Day 14: Brave

I was on a date last night (with the architect)(more on that later) and he said “I’m a pretty quiet person.  You… are not.”

(smile)

He did not mean it as an insult and he made sure that I knew that.  It’s true, I’m not- and that isn’t just about how much I talk, it’s literally an overall statement of my energy and expression.  Living in New York has really helped me to move from wishing this was different to fully inhabiting my natural volume.  I kind of think that is the secret to “making it” in New York-  be who you are because nothing else you try will be useful or interesting.  You can take up space here, trying to be something else- and no one will notice, no one will give a shit.  New York says to you ‘Figure out who you are and be that’ and this is why we stay in spite of all the things that make it just a touch insane to live here: because here one can be free.

I missed it, completely, if this is what life had expected of me all along, wherever I was.  If anything I feel like maybe it was the exact opposite that was communicated.  I bought it, too- the idea that I had to be something different than what I naturally was to be acceptable or loved.  It still fucks with my head because the message is reinforced every time I do something that makes other people uncomfortable.

Like, write this little blog.

Every time I sit down to write, I make choices.  Choice number one is to write first, edit later; the rest of the choices are really in the editing.  Years ago I read The Artists Way by Julia Cameron and have been writing morning pages regularly (often daily) ever since.  It’s part of my mediation practice.  Before that, I have been writing in a journal since I learned how to write fast enough to keep up with my thoughts and feelings, probably since I was maybe 6- though then journals were diaries and they had keys.  It has always been a free association of sorts; an exfoliation of thoughts & ideas in an effort to make sense of them. It’s how I learn, process, express, take in, let go. For all of my life I have written poetry, and have always understood it as something being channeled through me- itself a free association, most of my poems are edited very little- because they are kind of not mine.  I’m sure I will share some here, over the next 75 days.  Point is that what you end up reading here is an edited topical free write: I just get it all out, remove the parts that I think might be uninteresting/irrelevant and leave the rest.  Everyday there is at least one thing that remains intact that I consider removing because it’s too crass, too sexual, too… unsettling, disturbing, or revealing.  And everyday I choose to leave it there because sometimes it’s hilarious, other times erotic, irreverent, controversial or disgusting- but I can almost always hear my own voice in it and that makes it brave and true.

Someone I loved very much told me that art should make people feel something powerful. He also told me that everything we see began with a sketch; that it all starts in getting the idea out and down.  To me this meant create from the heart- take what you are feeling and make it a sensory experience to share with others.  To date, any of the powerful work I have created is made from this holy space; the rest of the stuff I make is fine, pretty, useful, cool, or whatever, though I have always struggled to share my work with people- too much anxiety.  I was so deeply unsteady in myself that I just couldn’t deal with the judgment and vulnerability. Artfucks can be real dicks.  Regular people can be horribly cruel.  It was just easier and safer when I payed attention to who you wanted me to be and delivered that; pleasant to the point of obliteration and invisibility.

I have invited you all into this space with me so that I could take what I was feeling and hopefully create a sensory experience for you, that leaves you in some way altered- maybe mad, turned out, exhausted, concerned, inspired- etc.  What I am feeling as a result of asking out at least one person every day (often more) is going to be all the feelings I have about love, romance, sex, and myself described to you through stories that are memories of my life.  That’s the first layer.  The second is that I am an artist- in this case, the writer- and so the feelings I have about that get folded in there.  Now bring in the feelings I have as a result of the critical thinking and insight on these REALLY IMPORTANT AND BIG DEAL areas of my life contribute to the folding layer metaphor I am too tired to complete.  I am pointing this out to you because this space is hella bigger than me just updating you on whether or not I fulfilled my commitment to ask someone out each day and telling you a story about it.

Today there were a couple people who are kind of important in my life who made it very clear to me that they had some judgment about what I was writing here.  One was concerned she would somehow be affiliated with it, the other told me plainly that I should not share this with people I want to date or am dating.  It definitely upset me.  I’m mostly over it, or I will be when I wake up.

But hear this: I hold my audience to the highest of standards, I think VERY well of each of you.  I know you are sensitive, brilliant, thoughtful people.  I assume that, given how intelligent and open-minded you are, that you can read this and see it is a small part of a big picture.  I am especially moved by how much you love LOVE and really want to see me find someone to love, who loves all of me- madly.  Hell, you might even want somebody who would love me precisely for being brave and sexy and committed to this project!  I know you are way past the premature layer of existence where you would think I am a slut or that I cannot be taken seriously.  In fact, I can feel your warmth for me glow and grow with each passing day, each entry.  My audience is composed of the most extraordinary beings who know I too am extraordinary.

And if this ⬆⬆⬆ does not describe you? Well, don’t bother reading any more.  It’s not for you and I assure you it’s over your head.

That said…

The architect is a very attractive man.  I’m smitten.  He does not know about the project yet, and I don’t know if he wants children so I think we are in the right place for 2 dates.  I am a little tempted to turn down the volume on myself, tighten up the screws and stuff- because I really want him to like me, choose me… but I’m not doing it this time.  This time, he can see exactly who he is getting himself into.

I did not ask anyone out today- I didn’t see anybody I wanted to ask out, and I let myself off the hook because of the date and I had a little surplus of asks, anyway.

Going hard into it tomorrow.  I spoke with a friend the other day and he asked me, “so do you just walk up to people and say ‘I think you’re attractive, will you have dinner with me?'” and truthfully, I have not done that yet.  But this week, I am going to force myself to do it just that way.  Get it!  Wish me luck!

xxx

Day 13: From the Boudoir: Vulnerability

August 1998: A group of us had been working together in a restaurant for a little over a year.  We were young and beautiful and totally wild- so boheme, so alive.  Revelers, artists, drug addicts, drunk by noon- swapping lovers and cigarettes casually, Royalty in an isolated scene of brilliance and waste.  I vaguely remember waking up around 11am, melatonin pills mixed with bong hits and iced coffee, floating around in any water we could find until around 2… then we would shower together because it was faster & the tub would back up to our shins from our long long mermaid hair; roll out dewy in little dresses and springy wet curls, smokes blazing, to work, waiting tables.  We worked really hard and made tons of money for 20 year olds- often drinking our way through shifts, leaving each other bumps on the backs of toilets in the restrooms.  We would take our drinks with us when we left the bar after work, sometimes long after work, always too intoxicated to drive- and then we would head about 15 minutes north and find our friends in this tiny 3 bar town on the Hudson River.

I remember exactly what I was wearing the night that I fell in love with him.  I remember it was mid August and I was all bronze and blond wisp highlights, pepper freckled and never wearing any underwear, high like a hot air balloon and good to go, for most anything, most of the time.  Strappy black sundress with tiny white dots, entering a packed bar humming and twinkling and clinking like these places always do in memory, bar doors and windows open to the night.   Forgetting that I was still wearing my apron until my amigo the drummer came and affectionately reached his hands behind my back and kissed me on the lips while he untied it, low slung on my hips, laughing back and pulling me by the hand to the bar.  We were shooting Jack and celebrating because a few great friends, who I only knew by legend, had just returned from The Lemon Wheel.

One of them had caught my eye at The White Party a few months before. That night we all wore white and were handed Ecstasy upon arrival; TVs tuned to other rooms in the house, drone music and ultraviolets, whisky bottles and free sweet love in every corner and on the floor.  Ten foot red bullseye painted in the hallway, mannequins with fur boleros and never enough cigarettes to last the night.  I saw him there passing through rooms and across the TV screens, and then he passed through the walls, passed and gone and I didn’t think of him again until this night in August.

We locked eyes across the room, like young lovers do, in bars.  My heart burst into confetti and fireworks.  Made our way across the room, like Bollywood magnet people, to collapse deep into the black leather corner of a booth, surrounded by friends.  Holding hands and massaging thighs under the table while we laughed and shared stories of the summer with our friends, a long armed philodendron like a Beltane crown behind our heads.  I had a disposable camera from vacation with a few frames left, which was drunkenly passed around the table, later to find someone captured our first kiss— the paint on his shirt, my moonstone necklace, faces fitting like puzzle pieces- we had the same coloring, aura and song.  Trays and trays of shots and drinks all night long, I don’t even remember lifting 2 of the carved stone shot glasses as a memento of our evening before we left together.  I don’t remember driving home, except for some flashes of night air and whizzz passing through the windows, while we sang Dave Matthews ‘Crash’ loud as sailors…

When I woke the next day to a perfect summer morning, birds sun breezy and soft clean sheets, he was laying there watching me, eyes like blue ice marbles, indentation in the bridge of his once badly broken nose.   He had taken too big of a nitrous hit at the festival and fallen on his head and there were red blotches of broken blood vessels on the whites of his eyes, yellow-purple ring remnants of a shiner.  I remember feeling a little embarrassed, when I got up to pee, stepping out of the bed to find 3 wrappers and neatly tied condoms in the waste basket.  I think we had made love on the roof; I think we may have been up all night; I think we spilled wine in the bed.  I took a shower, coming back into the lemon-sun & diamond dust room, he was standing on his head in my bed, singing along to Octopus’ Garden, toppling over to smile at me.  He tugged on my towel and pulled me back into the soft bed, watching my eyes as he went down on me, legs skin hands and white light.  So in love, so in love- like only relatively unbroken 20 year old summertime girls could be.

The next few weeks were both winged and endless, as he was away to work in the city and I was barely touching the ground.  Developing those pictures to find our kiss, I kept that picture over the speedometer in my car and listened only to the mix tape he made for me, with the sparkle sun and moon stickers, his own songs mixed in.  I told them all we were decidedly in love- he was The One, and we were so happy to have found each other.  It felt true, between the lines and bottles, bodies of other lovers and dreaming of him every night, as he whispered ‘you are the light of the world’ and the world seemed to pixilate and fade.

He came back mid-September, we stayed up all night confessing our love and gratitude for finding each other, to each other and anyone else who wanted to listen to us while we blew lines and and kept our hands warm in each others sweaters and draw string pants.  The next morning, in the back yard, entwined and gazing, stream of consciousness word associations and nothing that made any sense at all.  A hedgehog passed us by and a friend knocked on the window to invite us in for breakfast.  Together we quietly and happily washed all the dishes, soapy hands sliding up each others forearms, kisses nuzzles and giggles.  I was wearing a red sweater, first hints of autumn descending, somersaults in the hallway by the stairwell.  Sitting on the back of my car before I went to work that afternoon, our plan was that when he came back from another couple of weeks of work, that he would move in with me and I would support us while he looked for work.  It felt very matter of fact, our certainty in finding each other, followed only by the certainty that together was how we would be from that moment on.

The next week, prophetic dreams and the highest vibrations.  Collecting fabric for his quilt, buying a guitar to sing him songs, yard sale block parties in the street.  Updating everyone on our plans- some people so thrilled, and others pointing out how insane this might be.  Nothing in me questioned any of it or him for a second ever, from the moment we locked eyes in the bar.  I watched the map of my life unfold and populate like an animated movie in my mind.  The picture on my dash wrinkling in the corners from all of the times that I pulled it out to kiss it and slip it back between the plastic and the glass.

That Saturday the restaurant was busier than ever, the smell of hickory smoke in the crisp September air.  Scandal breaks when the bartender from our sister restaurant calls to see if I am there, because she just found out there was a murder in town and she heard the victim was me.  It’s 8pm and the place is jumping, none of us can really piece together what is happening but we know something has gone horribly wrong and it is very very close to us.  By 10pm we can shake off the mistaken identity, but it is confirmed that someone was killed that night. We heard the description of the person who committed the murder, it rang familiar but couldn’t place him.  We were all accounted for, between where we were and the satellite houses, and so we cleaned up and decided to go home.  I was about a mile down the road and turned around to go back to the restaurant to grab a couple bottles of wine for the bath. I walked through the front doors, ceiling lofted and light above me- saw my friends turn to me, faces falling, everything kind of slows as one of them moves toward me, arm around my shoulder taking me out to the front lawn.  He looked in my eyes and told me that my love had killed his ex-girlfriend, my legs gave out beneath me.  I called my closest friend, choking and unable to speak into the receiver- she said my name and told me to come to the house immediately.

We held vigil all night, piecing together the timeline and the facts, between our house and the main house where the SWAT team had surrounded and arrested him earlier.  The last kindness I remember that evening was my friend cracking open the door to the back bedroom, where I was half passed out and sobbing.  He came into my bed and spooned me, saying that a friend had called to make sure I was alright, and was I alright? it was going to be alright.  shhhhhhhh…  shhhhhhhhhh…  it’s ok it’s ok it’s ok…

Days 11 & 12: Mercury Retrograde, Missed Connections, & Mental Illness

If you had not noticed, Mercury is in retrograde.  Don’t worry, it will be over soon.  And in the future, if you ever suspect that it might be- say because you are losing things, or your electronics are malfunctioning, no one understands what the hell you are talking about and there is resistance and conflict in your midst- you can check here:

http://www.ismercuryinretrograde.com/

This is what you will see if you look right now ☟ ☟ ☟ ☟ ☟ ☟ ☟ 

I just love this site, so smart and helpful.  This can also be a productive period, actually- good time to clean up your past, reconcile with old friends, develop strategies…  like a good thing that happened in my life that is very Merc-retrograde-y is that a beloved old friend and I reconnected after almost 3 years of not speaking.  Miraculous!  I developed a strategy and started this project, really dope and Merc-retrish.  And on the better known shitstormy side, I had a lot of squabbling at work, issues with bills and banks, and a prominent relationship ended unexpectedly.  It’s ok, I’m fine.  The most noticeable part is how difficult and awry communication has been generally.  Understanding, being understood, being able to focus, not fucking being able to focus, impatience, not annoying or boring people to death- tough times.

I think I may have shot some arrows in the wrong directions, if you know what I mean.  Perhaps I was unclear here and there as well.  I had a really funny one today, when I was trying to flirt text with a man on Match.  Look, I can be a pig and I pretty much thought this gentleman was looking for a lover and I was interested in having some fun. I am doing a whole lot of romancing and not getting any bones.  Wait.  That’s not the expression but it’s close. I just think this whole experiment would go more smoothly if I was getting laid. Then at least I could see things clearly and not get bamboozled by lust. Not to be crass, please excuse me. So, I was trying to arrange that with this man.  Unbelievable, Have a look:

I know it is hard to believe that someone with moves so fresh could also be so trashy,but it is true.  He was probably laughing as he wrote that.  Honestly.  He is among 3 men in the past 2 days I have asked out on Match.  I may not be looking to “date” him exactly, but the other 2 are legit.  I’ve been upholding my commitment.

I even posted a Missed Connection on Craigslist.  Now, if this is something you don’t know about or believe in, I am just turning you over to the care of Google or your local Craigslist and you go explore on your own.  Have fun, get obsessed- be careful if you go into Casual Encounters at work, just don’t open ads with pictures.  Lots of nudey pics & dirty stuff.  Anyway.  Lookit:

 ⇐ Just casting those seeds out into the cyber winds.  See what roots, God Save Us.

Oh!  And there was one more, walking home the other night, I was talking with a really attractive older man. I was not unclear that I was interested in him.  He was just getting out of a relationship, like, deep in it- and is just not available for anything right now.  I get that.  I prayed for his broken heart.  Maybe you will too, because you know he needs it.

That is 5 in 2 days.

I went on a date last night with a man I met on Match.  I may have mentioned it.  I was really looking forward to meeting him, he is really cute, tall, sweet, spiritual, creative; seemed like he was open to/accepting of an independent woman who had done some hard living, and that means a lot to me.  We’ve all been through some shit but often women get labeled as damaged or crazy and men get called experienced or seasoned. Not stepping up on it tonight, but, just mentioning that this was part of what attracted me to this person in addition to his dimple and crooked teeth.

It was a difficult date.

This man just struck me as immature and unrefined, which can be endearing I guess but not in a 37 year old man and most certainly NOT in a potential partner for Moi.  He really was very sweet, and super cute- like, painfully cute- but lacked maturity and social grace.  If this had been the only flag I might have gone out with him a second time, but I would have done so for the dimple, knowing in my heart that it wasn’t going anywhere.

Here was the really hard part.  And look, I have thought about how to write about this all day.  I discussed it with my confidant and consultant; I can tell a great story.  This date is full of really funny moments, it is truly astounding that I hung in there for 3 whole hours and endured a sneak attack face mashing at the end when I was fleeing to a cab.  Compassion and care have taken over my inclination to make fun of him to get a laugh from you.  The truth is that this man was clearly mentally ill.  Or I was on candid camera and we will find that out in a few months.  I played it like the former was true and tried really hard to listen without judgment, be accepting and kind.  I did ok.  Some of what he was saying was really painful and draining- there were moments that I noticed under the table I was gripping my hands hard enough to dig my nails into them, I was so freaked out by what he was saying to me.  Delusions of grandeur, hallucinations, significantly altered perception of reality… untreated schizophrenia would be my diagnostic instinct (I am a trained professional, actually).  It was quite sad how unaware he was of himself, his innocence was excruciating.

I’ve dated people with mental illness before- and I have struggled with mental illness at different times in my life.  It’s not a blanket rejection for the mentally ill.  Many of the people I love and hold dear have been medicated or are, have sought therapy or required treatment for mental illness, it’s just as much a fact of our lives as people living with hypertension or eczema, it’s normal and pervasive and nothing to be ashamed of.

I just can’t date him.  I’m sure that he will find his way happily in the world. Let’s pray for him too.

xxx

Day 10: Sabotage

“You can get the monkey off your back, but the circus never leaves town”
-Anne Lamott

I’m not sure what got twisted up in me while I slept last night, but I woke up with a headful of memories and a body charged with emotions.  I was slimed by the ghost of my former lover, who I have been in an on/off affair with for the past 8 years.  We officially ended our relationship last month.  Let me correct that and tell you the truth: HE ended our relationship last month.

Look, I’m not proud. I’m not exactly ashamed either.  Any time that I was involved with him, I was not in a committed relationship with anyone else.  As for the conditions of his commitments over time, I cannot really say- most recently, I was told that he was in an open relationship; I chose to believe him.

Shit got real messy between us.  I loved him and wanted to be with him, and stories aside, he loved to have sex with a wounded and delusional woman who loved him and thought she could fuck him into loving her back.  Who wouldn’t?  Sure, he said he loved me and yes, I felt something incredibly powerful between us, and absolutely over the course of 8 years there was an enormous amount of emotional and spiritual energy exchanged.  We also had the most electric, transcendent, other-worldly, and scorchingly hot sex you could imagine.  Scratch that, the kind of sex we had is actually unimaginable; some real Mahabarta shit, the Butterfly Effect causing all kinds of creative and destructive forces throughout the Universe. This is not hyperbole.  Nonetheless, over the course of our relationship and especially at the end it was painfully clear that this man saw me as a disposable object.  The last time I saw him, he left me a key at his hotel and he misspelled my name on the sticky note.  8 years.  Even as I gently accept responsibility for my own stupidity and self-mutilating behavior with this one, it still broke/breaks my heart.

Here’s the thing: I hid out in this relationship for years because it felt safer to me that risking putting myself out there and having my heart smashed like it was a few years ago.  The truth is that I would not have lasted a week in a relationship with my lover because I was never wholly myself with him- I was always trying to be perfect. Any time my emotions came out (and they did, because, I’m a watery amoeba of emotion), any time I confronted him about dishonesty or other bullshit behaviors, any time I made any sort of requests/errrrr demands about wanting him to have a larger presence in my life, he would flip out at me, turn cruel and apathetic, end our relationship then absolve himself of responsibility because I “knew what I was getting into”.  Pattern was to take anywhere from 2-12 weeks off, and then one of us would jiggle the line and we would collide, usually in the mouth and genital areas, until I started with my feelings and demands again and up, around and away we would go…

You Get So Alone Sometimes That it Just Makes Sense

by Charles Bukowski

darkness falls upon Humanity
and faces become terrible
things
that wanted more than there
was.

all our days are marked with
unexpected
affronts – some
disastrous, others
less so
but the process is
wearing and
continuous.
attrition rules.
most give
way
leaving
empty spaces
where people should
be.

and now
as we ready to self-destruct
there is very little left to
kill

which makes the tragedy
less and more
much much
more.

It is a really good thing this relationship is out of my life.  I needed a clear, open space for love to come in. I don’t feel like I need to hide in him anymore and I definitely do not want to be treated like a depository for his addictions and the issues he has yet to work out in himself.

I still called him this morning because I was fucking terrified again.  Please don’t be mad.  Please don’t think all of this is a sham because I reached out for my sexcurity blankie.  When fear, self doubt, and loneliness gang up on me, I can feel very very small.  It’s clear to me that I am here to live a big, beautiful life- I have a lot of love to give, a lot of art to make, and a lot of shit to do and I am doing it on the daily.  Every now and then, when that small part of me sees just how high the stakes have gotten, how far there is to fall… well, she is afraid of heights.

He is my favorite form of self-sabotage.  Seeking out his affection, abuse, and abandonment creates this condition in me:  the obsession for his love distracts me from my giant life and when he rejects me, it proves to me how unloveable I am— combine those two things and I become immobilized in the fear and I’m out of the hustle.  I waste time, I miss opportunities, and I dim my light.

Doesn’t it make sense that, as I am getting such positive responses for this project, and as I work to build other amazing things in my life, that this might sneak in?  You know what it reminds me of?  That story about Thich Nhat Hanh and the little monsters.  That these painful and uncomfortable feelings or aspects of self are just parts of ourselves screaming for our loving attention, but instead we try to exile them.  But the trick is to greet them like the little needy, baby creatures that they are; welcome them with open arms and say ‘hello darling, I remember you’…

It’s that Leonard Cohen song.  Maybe it’s all Leonard Cohen songs to me.  But this is the one for today:

The Guests

One by one, the guests arrive
The guests are coming through
The open-hearted many
The broken-hearted few
And no one knows where the night is going
And no one knows why the wine is flowing
Oh love I need you
I need you
Oh I need you now

And those who dance, begin to dance
Those who weep begin
And “Welcome, welcome” cries a voice
“Let all my guests come in.”

And no one knows where the night is going

And all go stumbling through that house
in lonely secrecy
Saying “Do reveal yourself”
or “Why has thou forsaken me?”

And no one knows where the night is going

All at once the torches flare
The inner door flies open
One by one they enter there
In every style of passion

And no one knows where the night is going

And here they take their sweet repast
While house and grounds dissolve
And one by one the guests are cast
Beyond the garden wall

And no one knows where the night is going

Those who dance, begin to dance
Those who weep begin
Those who earnestly are lost
Are lost and lost again

And no one knows where the night is going

One by the guests arrive
The guests are coming through
The broken-hearted many
The open-hearted few

And no one knows where the night is going…

Day 9: You’re the Only One I Want

Months before this project began, I met someone.

You know what I mean…  We all have had the personal experience and have heard it from all of our friends- rarely, you meet someone that strikes you in such a way that you tune into a new frequency, you’re awareness expands, senses become more acute.  Maybe it’s that you have just met someone from a past life, or the prophetic sense that this will be someone significant in your future.  Like there is a whole system of receptors within you that was dormant until the moment you saw them and suddenly they fire up and stand attention and are satiated only by more more more of this person. You grow a new set of psychic antennae and your regular life is now occasionally, delightfully, interrupted when this person is within 100 yards of you.

Like a crush, but on fire with a marching band on acid.

I did sort of ask him out in December and was turned down-ish.  I don’t know, jury is hung on this one.  Basically, I ran into him one morning and very casually asked if he had plans that evening because I had an extra ticket to a lovely holiday event.  He asked me what time was the event (hope went up), I said 8pm.  He replied that he had a meeting at 7 (hope took a nose dive) and for fear that this was rejection, I quickly made it comfortable for both of us by behaving casual and friendly and then getting the fuck out of there.  I’ve run into him a handful of times since then, and it’s not weird.  The story I have created about this is that he is not at all interested in me, and if he was, he would have asked me out by now because obviously he knows that I am interested in him.  One of the chapters in the story is about him being way out of my league; another is about the type of woman he would be interested in and all the ways in which I am not her.  In fact, most of the time, I actually feel healthy and balanced about this- I’m ok, he’s ok, everything is fine this is all very normal and grown up.  I tell any one who knows about this that I am totally over him, not into him, and clearly he is not the one for me.

And then I see him and secretly lose my mind.

So I saw him last night.  Knowing this might happen, I took care to look extra cute but still contextually appropriate.  He notices me, I am his friend, he behaves in a friendly way.  If he looks at me it is because I am there.  I, of course, over analyze his posture and his movements as if they are all in some way directed toward getting me to notice him.  Like he is a goddamn peacock.  Everything about him is 5 star on my scales of attraction: tall, dark, handsome, hip, brooding/moody, sensitive, well dressed, sober, successful, talented, spiritual, thoughtful, sweet, chivalrous, family-oriented, loves coffee, animals and plants… and God knows what other wonders beyond that which I so superficially observe.  Every time he opens his mouth and speaks with his steady, deep, honey covered voice, I wince because from what he reveals in his stories and musings, he is so perfect for me.  Wince!

And so does EVERY other woman in the room.  Really, we are all snakes to this charmer.  The light of his favor, so coveted, we fall over each other just to smell him.  I can’t even consider his smell without getting lightheaded actually.  He smells like spiced money cider gelato topped with huge cock sprinkles.  Honestly.  Jesus I can’t even consider his cock without starting to shake.  Forgive me, I’m a mess.

I need to take a break.  Here, lets watch this together to recalibrate:

Now I feel normal again.  HA!  Analyze THAT!

So maybe up to this point, you thought I was having this effortless and painless experience of romance.  That I can just be anywhere doing anything and easily just go for it and get it.  There would have been no purpose behind this project if that were the case.  I can be painfully insecure, obsessive, awkward, afraid, and morose more often than not when it comes to romance, dating, and attraction.  After seeing him last night, I was so deep in my self pity and self loathing that I nearly threw myself in a cold, dirty puddle.  Instead, I called a great friend and like sticking a finger down the back of my throat, just barfed out all of that bullshit so I could move on with grace and light and sexiness in the world.  I don’t know, some people say I should ask him out for real- what do you think???

Couple of things I want to report on:

• Last night on Match I asked out 3 men that I believe are categorically unavailable to me and I don’t care.  Total faux pas, apparently, to send Match messages in the middle of the night on a weekend because it makes one look desperate or something, but I don’t care about that either.
• I ran into the young man from Day 4: You Could be My Ace on the subway again!!!
• I had a date scheduled with the architect today that we had to reschedule because he injured his leg and can’t really walk.  We enjoyed a lovely 2 hour phone conversation and confirmed that we are both dating other people but are definitely interested in each other. So grown up, so cute.  Did I mention that I love his laugh??
• Tonight I am going solo to a loft party in SoHo and I am really looking forward to the interesting people I will meet there.  I’m sure you will hear about it!

The Sun is shining, bebes.  Enjoy this day xxx

 

 

 

Day 8: The Observer Effect

This morning, I was struck by the observation that on some level, I felt like I had to write about sex to keep people interested in reading this blog. In fact, that was/is the point of including particularly memorable moments from my personal history in the ‘From the Boudoir’ entries.  It really came alive for me today because now that I dating men that I have met though this project, I have to consider to what extent I am going to kiss and tell, and, in doing that, would the inspirational quality and sort of psychosocial and feminist explorations be totally lost in the allure of eroticism.  Not that I ever think too much about anything or worry about how others think about me! Ultimately, I want this to be a useful and positive experience for you- and out of respect for your time and intelligence and humanity, I am very conscientious about what is interesting and moving about openly sharing my experiences with you.

Let’s walk the line together, shall we?  You don’t want me to stop or apologize for turning you on (it’s not intended as an insult to your intelligence) and you don’t want me to exclude all of the things that make this real, make ME real to you- like experiencing fear, rejection and grief, or what it is like to meet myself in all of my scarred & smelly humanness as I deliberately reflect and process these experiences with you in real time.

But man, I cannot overlook how these observations and inquiries parallel the behavior in my personal life!  Early on, I got the idea that I had to be sexual if I wanted to “keep” a man interested, evolving into using sex to get love, on to the perverse and pervasive idea that I have to be really talented and openminded sexually AS WELL AS have perfect sex parts in order to hold on to a relationship.  This is not an unexplored fact of women’s lives- whole dissertations, careers, and movements have been built on how powerful the force of sexuality really is.  It is certainly not an unexplored fact of my life- and as a result, today just the idea that I have to do anything sexually to “get” love doesn’t fit.  Apparently that doesn’t wholly interrupt the hardwiring that I have to try to seduce you to keep you interested.

While I did score some digits yesterday, I must admit to you that it was a cop-out.  I was considering letting myself off the hook for asking anyone out because I had a date, but a few friends disapproved… so come 10:30pm, I was on my way home and I popped into the corner grocer, hoping to see someone interesting between there and my home 1 block away before meeting my Latin lover.  That’s right, the polyamorous Columbian with the iPad.  I have a sweet relationship with the men at my bodega, in fact when I was looking for a new apartment I considered my proximity to them.  They are all related- cousins and brothers, and they are from Yemen so to refer to their store as a bodega is actually a misnomer… it is a souq (thank you Google). Anyway.  There is one man there that I am quite fond of, but for a whole bunch of ill-formed and unarticulated reasons, I have never succumbed to his advances.  Last night, he struck me in the right way I suppose- or, maybe I had stepped outside of the circle of my old ideas for a moment, long enough to consider that he is attractive and kind and he makes me laugh- I should give him a go.  It’s a cop out because I do not think of him as out of my league.  Not to be a cunt, but, I kind of thought he was out of mine- one of the old ideas from which I was attempting liberation.  It does feel disingenuous though- it was more to check off the daily box and that sucks for him and for me.  We may have a date next weekend, so I have a week to get over myself and to restore the respect that he deserves.

…so…um…

wait, here is some mood music…

Though this song is very sexy, it’s actually kind of sad… appeals to me.  Of love, I used to say ‘If it doesn’t hurt, I don’t know that it is happening’ haha!  what a sicko.

My Columbian friend and I were up pretty late last night, I very much enjoyed his company.  For both of us, it was the end of a long work week and we were pretty tired- and our date was very casual, just some tea and talking in my home.  Truthfully, I wanted to be alone with him so we could read to each other and maybe make out a little or something.  JD happens to know about the blog.  That was how I met him.  It’s an interesting choice to consider, because it could influence the relationship in many ways.  First, a man could find my attraction insincere knowing that asking him out is part of a “project”.  Second, if I know someone I am dating is reading this, I may be inclined to censor what I am really thinking and feeling.  Lastly, there is the observer effect, which is the scientific theory that the act of observation will often change the phenomenon being observed; a man may act differently knowing that I will be sharing his, um, moves, with a larger audience.

JD is a very creative and spiritual man who appreciates those same qualities in me.  He thinks this blog is brilliant and has some cool ideas about what it could grow into.  I like this a lot: that this thing, born through me, will grow into something unexpected. JD is also very, very sexy and I am wild eyed about the boundary pushing expansiveness he is presenting to me in his ideas about polyamorous relationships.  He revealed to me last night that when I approached him on the subway platform, he was reading about domination and submission in erotic relationships and that he is actively exploring the BDSM community in NYC.  This other area of boundary pushing expansiveness raises the stakes even higher.

Before he left last night, in my sweetly sleepy and tousled daze, JD kissed me and pulled my ear to his mouth, one hand wrapped in my hair and the other holding his phone, so he could whisper a poem by e.e. cummings in Spanish to me before I fell to dreams.

I am, in ways, living the dream.

From Siempre Me Quedaro, in English:

 I find it hard to open my eyes 
     And I do it little by little 
     Just in case I still find you near 
     I keep your memory 
     Like the best secret 
     How sweet it was to have you…

xxx

Day 7: Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty…

Leaning against the beam, dreaming with the musicians on the F train platform, I remembered that I was carrying stickers and rustled in my bag to find them (keep an eye out for them, they’re fresh).  Looking up, I noticed a man who seemed familiar in ways but turned out to be a handsome bedimpled and lanky stranger.  We smiled as he passed, I thought maybe…  Politely, he waited as I entered the train. We played looksies a bit but I had no nerve.  It may have been his headphones or my concern that he did not speak English.  Halfhearted, I wrote my phone number on the back of a sticker and placed it right on his reading material as I exited the train.

Admittedly, at the time, I felt pretty slick as I strolled toward the opposite track, waiting for the A.  I reached into my pocket for another sticker, looking around for a good place to post it.  I noticed a man slouched on the bench, legs crossed and reading in a sort of sexy-European-musician way.  Whatever the fuck that means.  I circled him slowly and noticed his mouth and freckles, black curls like fronds from under his knit cap. Looking up at me with clear brown eyes, he smiled, went back to his reading.  I sat one seat over as it is polite to do, placed my sticker on the arm rest, looked him over- noticed that he is an artist from his sooty hands and shoes.

A man walks by singing and I laugh, look back at my artist and smile.  He looks at me, smiles and shrugs, to which I say “is that an iPad Air?” and he sits up a bit and replies, in a Spanish accent, that it is not, and removes it from it’s case to give me a closer look.  I move over to the seat directly next to him, explaining that I am looking to buy a tablet but am unsure what to get.  We go back and forth a bit, he thumbs through explaining to me what he uses it for- that he does not have a tv, so he watches and reads and does everything on there. I notice his mouth again, and his clean crooked teeth, his tongue- his black facial hair, his scarves. I ask how he likes typing on it and he shrugs again to say that some people find it difficult but he got used to it, then he pulls up the keyboard so I can type.  I hear the train coming behind me and I type:  my name is ____, are you single??  Blushing, smiling, I pass it back to him, the train slowing behind us.  He smiles as he reads aloud, then types: I am ____ and single is a state of mind.  “Ahhhhhhh” I say, presuming to know what that means “well, here check this out” and I give him a sticker as I rush to the train as the doors are closing.  The doors close, I am still on the platform.

Exhale glitter.

Sitting next to him again, we start to talk about this blog; he puts the sticker over the Apple symbol on his iPad, leaving the leaf part at the top so it looks like a heart apple.  Smitten.  I’m trying to figure out what he meant by ‘single is a state of mind’ and he is trying to figure out the spastic enigma that is me beside him.  We get on the train together and enjoy a warm conversation.  He is so beautiful, I am easily lost in his accent and his freckles, his eyes and those teeth.  My head is cautioning me; I’m lead by the loins.  I ask to see pictures of his work and he shows me a pair of emerald earrings, hammered wedding rings with diamonds, rough natural and well made.  Just before we get off at our stop, the conversation turns pink and he asks me why I asked if he was single, I ask him about his open relationship.  We agree that my iPad move was/IS legendary. With confidence and ease, I tell him the exact nature of the blog and why I asked him if he was single.  He quotes Mario Benedetti, saying:

      Opportunities are lost in the blink of an eye.

Swoon… I’m so happy I did not blink.

Walking home together in the rain, asking questions of each other to assess the possibilities. He tells me so much about himself, I want him to tell me all of it.  Life has taken an unexpected and noticeable turn.  We get to my block and stop to talk.  Face to face in the cold mist, he explains to me, in his Columbian accent, that men are like kitties- that they will walk by you and rub against you, purrpurr as you pet them; but sometimes when you try to pick them up, they claw at you and jump away. You have to learn to let them come and go, love them when they want you to, let them knead you. He asks me what I feel about polyamorous relationships; gives me compelling detail about his liberation through living this way, and explains to me his 3 conditions.  As he lists them, he moves closer to me; the moisture on his face in the candle-colored street lamp light illuminating his freckles, I do not look away.  I feel the electricity and pheromones radiating out from my lower, more primitive third eye, pupils dope-dilate, I am lassoed in this force field and all I want to do is kiss him.  Low and clear, I ask him:

So… do you want to be my kitty?

Purrrrrr Purrrrrrr Purrrrrrr

Day 6: Memoirs of a Retired Ride or Die Chick

It’s been a slow 2 days on the streets so I have been holding myself accountable by asking out at least 2 men on Match each day.  I don’t feel great about it, and things are not taking flight with any of the men I have met so far.  I am going to meditate in the morning on a fresh perspective I can bring to this adventure, I suspect that there is something larger I am not aware of- kind of like being in a tide pool then getting a swell and swoosh out to sea.  I need that swell and swoosh.  And I need to be more creative, this Match shit does not excite me at all.

I get ignored often on Match.  This may be the primary place where this whole ‘out of my league’ idea gets reinforced.  I haven’t yet tortured myself by looking at the other women on the site- bless them all , best wishes to them.  It is a goddamn jungle out there.  It’s very sensible, on line dating- and I know many people who have great success with it.  It doesn’t suit me- both because I have a short attention span and I have the exquisite kind of beauty that moves and my profile just can’t capture it.

That said, of the 6 men I have sent messages to on Match in the past 2 days, I have heard back from 3.  One of them has gone to text and I think we may be heading in the wrong direction… texting.  Texting IS the wrong direction.  One of them.  The other one is trying to get me to either send you pictures of my tits or worse, to get me to sleep with you WITHOUT EVER SPEAKING TO ME.  Honestly.  This young man tonight first asked me if I was a ride or die chick* -more on that in a minute! At 10:15pm as I was coming home from doing yoga for nearly 4 hours (because I am sex starved and under-petted these days so I have to move that energy through me otherwise I will behave in ways that do not dignify my divinity) and this young man texted me to ask if I wanted to come over and watch House of Cards with him.  When I mentioned that I was just getting home from yoga, he texted “you probably smell too…” then “I’m into it”

Um.

This one is obviously going no where.  You know what this reminds me of?  I will tell you.  Way back when I was (nuts) much younger and less experienced (desperate) I dated a man long distance for about 6 months.  He was maybe 7 or 8 years older than me and he introduced me to the art of talking dirty and sexting.  It was hot.  Explosively hot.  He was delicious- 6’2 Puerto Rican/Irish/Italian, personal trainer, sure-footed with this panty-droppin southern drawl man-purr.  And he smoked Black-n-Mild cigars, the smell of which, to this day, makes me think of long mornings in bed with him.  Halleluja.  But here is what else:  this man was certifiably insane.  One beautiful late spring morning- it was the Tuesday after Memorial Day- I brought him to the bus station so he could head back to DC.  I felt a little squirmy, but we had just been having sex for 3 days straight so I figured my lily was just a little over worked.  Went to the gyn, just in case it was an early BV or UTI from all the schtupping, and was diagnosed and treated that day for gonorrhea.  That’s right, a big fat needle to the ass of penicillin, some Cipro, and the shame of my people.  TURNS OUT that my man was spreading his love around quite liberally in the DC and NYC Metro areas for MONEY.  He was not a trainer, he was a… call boy.  Call him… Joe Buck.  To come full circle, dear reader, is that when I used to have 4 hour long dirty talk calls with Joe Buck, he would fantasize explicitly, using lots of adjectives and other descriptive language tactics, about sex after going for long runs, or after working out, or, at the end of a long day of commuting in the summer— get my point?

Sighhhh.

And asking me if I am a ride or die chick?  Bitch, I’m the OG.  But you know what?  Now that I am over the age of 31, I no longer have blunts and blow-jobs for breakfast.  Not often, at least.  I enjoy coffee in the shower and some Greek yogurt with fresh blueberries.  I like to meditate and write my morning pages.  Now that I am aging and fragile, I can no longer stand by my man and throw down if he gets into a fight and I don’t behave in rude or degrading ways toward other women.  Wait, what am I saying, I no longer date men who might get into fights (unless of course they are a hockey player) or who live their lives in ways where fighting is even a regular occurrence (I might date someone who boxes, tho- just sayin).  I take good-to-go to a whole different level now- that includes snacks, tissues, hand sanitizer, ibuprofen and Burts Bees.  If I bring my hot friends around, I’m not suggesting a threesome and do you really want me to behave in ways that make your boss and all of your friends want to come on my face?  GROW THE FUCK UP.

Jesus.  Where is the Advil?  Indeed, all that yoga moved my energy…

Day 5: From the Boudoir: Under My Thumb

From February 2013…  He found me on an on line dating site and recognized me from a group of mutual friends.  His first message made me blush because he wrote that he had been mildly distracted by me and wanted to explore a relationship, if I was interested. I had noticed him in our circle as well, and was very attracted to his classic punk rock style, head full of thick gray hair framing his deep blue eyes that were lined by so many eyelashes he appeared to be wearing black mascara.  His on line profile was mostly about his sexual preferences and specific appetite for domination.  At the time, I didn’t really want a boyfriend but was really into the idea of having a dom- someone to take care of many of my needs without having to get caught up in the other demands of a relationship. I let him know, directly, that I was interested in negotiating this kind of relationship, and we set a date.

The 36 hours leading up to our date, we were in almost constant contact via text and email, mostly he was describing to me in explicit and colorful ways all of the things he wanted to do to me, assessing my boundaries, lighting up the places that kept me confined in  limited sexual expression, places I was outgrowing by the second.  I liked that he told me what to do; I loved how badly he wanted me.  I spent those hours in such a heightened state of arousal that it was impossible to concentrate on anything other than this power he was asserting over me.  Domination is a skill; submission begins as a subtle state.  Under strict instructions not to touch myself, my dom would do things like call me and ask ‘how do you feel about a choke collar with a taut chain leading down the back to a butt plug?’ and disallowed one word responses- he wanted to know how I felt about it sexually and what came up emotionally.  By the time I set out to meet him, I was completely under his spell, and I was terrified/more turned on than ever before by what this relationship might bring.

Bundled in winters coat and scarf, I bound down the block toward seventh avenue, snowflakes catching in my eyelashes, clouds of breath suspending then evaporating in front of my face; heart beating louder as I moved closer to the corner, searching to find him.   He came into view, caught and held my eyes, moving with the surety of a gladiator toward me.  I lifted my hand in a limp and fearful wave as he closed in on me. Choreographed like a dancer, in a sequence of moves synchronized and lasting no more than 3 seconds, he removed one of his earbuds, placed it in my ear and with the same hand grabbed my face and pulled my mouth to his, his other arm wrapping and folding me against him, a mash of tongues and lips and sex points pressing under the snow, the Rolling Stones performing “Under My Thumb” in our ears.

Day 4: You Could Be My Ace

RIght before I got on the subway tonight, I looked up to see the moon rise right up next to the ESB.  While photographing, I sang Christopher Cross quietly to myself, “if you get caught between the moon and New York City… I know it’s crazy, but it’s true- when you get caught between the moon and New York City, the best that you can do is fall in love” … I should have known given the love drunk air I have been breathing these past few days but I was caught unawares. And I totally fell in love.  This young man sat near me on the L-train (the LOVE train) and we very naturally started laughing and talking as the people across from us started sharing a fifth of whiskey.  Then as the train got more crowded, he slid right up next to me, and I felt every cell in my body turn to him as if he were the Sun and I made of chlorophyll.   His birthday was yesterday (31), he went to an exotic restaurant for dinner and had fancy desserts where they wrote happy birthday on his plate in chocolate sauce, and he thought this was the best thing ever. I melted from his genuine simplicity. Then he went dancing.  He marveled at how many people shared his birthday, I marveled at his fashion sense.  I mentioned the blog to him and he was really interested.  I asked him if he was single and he is not; I told him that if he was, I would definitely be asking him out (you know, for the mission!).  He told me if he was single, he would definitely be saying yes.  We rode the rest of the way, continued to talk close but respectably.  He talked about what it was like for him to ask women out- weighing regret and rejection, he always leaned toward risking rejection.  He told me how he likes to rock a pink flash sneaker or t in support of women’s health.  I showed him the book I am reading (How to be a Woman  by Caitlin Moran) and he looked at the table of contents, remarking specifically on the chapter “I start bleeding”.  He said that he didn’t understand why men freak out about this, or why women feel embarrassed about it- because without it, none of us would be here.  Even as people got off the train, he did not move to put any space between us.  We talked about what it was like to grow up in the city as a young black man, and he said he wished that people could change skins just for one week, that the world would be so different.  He said he liked to hang out with gay men because they were peaceful and he didn’t have to worry about guns or violence.  We were transferring at the same stop, and as we got off the train I told him his girlfriend was a really blessed woman.  He said he did not want to get off the train.  As we were walking to the transfers, a group of teenage boys started to rush past us and get confrontational and he instinctively put his arm around me and turned my body toward him to protect me as we went by.  He retracted and apologized, I quickly said ‘no, no- that was nice’ and then we said goodbye, gave each other a long look, and he went to the J and I to the A, my blood feeling like champagne, my face flushed.

It was innocent and sweet and I’m really grateful for his fidelity and for my ability to respect other peoples relationships.  Life has not always been so clean in this respect.  I contemplated on the way home if there was even anything that needed to be said- like if I was coming home to a boyfriend, would this be an exchange that I needed to mention or that I would want my partner to mention to me.  The answer is no- because it was handled totally appropriately.  The truth is that even when we are in committed relationships, there will rarely be a person who shows up like a supernova- attraction so elemental and palpable.  While I give up the freedom to act on this kind of attraction when I am in a committed relationship, it doesn’t stop it from being so.  In previous relationships, this would have caused a huge problem- having this experience tonight showed me how much I have grown the fuck up and that humans can be trusted to behave in ways that honor each other.

He is so much more attractive to me because of his commitment to his partner.  Whoever she is, I hope she recognizes her blessings and loves that man the way he deserves to be loved tonight and always.