What I do and do not owe

I don't owe you an apology. Not only because I didn't do anything wrong, but because I'm not sorry for being angry. I had a right to be. I was justified in my anger and frustration and disappointment and I refuse to believe that you had any moral ground to make me feel guilty about that.

Because I know that there are always excuses. So do you. And you know, likely better than anyone, how much the excuses aren't the problem. You know, for a fact, that I don't mind waiting. I don't mind being second. Other things take precedence and that is right and good. They very much should.

But, given that knowledge, you must also intrinsically have some notion of how difficult this is for me. You MUST. I'm simply not able to believe that after spending this many years in one another's lives, so varied and intimate but almost always there, that you really can't imagine how hard this is for me. You KNOW how much this hurts me. And you know how bad it must have been, for me to choose this difficulty over that pain.

So if you know, then I'm left only to conclude that it doesn't affect you. And perhaps it shouldn't. I wouldn't be so presumptuous - except I would - to presume that you meant the words you said to me so many times. But that's beside the point, really. Because the point, really, is that you honestly don't care now.

You're a smart man. You always have been. Knowledge has never been your issue. So clearly, you know. But the caring? Well, that's a different skill, I guess.

And truly, I can't hold you responsible for a skill-set you simply don't have. Just like I can't do science, maybe you just can't do love. Or honesty.

That's OK. I wish you the best. I do. And the honest truth is, I miss the things you brought to my life. Not all of them. I don't miss the anxiety over whether or not you were going to show, or the frustration with never knowing how you actually felt. (Problem solved, incidentally.)

But I will miss the way you made me laugh. I will miss the intelligence you brought out in me. I will miss running hypothetical theorems about social theory with you. I will miss laughing at your ridiculously uncanny vocal character impressions. And how silly you were. Especially after sex. You were always good at making me happy.

At least, on those rare occasions when we were actually together.

So you should know that all this? Ultimately, it makes me sad. Because I think we were good for each other in more ways than you realized. It makes me sad that you probably won't realize what you lost, so I won't even have the opportunity to point out that you have, indeed, lost it.

HNT: My own space

No apologies this time. I'm getting better - I am! Just a tiny little explanation.

As I've mentioned (I think?), I just moved into my own place downtown. It's the first time I've lived completely financially independent for an extended period of time, and I love it! I love the feeling that comes with having a space that's really, truly yours. I like to take advantage of that fact whenever possible... Like walking around my apartment wearing very little. (OK, not when my roommate and her boyfriend are home, although there have been some fun times with immediate post-coital roommate chit-chat.)

But on mornings like today, when I've got the house to myself, it's kind of fun to prance around the house not wearing much. Making breakfast seems way more exotic if you're doing it without clothes on. And really, who likes clothes anyway?

Not me, apparently.


I do, however, love those underwear. They're one of my favorite pairs, for no particular reason other than they're comfortable, and I think they're cut nicely. Any input?

HHNT!

HNT: Housewarming

I feel like all I do here these days is apologize for my absence, so hopefully you lovely readers will allow me to make it up to you. I've spent the past two weeks moving into my own place, getting settled, and getting the energy right in my place. I think I've pretty much got it - thanks in no small part to a few friends of mine who have helped me... ahem.. shall we say christen my new bedroom?

There are many, many stories in the works about those sleepless nights.

For now, though, I hope you'll be willing to settle for an HNT in my new space. I have this fabulous vintage dresser with a vanity mirror on top, and it's rather perfectly positioned for sneaking peeks when I find myself, say, bent over the footboard of my bed. Hypothetically, of course.


HHNT!

Hello Seattle

Play this:


Read this:

I was buzzing with anticipation the entire flight. Did this flight used to be two and half hours long? I swear it used to be shorter. It shouldn’t take me this long to get to you. Not after so much time. I guess, if you really think about it, it took me months – no, years – to get to you. So you can’t hold it against me that I’m so excited I can’t sit still. The poor woman next to me? Yeah, she might be holding it against me.

But I can’t manage to make myself think of anyone, or anything, but you. And I’m a terrible mess of excitement and nerves and desire and fear. And that fear kicks in more when our meeting doesn’t happen exactly like I thought it would. It was silly of me, of course, to want something so cinematic, but that’s what happens when I’m left with only my memories for four months. I get a little crazy.

The fear damn near takes over when you mention that the couch is available. My heart drops to the ground floor of your swanky apartment building. But before I can gather my thoughts, you point out that your bed is available, too.

And the way you say it, I remember that you’re just trying to be careful with me, not presumptuous. Of course, when it comes right down to it, you probably aren’t presumptuous enough if you compare it to the thoughts running through my head. So we pass some more pleasantries, and finally find ourselves in your bed. And that’s when it starts.

The next four days are a blur – a medley of your hands and your lips and your legs and your smile and the intensity you exude. I catch myself in disbelief every time you take my arm as we steel ourselves against the damp cold. And that cold isn’t anywhere near as pervasive as I remember it being. In fact, this city, which I was so ready to escape from, looks completely different when I’m looking at it standing next to you. Maybe it’s because you bring out the best in me and don’t allow me to fall into my pessimistic cycles… As if I could around you.

I can hardly recall the details of how we spent our time. But I know that I learned so much more about you. And I learned that you’re human. Which sounds silly, I’m sure, but it was important for me to be reminded of that. The funny thing is that realization, that fall of the idol, for lack of a better term, didn’t make me want you any less. In fact, it reinforced everything I thought about you.

And the balance we achieve when we’re together is incredible. I’m less neurotic, and you seem less hesitant. I love seeing your life, and pretending, even for those few days, that I’m a regular part of it. I love watching you play while I sit curled up on your giant chair with a glass of wine. You’re majestic, you know.

Somewhere between your arms around me as we fall asleep – and I love the tiny noises you make in your sleep – and the look on your face when I finally convince you to open your eyes, and you stretch your gorgeous body just to wrap it around mine again, I know. Somewhere between your kisses in the elevator, and picking out cheap wine at Trader Joe’s, I know. Or maybe it was somewhere between the waterfront and looking for your name on the tiles of the marketplace, I know. I may never be able to put my finger on the exact moment, but by the time I’m forced to get on a plane and leave you – with tears running down my face as I listen to the music you added to my playlist – I know.

I know that this – that you – are something incredible. I know that this will be different. I know that you are what I want – what I need – in my life. And I know, strangely enough, that neither of us are going anywhere.

The return of the HNT

I haven't forgotten about Half Nekkid Thursdays... I promise! I just haven't been feeling particularly sexy lately, so I haven't been overly prone to getting half nekkid.

But that changed last night. I had a particularly awesome night with Friend - It was more date-y than our time together usually is. We went to the theatre, had several real conversations, then came home and were very silly. And then, as sometimes happens between he and I, the sillyness turned into sexyness. It's one of my favorite things about our relationship.

And he seemed more excited to see me than usual. Of course, it might have been the dress...

Coming back

I've been away for a long time. From this blog, but also from myself. I've been trying to balance the person I'm becoming with the person I was, with the person I want to be. And that's been hard.

But this morning, I feel like my old self again.

I remembered what it was like to wake up in the morning next to someone, memories of the night before still fresh in your mind. I remembered what it felt like to feel insatiable - that writhing, grasping, gasping mixture of pain and pleasure and desire and sweat all mixing to produce such a potent and poignant high that you can't focus on anything but the hands and mouth and skin roaming freely over your body.

And the fingers intertwined in dark hair, pulling my head back to bring exposed teeth to bite down on my neck, harder, harder, dear god please harder. And the growling, scratching, pulling as my hips move of their own accord toward what they clearly want and need fuck me please fuck I need you.

And the blue eyes staring into mine staring back - hungry, starving, for the escape of release. Or the open hand, brought to my neck and up towards my chin, just enough pressure to leave me gasping and dripping. And then back to a mouth on mine, biting, pulling at my lip, then slowly moving down past my collarbone, following my breath to my breasts, as a hand moves down to my hips, still pulsing methodically. So then the tongue follows and I have nothing left to fight with as the world closes in around me and we are all that exists. Until I finally can't take it anymore and you look up at me, smirking and content, and my head is spinning and my breath has left my body and all I can feel is you.

Or the sounds made as my hips move, circular, forward and back, up and down, my breathing in time, your sighs and moans and hands and body underneath me getting me higher and harder. The fingers pinching, scratching, taking a handful of my breast as another set finds its way to my pelvis, and my motions become more urgent. And then the hand on my face, pulling me down to your face as you whisper "bite me. scratch me. harder!" and then my hips move faster as our breathing gets harder and your hands on my hips gripping tighter until we finally collapse, exhausted and glistening and panting and very, very happy.

"Holy shit. We've gotten much better at that," I say.

the thing about rape culture...

This morning, my real life and bloggy friend Champagne and Benzedrine posted this article about rape culture - something he'd previously argued was, essentially, not as existent as many people claimed it was. His post essentially reversed his previous argument, conceding that perhaps he just hadn't been aware - or even able to be aware - of just how prevalent rape-culture is. But this is the graf that really got me:

Now, I'm too unevolved to start burning my bra or joining in any marches - but considering that I take certain jokes personally (like cracks about having ginger hair) it made me realise that it must be pretty rough to be a woman who's been the victim of sexual violence when it seems like the entire world (including plenty of other women) are making light of your experiences.

I was going to leave a comment, but then I realized it would probably turn into a post-sized rant, and, well I haven't written here lately, so I thought I'd take the inspiration and motivation and run with it.

I wanted to start off by thanking C&B for being willing to look at the issue through a different lens. And being able to recognize the types of unique sensitivities we all share. For example, I can't especially relate to being discriminated against or made fun of because of my hair color or complexion... My hair has always been blonde-ish brown, my eyes are hazel-ish, and those features are particularly unremarkable. So the best I can do to relate to C&B's offense at the "ginger" crack is to sympathize. But, of course, that doesn't mean I can't relate to other instances of being made uncomfortable by something "The Majority" finds hilarious.

Like rape.

Amanda Hess over at The Sexist (which, by the way, if you don't read, you SHOULD) posted a great deconstruction of rape culture and how it gets perpetuated and avoided by "bros" who don't consider what their buddy did rape. She phrases it especially in context of college life, and I think that's an apt placement. (Not, of course, that rape and rape culture doesn't exist outside college, but I do think the macho-fraternal camaraderie that many college atmospheres evoke does make such things more prevalent... or at least more evident.)

I just graduated from a relatively prestigious, four-year university. A big school of about 20,000 students, on the East Coast. As a journalism major with a minor in LGBT studies, I wasn't exactly the most involved with "stereotypical" college organizations. I ran the campus alternative magazine, spoke on my LGBT studies program, and never once attended a Greek function.

But all of my friends were dudes. And I do mean ALL of them. They kind of came in groups - there were my fellow journalists, my fellow LGBT people, the musicians, and then, oddly enough, a group of frat boys. Only a few of them were actually fraternity members, but they all lived together in this house that could have passed for an Animal House soundstage.

So, what I generally considered boyish "bathroom" humor often prevailed. C&B mentioned in his post that perhaps he just wasn't really able to be aware of the so-called rape culture because he isn't a woman, and hasn't been a victim of sexual assault.

Well, here's the thing: I'm both.

While none of my friends in school ever assaulted me, (most never even drunkenly hit on me,) the prevalence with which I heard jokes about rape was shocking. Literally, there would be jokes where the punchline essentially equated to "then she got raped!" hahahahah! Of course, the instances weren't always so obvious, but there was an insane amount of victim-blaming, apologism, and minimizing or dismissing of the experience.

This Boy's Club mentality - along with the "boys will be boys" excuse - absolutely aids in the creation of a rape culture. I won't say it's entirely responsible, nor will I even say that every person who makes or laughs at a rape joke is a rapist. Also, for the sake of argument, I know here I'm speaking in pretty strictly men-are-the-rapists, women-are-the-victims dichotomy. I am all too aware that is NOT the only scenario in which rape happens. But that is my personal experience, so it's what I can write on.

But there's another side of the rape culture that doesn't get discussed as much - the effect it has on the survivors of sexual assault.

I was raped a long time ago. The experience doesn't hang over me anymore, and while it will always color my sexual experiences, I haven't had a flashback in a long time, and I'm not afraid to walk downtown anymore in the areas I know he used to hang out in. But every time I hear a rape joke, it does bring me back to my own experience. Not in a crippling sense, but it's a reminder, and not a pleasant one.

Now, compound that with the fact that I DO NOT laugh at rape jokes. I think there are some things that are never funny, and rape is one of them. But when you're sitting in a room with 10 of your guy buddies, and someone cracks a joke and rape is the punchline, and they start howling, what do you do? My inability to laugh when everyone else was busting a gut just drew more attention to my discomfort. A few times, someone actually called me on it. Asked why I wasn't laughing. And what the hell do I say there? I'm certainly not about to tell a room full of people that, oh yeah, I was raped, so I don't think that's funny. (Although I just told the entire interwebz, but I suppose that's the benefit of blogging anonymously...) My usual response was to get defensive and get up on my soapbox, talking about how rape is never funny, and maybe even mention rape culture... Until I'd get cut down by the Boy's Club collectively deciding I was too sensitive or a bitch or a whackjob or at the very least killing their buzz.

So the conversation would move on, and I would feel terrible, all over again. Because it was like my experience - regardless of the fact that my friends didn't know about it, and certainly weren't trying to hurt me - had just been minimized, trivialized and dismissed. Again.

Often, when we talk about rape culture, we talk about the fact that it perpetuates rape. That it creates more victims by blurring the lines between what is and is not rape, when really, that line is pretty fucking clear. (For the record: No consent? Then it's rape.) But it also minimzes the experience of those who have been assaulted, while simultaneously reminding them of that trauma. Which, if you ask me, just perpetuates the damages, and makes those wounds even harder to caulderize.