Nine years ago, I was set free in No Man’s Land by the last person who was enabling my dysfunction. It was only once I lost everyone that I was willing to be honest with myself about my own bullshit. I spent years being incapable of intimacy. I dragged two good men down with me. I needed to be utterly abandoned before I was willing to learn how to exist with integrity.
A relationship is only as strong as its weakest partner. Sure, the functional half of a couple can carry the weak half for a time, but eventually something’s got to give. Being the only person trying to make a relationship functional is like eating soup with chopsticks. It’s as pointless as it is absurd. It gets you nowhere, and ultimately all your effort leaves you starving.
Loneliness and terror make the darkest bed partners, and if you’re the functioning half of your relationship rather than the one being carried, they become your bed partners. Eventually, your spirit has to give out. Nobody can tolerate that much isolation for long.
The greatest loss is when your soul dies while your body is still alive, and that’s precisely the kind of loss an emotionally-absent partner delivers. The isolation alone is like having your skin burned off a millimetre at a time. I’d rather be single than go through that again.
2015 Was the most peaceful year in Fetlife history. We agreed with one another about almost everything. We found out that all good girls swallow… I mean don’t swallow. I mean do. Not.
Okay, so the only thing we learned about swallowing in 2015 is that Fetlife really gives a fuck about whether or not we do it but, just like me, it can’t make up its mind about what it wants.
It was also the year I found true love. Oh, wait. Let’s not talk about that either. There must be something about 2015 that isn’t contentious. I know! How about that thing with The_Wolf? Uh.
Well, what we know about 2015 is that you should never, ever, ever piss off an SJW.
But truly, for most of 2015, Fetlife had no problems whatsoever. We peacefully discussed fatness on a mere seven different occasions, 100 million times (each), which was apparently an improvement on 2014, proving that we do, indeed, make progress when it comes to Fetlife arguments.
I think I’m right all the damned time. Readers often convince me that I’m wrong, but that doesn’t change a thing. I still think I’m right all the way up to the moment when I realise I’m wrong. Did I say ‘think?’ I meant I *know* I’m always right. It’s a disease, and there is no cure.
Take my taste in men. I’ve always chosen the most exquisite creatures. I have a wildly niche preferences in men, but my taste is the right taste. It is. Fuck off with your George Clooney. I’m the only one who knows the truth about what constitutes hotness.
I’m also right about music. I was as right a decade ago as I am today. The fact that I think some of what I loved then sucks has no bearing on this. If I say a song is awesome and you say it’s crap, I’m right. Other people’s taste is good only if it coincides with mine.
The vast majority of you have the same biases I do. We all look for and interpret information in a way that confirms we’re right. We’re more likely to blame external factors for our mistakes but to blame our friends for theirs. We even have a memory bias that makes us view our lives through the lens of what we want them to be. I know what you’re thinking: “You might be biased but I am not.” Um… no. Biases wouldn’t *be* biases if we were aware of them, so I’m pulling imaginary rank in telling you that you’re wrong.
No, most women are not overlooking you because you’re a nice guy. Your definition of ‘nice’ is just off the mark. What you mean is that you’re an old school gentleman, and here’s the rub: those gentlemanly manners come off as fake if what’s hidden in the core is a toxic knot of insecurity.
The fact that you’re a doormat doesn’t exactly help, but if you’re resentful that someone exercised their free will by not fucking you, I’m going to suspect you’re a rapey bastard with fine manners. I’d rather open my own doors than be with that kind of guy.
I’ve never met a self-professed ‘nice guy’ whose empathy and compassion outweighed his resentment at the fact that women weren’t falling at his feet. Even the term ‘friend zone’ reeks of entitlement. It also tells me that you don’t value friendship from certain females and that the lens you view women through is distinctly sexual. I instantly assume that means you objectify us. I’m well aware that I’ll be wrong much of the time, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m not shagging a man who appears to see women as sex toys. Sorry, not sorry.
If a bad boy is a man who chases what he wants and is honest about himself, then yes, I definitely prefer bad boys. If a bad boy is a man who’s authentic about his motives for wanting me, then yes, I’m less likely to ‘friend zone’ him than you. If a bad boy is a man who has boundaries, then yes, he’s more likely to get laid than you are, and there’s only one reason for that: the ‘bad boy’ has more integrity than you do.
Before I walked in the door of my first play party I thought I was entering a world of hedonism and pleasure; of free-flowing sex and porn-grade orgies. A small part of me wishes I’d been right, but most of me is grateful for what I found there instead.
I didn’t find a local version of Eyes Wide Shut, but I did find a community of awesome people—the kind who let you know they’re there the instant they hear you’re going through a crisis. The kind who drive an hour and a half to get to you, who invite you on cross-country trips, and who will hook up with you for poker nights.
(Fuck you for taking my pot. I hope you choked on the winnings)
(Okay, not kidding)
(No, really, I’m kidding)
I’m told if I could bring myself to hang around scenes long enough, I might catch some illicit action, but I can never find it in myself to do that. The conversations are way too interesting for me to waste time on other things. No, it has nothing to do with those ever-present red velvet cupcakes… Fine, I’d drive across the country for one lousy bite.
H and I lived a love story magical enough to turn into a rom-com. We were intoxicated with each other… or so I thought.
We were That Couple: the stupidly infatuated pair. He adored me, so why wouldn’t I pack up my life and move to the other side of the province for him? Love is more important than career, isn’t it? So why wouldn’t you move to a town that has one traffic light if it means keeping your relationship alive?
I spent five years with him. A relationship that long-lasting has a thousand domino effects. The only way to avoid having your life altered by that much seriousness is by consciously checking every decision you make. No relationship ever succeeded without sacrifices so I made them. I made a lot of them. Continue reading
I’ve lived the life of a vanilla girl trying out kinks I was too young to know were not “normal”. I never had a baseline for sex or love. I was a red sheep in a flock full of black and white sheep fumbling through the adolescent throes of what it meant to be sexual. When friends were kissing boys in clubs, I was filming home porn with my twenty-something-year-old boyfriend. I have always been “different”. Even so, I hadn’t yet felt what it meant to be me.
I’ve lived the life of a vanilla girl giving up kink because I was old enough to know it wasn’t normal. I was taught a baseline for sex and love when I was 25. I became the bleached-white sheep in a flock full of other white sheep. I had two dogs and a picket fence, and none of it showed me what it felt like to be me.
I would sometimes stumble on a black sheep who saw me through the throes of a hedonistic kind of kink: the type that goes skin-deep and nothing more. I learned what it meant to cut out intimacy for the sake of the next sexual high. I sometimes thought I’d found out what it meant to be me, but there were too many shadows in that life. It only made me feel dark and dank inside.