A message from a friend this morning vexed me greatly because she’d failed to meet one of the conditions for our friendship. Then I realised that at least half of my friends hadn’t met the conditions either, mainly because I haven’t told anyone what they are. From this morning onward, there are no excuses.
-1) Thou shalt be a gay man. Yesterday I came across the blog of a gay man, and I realised that they’re virtually extinct on WordPress. I’m quite tired of having only one homosexual friend here, so to make up for it, everyone needs to be a gay man for the next four weeks. I know this can be done because there are tons of gay men in my city, so no excuses.
-2) Thou shalt buy me boots. I love boots. That’s reason enough. If there are no decent boots available, I’m happy to accept trenchcoats. Just make sure they cost more than $200.
-3) Thou shalt love Nutella. I know I’ve reached my threshold for mentioning Nutella in my journal this week, but this is too important to leave out. People who don’t like Nutella can’t be trusted. I’d prefer you didn’t eat it on toast because that’s just gross, but I suppose I’m willing to compromise. Being allergic to Nutella is not an excuse. Ever heard of an EpiPen? Well, use it. Ever heard of a hospital? Well, use it. If necessary, eat Nutella in the emergency room. I wouldn’t want you to die on me because then you wouldn’t be able to eat any more Nutella.
Fuck fuck shit. Take eyeliner off before chopping the onions.
Okay, take eyeliner off with real makeup remover, not oweeeeee! Ordinary soap.
Don’t dance to Lauryn Hill while chopping the garlic.
Maybe a blunter knife.
Take bits of chopped celery out of sweater pockets.
Take cream sweater from Paris off before frying the onions.
Spend less on ingredients so you can replace oil-spattered cream sweater.
-1) You can make a cake with Nutella and Oreos that takes 10 minutes or you can make one of those crap cakes that takes five fucking hours. Nutella saves you time, which you can spend jogging. Jogging helps you lose weight, so Nutella helps you lose weight.
-2) Not eating Nutella is a crime, so eating Nutella keeps you out of jail. Not being in jail is very good for you because they apparently don’t give you Nutella there.
-3) It’s impossible to absorb vitamins without fat, so it’s impossible to absorb vitamins without Nutella.
-4) If you whip Nutella with frozen bananas and cream, you get soft serve. It has bananas in it. That makes it salad. Nutella is therefore salad. Salad is good for you.
-5) Only dumbasses drink hot chocolate that is not made from Nutella. Nutella therefore prevents you from being a dumbass, and chicks dig that.
-6) Chocolate helps to cure 1% of the cholesterol problems it starts. That can only be a good thing.
-7) I will sub in exchange for Nutella. Sex is good for you, therefore Nutella is good for you.
as inspired by Cracked.com
They say Fetlife cycles through the same debates and phases over and over again. This is futile. To what can kinksters cling when idiocy exists beyond all reason? History only repeats itself if you don’t learn from it, and since nobody around here can agree, I’m designating myself the teacher of Fetlife. Obviously this is a great honour to bestow on your own self, so I sought guidance from the wise and wonderful Sage of Fetlife. She said I was wise enough to lay siege to the months without falling into the “temptation of revising history as I see fit.” If you’ve ever read my stuff, you’ll know that’s true. I never revise history and I never resist the temptation to dispense judgement. I mean always. I always resist the temptation to dispense judgement. Not. Okay, fine, tell you what. Every time I dispense judgement or lose objectivity, I’ll do a shot of tequila (designated by a #) as punishment. So without further ado, the first half of 2015…
The Great Trigger Warning Debate
In January, The Poet Laureate of Fetlife made a bold departure from sonnets to tell everyone that trigger warnings were childproofing. Some awesomely awesome# new kinkster whose name is definitely not SpanishRed# hadn’t yet learned how to use her journal, so she wrote a 2500 word comment disagreeing. Then she wrote about 20 000 more. It wasn’t me, though#. In any case, the debate raged on for weeks, ripping asunder friendships and forging others. Then it ripped those asunder and forged them back together, and then ripped them asunder again and…you get the idea. Well, the person who is not SpanishRed# was definitely the one who was right. Trigger warnings were definitely not childproofing#. And then I changed my mind. This is not an egocentric entry.# Other people were there as well, and none of them were me#.
Total Drink count: 7
My ideal man is Caucasian, Asian, and black. He’s Cantonese, Israeli, and South African. I’ve found perfection in every one of them. My perfect man came into the world to the riffs of Jimi Hendrix, or he skipped the Sixties and learned to walk in the disco era. He has flecks of silver in his hair or he has yet to develop a rash of crow’s feet. My perfect man is every man who moves as though his entire soul fits perfectly into his body because he feels no need to compensate for his shrivelled ego. He can’t be a specific race, age or height because men who are secure enough to be humble come in a million different colours.
My perfect man moves like a symphony. He is sex and bourbon. He is grit and understated masculinity. He isn’t built from muscles gained from hours at the gym. Biceps and washboard abs don’t impress me. It’s all about the way he moves.
I love a dominant man, and this comes through in subtle ways because he doesn’t need to throw weight into everything he does. He sucks submission out of me instead of trying to push me into it. He’s sexy not because of his face or masculinity but because he dominates effortlessly. He pulls my strings without having to make demands–why would he need to? He has real power. My kind of dominant barely needs to say a word about what he wants. He gets it anyway.
By the time I meet a man for the first time, I’ve researched the hell out of him. I’ve checked whether he works where he says he works, for how long, whether his photographs are authentic, and whether he’s married. If I lived in the US or another country that keeps a sex offenders registry, I’d also know if he had a criminal record.
Hunting for all that information online is an utter invasion of privacy, and I consider Google stalking unethical under any other circumstances. However, people in this community get their consent violated constantly. They get raped. They get harmed, assaulted, killed, and kidnapped when meeting unknown partners for casual hook-ups. They also get cat fished. With those risks on the table, I’m throwing away my Google ethics with yesterday’s trash.
I use online tools to find out how honest my date is and whether the truth is consistent with what he’s told me. If he’s lying about anything, I’m not meeting him. Not even once. Clearly it pays to know whether he’s married if he’s telling me he’s single, but I also tend to pay a lot of attention to how long he’s worked for his company and what his references say. It’s a hardly solid indication of trustworthiness, which is why safe calls, ex-partner references, and the like are far more crucial, but I get a fair sense of a man if I see what his employment history is like. Someone who’s worked for nine years at the same company has something going for him, regardless of whether he’s a janitor or a CEO.
None of the tools and techniques I’m going to outline are complicated. A five-year-old could use them. I recommend you try them all with your own name and email address to get a feel for what they have to offer you. That will also let you know how much of your own information is available online. You may want to remove some of it to keep yourself safe </irony>.
I’ve given seventy twelve lessons about how to be a Fetlife fuckwit, but apparently they aren’t appreciated. A friend just told me, “Not everyone on Fetlife wants to be a fuckwit. Some of us want to be nice.” At the time, I didn’t understand why anyone would want to quit being a fuckwit, but I like to evolve, so I spent some time thinking on it. Well, to be honest, I still don’t understand why anyone would want to be anything except a fuckwit, but I know a great deal about how to avoid being one from observing others. Thus follows the lesson.
Choose a Great Username
Choose a username you’d be happy living with in your real world dealings, but not one that is vanilla enough to suit your real world dealings. Choose something boring, yet not boring. ‘Cocksucker32’ is not boring enough, but ‘Harold’ is too boring. If you’re at Fetlife to find a long-term relationship, keep your username light-hearted, but not. Do the opposite if you’re just here to get laid.
Choose an Avatar
Fetlife is not a dating site. It’s Facebook with a dash of OKCupid mixed in with a whole fuckton of kink. It’s also weirdly vanilla, and your avatar should reflect all of these qualities. A picture of your face is vanilla, but a photograph of an orchid is far too sexually suggestive. Do not Photoshop your profile photograph or wear makeup, but ensure that your skin is 100% flawless. Showing the world your cellulite is unacceptable on Fetlife, but do not cherry pick your photograph because that’s dishonest. If you’ve ever played Pin the Tail on the Donkey, you’re qualified to choose a great avatar. Simply open your photograph folder, shut your eyes, and randomly click on a picture—this is the only honest way to do it, but remember that Fetlife is a dating site, so the picture you randomly select should show your best angle, without droop or stretch marks, but with enough imperfections to prove that you’re human.