think. Not technically, I guess, since to be officially single would require me to have actually spoken to the guy I’ve been dating for the past few months in order to articulate that I know my value and what I desire and deserve and he’s not giving it to me. But I guess, given the manner in which our relationship started it’s rather fitting that it ends in a similar shroud of mystery. (You may recollect that I wasn’t sure right away of our dating status and we kind of just fell into it).

And now I’m falling out of it. Because I haven’t received a text from him in a week. He may have a good reason. I know he had a big exam coming up that he would be studying for 24/7. Because unlike me he has to work hard at academics to do well. And I could forgive that, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it’s not okay with me. I’m understanding. I’m okay with my guy taking time for himself. I’m okay with skipping a day talking to him. Because people get busy and it happens. But an entire fucking week? Nah. I’m worth so much more than that. If someone doesn’t have the time to make me a priority in their life, I haven’t the time to fit them into mine.

I’m a little sad. I do love him. And I shall miss him. But it’s surprisingly easy for me to let go of what isn’t working for me.

It must be the week for falling out of love because I’m no longer hung up on anyone. I’m just going to take this time to focus on finishing this damn degree and getting myself up out of here.

And no, this is not some April fool’s thing. I hate April Fool’s tricks. Despise them! I’m really single again. For now.

Why Too Many Options is a Bad Thing

25 Mar
JMaz Photo / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND

Guys, I’m totally not good at this monogamy thing. I know I’ve said it before, but it’s just that I’m not a monogamous person. I am poly. And I keep falling in love with monogamous men and that’s hard! It’s not that I can’t be monogamous. I can, and I have. It’s just that I don ‘t want to.

It’s like this – I’m sure you all have several close friends, right? The ones you tell everything to, who are there for you through good times and bad, who you can’t wait to share good news with. The people in your life whom you love and couldn’t imagine your life without. Right? You probably have a couple, maybe three or four. I know I have four very close friends.

Now imagine that today someone told you you had to pick just one of those friends to be friends with for the rest of your days. How would you choose? I mean, I’m sure you love each of your friends in different ways and for different reasons, right? And maybe sometimes you’re not getting along the greatest with one friend, which is okay because you have other friends to carry you through those moments and so there’s never too much strain on any one friendship at one time. Or one of your friends is super busy with their life and can’t fit you in like they once did. Because life happens. So who would you pick? Could you do it?

And that’s how I feel about dating. Because different men bring different things to the table. They love me in different ways, and I love them in different ways. They fulfill my life in different ways. I love my boyfriend deeply. He is an incredible man and he enriches my life. I would rather continue to be with him, but if for some reason things fall apart, that’s fine too. Because I’m also pretty content being on my own.

But here’s the thing – I have options. Lots of options. Men adore me, and there are a number of men who would love to be my significant other. And I would love to have them as my own, as well. But my guy, he’s stuck on this monogamy thing. And, in my experience, mostly it tends to be a possessive thing. Which is strange to me because I don’t really understand feeling possessive over another human being. Because autonomy. It’s like my close friends – I know they have other close friends, and that makes me happy for them. Imagine the burden of being someone’s only friend? That’s a lot of pressure for one person.

If a guy wants to date only me, that’s cool. I mean, that’s his choice. He doesn’t have to. I’m not possessive. Love is expansive and I know that people can be fulfilled in different ways by different persons in their life. In fact, sometimes I find being a guy’s only girlfriend a bit stifling. All of that attention focused on me can be a little overwhelming at times. Like go get a hobby, dude.

And here’s my problem – I have so much attention from a number of men that when my boyfriend fails to live up to my expectations, I sometimes just want to take my pick and be with someone new. The problem there is that humans, as fallible beings, will always disappoint in some way or another, so even were I to do that, new boyfriend would be bound to disappoint in some way or another and I’d be moving along again.

Which is why, wouldn’t it be nice if I could just have as many boyfriends as I have close friends? Then when one disappoints I wouldn’t feel like dropping him for the next guy, because I could just experience what I’m lacking there elsewhere. Of course, communication is also key, and I certainly need to let my boyfriend know when he’s not providing what I need in the relationship.

Having a lot of options keeps me pretty ready to jump ship. It’s bad. It’s not that I’m always looking for something better. It’s just that when I get bored or antsy or annoyed, there’s always someone ready at hand who’s not currently boring, annoying, or disappointing me.

I’ve not seen my boyfriend since returning from my trip to Jamaica. I’d asked him to come visit when I got back, since I’ve gone down to see him twice. It’s his turn. He’s made no effort, as yet. And I know he’s busy. It’s matching season for his residency, so I get it. But the thing is, if he can’t make me a priority, there’s always someone else who will.

Maybe I should re-title this blog How to Be Awful at Dating?


27 Feb
chuddlesworth / Foter / CC BY-NC-ND

Firstly, now that I’m not so much dating as actually in a relationship, my blogging has become less frequent. Mostly because I’m kind of boring now. I’m all in love with my beau and happy, and being in a relationship just isn’t as funny or entertaining or interesting as dating is. So, apologies to all my readers for having become such a bore.

I just got back from a weekend trip to Ottawa to visit my beau. I hadn’t seen him in a month and I was dying to see him. I’d been counting down the days since I’d booked the flight. And then, of course, two days before my scheduled flight, I got wind (ha, I’m so punny) of an impending storm. One that was supposed to commence late the night before my flight and continue on into the morning of the day I was scheduled to fly down. I just knew that this bitch of a storm was going to get in the way of my seeing my guy. I knew it. Because I’m fairly certain winter hates me as much as I hate winter.

And lo and behold – 12 whole hours before my scheduled flight, before that stupid fucking storm even started, I received an email notification that my flight had been cancelled. I was at work, but there was absolutely no way that anything was going to stop me from seeing my boyfriend (I just started calling him that… it feels weird), so I stepped away from my desk and made a phone call to the airline. I was pretty distraught thinking that my plans were being derailed, so sorry Air Canada dude who answered my call for being so short with you. Love does crazy things to a girl. Anyhow, it got sorted, and I got on the very next flight out, and all was (relatively) well again. Though I was pretty annoyed that I lost three whole hours of my weekend with my love. Seriously. Crazy in love. Can’t get enough of this guy.

I hadn’t packed because I worked until 11 that night, so I spent my night packing and baking delicious treats to take to my love and his family (you know, win their hearts, one cinnamon roll at a time). Finally, it was time to head to the airport (by which time it had actually started snowing). I had to drag my suitcases through snow drifts up to my thighs while the unhelpful taxi driver watched from the warmth of his vehicle. But I didn’t care (too much). I was on my way to see my love.

Finally, after five hours of traveling, I landed in Ottawa and embraced R (also known as The Boyfriend). I couldn’t stop smiling. A month is a really long time to be apart from someone you love so much. We proceeded to spend a brilliant weekend together. He seems to really know me – he planned outings to all of my favourite things. We went to view a mulitcultural art exhibit by Norlan Vilchez; he took me to the Canadian Museum of Civilization; we stopped to speak with protestors; and we had breakfast at Cora’s. We were going to skate the Rideau Canal, but it had been too warm and it was closed to the public. We went dancing at a nightclub, and Drunk in Love came on and it was perfect and I was blissful.

See, I’m boring now.

Nothing funny transpired. Nothing amusing. Just normal, everyday people-in-love type things occurred. But I’m okay with that. I had been somewhat uncertain about the state of our relationship before this trip. We never did officially say “let’s be a couple”. It kind of just happened. So we don’t have any real anniversary. And I wasn’t sure (aside from the fact that we’d started saying “I love you”) that we were at all official even. But then last weekend in conversing with people he kept referring to me as his girlfriend. So I guess we’re no longer unofficially official and are instead just plain official, now.

And now I’m counting down the days until I’ll see him again. Long distance is much harder to do when I am actually into a guy. This is my third LDR in a row, and it’s the first time I’ve really cared much about the distance.

Oh, and I’ve met his mom. She kind of terrifies me. Hopefully my cinnamon rolls placated her. His daughters certainly enjoyed them.


17 Feb


Mait Jüriado / Foter / CC BY-NC-SA

I totally suffer from basorexia. I don’t know who coined this term, but there is nothing more apt to describe me, perhaps, than the term basorexic. Basorexia, as defined by the always highly accurate and not at all fallible Urban Dictionary, is: 1. an overwhelming urge to neck or kiss 2. a strong craving or hunger for kissing (adjective) -basorexic.

Yeah. That’s me. I love kissing. I was labelled by a very good friend of mine (whom I miss a lot, and must get up to shenanigans with again soon) as Hot Lips. For my propensity to makeout with people. Sometimes inappropriate people because my desire to kiss is ridiculously strong and sometimes I make out with guys my friend likes, directly in front of her. Fortunately we’re still friends (and she’s learned to give me direct instructions to not make out with people she wishes me not to make out with).

But anyway, I flew down to Toronto a couple weeks ago for some training related to a new volunteer position. While I was down there, I met up with a guy I’ve been conversing with for months. I told my guy before I went out. He was cool with it. And I needed an escape because as much as I enjoyed spending time with the new friends I made, feeling trapped makes me crazy, and we were about an hour outside Toronto, so I was antsy.

So guy I’ve been talking to came to get me. Let’s call him L. He’s a cop, and I actually really enjoy conversing with him. He’s really intelligent. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s attractive.

Anyway, we had a lovely dinner. Great conversation. It can be hard to engage me in conversation because I can’t stand the mundane. I don’t do small talk. But we talked about restorative justice, racism, and stereotypes. Among other things. It was lovely.

After dropping me off back at the training retreat, he admitted that he’d desired to kiss me. Which I knew. Because I had the same desire. I love the man I’m with. He’s wonderful. But I love kissing! And I’d totally have made out with this guy if it were within the bounds of my relationship.

Fortunately, I’ll get some quality makeout sessions this weekend. I swear I’m having kissing withdrawals right now.

Is there anything better than making out?


26 Jan


Hammonton Photography / / CC BY-NC

I’m neurotic. Let’s just get that out of the way. When I taught my intro psychology class about mental illness, I brought in my copies of DSM-IV-TR and DSM 5 to discuss classification and diagnosis. But I told them they could only look at them from afar because I couldn’t stand the thought of their germy little hands sullying the pages of my precious books (I don’t even like the DSM, but I’m this way with all of my books!). And if a bee, or flying anything that could be mistaken as a bee, flies near me I scream and cry and wave my arms about while my daughter glares at me for my embarrassing antics. And the sound of people eating makes me want to scream/barf/become violent. So, I’m neurotic.

My friends know me well enough to find my neuroses endearing (or I like to think they find them endearing, anyway).

Now, in spite of my many neuroses (the three mentioned are the tip of the ice berg) I’m cool as a cucumber when it comes to dating. A guy I like stops texting me? I forget about him in 2.5 seconds (and that’s a generous estimate). Someone doesn’t like me? Cool, their loss. Only hear from him when he wants something? Whatever; everybody wants something from somebody. In dating, I’m pretty nonchalant.

Until now.

I would say the difference is that I have finally found something I am afraid to lose. But holy sweet Jesus has it made me neurotic! He’s a busy guy, if you recollect (being that he’s a med student).

A few weeks ago I texted my best friend of 15 years who knows me better than just about anybody (and who is fully aware of my neurotic tendencies) in. a. panic. Of full-blown proportions. I hadn’t heard from my guy in a whopping 12 hours. She talked me down. Told me I was overreacting. Of course, I ignored her and continued to overreact and bring to mind all of the awful scenarios I could think of – he’d suddenly decided he didn’t like who I am as a person; he’d met someone else nearer to him; he’d changed his mind about loving me. Neurotic!

And then he texted me and I told my friend all was well. At which we both laughed at my catastrophic thinking and she gave me the ol’ “I told you so”. And all was well in my world.

Until this past Friday. It’s been a whirlwind few days. He and I texted back and forth Friday. Until 1:25pm (the time of the last reply I’d received from him). In the interest of moderating my neuroses, I shrugged it off (as much as I could). I refused to let myself overreact. His last texts were “I love you” followed by “I miss you”, after all. I didn’t text him again in case he was busy and I was being a nuisance. Then Saturday morning (5-something am) rolled around and I sent a “good morning, I’m on my way to the airport” text. Because I was heading out of town for a training retreat. I didn’t expect a reply.

At 8am, when I landed in TO, I sent another text saying I’d arrived safely and that I hoped he’d have a good day. No reply.

I pushed it out of my head (I’m lying; I was obsessing by this point with above mentioned scenarios, and many more proliferating as time passed), and absorbed myself in the training workshop. It was a really intense day, with a session around residential schools and their impact on a colonized people. Highly impacting. Highly emotionally charged. So we’re at this part in the day where we’re role playing the removal of indigenous children from their homes. And I get an incoming call. I was going to ignore it but it was an unfamiliar number and I am out of town, so just in case it was something important, I answered. It was Dilico (a branch of CAS). They’d gotten a report that I was out of town and that I’d left my 9-year-old daughter home alone (thanks to her asshole paternal grandmother and/or uncle for that, as far as I can gather). And if you didn’t catch that – this call came in during an intense experiential workshop around removal of children from homes. Let’s just say I lost it. I was emotionally drained. I dialled my guy’s number. I didn’t care if he was busy; I needed him. It went straight to voicemail.

The last time I hadn’t heard from him for more than 12 hours, it was because his phone hadn’t been working. I’d kept that in mind even though this time it had been more than 24 hours. But now I’m highly emotionally triggered, I’m crying my face off, I’m angry and frustrated and I need him. So I’m trying to stay positive but I start wondering if he’s blocked my phone number. Or if he’s dying. Because basically my brain is an asshole and I worry excessively.

My wonderful father ended up talking me down from my freak out. He’s a social worker. And by this time I’d had the social worker who’d called me confirm that my daughter was indeed safe. So that was sorted. But I was still out of sorts about this guy.

Today my friend sent me a message on Facebook to inquire about all this nonsense with CAS. I filled her in, and then told her about my non-contact and all of the dire circumstances I could imagine. Literally minutes after sending her my tirade about my ridiculous fears, I received an email from the guy. He’s been sick in bed since Friday. His phone is missing because he let his daughter play with it and he hasn’t been well enough to get out of bed, let alone search for his phone. I relayed this news to my friend who relayed that she was rolling her eyes at me. And well she should be!

So, I guess this is what it’s like to care? I’m ambivalent about whether or not I like it. On the one hand, being in love is nice and caring about someone is fulfilling. But then there’s the neurotic side. And he’s not aware of just how neurotic I am, so he probably thinks that not texting me because he’s sick is perfectly acceptable. (Which, logically, it is… But it certainly causes me tremendous anxiety).

Anyway, I’ve booked my next flight to visit him and everything is peachy. Minus the stupid CAS bullshit that I’ll have to deal with when I return home, but at least I know my guy isn’t dying or out of love with me!

Unofficially Official

15 Jan


modesrodriguez / / CC BY-NC-ND

I just got back from a blissful weekend in Toronto with Mr. Unofficial. He had a symposium to attend down there and it felt like forever since I’d seen him (when, in fact, it had only been two weeks), so I booked the flight and he booked the hotel and we spent a beautiful weekend together.

My flight landed in TO shortly after 8am. He was to meet me at the airport. I was tired, having not slept all night. However, he was still nearly two hours away because driving conditions out of Ottawa were icy. Normally, I’d be annoyed and probably have found something (or someone) else to do in the city while I waited. But I wasn’t even slightly irate. Totally out of character for me. I am short on patience and quick to become annoyed. I waited nearly three hours before he arrived. And when I saw him – not one sharp word was said. I smiled as he walked toward me. I dropped my bags. We embraced. I was just so happy to see him.

We proceeded to spend the next three days together, which were absolutely perfect. We didn’t do much. We barely left our hotel room. But it was the most perfect weekend I could imagine.

I’ve had strong feelings for him since he spent a month here with me during his clinical rotation. He’s just this beautiful soul – patient, nonjudgmental, loving, affectionate, passionate, motivated. I had no intention of falling in love with him. But I did. And I’m glad of it.

Anyhow, we’ve been unofficially together for a time now. When we got to our hotel room we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. As we’re in the middle of a passionate session of lovemaking he says “I love you”. And I reciprocated. And it was the most perfect exchange of I love yous I’ve ever experienced. Maybe I’ve got my rose coloured glasses on and everything seems better than it is because the early stages of a relationship are exciting and kinda delusional… but I don’t even care if that’s it. I’m blissfully happy.

And now that we’ve verbalized it, I’m going to go ahead and say we’re unofficially official.

I’ve been home since early Tuesday morning, after nearly missing my flight home (we left the hotel late because neither of us wanted to disengage from cuddling) so it’s been an entire day, and I’m already counting down the days until I see him again. Which will hopefully be for his birthday in February.

It’s safe to say I’m a convert – no longer a skeptic of love!

In Another Round of WTF… Or, How Not to Be a Creepy Dick

9 Jan
Helga Weber / / CC BY-ND

Ugh. Do gross men with boundary issues ever get tired of being gross, boundary crossing abusers? No? Okay then.

So I’m sitting here minding my own business, doing some work (of which I have heaps that are already stress-inducing enough because how in the sweet heck am I ever going to keep on top of this all?), when I decide to take a quick break so I can come back with fresh attention. I open my Instagram to peruse lovely pictures of puppies and kittens and winter landscapes and hot guys working out (I’m not opposed to a little objectification, here and there). And then I check my notifications and have received a comment on one of my photos. So I check it out. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just some dude I don’t know telling me I’m hot. Whatever.

But then I receive a Facebook request from this guy. (When I signed up I somehow connected my Facebook to my Instagram. Maybe I should undo that). Now, normally I don’t mind, because meeting new people from all over the world is cool, and usually the people I “meet” are nice, respectful people who I sometimes even develop friendships with. But this guy was gross. Right off he started commenting on how sexy I am. Then he asked if we could exchange pictures. I, of course, nipped that right in the bud.

No. We cannot. I am seeing someone and he and I have agreed to share pictures only with each other.

You’d think that’d be clear, right? But no. And this happens, sometimes. I’m not unaccustomed to the persistent guys who beg and beg and beg for pictures despite my assurance that they’re not getting any and that I’m happily involved with someone (even though we’re still not official).

So he asks if I want to see pictures of him. I declined.

I get back to my work and some time later (probably about 15 minutes, because I’m bored and cannot seem to focus today) I go back to my Facebook where this guy has been sending me messages. That’s when I open my message to a picture of his dick. You have no idea how tired I am of receiving surprise dick pictures. If I didn’t ask to see your dick, don’t fucking show me your dick. And guys, what don’t you understand about how assaultive it is to ignore an explicit request to NOT see your penis? Do you not understand consent? Do you not understand sexual harassment and sexual assault? Here’s a quick primer: If I say “no, I do not want to see your dick” then don’t send me a fucking picture of your dick. Just fucking don’t.

Anyhow, that’s not even the worst of it. After my eyes were assaulted by this creep’s dick (yes, I’m creep-shaming, and he deserves it. Though I doubt he’d understand that his behaviour is anything less than savory) he went on to tell me that I’m boring, and to say that there are words for girls like me.

Now, my intention at this point is to block this creep, because seriously, he’s obviously not only got no respect for women, but he’s gross and disgusting and completely creepy. But before I do that, I wanted to make sure he understood that his behaviour was inappropriate, if only to deter him from harassing some other woman in the future.

This is the conversation that ensued:




(Behold my super skills in the art of photo editing… Even though this douchenozzle doesn’t deserve privacy, I figure there’s probably some kind of law against publicly shaming jerkwads without their permission).

And then, before I could send my final, well-articulated response (because by then I had collected my thoughts and composed a cogent and particularly poignant message), he’d blocked me. Because I’m a fucking prick tease bitch whore, don’t you know.

You know what I’m tired of? I’m tired of being a whore for EVERY FUCKING THING I DO. I have too much sex – whore! I won’t send you pictures of my naked body – whore! I won’t have sex with you – whore! I just can’t win this whore game. And you know why that is? Because these words have not a single fucking thing to do with me and my sexuality and how much or how little sex I have and everything to do with gross guys’ insecurity with themselves and with my autonomy in my sexuality. What this guy is really saying is that I owe him my body because he finds me sexy. He’s saying that because some of my pictures turn him on, it is my duty to please him. It’s disgusting.

Let’s just briefly go over again what I owe to any man: NOT A FUCKING THING.

You like my body? Good for you.

My photographs turn you on? Good for you.

You desire me? Good for you.

None of this equates to me owing you a goddamn thing. Because I don’t. I don’t post photographs because I care about you and your boner. If you get one, that’s your issue and has nothing to do with me. See, here’s the thing. Women have bodies. And some women are comfortable photographing themselves and some women aren’t. But my posting a picture is not at any time an invitation for you to own my body in any way. It’s not an invitation for you to show me your dick. Of the few hundred followers I have, they all manage to not be gross, harassing dickwads. In fact, not one of my followers makes me feel uncomfortable. Occasionally they even comment on my photographs, and you know, they just say nice things without being creepy.

You know, I never really see the reverse – women feeling as though they’re entitled to men’s bodies when a man displays himself half naked, flexing, looking all sexified. I have never once demanded something of these men who post sexy photographs of themselves. I’ve never seen women commenting demanding things and calling them “pussy teases” or something when they refuse to comply. And this, people, is how rape culture functions. I find the majority of men are good people who when told no respond appropriately. But then there are these few… People – teach your children about consent. Teach your sons that no means no. That anything less than an enthusiastic and resounding yes means no. That boundaries are good and healthy and to respect them. And that no woman ever owes them anything no matter how much of her body he may have seen.

Holiday Miracle!

2 Jan


Markcooz / / CC BY-ND

Okay, so I don’t really do holidays. And I don’t really believe in miracles. But my love life is in this crazy place where things are kinda exactly how I want them. And that’s just a little eerie because this never happens!!

In my last post I mentioned my ineptitude in discussing with a certain new beau my feelings and desires. I suck at that stuff. Buuuuut, in some miraculous turn of events, in a conversation with med student I flipped the question back on him… and it turns out we want the same things. So now it’s all out in the open and short of making things officially official, we’ve both communicated the desire to see where this leads. He lives in Ottawa right now, making things a little complicated (one might even think I enjoy complications since this is another long distance relationship I’ve entered into; I swear I don’t, though. This shit just happens), but I couldn’t be any happier if I tried.

So for NYE I was invited to a couple of house parties. I ended up at the one I was invited to by a guy I used to see. I assumed we were cool; he saw my changed relationship status on Facebook (which was a mere pretence to deter men from sending me pictures of their dicks and asking me for nudies, but which will likely become a true indication of my relationship status shortly). But something may not have translated because he’s since asked me to join him on a date. But I digress. So at midnight, shortly after the anticlimactic countdown (at exactly 12:02am) my almost new beau FaceTimed me and I was brilliantly happy and we lamented our distance and made kissy faces at each other. I know. Cutest ever, right? Or you’re rolling your eyes at the cheesiness of it all but I don’t care because I’m still high on new relationship energy so roll away. I’m busy over here making kissy faces.

One might think that this is a comprehensive explanation of my happiness, but they would be wrong. See, in making this declaration and consequent implied promise of sexual monogamy, I had to divulge to Mr. Heartbreaker that we could no longer be intimate physically. I adore this man, too, and was hopeful that we could maintain our relationship without the sex (he’d given me hope to believe this could be so in previous conversations we’d had). So he came over and we conversed, and I cried, and we came to the conclusion that our love is deep and needs no physical intimacy. So I get to keep them both!!! Which I mean to sound much less ownership-y than it does, but I’m ecstatic. I can’t think of how this could’ve worked out any more perfectly. Everyone’s in the know. I have a potential boyfriend who I am so terribly excited to embark on a relationship with (soon, I hope) and a… well, I don’t have a name for it. Secondary partner sounds too removed and technical and impersonal and inaccurate. But regardless, I’m all kinds of happy.

So happy new year, all! From the look of it, 2014 is going to be a beautiful year.

atmtx / / CC BY-NC-ND


What Do You Want?

26 Dec


Giababes / / CC BY-NC-SA

What do you want? Seems a simple enough question. But when med student uttered these words, I froze like a deer in the headlights. I know what I want. I know exactly what I want. But to verbalize my desires to another human being? What if I’ve misread things and what I want isn’t what he wants? What if it is? What if I say it and then it’s out there and I can never go back to the simple, carefree, undefined days?

So I didn’t tell him. I muttered. I stammered. But I didn’t tell him what it is I want. I probably should have. Things are a little tense right now because Mr. Heartbreaker is back being all charming and heartbreaking and a puppet master of my heart, as he does, and med student wants all of me.

Since I couldn’t tell him, I figured I’d tell all of you. Because, funnily, I don’t feel vulnerable at all divulging my desires to anyone on the internet who chances by in spite of being unable to tell one man – the one who most needs to hear it. Sigh. Here it is:

I want to wake up next to someone that I’m excited to see every day, and who’s excited to see me. And if we’re far apart, I want to know that I’m on his mind as he’s on mine.

I want to be held and kissed and made to feel adored. Because I would do the same for him. Because I do adore him.

I want to be with someone who supports me in my endeavours and I in theirs. And I want to be with someone who has dreams and aspirations because nothing drives me crazier than a passionless person ambling aimlessly through life.

I want to be with someone who I can allow to see me at my worst without fear of judgment. Who will lift me back up.

I want to come together to make a family. I want a household full of love and adoration and respect.

I want to rejoice in his successes. I want to grieve in his sorrows. I want a connection that is deep and empathic and beautifully raw.

I want intimacy. The kind that leaves your deepest recesses exposed but without the fear because the person you’re exposing yourself to is your ally.

I want him. I want to wake up beside him. I want to proudly say he’s my significant other. I want to hold him at night and kiss him in the morning. I want to cook him meals and for him to rub my back. Because I love cooking for him. And he loves rubbing my back. I want his beautiful eyes smiling up at me morning, noon, and night.

Perhaps one day I’ll tell him. In the meantime, I guess I’ll just wonder if he wants the same.

Merry Christmas! Here’s My Dick!

25 Dec



You would not believe the number of dick pics (surprise dick pics, at that), that I have received as a gesture of Christmas giving. What the sweet fuck is this shit, guys?

Look, I’m not that into Christmas as it is. I don’t buy gifts and I feel pretty uncomfortable receiving them. So really, you don’t need to feel beholden to bestow any gift upon me. Least of all a surprise picture of your phallic member. If ever you’re feeling generous, please donate (your time or money and not your penis) to the local homeless shelter. Or support a cause you care about (and that doesn’t include anything to do with me or my vagina, FYI). But for the love of all that is secular and/or holy, keep your dicks to yourselves. Or at least inquire whether the recipient is desirous of seeing it.

But really, if you want to be generous, I’m more of an experiential person than a visual person. Merry Christmas to me? Anyone?


Back to my point… Although, do I ever have a point with this blog? I’m a few rum and eggnogs deep and I think this post has taken a different turn than intended.

So what’s my point? I feel lucky. I’ve never experienced a dearth of options in dating. I have men throwing themselves at me constantly. So it’s easy enough for me to just find one I want and pick him. I literally have men from around the world who want to be with me. Honestly, it’s a little overwhelming. I don’t know how a surprise dick pic is gonna sway me when I’ve got men promising to cook and clean and do all of the domestic things that I despise for me. In fact, I think I should just date everybody.

Nope. That wasn’t the point of this either. I got excited and distracted by guy promising to cook me Christmas morning breakfast and bring me juice and to do everything else I might want. Um, so I’m gonna go make a selection. And I hope you all have a very good holiday. Unless you don’t celebrate. Then just have a regular good day. Without surprise dick pics.


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