For those who want the nitty-gritty without reading all the particulars:
The new blog is and will always be open to all who'd like to continue to read my writing. I hope a good deal of you will want to.

To get the url for the new place, all you need to do is leave a request in the comments of this post (and be sure to include your email in the specified field above the comment box--it won't be published; only I'll see it). Or, alternately, you can email me a request for the link. My email can be found to the right, in the sidebar under the "about" section.

When you leave a comment or send an email, I will email you the link to the new place as soon as it's ready, which should be within a day or two.

I've had a marvelous time writing this blog, and I hope to have a doubly-marvelous time at the new one. I've been so grateful for and heartened by all my readers here, and I've been honored to have gotten the opportunity to know all of you. I hope you will continue to visit me at the new place.

Those are the basics. If you'd like to read more about the why's of the move, click the link below.

When we were a couple, I used to fantasize about us in the future.

About us meeting up again when we were older. In some diner, in Manhattan or London. After we hadn't seen each other in decades.

Because you see, even when I was with you I knew we wouldn't end up.

That we wouldn't wouldn't end.

Because I didn't dare dream of love neverending.

So I dreamed of: Love. Never. Ending.

And I dreamed of you meeting up with me decades later in a coffee shop, our lives long separate and full of things we hadn't shared together. The coffee shop smelled slightly of stale cigarette smoke and strongly of brewed coffee. Your hair had gray in it. You still looked good to me, though. And I imagined you speaking quietly and sadly. I imagined the world had worn on you a bit. You were more tired, less prone to judge. I imagined you could, mostly, just see me. Not me with symbols or measurements. You just saw me, sitting there, a human. Me, and the long stretch from when we were young and together through to now. A long path. But nothing had gotten less. The connection, the need for each other, still there after all these years.

In the scene, though, we still held back. We had a very politely intense conversation. And I can't remember what I imagined back then we said to each other; I just remember the look I imagined being on your face. It was full of "should have beens" and "could have dones." I remember you being less ashamed of your human sentimentality. I remember me imagining us both at different times on the verge of misty eyes. But not actually crying. I don't remember me imagining us touching. I remember looking down at my hands around my coffee mug. And looking at your face. I remember wanting to reach out and touch your hand or your face. But i don't remember imagining me doing it.

I never fantasized about what happened after the conversation in the shop. I kept us suspended there, older, more world-weary, you more capable of seeing me, sitting across from each other in a booth in a coffee shop, touching each other without touching.

When we were still a couple, I once asked if you imagined me in the future. And you told me you thought I could do extraordinary things. But that you weren't sure if I had the capability to live up to my potential.

For years after we ended, when I did anything, I saw two things concurrently: myself doing it, and you watching me doing it and making a judgement on what I was doing. I walked through the world still trying to be worthy of your love. Was I being interesting enough? Too bourgeois? Was I informed enough about world events? Could I expound impressively on politics? Philosophy? Would the books I was reading and the films I was seeing impress you or make you sneer? Was I wanted enough by others? Was I living up to my potential or falling short?

Was I extraordinary enough?

The answer was always no.

At some point, some year, I stopped thinking about what you would think. At least directly. But, though it became not about you specifically, the fear of not being extraordinary enough remained. There was this constant belief that I had to be "more special" (than what?) and achieve something (what?) that said something (what? to whom?). And my assessment was that I was always falling short. I won't blame this all on you. This was already a budding fear of mine well before you said what you said. But I loved you. And you were supposed to care about me, to believe in me. And that's what you believed about me--that I might never be capable of being as good as I could be. You drove the last nail of my own shaky sense of self into my no-confidence coffin, and it stuck.

These days, though, I'm trying to let go of the whole "supernova or empty space; no other options" mentality. When I can manage to let go of it, I find that's where happiness lies. I'm ready to be happy.

These days, I'm almost at the age at which, when I was 21, I imagined us being when we met in the coffee shop.

But these days, I don't fantasize about meeting up with you anymore.

And these days, for the first time since we ended, I believe that if we did meet up, it wouldn't be like I'd imagined. Because, I'm no longer the girl I was then. And I haven't grown into the woman I imagined myself to be back then.

And I can also see for the first time that I'm not going to grow into the woman you imagined me to be, either. Though your words were like a curse that led me toward that fate for a long time, I'm not headed in that direction anymore.

Recently, a friend brought me news of you, unsolicited. I heard you were asking after me, as I've been told you always do. I was told you talked in great depth about our connection to each other. You told this friend-in-common that I was the one person who knew you best in the world; who truly understood you at the deepest levels. Not that I had been, at one time. That I was. That you still think I am that one person who knows you. After all these years of non-communication.

It was suggested that instead of asking after me through others for all these years, that you just get in touch with me.

I was told you shook your head ruefully and said, "There's nothing about my life that would be worth telling her."

And now I suddenly remember that another person once told me that you'd said to him that you thought I was you in female form.

And It finally sinks in. After all these years. It was you who feared you might not live up to your potential. You who felt you had to be worth something. When you said that to me, you were saying it to you. You in female form.

Of course, that was a big fear of mine, too. So I suppose we were alike. Except for one difference. I believed in you. I would have been proud of you, no matter how grand or simple your life turned out; no matter how radical or mainstream you became. I was proud of you, even then. Even when we were so young and without newsworthy achievements.

I loved you. So much it scared the fuck out of me. So much that it would have never occurred to me to wonder if you were capable of being as brilliant as I knew you were. So much that I could have never said anything so cruel to you.

So I think we were different, after all.

So. Here's me as a mosaic.

(click it if you want to see it larger)

The concept:
1. Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr Search.
2. Using only the first page of results, and pick one image.
3. Copy and paste each of the URLs for the images into Big Huge Lab's Mosaic Maker to create a mosaic of the picture answers.

The questions:
1. What is your first name?
2. What is your favorite food? right now?
3. What high school did you go to?
4. What is your favorite color?
5. Who is your celebrity crush?
6. What is your favorite drink?
7. What is your dream vacation?
8. What is your favorite dessert?
9. What do you want to be when you grow up?
10. What do you love most in life?
11. What is one word that describes you?
12. What is your flickr name?

(Note: The photos in mine are in the order I liked most aesthetically, not necessarily in order of answers. Also, #12 came up blank for me, so I used two different answers for #7 instead, since I couldn't decide.)

Discovered over at Schmutzie's place. And she found it at this place.

OnePlusYou Quizzes and Widgets

It was a difficult post to write, because I was both admitting some psychological shit I didn't want to own up to, and because I was "telling on my body"--there are things I've mentioned in that post that I've never told anyone, for fear that by mentioning these things exist, they would blow up into giant imperfections and that would be all the person could see when they looked at me.

But the point wasn't that I was confirming that list, but rather that I needed to admit to the fact that this behavior is going on and these listed items exist in my head, AND that I've given all of them a label as "bad."

I was trying to think yesterday about how I could get across how I feel, because I didn't think it came across in the last post. To get across that it wasn't about wishing the things I listed were better. I don't want to "fix" them or "erase" them (well, okay, maybe the adult acne stuff)...so much as I just want to stop hating them. And this sentence popped into my mind, "I want someone who I can tell all that to, and they'll still love me despite my imperfections."

And then I thought, that's all wrong. Because the point is, these things I've listed--hair growth, scars, skin breakouts, a stomach that's not completely flat--they are NOT "flaws" or "imperfections"--they are perfectly normal things that a good majority of people have. NOT to have any of these conditions is what is less normal.

So the sentence is, "I want someone who will love me because I'm a completely normal human being, with a normal body, which they happen to enjoy very much." And of course, turns out that's slightly wrong, too, because I'm projecting outward--assuming I need someone else's approval to be validated. The real truth is, I want myself to love what a normal human being I am. I want to be able to tell myself these things exist and think, that's just fine and normal. I want to stop hating myself for not being perfect--the only state which is, in fact, abnormal--and also non-existant. I want to be able to look at something like a hair that grows on my areola and know that 1 in every 6 women also has this. One in every six. That means well over half a billion women worldwide (if my math is correct). So, hardly a freak; hardly a fact that needs to be shrouded in shame--even IF one prefers to remove said hair.

Yet, I have persisted in seeing these things as imperfections rather than acceptable normalcies. And I have assumed, due to my own inner monologue and my fear of modern media's influence, that the rest of the world is so diseased with this viewpoint, too, that I can simply NOT be "good" as is.

It's simply not true. I'm fucking normal. I'm "good as is." I'm tired of having to either live up to or fight against some standard of beauty that's completely manufactured and culturally subjective--because either way, assimilate or fight, that "standard" then takes center stage and all the power.

I'm aiming for standard free. Full acceptance. Of my body, and of other people's.

This goal may come particularly hard to me, as I was raised from infancy to be hyper critical of my and others' appearances, and to think more about how I would appear to others than about how happy I was with myself. I'm not going to go into it here, because it's an unfriendly topic for mother's day and I'm not in the mood to feel mean. But I'm going to try not to be angry about the fact that I was submerged in this pathology so early. I can see now that it was not personal but rather completely indicative of someone else's insecurity, which at the time I was too young to separate out from. Nonetheless, I can't help but wish that it hadn't been the case, for both that person and for me. Because I don't really want to find myself here, struggling with this, at this point in my life.

But that's another story for another time, maybe.

As it is, I'm here at this point in my life struggling with it, and that's the way it goes. Better to be struggling with it than just burying it like I've done for so many other years. No more. I'm ready to torch this fucker like a bad tick that's been sucking my lifeblood for too long.

Seriously. I'm done with this shit.

What I choose to believe...about myself, about others, about how the world works and thinks...all of this is merely perception. And a perception is never a universal truth; it's a choice.

The problem is, sometimes I'm so used to one way of perceiving things, it's hard to figure out what new thing to choose instead--or even how choose it or believe in it, once it's chosen.

I've got some serious thinking to do.

Fact: I said it out loud, came home, and went to bed shortly after. I woke up in the morning and weighed myself and I had lost five pounds. Something about that felt related; like I'd gotten rid of a tiny bit of something, at least, that was--perhaps literally--weighing me down.

I wonder about that moment, when someone who's been abusive finally can step back enough to get a glimpse of what they are. To begin to accept the name of it, and own one's actions. Not just regret for one small incident, but the admission of a whole patterned tendency to be an mean, cruel, angry, bullying asshole. About what brings that perspective on. And about whether it's at all freeing to come to terms with it. If the knowledge can actually bring on change.

In any case, it doesn't feel cathartic, but it felt like just a tiny bit of release.

I wrote about this a few posts ago, but seriously, my behavior toward my body was--no IS--so stereotypically abusive. Not only is it angry, and manipulative, and physically cruel, but I told myself it wasn't hatred I was displaying, it was love. And I was different in public and in private. As a feminist, I knew it was bad form to admit to hating my body. So I said I didn't in public. I was nice to myself in public. But in secret, I whispered cruel, soul and confidence-destroying things to my body. I sectioned it into tiny, tiny bits, and then applied unseen torture to all of it. I mean all the things they do in torture, too--ignoring its humanity for long periods, playing good cop/bad cop with it, exposing it to cruel people who didn't respect it, force feeding it, preventing it from moving freely and easily...

I am not going to blame myself for this, as it was unconscious. And I think certain parts of it were brought on by post-traumatic stress from my sexual assault, and from some problematic views I was raised/forced to absorb. But the fact is it is there and I guess it's time to fully face up to the fact that I have been saying, "I hurt you because I love you" for a long time now.

And also face up to the shame and hate I've been associating with my body for a long time. Just get it all out. Maybe other things along with those five pounds will begin to be released as a result. This has worked for me before. Sometimes one has to face one's greatest fears for them to go away. Sometimes one has to admit to the parts one hates most about oneself--the things one hides in the dark--to stop being so fucking cruel. Sometimes you have to do what you think will bring you the world's worst hatred; because only through doing that can you realize that the world's worst hatred is A FUCKING BIRTHDAY CAKE compared to your own inner hatred.

So. After having had that conversation, all I've been able to think about is this--and this one scene from the film Lovely and Amazing. Unfortunately, I can't find a video clip of the scene online anywhere, but maybe you've seen it. In it, Emily Mortimer's character, an up-and-coming actress, stands in front of a guy she's just slept with (another better-known actor) and asks him to review her body honestly. And after only the tiniest amount of convincing, he does. He goes from top to bottom, and just lists everything that's possibly not perfect about her (and a few items that were nice). It's a riveting scene; neither character is displaying any emotion at all; they're acting like it's just casual, friendly conversation. But the whole situation is just charged with this subtle brutality, one that at least I recognize all around me, every day. And how unconsciously brutal he is being in his gently-voiced, casual assessment of every inch of her body, and how unconsciously brutal she is being in her desire for it, and her almost hungry acceptance and casual absorption of it. (Screen shots of the scene here--NSFW--to give you the mood.) This small picking apart of lack of perfection, until there is no wholesomeness of body anymore, but only an assemblage of parts and flaws and mediocrities and the all-important sanctioning or damning of it all by others.

It was her desire for the hatred I found most disturbing when I saw this film years ago. Maybe because I recognized it. Even as, when I was watching it, I remember thinking, Why would she ever do this to herself?

Why, indeed. That's something I clearly need to ask myself, but this time find some kind of answer.

So now, in the interest of getting it all out; of admitting everything, I'm going to make my list of body hatred. I'm not saying these things are true or untrue. I understand perception is a scary thing. I recognize that I notice these things with a microscopic intensity that no one else does, and that many no one would ever see or know about unless i pointed it out; and perhaps not even then in some cases. Yet, I have had a compulsive need to point those things out to myself, and a compulsive fear of disgusting anyone who recognizes their existence. So now I need to just say it out loud. I need to point the big spotlight on my pointing the big spotlight. Because I"m sick of hiding this small shit like it's something to be ashamed of. Like we don't all have human bodies. Like everyone else, despite their humanity, will be disgusted if I'm anything less than sculpted by angels with instruments made from light and air.

So I'll shut up now and tell you my list. I'll stand naked in front of you in the bedroom and say it all out loud. And you can see how I've made myself into some kind of monster in my eyes. And by doing so have been a monster to myself all these years.

Head to toe:

Hair: There are white hairs now; enough that they're noticeable. Hairline grows sideways so I can't get cute, shorn haircuts. I think my hair grows down too low in front of my ears. For a while I thought it was receding on my scalp; now I don't know why I thought that, doesn't look that way at all. But for the record.

Scalp: Lifelong struggle with dandruff and scaling. Flakes on my clothes, especially when seasons change.

Ears: Too waxy; I never think they're clean enough. Embarrassed to have someone stick their tongue in there. I think my earrings smell weird sometimes after i put them in. I wonder if there are bacteria in the holes.

Face: Forehead getting lines. Lines on my cheeks when I smile have come out this year. Pimples, especially along the jawline. Teeth aren't white enough; I think this makes me look old. Eyelashes not long enough. Upper lip not full enough. Mole above upper lip. Hairs around the mouth, especially the corners.
Neck: breaks out (extension of jawline)

Collarbone and shoulders: more pimples/boils

Back: More pimples/boils. Ugh, hideous. Itches a lot.

Arms: ghostly residue of eczema from when I was a kid

Hands: skin beginning to show signs of age. Scar on inner palm. Fingers not long enough.

Breasts: Sagging. Stretch marks. Hair growth around nipples. Hormonal fluctuation=nipples sometimes express discharge. Very big; making it hard to find nice bras or wear button-down shirts--and impossible to go topless in public. A focal point people sometimes fixate on; grosses me out and makes me uncomfortable/scared.

Torso overall: Too long: hard to find clothing that fits it well.

Ribcage: scar from skin biopsy

Stomach: fat, fat, fat. completely distended. horrible. Also, I think my navel smells wrong.

Pussy: Impossible to shave, wax, or depilitate without razor burn bumps. Labial acne breakouts. A bout of vulvar vestibulitis, and a bout of cervical dysplasia/HPV that thankfully both seem to be gone now, but that still weigh on my mind like bad, traumatic memory ghosts.

Ass: too wide, flat, and low.

Legs overall: Not long enough--torso is long, legs only average length, making them look too short; also not proportionate enough--thighs are notably bigger than shins

Thighs: Too fat. Stretch marks present on outer thighs. Inner thighs too soft; also stretch marks.

Knees: random bouts of weakness/pain if I'm exercising. Don't look straight enough to me; seem to slope in and down.

Shins: a couple of capillaries showing through here and there. Dark leg hair.

Feet: Size 10-11. Huge. Roll over my arches and can't wear shoes w/out arches. One foot turns in slightly when I walk.

Toes: Hair on big toes, and calluses. Currently infected nails on each from fucking pedicure place I will never go to again.

There. I keep feeling like I left something out, but that's probably enough name calling for you to get the picture, anyway. This is what I've been saying to myself behind closed doors. Usually followed by gut feelings of disgust, shame, and a desire to hide away from humans for the rest of my life.

Too bad I wasn't able to hide away from my own cruel self.

I'm going to keep comments open regardless of how tempted I am not to. And unlike when I wrote a similar litany kind of post way back when, I'm not going to try to control what people say to me if they do comment. However, I am especially interested in if/how anyone can relate, and what bodily areas in themselves they might have, before or now, picked apart or are ashamed to tell or show the world they have.

I'm not sure what hitting "publish" on this post will accomplish. But I felt strongly it had to be done.

One thing that's interesting about this internet world--and the written word in general--is the perception aspect. That is, the perceptions one builds of the people one reads. Much like reading a book where you create a mental image of the character, people read a blogger's words and filter them through their own imaginations and experience. And whether deliberately or no, a picture of what the person would be like to interact with in "real life" develops--you invent an imaginary voice for the person, an imaginary height, body type...you think you "get" how that person would move or respond or act in real life.

I suppose this response is only natural. But it's good to remember that this imagined perception is all you, not them.

To make my case, I'll use myself and some of the assumptions of me that have been shared with me, and seem most pronounced.

Assumption #1: You know what I sound like.
One misperception that I've heard very often relates to my voice. People who have known me first by writing and then heard my real life voice are, almost, to a one, shocked. I've been told many times that my "typed voice" comes across as "tough" or some such thing. Generally people tell me they expect to hear someone with a voice that's "harsher." One person said they'd expected "loud and nasally, like Fran Drescher." Another person said they'd thought it would be "gravel and cigarettes throaty." Time and again, the perceptions shared with me are similar to those--they'll use words like "low," "hard," and "tough" for what they imagine I'd sound like speaking to them. I think they expect to hear some brassy Algonquin-round-table broad type who's going to shoot back double-edged innuendos at them while sounding horrifically jaded and mildly annoyed.

When instead, they get this.

Which by all accounts, my writing does not "sound like," at least to others. And yet, I type to the voice in my head, which sounds to me like my voice. I'd say everything I say here out loud. But often, people take what I say differently when write things, versus when I say the same things to them in my voice.

When people hear my voice, they tend to use adjectives like "soft," "sweet," "girlish," and "sexy." Some of those probably describe my personality more than "low," "hard," and "tough." Although I'm not a pushover, I have always felt far from tough. Ultimately I am and have always been, despite trying to fight it for many years, a nice person. A smart, thoughtful, resilient, sometimes clever person, too--but always kind--or that is my natural inclination to want to be, anyway. A sweet girl who happens to like talking frankly about many things--including sex. But this combination seems to come as a surprise to most people--like they assume the two could never go together.

Anyway, the point is, people tend to assume I'm a different kind of person based on whether they read my writing or hear my voice. People who hear and see me in real life tend to assume my soft voice and polite, kind mode of expression makes me a Nice Girl, and hence not very sexual--and are surprised when I am. Whereas many people who read my words without hearing the voice assume I am more sexual and powerful than nice.

Which leads me to my next example.

Assumption #2: I'd like to dominate you.
The "more sexual than nice" perception my writing seems to inspire in some also sometimes leads to the assumption that I'd have a domme propensity. Again, incorrect. While I enjoy many kinds of sexual play all across the spectrum, if I had to choose one end of the BDSM scale to define me (and I hope I never have to), I'd say I tend more toward sub. Inside I am sweet and shy and even a bit emotionally innocent. And so a sexually confident man especially makes my sweet, shy, innocent toes curl in delight (a genuine sexually confident man, that is, not a fake sexually aggressive blowhard asshole who's just covering for his insecurities).

I like being seduced by someone who knows how to do it really well, and the excitement of that power dynamic. I like being (genuinely) flattered and flirted with and growled at. I like being held down. I like being talked dirty to. I like being spanked and (if appropriate) being given orders. I like a guy telling me in a voice thick with desire exactly what he's going to do to me and how hard he's going to do it, and the affect he wants it to have. I like being thrown on the bed. I like being fucked hard. In short, I like feeling the power of my guy's masculinity; and I like feeling the power of feeling delicate and femme under his strength.

Of course, those are all mildly subby qualities--they're not a lifestyle. But I like all those mildly sub things, very, very, very much.

But even more than that, if you really want to know what I'm like...well, what pleases me most is the interplay of seasoned sexual equals. Two sexually strong people coming together; worthy opponents who admire each other's skills and are ready to engage all night long, surprising and impressing each other with unexpected moves, until they're exhausted and panting and ready to drop. Lion and tigress; Batman and Catwoman; ninja and pirate; spy and assassin. But then, even in those scenarios, I ultimately like the guy to "overcome" in the end. In short, I like you to feel big and strong. Really big (and strong). 'Cause you are. And 'cause it gets me hot.

Also, along with these, I do enjoy some sweet, affectionate, heartfelt vanilla lovemaking, too. Best is having all the above mixed together, if you can imagine having all that in one. That's what I like.

So you see, not a tendency to dom.

This is not to say I don't ever have fantasies where I'm in the assertive position. I do. But even in those, the dominant role I'm playing tends far more toward seduction (e.g., he shouldn't be fucking me and is restraining himself from reacting, but I overcome his hesitation) or teasing (e.g., he's strong but tied up and can't get to me like he wants to; straining against his bonds--very hot). And even in those scenarios, eventually the guy becomes strong and asserts himself in the end.

This is also not to say I never initiate or never assert myself in bed. I do. I almost always get on top at some point in a session (to me this isn't even a dominant pose, but I know other people think it is). And just like in reverse, I like telling a guy exactly what I want to do to him--and what I want him to do to me. And I will definitely do things to you without you having to request or order me to. I will suggest and try things I'm interested in. I will talk dirty to you.

No, I am not a shrinking violet in the bedroom, even if I like a little sub spice. I will almost certainly ask for what I want if i want something, or ask you to keep doing something if I like it--maybe even beg or scream for it--but the main point is, I won't generally demand it and then hurt you if you don't give it to me.

Because I'm not a big fan of the big hurt, whether physically or emotionally, of either my partner or myself. Mild, teasing hurt, sure. Spanking? A little biting? A crop or a paddle? Why not. But clamps? Cutting? Asphyxiation? Real, serious pain? Meh. I can see the erotic possibilities of it from a fantasy perspective, but ultimately it's not sexy for me to watch in real life.

Also not sexy to me: a guy who crawls, cowers, whine-begs, wears diapers, acts like a baby. I'm not judging here; it works for some, and that's just fine--it just doesn't turn me on. I simply don't like weakness in a partner in bed.

That doesn't mean, however, I won't enjoy being dominant in bed, IF we've decided that's the game we're playing. But I don't naturally go that way unless asked, and I don't feel comfortable being asked until I've established a trusting and different, non-dom power dynamic with that person first. I need to know the expectation won't be that I'm always the dominant, and that my partner has already established his sexual strength. Because I find a powerful person willing to submit briefly for play to be incredibly sexy. He doesn't HAVE to, but he wants to let me feel the power balance shift in my favor. He wants to feel what it's like to surrender that power for a while and, for instance, be fucked by someone else (something I've yet to try, but that I would try with the right partner). He wants me to enjoy the role reversal. And in that kind of a dynamic, I do enjoy it. I like to see a strong, grown man out of his element, and feeling pleasure in it. For a special treat. But ultimately, I don't want to stay there all the time. If the person wants me to consistently be the dominant one, I feel misunderstood and unnatural. To do that would to be playacting 24/7, and I prefer sex to be very, very real.

So no, despite having an apparently "strong" writing voice (even though I personally think I sound consistently vulnerable on this blog), I don't want to dominate you. Unless you win me over first with your big, strong man self.

And I if I am just getting to know a guy and the first thing he wants me to do is dominate him, I always feel just a bit creeped out by it. Because then I know he hasn't really seen me, hasn't "gotten" me at all--he's just made an assumption. It happens sometimes. Often with macho types, ironically. They'll come on all strong and I'll be squirming with delight at their assertiveness and then suddenly when it gets down to the first real, crucial moment...they want me to humiliate or dominate them. It's always a disappointment on both a bait-and-switch level and also because I end up feeling completely misunderstood as a human.

And speaking of misunderstood:

Assumption #3: Because I talk about sex it means I want to fuck you, or that I'm an emotion-free Fembot designed specifically for your pleasure.

This one I feel really deserves no explanation--it should be an obvious fact of life. But it is shocking to me how often men themselves are shocked by a woman who will talk about sex with frankness and openly say she enjoys it. And equally shocking to me are the assumptions some of them make based on that reality. I mean, come on fellas, is it really that rare these days? When a GUY talks to you about sex, do you assume he wants to fuck you, regardless of his orientation?

So for the record: just because I talk about sex with you doesn't mean I want to have sex with you. It means simply that I like talking about sex as one of many topics I enjoy talking about. It doesn't mean I am trying to turn you on, even if you do get turned on. Saying that I enjoy sex doesn't mean I'm thinking of having it with you. Necessarily. Of course, any of those conditions may be true: in some cases I might want to fuck the guy I'm talking to, or tease him to arousal, or I might be thinking about having sex with him. But this is not the rule by a long shot.

Think of it this way. Women talk about sex with their girlfriends a lot, but often not men BECAUSE of this very misconception. If you're a man and you want more women talking with you about sex, get past this misconception. When I talk to men about sex, I'm being equal opportunity. That is all (most of the time).

And also: no, I don't see sex as separate from emotion just because I'm openly sexual. Yes, I like sex. AND I don't do casual sex. These can actually coexist. I don't like or respect people who assume because I'm sexually open that I'll take intimacy lightly and think I'm cool with being treated casually after they've gotten off. I think it's rude and disrespectful. And as such I tend to be very picky about my partners. Of course, everyone makes mistakes sometimes, but I try my best to choose wisely to meet this expectation of mine. Many of you would probably be surprised at the relatively low number of full-blown (ahem) lovers I've had.

Anyway, to sum up: women do talk about sex. Get over it. Sometimes a cigar vibe conversation is just a cigar vibe conversation.

Assumption #4: Because I sometimes blog about sex, the first thing I want to talk about with you is sex.

In fact, the direct opposite is true. Off blog, the more likely a person is to head right into the sex conversation without attempting to speak to me like a normal person who probably has a variety of interests, the less likely I am to respond to them. Sex is only one of many interests of mine and only a small portion of what I'm about, just like you. And you don't need to communicate with me about sex, because you get to read that part of me on this blog (at least, you used to; lately the topic hasn't been inspiring a lot of writing). I like people; I am interested in smart, funny, interesting, multifaceted, humans. This is who I find pleasure in interacting with. I have absolutely no interest in communicating with "a raging hard on that has evolved the ability to type" (god, I wish I'd come up with that genius line).

Now if you can just imagine me saying that in the sweetest voice ever, maybe it won't sound so harsh. Heh.

End point: A blog gives you very little to go on. Even when people are totally genuine, we are all of us more than we appear in the little glimpses of ourselves we give you. I myself have been surprised multiple times when I've met online people in real life and something about them has completely clashed with my perception of them.

So, now....some of the assumptions above you may have held about me, some you may not have. I'm curious: Just for fun, what image of me do/did you have in your head? What do I look like, sound like, act like, dress like? I promise to debunk all misconceptions offered with the real picture (unless you ask me not to).

And for those of you who already know me off blog a bit--or for anyone else--what misperceptions do you run into most between your writing and in-the-flesh selves?

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Photo credit: moveable-type-blog by pub_lick_smith

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy seeing a band I love in concert. And sometimes discovering a new band can be fun, too. But so often the shows are just...well, so-so. Factors conspire to make the experience less than transformative. Sometimes the sound sucks, or the band's not as good live as they are recorded, and I am disappointed and either left questioning my former belief in their talent or wondering why I didn't just stay home and listen to the CD. Or, on the opposite end of the scale, sometimes the sound is TOO perfect--SO perfect, in fact, that it sounds JUST like the CD, with no particular flair to make the performance feel live or interesting. And in those instances, too, I wonder why I didn't just stay home and listen to the CD.

Or sometimes the band seems to be going through the motions, and not caring much. I've seen some bands who make Disney animatrons look lively. Alternately, sometimes they're wasted and stumbling all over the place, which is amusing for a short while and then just gets really annoying when they can't remember how to play their instruments and nod off and end the show after 30 minutes. Sometimes it's the audience who's way too wasted and ruins an otherwise brilliant show by drunkenly shouting out stupid things at every opportunity or not knowing the difference between drunken brutality vs. actual moshing. And of course, seeing new bands I've never heard before is always a crap shoot and nine times out of ten I wonder if I might not have done better to have just stayed home and saved my money for, like...rent or something.

But sometimes, there are these incredible live music moments. Sometimes, everything comes together in this unspeakably perfect way. And then I remember why I don't entirely give up on going to shows.

I had one such experience a few days ago. A friend invited me to go see the band Elbow play live. I'd never heard of them before. Despite me being the music geek I am, and despite them having put out quite a few CDs already, they'd completely missed my radar. But after quickly checking out their website and MySpace page and listening to a few clips, I enthusiastically agreed to go. Something about their music grabbed me right away, and despite my wariness these days (based on the factors mentioned above) about paying to see bands I know nothing about, on hearing them I instantly thought "this is a band to see." I'm not even sure why, but that was the immediate gut response.

They always say you should follow your gut, and it turns out "they" are still damn well right. Because this show was easily one of the best and most remarkable live performances I've had the pleasure of seeing in a long while.

There were a number of factors that came together to make this so. First off, it turned out the show was being held in a historic synagogue right in the heart of the city I live in. A place I may have passed by dozens of times and yet have never noticed--and certainly didn't know showcased live bands. So that was the first surprise. We walked in, and were greeted with a completely gorgeous interior. A relatively intimate performance space, with beautiful antique wooden pews, carved with smooth, curved backs which were incredibly comfortable to sit in. Candelabras along the walls. Elaborate stained glass windows. And a stunning domed ceiling, painted with an intricate gold-leaf pattern and looking like a giant, semitic Fabergé egg. Just look at the photo to the right. That's what we sat under all night, evening light shimmering through the stained glass windows surrounding it, making it glow above us when the lights went low for the show. How can one not be moved to the expectancy of something great when sitting under a ceiling like that?

Even before the band started, it was clear the acoustics were going to be marvellous and that environs had an affect on the crowd. We could hear our voices amplified by the shape of the building in a way that foretold good things for a band being able to play. And have you ever noticed how when one walks into a beautiful place, one is naturally awed by it and wants to be beautiful IN it? Your behavior changes; you grow happier, more careful in how you treat yourself and others. You try to drink it all in and you look at your neighbors, both of you wide-eyed and say, "Isn't this amazing?" And then you smile and feel lucky. You don't want to let that feeling go. That's what it was like.

This, I believe, was amplified by the fact that there was no alcohol available. I didn't think of it until afterward, but I think it may possibly be the first show I've ever seen where no one was drinking and where I hadn't had at least one drink. I tend to associate shows with alcohol--whether I'm drinking or it's just the smell of it all around me. None of that here. Everyone was completely sober and AWAKE; and I think this lent to wanting to keep the respectful feeling of the beauty of the space going and the whole "love thy neighbor" vibe that was going on. Plus, it let all of us REALLY HEAR the music. It was such an unusual thing, experiencing a band with a crowd that was completely unaltered. People seemed far more riveted and connected to the performance and each other. It was truly spectacular. And all this time I thought alcohol contributed to a live experience--that it wasn't rock 'n' roll without the sex and drugs aspect. So much for that fallacy.

And yet, despite the more formal decorations around us, and the lack of a dive bar atmosphere, the crowd was incredibly charged. In fact, perhaps even more charged than normal, because everything was so different and special. You could feel how special everyone thought it was, just in the air. And the feeling certainly charged the band, too. From the moment the lights came down and they were able to walk THROUGH the waiting crowd, in between the pews and toward the stage, carrying horns in arms stretched high, and then stand in a line across the stage, blowing a huge cacophony of Wall-of-Jerhico sound over the backing track belting out over the speakers, the whole performance just seemed otherworldly in its perfection. The music was flawless, a wailing wall of swirling sound--sometimes painfully yearning, sometimes heartburstingly joyous, sometimes both together. There was guitar and bass and drums and hard on male rock 'n' roll attitude, but also backing tracks and live electric violins and female backing harmonies.

And the lead singer. Oh. Between his charming gift of comfortable gab with the audience, his somewhat rough-around-the-edges Irish-English workman's face and burly body, and the unexpectedly beautiful, melodic voice that came out of it--well, I have to admit, for all my jaded history with musicians, I might have fallen just a little bit in love with him. He was just that good. By the end of the show, when he asked us to sing along with him to what may well be one of the most beautiful, simple, joyous songs ever written about waking up next to someone and suddenly realizing that you're falling in love, even shy little me, with my cynical resistance to crowd mentality, was belting out the song with all my heart and soul with everyone else around me. And it felt goooood.

And that is how it is with a show like that. I stood there, falling in love with that band I'd never even heard of four days before.

I stood there, full of first-hand knowledge that, behind the lights and the swells of sound, this world of touring bands is, on paper, not much more than cigarettes and drink and addictions and long drives and boredom and bad food and schedules, schedules, schedules and arguments with industry stooges and each other, and a never-ending stream of anonymous, brief, disconnected meetings with people you may never see again, all of whom want something from you that you are too damn tired to give.

I stood there, knowing all that, and falling in love with the world of rock 'n' roll anyway. Getting drawn in, drawn closer, feeling heaven, saying, Yes, yes, I want that.

And that is why I don't stop seeing live shows.

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A few videos below from Elbow to whet your appetite. It frustrates me to give you these, though, because they can't even remotely capture the feel or sound of their performance. This band is very good on CD, but they are, I think, one of those rare bands that's far, far better live than they even are recorded. Usually it's the opposite, so this is a rare thing. Go see them on tour if you can.

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Guy Garvey photo courtesy of Glynis_F. All other photos copyright Sexeteria.

The idea for this post came from here.

Note: The two links that point to images of the woman's body are NSFW.

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Dear Body,

I've been avoiding writing you this letter, so I know it's something I've got to do.

Why don't I want to talk to you?

Actually, that was the only thing I could think to say for the last few weeks since I thought about starting this post, "Dear Body, We've never really talked."

I find this to be shocking. I never really realized it before. But it's true. I've never really communicated with you in any way. And for that I'm so, so sorry.

I'm trying to start now. But it's really hard. This letter is going to be a mess. I apologize in advance. I hope you'll stick with me more than I've stuck with you all these years. I know I may not deserve it, but...I hope you'll hear me out.

What really prompted me to write today after waiting so long was that last night I couldn't sleep, and I ended up watching a film on some independent movie channel that I'd already seen once. But I watched the whole thing again, anyway. And in this film, there is a main character, a young woman of my coloring, who is often seen naked. And I remember the first time I watched this film finding her somewhat mesmerizing.

It was much the same this time. I found myself completely absorbed in watching her body as it moved across the screen. And while watching her, I was overwhelmed with this profound feeling of connection also this instant, deep sadness that wailed both straight into and also poured out of my heart--almost like mourning. This is the only way I can describe it; the reaction was simply visceral, and not easily given words. But then again, Body, you felt it, so you know. We felt it together. Or maybe it was you who made me feel it. Maybe it was you who was telling me it was time to feel these things.

In any case, when conscious thought followed the emotional response, I recognized with some shock that: 1) her naked form looked almost exactly like yours did when I was in my early 20s, and 2) I was thinking to myself that she was beautiful.

This may sound odd to some outsiders that it was hard for me to piece these two together as connected thoughts. But I don't think you'll be surprised by this, will you?

Because I was was looking at this other girl's body, so much like you were then, and responding to her in all her erotic, naked power. I mean, she was stunning. Just this marvelous, vibrant thing, full of life, in this absolutely mesmerizingly beautiful body.

But when I looked at you, I couldn't see any of it. When I looked at you looking much like this, here is what I thought:

"Yeah, you're thin, but look, your belly still has a curve outward. It's not flat. It totally ruins your chances of having a really nice body. That curve is so aesthetically unpleasing. You'd better hide it. Wear control-top tights or something."

"Look at how your breasts are sagging. And you're only 20! See how they are heavy at the bottom like that, with that slight curve at the top? That's not normal. They should be round all the way around, and up higher. Guys will be disappointed in them. Sure, you can make them look good in a bra, but when you get naked, well, guys'll put up with them, they won't say anything, but they won't be thinking anything good."

That's the kind of thing I said to you, when you were generous enough to gift me with the shape you did. I ridiculed you and picked you apart. I couldn't even see what was in front of me.

But I wasn't comfortable even with that. I knew enough between the obsessive media focus on eating disorders and my feminist studies that it wasn't "right" to criticize my body. And on top of that, I was never comfortable, even from early childhood, with how much focus people put on my appearance. So I didn't even like attention to you--positive or negative--coming from myself, let alone others. And so to solve this dilemma, I decided to completely ignore you, block you out. I chose to pretend you didn't exist in any real or important way; that you weren't a part of THE REAL ME. Any reference to you or thoughts of you I just...let slip away as if they didn't exist.

Do you remember that one guy in my dorm telling me in an offhanded way I had the perfect body, and me just staring at him blankly? My response was beyond just not wanting to believe him or trying to be modest--I simply couldn't conceive what he was saying. I felt nothing except some slight confusion, like he was talking another language and so I couldn't possibly have a response. I didn't forget I did this to you, if you thought i did.

Do you remember all my lovers who went on about how great your breasts were? Do you remember how deep down, I felt surprised every single time, no matter how many times it was volunteered freely? How I just sort of pretended I didn't hear? I didn't let myself feel anything about what I was doing. But I didn't forget I did this to you.

Do you remember how tense I felt whenever someone went to kiss my stomach, wishing he'd move past that flawed spot quickly, so I didn't have to think about how I didn't measure up? And then just pushing that thought out of my mind? I pretended I didn't do this. But I didn't stop. And I didn't forget.

Do you remember how I almost always covered you up with big, big tops and long skirts or round babydoll dresses all those years so no one could see most of my shape? Oh I was good at pretending that I was revealing stuff, but nothing was really clear and out there to see.

I need to say this to you, though I am ashamed to say it.

I was not proud of you. I was ashamed of you. I'm so sorry. You didn't deserve that. You were lovely and good and I humiliated you and hid you away like you were a defective child.

Not because I thought you were ugly, or I didn't love you. I didn't think you were ugly; and I loved you, more than you could probably understand.

But I didn't want anyone to see you. Because I thought...

I don't know. I don't know why I was ashamed of you. I don't understand. I wish I could understand.

The other day I was talking to my therapist about having urges to eat when I wasn't hungry, and why I don't seem to want to let myself get thin. She asked why I thought I might be doing this. I responded without thinking, "Maybe it's because I'm afraid of what will happen if I'm thin."

She asked me what I thought would happen. And I had no answer. I'm not sure. I just know I'm terrified. Terrified to be thin. Terrified to be looked at. Terrified to be attractive. Terrified of what I might attract.

I should keep going with that list, free forming, because I'm getting somewhere, but I'm too terrified to keep typing that list.

But. For now.

Maybe, like the "defective child" analogy I made earlier, it was not that I couldn't see the beauty in you, not that I couldn't love you, but that I thought the world would be too hurtful to you. I wanted to protect you from what would happen when exposed to others. So I hid you away.

Writing that made me want to start crying.

But I don't know. Maybe it was that. And maybe it was even worse than that.

I never thought I hated you. I really didn't. But there is evidence to the contrary. I hid you away, and didn't let you get love and attention, from myself or others. I ignored you. I denied you were important to me. I said you didn't matter. I didn't let friends and admirers of yours come around. And if they braved my displeasure and admired you anyway, I made their lives very difficult.

And I did this all while I was telling myself and you how much I loved you, but that other people just didn't understand. Only *I* could really love you. Everyone else was a sham.

At that stage I wasn't hurting you physically, but damn if that doesn't sound like an abusive relationship to me. Neglect? Abandonment? Denial? Possessiveness?

Maybe I was not a good person to you. No, not maybe. I was not a good person to you.

But it's not over yet. I wasn't satisfied with that level of dysfunction. I let whatever that was in me that was doing that to you grow. And I started hurting you. I treated you very badly. I force fed you, in a way, until you became distorted into an almost surreal version of the things I'd hated about you. My breasts grew bigger and, in my eyes, even saggier. My stomach got larger and, in my eyes, more grossly engorged. I made you into the object I was afraid the world saw you as to begin with. I forced you out of all proportion until when I saw myself in photos, I didn't even know who I was looking at anymore. The adult body I'd started with had ceased to exist. I ate and drank and hid from everyone and let your mood get lower and lower, and your health worse and worse. I let it get so that walking up three flights of stairs got you out of breath.

I took everything you gave me, everything you were, all that sweet, pure, goodness, and I hurt it in every way possible until you were a crippled, gasping version of your former self, desperately trying to hang on, wondering why the hell this was happening and when the hell it was going to stop.

I don't know why I did this to you. Because you ARE ME.

Maybe that was why I did it. I didn't want you--a body--to be me, the essence of me.

Whatever the reason, the end result was that I treated you the way I was afraid everyone else would. In trying to protect you, I made my worst fears for you come true. *I* was the unfeeling monster. I was the one who looked upon you with disgust. I was the one who told you when you were thin that no guy who ever showed interest could ever be interested in more than just wanting your body. I was the one who when you were fat who told you no one loved you because of how you looked. And now I'm the one telling you that if you lose weight, you'll never be loved for anything except your body again. And I'm the one who's telling you Ithat at forty you'll never have that 20-something body back, especially due to the problems *I've* caused for you--and that this, no matter how thin you become now, will still make you unappealing to the world.

I was the one who never let you out without fear, or let you feel your full joy of being, except for when I was having sex and became too sensorially overwhelmed to think about suppressing you anymore.

This is my attempt to try to testify. To bring let you know I am not blind to the things I've done. That I get it. I know you've been going it alone, trying your best to stay afloat despite all the abuse I've piled on you. And you've done marvelously. I can not say the same for myself.

I'm so proud you've managed to hold up all this time. You are so much better than I've ever given you credit for.

I want to say how sorry I am for all of this, all I've done.

I know sorry isn't not enough. I know you deserve more. But it's a start and I think it's important to start with saying I am so very, very sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't enjoy you when you gave me so much; that I couldn't feel anything except either bad or blank about you. I'm so sorry I've hurt you. And I've hurt me. I've hurt us, because we are the same. And I want you to know that I know this now.

I hope you will forgive me for not knowing it before, and for what I've done as a result of that.

I want you to know that I won't stop at apologizing. I'm going to do something about it. I'm going to back up my words with actions.

I will not ignore you anymore. I will not pretend you don't exist. And I am trying so, so hard not to hurt you anymore. I know I need help with this; I know I can't stop alone. I'm getting this help.

Because it's time for me to stop this. I don't want to hurt you anymore. I don't want to be scared to be in whatever my real body is at this age. I want to find out what my real body is at this age. I want to give you the freedom to show me.

I want to stop being scared. I want to stop thinking what you look like has a direct correlation to how well I'll be loved, to how shallow the world is, to how shallow I am, to how I'll be treated.

I want to stop feeling LOOKED AT. And I want to stop punishing you for being looked at.

I want to live together and work together and talk to each other all the time.

I want to accept you, as you are, and feel real love for you. Not love tempered with fits of compulsive, unconscious abuse.

To feel proud of you, as you are. To show you off and not think I have to be ashamed because of it.

I want us to be friends. I want us to be lovers.

I want us to love and be proud of each other. I don't want to be separate entities, passing notes through a crack in a wall.

I want symbiosis. As it always should have been.

I want joy coursing through you. Not just my soul. Through YOU, Body, through my breasts, which are mine, and not needing of adjectives. Through my belly, which is mine and not needing of adjectives. Through all of you, which is me and not needing of adjectives. Except one. Joyful. No matter how your lines are drawn, we will always call them joyful.

More with that word joy. The most important thing:

I want to enjoy you.

In my remaining years, finally, finally, I want to enjoy you.

I want all that. But first I have to learn how to talk to you. And as you can tell from this disjointed and sometimes repetitive letter, I still haven't learned how to communicate well with you yet.

I'm trying to do better. But just like with a family member you've seen but never really developed a relationship with, I kind of love you in the abstract, from the outside, but I don't know how create a love bond with you in a highly personal way.

But I really want to. And you've stuck it out and stuck around, so I'm hoping that means you do, too.

So this letter is my very ineloquent way of asking you, will you help me figure out how to do this? I need some help and I'm feeling pretty shaky, and I'm not even sure how to get started. I'm going to do everything I can on my own, but maybe you can help show me the way to release some things. I'd like to work together so we both feel safe and happy and ultimately can see in each other the goodness that's really there.

I want to see you. Let's not hide anymore.

It's okay.

Please tell me it's okay.

Love,

Me