Saturday, May 8, 2010
Destructive behavior at its best
Daniel and I would often kid around about how our relationship was on the wild side due to our both being sex addicts. We'd laugh about it and even throw around the term in a manner meant to mock one and other. The very beginning of our relationship was met with a super concentrated physical union. We were easily having sex three times a day at minimum and, for us, this seemed completely normal. Our nights out were always ended with intense kink. For the first month and a half or so we kept the sex to ourselves but eventually we stepped outside of the normal male/female relationship parameters and introduced exaggerated variations of our kink.
In a previous post of this blog, I mention that I was introduced to the group scene via a dude I met on Craigslist. Scouring the Internet was not that uncomfortable for me. I have, indeed, engaged in anonymous sex. This behavior, looking back, was super dangerous but while you're doing these things you don't stop and look around at the warning signs because for the most part, these actions are dictated by something much greater than the sheer desire to cum.
In the Six Feet Under snippet linked to this post, Brenda goes to see a therapist at the push of her friend Melissa who happens to be a sex worker. I chose to include this clip for a few reasons. At one point, Brenda mentions that she thinks she truly enjoys the euphoric feeling she gets from these random sexual encounters with strangers while she is in a monogamous relationship. Save Daniel, I have cheated on pretty much every boyfriend I've had. There was a point in my life that I was allowing my sexuality to dictate the bulk of my decisions. The idea of being in a relationship that was not centered on sex seemed nearly impossible. I was condoning my behavior by stating, simply, that my activities were a result of my desires. It's a rather simple equation; you want something, you get it. Deep down inside, I think I would often wonder whether or not my behavior was out of the norm and time and time again I would condone it by rationalizing the fact that I was simply acting on my raw needs. And, to a degree, this was true. I did have these desires and curiosities and my acting on them made me feel as if I was a step ahead of everyone that was allowing their repression to filter their desires. I was on top of the world in my mind.
Sometime over the last five years or so, I began to question these decisions. I wouldn't say that I was particularly ashamed of myself for having experimented but I am confident in exclaiming that the events took on an unsatisfying air after a while. They just became a bit substandard at their core and I tried, for a long time, to figure out what had changed and why my interest in these self-gratifying events began to dissipate. I still don't really have a firm answer on that.
When Daniel and I went to a group event, I found myself taking a moral inventory of the attendees. I was creating scenarios in my mind of all of their lives and the paths that brought these folks to the same room in which I was sitting. How fucking condescending of me. Of course, none of this was said aloud, but I certainly do remember having choice thoughts about two women in particular. One was the very youngish girl that had come along with a much older man. Her skin was as alabaster as a fucking porcelain doll and her hair as healthy as could be. I would guesstimate her at around 20, tops. I wondered what type of fucked up shit had happened in her childhood to bring her to this event on the arm of a 40+ bi-sexual male with whom she didn't seem to have very much in common. The other area I focused the remainder of my attention on was this socially awkward mid to late 30’s female. It was very evident via the weird small talk we had that she was a very self-doubting woman. She was on the heavier side, probably around a size 14-16, and while I didn’t find her particularly sexy or attractive, she was not an eye sore either. I studied her awkwardly work the room while she was fully clothed and later sat back to watch while she turned into this sex-beast who suddenly exhibited the confidence of Aphrodite. It was a transformation like none I'd ever seen before and all that continued to run through my mind was the sadness I felt for this woman who could only feel strong and beautiful when she was a sexual object. Now, far be it from me to cement any of these observations as real. My opinions are nothing but opinion - and a part of me plays with guilt for even having these types of thoughts but our minds are interesting creatures and they will go where they may. After the get together and my little thought session I turned the tables onto myself and played with the ideas of why I had found myself in this scene at one time. I still participate in these thoughts and I endlessly come up with the same answer: I use sex as a coping mechanism.
When the therapist in the clip above introduces the basic fundamentals of sex addiction she says some choice words. "It involves the sublimation of emotions that are too painful to address". My onset into the world of extreme casual sex came less than a year after the death of a man I was dating for five years intermittently and was sure would eventually be my husband. My entrance into the world of sexual activity at all, came at the ripe early age of 13 and I was unquestionably looking to escape the reality that was my home life. My parents are recovering drug addicts. The word recovering in the previous sentence might as well have a toggle switch because their lengths of clean time vary even to this day.
I have no hesitation declaring that the bulk of my sexual experience was gained via the attempt to not sit down in my own skin and deal with my life. This makes the most sense to me now because as I go through the motions of this break up with Daniel, I have never struggled more with feelings and I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that it is because instead of having a dick in my hand, I am actually allowing myself to go through this. I don't know if I would go so far as to say that I need to attend sex anonymous meetings - but I am positive in exclaiming that avoiding unhealthy sexual encounters is becoming a real struggle for me. I am starting to set myself up to jump back into this behavior pattern and I need to keep a watchful eye on it because this is NOT what I want to revert to. If for no other reason than to have a one-up on Daniel, I cannot go out like that. But, seriously, this has absolutely nothing to do with Daniel. This is about my healing process and I'm proud of myself for actually feeling the pain.
Three days after breaking up with me, I spotted Daniel on a strictly-sex site looking to hook up. He'd been staying at a friend’s place over in Washington Heights and I noticed that his 'location' on the site had been changed to reflect his current whereabouts. I was hurt, obviously, but more so I was actually a bit stunned that he would so quickly revert to this behavior. We'd discussed our sexual exploits and repeatedly he'd mentioned that he did not want to go back to being "that guy". Here I was in our apartment, drowning in a bed of tears, looking at the online profile of "that guy". It was heart breaking on a number of levels. Even now, nearly two months have gone by and I can't help but check his online status on that site every now and again. He's still active, still seeking hookups. I went and looked further today - and found that he now has a match.com account, too. I was joking with a friend of mine after having read Daniel's Match.com profile and said "He's going to make me go out and suck a dick, and I don't want to do that!". The real joke is that I don't know how untrue that statement is.
I have not had sex with anyone since Daniel which may honestly be the longest period I've been without intercourse in over 10 years. It's a conflicting feeling because a part of me is missing the intimacy that comes along with intercourse. I want to have someone’s hands running down my post-coital flesh. The issue with this is that anyone that I would fuck right now doesn't do the snuggle thing. It'd be strictly sex and I am just not 'there'. Reading Daniel's Match.com ad had me nearly in tears. It's my own fault for looking, obviously - but the Internet will test your limits if nothing else. I am just 'not ready' for the next steps and I suppose that means I'll need to hold off on getting my rocks off accordingly. This is difficult.
Rebounds can be a good thing. Rebounds deflect and I need deflection. I want to nerve up the energy and resources to build my own damn Match.com account - or at least to go out to a bar, or actually attend one of those meetup.com meetups. Why the fuck did I even join if I'm never going to attend an event? Pointless! I suppose my process is one that will work at its own pace. And, I need to make certain that I don't lose sight of the fact that I am not the one with active sex accounts looking to hook up. Typing that sentence prompted me to check his online status - what do you know? Online! I have to stop that, seriously.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Xtranormal Adaptation of why hipsters are assholes!
I am not the only one out there who thinks hipsters are the douchesacks of the universe. Some fellow hipster-haters over at diehipster.com ran a link to this blog and it prompted the ultra awesome Xtranormal adaptation of my previous entry.
I can assure you, my Brooklyn accent sounds nothing like this chick. My brown hair, however, is pretty damn spot-on, and so is the scowl on her face as she delivers the truth!
I can assure you, my Brooklyn accent sounds nothing like this chick. My brown hair, however, is pretty damn spot-on, and so is the scowl on her face as she delivers the truth!
Monday, May 3, 2010
Sunday, May 2, 2010
The Invisible Woman
About two months before my and Daniel's actual break-up, we decided to sit down and make a winter project out of watching Alan Ball's wildly awesome HBO series, Six Feet Under. I have seen the series from start to finish two or three times. Daniel, however, stopped watching right around the last season because he thought it got too campy and novella-ish. I think it is without question the smartest and most interesting series ever to grace the tube.
I was flicking through the channels one night and saw a mini Six Feet Under marathon. I was so excited I could've jumped up and down right there. I eased into the marathon and before I knew it I was once again completely engrossed in the lives of the Fisher family. There is always an over-abundance of tears that comes along with watching Six Feet Under. The identification process I go through in nearly every episode often makes me feel as if the show is speaking directly to me. This was true not only the first two times I watched the series but especially so during this winter project.
The random episodes on cable picked up somewhere around where Lisa goes missing. If you're a fan of the show, I don't need to remind you of the particulars as it seems they have a way of sticking to your ribcage the way day old oatmeal sticks to a dry dish. If you're not a fan of the series or you're just generally unfamiliar with it, I cannot stress enough what you are missing. This production will have you on the edge of your seat - not through suspense, but through sheer pain. We, as human beings, cannot look away in the face of tragic events. Think of the rubbernecking phenomenon - The Fisher family of California experiences accident after accident after accident but they do so in the same manner as us. The characters depicted on this show are all someone we know in reality. I, after watching it numerous times, am still undecided as to who I relate with the most. There are so many attributes of each of their scripted characters that I find in myself on any given day. There are sluts, liars, manic depressives, over-bearing under-trusting matriarchs, soul-searchers, and art lovers. There are episodes that delve deep into drug use, sex as a coping mechanism, prostitution, love, loss, pain, fear, abandonment, abuse, etc. I could go on and on. The interesting thing is that with that huge laundry list I just threw out at you comes only five-Fishers. There are very important peripheral characters as well, but the cast is not as vast as you would expect it to be for a show that covers every fucked up thing about humanity I can think of. I cannot say enough good stuff about Six Feet Under.
I had an idea a while back that was prompted one evening when Daniel and I were camped out in front of the T.V. somewhere around the second season of SFU. It was actually probably more of an epiphany than an idea but either way it has haunted me since and I need to put it out into the universe. There were some things happening on the screen and the dialogue was, in the Six Feet fashion, strong and riddled with guilt and pain. The conversation was directly related to loss and how we, as human beings, deal with it on varying degrees. I peered over at Daniel while the characters delivered their lines and looked for a hint of recognition or at least an indication of cognizance as it related to the subject matter at hand. There was nothing from him - He might as well have been looking at a blank screen. It was at this very moment that I realized our winter project was actually a primer.
The ultimate demise of my relationship was being narrated by the Fishers.
I acknowledged this to myself and somewhere in that split second the reason for my flowing tears switched from identifying with a television show to recognizing just what was happening in my living room. I didn't mention anything to Daniel at that point but I did throw out this idea to him later on and once after our actual break-up. I told him that I was going to document our relationship and my life as it relates to episodes of Six Feet Under, and that's exactly what I intend to do.
I'd like to start with The Invisible Woman; Emily Previn.
Tonight while I was washing my single dish, single pot, and single glass after I had a dinner of Turkey Franks and Vegetarian Beans (I had a craving!), I couldn't help but realize that I am quickly falling back into 'alone' Kitty. My days are repetitive and structured. Monday through Friday, I am up at 6:15am to the scent of the timed coffee which finished brewing only a moment earlier. I use the bathroom, greet the cat with some good-morning nuzzles and prepare his breakfast, and turn on the television to NY1. I have my coffee while I apply my make-up for the day. During make-up time, I obsess over what I will wear to work. I pack my lunch at about 7:15 and no later than 7:25 I am out the door and onto the Manhattan bound train. I'm at my desk from 8:30AM to 4:30PM. Most of this time is spent fucking around on the Internet, writing entries for this blog and various other publications for whom I am a contributing editor, and generally slacking off. By 6pm at the latest, I am back home. I change, greet the kitten, and prepare my dinner. Today was no different than everything I just described except instead of watching television or playing on the Internet after I had dinner, I studied and did practice tests for my exam this coming Friday. As I washed my dish(es) this evening, I couldn't get the thought of Emily Previn out of my head. She was dead a full week before anyone noticed she was gone and it was only via a horrific scent that her management company notified the authorities.
Ruth Fisher has some what of a mental breakdown in this episode because she is faced with the idea of being Emily and dying alone. She considers the fact that she, too, may be invisible. And, tonight - I sort of felt the same way.
When I came in from work this evening, on the steps leading up to my new apartment was a big yellow envelope with Daniel's handwriting on it. He sent whatever mail hadn't made its way to my new apartment via the USPS Forwarding order I completed weeks ago. I opened the envelope and thought that maybe there would be a small note from him wishing me well or something. With the exception of a letter from my old college, the envelope was filled with complete junk mail. There was a Val-Pak in the envelope and I wasn't sure whether to be surprised that he included that or to smile because he may have sent it knowing that whenever I got Val-Pak when he and I lived together, I got a little excited. What?! I like to save a buck!
Am I so invisible, like Emily, that Daniel couldn't even bother to include a note as a means of good fortune? In all seriousness, I don't believe I am like Emily. I have friends and if they didn't notice I was missing then the Internet would. The frequency with which I use Social Media
is a little ridiculous. But, I do feel like my life is sort of similar to hers in that I have my dinner alone most nights. It's lonely, and it's sad. I don't enjoy being single Kitty as much as I do Kitty who gets to take care of her man.
The Invisible Woman episode also finds Brenda joining her Shiatsu client Melissa as she turns a trick for a dude who is into exhibitionism. Exhibitionism: there's a topic for a later date!
I was flicking through the channels one night and saw a mini Six Feet Under marathon. I was so excited I could've jumped up and down right there. I eased into the marathon and before I knew it I was once again completely engrossed in the lives of the Fisher family. There is always an over-abundance of tears that comes along with watching Six Feet Under. The identification process I go through in nearly every episode often makes me feel as if the show is speaking directly to me. This was true not only the first two times I watched the series but especially so during this winter project.
The random episodes on cable picked up somewhere around where Lisa goes missing. If you're a fan of the show, I don't need to remind you of the particulars as it seems they have a way of sticking to your ribcage the way day old oatmeal sticks to a dry dish. If you're not a fan of the series or you're just generally unfamiliar with it, I cannot stress enough what you are missing. This production will have you on the edge of your seat - not through suspense, but through sheer pain. We, as human beings, cannot look away in the face of tragic events. Think of the rubbernecking phenomenon - The Fisher family of California experiences accident after accident after accident but they do so in the same manner as us. The characters depicted on this show are all someone we know in reality. I, after watching it numerous times, am still undecided as to who I relate with the most. There are so many attributes of each of their scripted characters that I find in myself on any given day. There are sluts, liars, manic depressives, over-bearing under-trusting matriarchs, soul-searchers, and art lovers. There are episodes that delve deep into drug use, sex as a coping mechanism, prostitution, love, loss, pain, fear, abandonment, abuse, etc. I could go on and on. The interesting thing is that with that huge laundry list I just threw out at you comes only five-Fishers. There are very important peripheral characters as well, but the cast is not as vast as you would expect it to be for a show that covers every fucked up thing about humanity I can think of. I cannot say enough good stuff about Six Feet Under.
I had an idea a while back that was prompted one evening when Daniel and I were camped out in front of the T.V. somewhere around the second season of SFU. It was actually probably more of an epiphany than an idea but either way it has haunted me since and I need to put it out into the universe. There were some things happening on the screen and the dialogue was, in the Six Feet fashion, strong and riddled with guilt and pain. The conversation was directly related to loss and how we, as human beings, deal with it on varying degrees. I peered over at Daniel while the characters delivered their lines and looked for a hint of recognition or at least an indication of cognizance as it related to the subject matter at hand. There was nothing from him - He might as well have been looking at a blank screen. It was at this very moment that I realized our winter project was actually a primer.
The ultimate demise of my relationship was being narrated by the Fishers.
I acknowledged this to myself and somewhere in that split second the reason for my flowing tears switched from identifying with a television show to recognizing just what was happening in my living room. I didn't mention anything to Daniel at that point but I did throw out this idea to him later on and once after our actual break-up. I told him that I was going to document our relationship and my life as it relates to episodes of Six Feet Under, and that's exactly what I intend to do.
I'd like to start with The Invisible Woman; Emily Previn.
Tonight while I was washing my single dish, single pot, and single glass after I had a dinner of Turkey Franks and Vegetarian Beans (I had a craving!), I couldn't help but realize that I am quickly falling back into 'alone' Kitty. My days are repetitive and structured. Monday through Friday, I am up at 6:15am to the scent of the timed coffee which finished brewing only a moment earlier. I use the bathroom, greet the cat with some good-morning nuzzles and prepare his breakfast, and turn on the television to NY1. I have my coffee while I apply my make-up for the day. During make-up time, I obsess over what I will wear to work. I pack my lunch at about 7:15 and no later than 7:25 I am out the door and onto the Manhattan bound train. I'm at my desk from 8:30AM to 4:30PM. Most of this time is spent fucking around on the Internet, writing entries for this blog and various other publications for whom I am a contributing editor, and generally slacking off. By 6pm at the latest, I am back home. I change, greet the kitten, and prepare my dinner. Today was no different than everything I just described except instead of watching television or playing on the Internet after I had dinner, I studied and did practice tests for my exam this coming Friday. As I washed my dish(es) this evening, I couldn't get the thought of Emily Previn out of my head. She was dead a full week before anyone noticed she was gone and it was only via a horrific scent that her management company notified the authorities.
Ruth Fisher has some what of a mental breakdown in this episode because she is faced with the idea of being Emily and dying alone. She considers the fact that she, too, may be invisible. And, tonight - I sort of felt the same way.
When I came in from work this evening, on the steps leading up to my new apartment was a big yellow envelope with Daniel's handwriting on it. He sent whatever mail hadn't made its way to my new apartment via the USPS Forwarding order I completed weeks ago. I opened the envelope and thought that maybe there would be a small note from him wishing me well or something. With the exception of a letter from my old college, the envelope was filled with complete junk mail. There was a Val-Pak in the envelope and I wasn't sure whether to be surprised that he included that or to smile because he may have sent it knowing that whenever I got Val-Pak when he and I lived together, I got a little excited. What?! I like to save a buck!
Am I so invisible, like Emily, that Daniel couldn't even bother to include a note as a means of good fortune? In all seriousness, I don't believe I am like Emily. I have friends and if they didn't notice I was missing then the Internet would. The frequency with which I use Social Media
is a little ridiculous. But, I do feel like my life is sort of similar to hers in that I have my dinner alone most nights. It's lonely, and it's sad. I don't enjoy being single Kitty as much as I do Kitty who gets to take care of her man.
The Invisible Woman episode also finds Brenda joining her Shiatsu client Melissa as she turns a trick for a dude who is into exhibitionism. Exhibitionism: there's a topic for a later date!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The Trannies
When I think back on the various things that should have raised red-flags in the course of my relationship with Daniel a few instances come to mind.
There was the time when he told me that he didn't believe in a person having a soul. I obsessed over that comment for a good week and a half. How can you not believe in a persons soul? What, if not their soul, do you believe in? I have always been a pragmatic type of girl but when it comes to matters of the heart, soul, and conscience, I lose all sensibility. There is a certain something inside of us as human beings that keeps us ticking. There is a driving force, a sort of metronome of life if you will. It's there, all the time, and it is with that internal life force that you go about your daily existence in this world. This, my friends, is your soul. It drives you. It makes you who you are. We are not paper-doll-cutouts. We are living and breathing and it is our soul that carries us along! I am passionate about this - and when Daniel said that he didn't believe he really even had a soul, I felt a little sick inside. I bombarded him with philosophical questions and scenarios for the next 10 days or so until finally I was able to either convince him that believing in a soul is important - OR - he just said he could see my point of view to get me to shut the fuck up.
Then there was the time his Aunt, over dinner at the Time Warner Center, asked whether or not I cooked for him and he abruptly answered "No!" - Daniel is not the type of man who wants a woman at home slaving behind a hot stove in order to have a meal ready upon his arrival. Actually, I think that type of thing turns him off. God forbid a woman wants to take care of her man!! Amazing what having unavailable parents will do to a man. Anyway, I get that he doesn't necessarily look at that as a very admirable quality in a woman but society definitely does and I was mortified. The truth is that just that very week I had tried my hand at a bunch of different recipes. All were altered to befit the limited diet he has as a result various food allergies. It may sound stupid but I put a lot of love and care into doing the domestic type stuff and for it to be denied by him really hurt. I, somewhat immediately, jumped in and said "what do you mean, no?!" - We turned the situation into a joke but it was belittling.
Last, but certainly not least in the bullet-list of red-flag raising moments was the night we spent with the two Trannies in a dungeon basement in Brooklyn.
You can't make this shit up.
They were both of some sort of third-world Latin lineage. One was much more attractive than the other. She came in at around 5'10 inches tall with a decent body, small natural breasts as a result of her hormone therapy, and still packed a decent package. Somehow in the pretty small sized dungeon that sits underneath a widely popular venue in the Park Slope area, I had lost Daniel for all of a minute and a half. When I finally stumbled into a cubby-hole and found him, it was in their company.
Initially I was confused. I couldn't figure out how in the blink of an eye I had actually lost him. (funny, looks like I am asking myself that same question yet again in a completely different fashion) - The way that this place is set-up makes it nearly impossible to lose people. There are these small wooden booth like areas that are positioned in a mish-mashed labyrinth. One booth basically backs the next and each of these semi-private spaces has glory and peek holes with an approximate 3" diameter sitting on the bottom and top of the "walls". Some have small doors - and others just a framed out space where a door would otherwise serve a purpose. You know, that is if the whole purpose of being at this place wasn't to have others watch/join you.
There are a few larger spaces, namely in the back and front of the basement space. The front private space is marked with clear signage indicating it's Female and Transexual friendly only. Inside of this private space there is a sex swing and a few other fun items to make your stay more enjoyable. I found it to be a bit too butch heavy for my liking and didn't spend a lot of time in there. The large space in the back is where the real fun happens. There is a queen-ish sized bed that seems to always get a fair amount of play. It's anchored in the far left hand corner of the square room. In the immediate foreground to the bed is a fun cross that I, unfortunately, never got to experience. There are multiple flat screens playing various genre of porn strewn through out the space. In the far right hand corner of the same room sits a hanging sex swing that was ALWAYS occupied by some way too heavy dude that seemed to want to put the weight limitations of an anchored sex swing to the test. There are some suspended benches for sitting and viewing purposes, a private caged area that has an enclosed cross and spanking bench, and a dog cage for your every day, often overlooked, Fido fantasies. I have to give it up to the folks that run this event called SPAM; they really got it all covered from a "need" perspective. Strewn about the venue are condom dispensers, containers full of individually packaged servings of lube, handy wipes, and paper towels for easy clean-up. They even have small chocolatey goodness in the form of ho-hos! How apropos.
There are three reasons I like this event:
1) It's in Park Slope and doesn't require my taking the train into Manhattan just to take the train back into Brooklyn (read: Williamsburg or Bushwick). There are not enough progressive events, never mind progressive sex events, in Brooklyn. Also, I don't generally consider Williamsburg Brooklyn. Hipsters went and fucked it all up for me.
2) The environment provided by the folks that run this party is clean, safe, and sex positive. There is something to be said for an event that encourages a somewhat 70 year old tranny-ish girdle wearing grandpa to get his shit off. A lot of people would have been turned off by seeing that. I'm not a lot of people and if anything I thought it was heart warming.
3) There is a mandatory pants check at the door. This sounds like exactly what it is. After you come through the entrance and confirm with the host that you are aware this party is queer, you take a walk down a steep flight of steps and stop at the coat-check. This is where you remove your pants and whatever other articles of clothing you want to check and you exchange them for a ticket. What a wonderful way to promote people getting naked; make it mandatory.
After I found my whereabouts and looked into Daniel's occupied cubby hole, I stopped for a second and took it all in. I stood for bit and watched him. Daniel was looking at me with a crooked smile. I was certainly interested in what was going on and there was a fair amount of lust running through my veins but deep down I think I was genuinely taken aback and I'm sure my face showed that. Daniel cocked his head back to indicate I should join them. So, I did. "Is this your girlfriend"? the pretty one asked. We both responded and smiled at her. It was a good night.
A little while later, our friend took a seat next to us as we were taking in the action of another scene. She and I began to chat about toys and the likes. We discussed her topping. She told me it didn't happen very often but that when it did her equipment handled it. We would come to see her at a few future parties but the fun of that evening was a single occurrence.
Since our breakup, Spam has held one party. I don't see myself ever going back there but who knows what the future holds. I am sure, however, that Daniel and Miss Pretty will have their fun once again.
There was the time when he told me that he didn't believe in a person having a soul. I obsessed over that comment for a good week and a half. How can you not believe in a persons soul? What, if not their soul, do you believe in? I have always been a pragmatic type of girl but when it comes to matters of the heart, soul, and conscience, I lose all sensibility. There is a certain something inside of us as human beings that keeps us ticking. There is a driving force, a sort of metronome of life if you will. It's there, all the time, and it is with that internal life force that you go about your daily existence in this world. This, my friends, is your soul. It drives you. It makes you who you are. We are not paper-doll-cutouts. We are living and breathing and it is our soul that carries us along! I am passionate about this - and when Daniel said that he didn't believe he really even had a soul, I felt a little sick inside. I bombarded him with philosophical questions and scenarios for the next 10 days or so until finally I was able to either convince him that believing in a soul is important - OR - he just said he could see my point of view to get me to shut the fuck up.
Then there was the time his Aunt, over dinner at the Time Warner Center, asked whether or not I cooked for him and he abruptly answered "No!" - Daniel is not the type of man who wants a woman at home slaving behind a hot stove in order to have a meal ready upon his arrival. Actually, I think that type of thing turns him off. God forbid a woman wants to take care of her man!! Amazing what having unavailable parents will do to a man. Anyway, I get that he doesn't necessarily look at that as a very admirable quality in a woman but society definitely does and I was mortified. The truth is that just that very week I had tried my hand at a bunch of different recipes. All were altered to befit the limited diet he has as a result various food allergies. It may sound stupid but I put a lot of love and care into doing the domestic type stuff and for it to be denied by him really hurt. I, somewhat immediately, jumped in and said "what do you mean, no?!" - We turned the situation into a joke but it was belittling.
Last, but certainly not least in the bullet-list of red-flag raising moments was the night we spent with the two Trannies in a dungeon basement in Brooklyn.
You can't make this shit up.
They were both of some sort of third-world Latin lineage. One was much more attractive than the other. She came in at around 5'10 inches tall with a decent body, small natural breasts as a result of her hormone therapy, and still packed a decent package. Somehow in the pretty small sized dungeon that sits underneath a widely popular venue in the Park Slope area, I had lost Daniel for all of a minute and a half. When I finally stumbled into a cubby-hole and found him, it was in their company.
Initially I was confused. I couldn't figure out how in the blink of an eye I had actually lost him. (funny, looks like I am asking myself that same question yet again in a completely different fashion) - The way that this place is set-up makes it nearly impossible to lose people. There are these small wooden booth like areas that are positioned in a mish-mashed labyrinth. One booth basically backs the next and each of these semi-private spaces has glory and peek holes with an approximate 3" diameter sitting on the bottom and top of the "walls". Some have small doors - and others just a framed out space where a door would otherwise serve a purpose. You know, that is if the whole purpose of being at this place wasn't to have others watch/join you.
There are a few larger spaces, namely in the back and front of the basement space. The front private space is marked with clear signage indicating it's Female and Transexual friendly only. Inside of this private space there is a sex swing and a few other fun items to make your stay more enjoyable. I found it to be a bit too butch heavy for my liking and didn't spend a lot of time in there. The large space in the back is where the real fun happens. There is a queen-ish sized bed that seems to always get a fair amount of play. It's anchored in the far left hand corner of the square room. In the immediate foreground to the bed is a fun cross that I, unfortunately, never got to experience. There are multiple flat screens playing various genre of porn strewn through out the space. In the far right hand corner of the same room sits a hanging sex swing that was ALWAYS occupied by some way too heavy dude that seemed to want to put the weight limitations of an anchored sex swing to the test. There are some suspended benches for sitting and viewing purposes, a private caged area that has an enclosed cross and spanking bench, and a dog cage for your every day, often overlooked, Fido fantasies. I have to give it up to the folks that run this event called SPAM; they really got it all covered from a "need" perspective. Strewn about the venue are condom dispensers, containers full of individually packaged servings of lube, handy wipes, and paper towels for easy clean-up. They even have small chocolatey goodness in the form of ho-hos! How apropos.
There are three reasons I like this event:
1) It's in Park Slope and doesn't require my taking the train into Manhattan just to take the train back into Brooklyn (read: Williamsburg or Bushwick). There are not enough progressive events, never mind progressive sex events, in Brooklyn. Also, I don't generally consider Williamsburg Brooklyn. Hipsters went and fucked it all up for me.
2) The environment provided by the folks that run this party is clean, safe, and sex positive. There is something to be said for an event that encourages a somewhat 70 year old tranny-ish girdle wearing grandpa to get his shit off. A lot of people would have been turned off by seeing that. I'm not a lot of people and if anything I thought it was heart warming.
3) There is a mandatory pants check at the door. This sounds like exactly what it is. After you come through the entrance and confirm with the host that you are aware this party is queer, you take a walk down a steep flight of steps and stop at the coat-check. This is where you remove your pants and whatever other articles of clothing you want to check and you exchange them for a ticket. What a wonderful way to promote people getting naked; make it mandatory.
After I found my whereabouts and looked into Daniel's occupied cubby hole, I stopped for a second and took it all in. I stood for bit and watched him. Daniel was looking at me with a crooked smile. I was certainly interested in what was going on and there was a fair amount of lust running through my veins but deep down I think I was genuinely taken aback and I'm sure my face showed that. Daniel cocked his head back to indicate I should join them. So, I did. "Is this your girlfriend"? the pretty one asked. We both responded and smiled at her. It was a good night.
A little while later, our friend took a seat next to us as we were taking in the action of another scene. She and I began to chat about toys and the likes. We discussed her topping. She told me it didn't happen very often but that when it did her equipment handled it. We would come to see her at a few future parties but the fun of that evening was a single occurrence.
Since our breakup, Spam has held one party. I don't see myself ever going back there but who knows what the future holds. I am sure, however, that Daniel and Miss Pretty will have their fun once again.
A break from your regularly scheduled drama..
As part of my effort to get the hell outta dodge, I am working toward getting myself into a Radiological Therapy program that is set to begin in September 2010. I briefly mentioned this in one of my intro posts, but I thought I should elaborate. I realize this blog is becoming a ranting space for things that happened with Daniel. It's going to happen, as I need to work out all the kinks and get the pain of the break up out of my system. I also want to be sure to keep my eye on the prize which is, as we know, saying goodbye to Brooklyn -
I take my entrance exam on May 7th. That's 9 days away. If all goes well and I get into this program, I will be putting myself in every possible form of debt via student loans galore. The ultimate plan includes quitting my full time job and paying the rent and bills via loaned money at what I imagine will be an outrageous percentage rate. I am probably just communicating my fears. The truth is, I haven't shopped the loans just yet. I did, however, speak with the financial aid liaison at the school and he advised that they've only got one private lender willing to work with their students. Considering I have absolutely no idea what I am doing with respect to student loans, shopping them and/or any of that other fun stuff, hearing that there may be only one available option has created a bit of hysteria on my end.
There are a lot of fears involved with this decision. You have to understand something about me in order to really get the gist of what I am trying to say here. I have been working in a "professional" capacity since I'm a teenager. For those of you who are unfamiliar with a Co-Operative Education system to sum it up as easily as possible, it's a program that allows you to alternate weeks attending work and school. At sixteen years old, I was working in the corporate offices of American Express's Catalog Order division in the World Financial Center. The pay was minuscule but I felt like a big girl in my business suits and Zodiac shoes. More importantly, though, was that in addition to the small salary I earned, the work time counted toward High School credit toward graduation.
Even prior to my alternating weeks at work for chump change, I earned my keep doing whatever I could. My mother, during one of her better lengths of life, had the galley-portion of a charter fishing boat in the Sheepshead Bay area fall into her lap. She basically owned this small business and kept it stocked with various edibles. The keep wasn't much but it paid the bills. I would often work shifts for her and earn a $30.00 shift pay plus whatever tips I could ring in. I was a hustler before Jay Z made it famous.
In summary, I have been gainfully employed for the better part of the last eighteen years of my life. I don't know what it is to not be employed and earn a paycheck every week. I have no idea what it is to just trust that everything is going to be OK. The only point of reference I have to ensure that things are going to be OK is to make sure they are!. And, if all goes well with the entrance exam on May 7th and the 4 hour admissions interview to follow that, come August 2010 I will be handing in my resignation and entrusting in the universe (and a shit load of loans) to take care of me.
Holy fuck. I am terrified!
At the end of the two year program I am eligible to sit for the exam that will render me a certified Radiological Therapist. According to everything I have read the market is going to boom approximately 26% between now and 2016 as a result of baby-boomers getting older and sicker. Makes sense. Graduation will be August 2012 at which time I will be bordering thirty-four years old. I feel like I'm starting from scratch, but I suppose anything that is started is started from nothing.
Keeping the goal of leaving the city in mind, I figure Medicine is an excellent industry to enter. The fact of the matter is that people will always get sick and barring a major advancement in Cancer Care, or an outright cure, care will always be a necessity.
One of my favorite places happens to be South Florida. It has nothing to do with Daniel coming from there; that just happened to be a nice coincidence. Florida's scale of pay has always been substantially less than that of NYC and this is something I need to take into consideration for a number of reasons. There is some strange driving force that constantly tells me I need to be there. I really can't identify what it is but I have an irking feeling inside and have had this feeling for quite some time now. With what may turn out to be close to $70,000 in student loans accrued in the next two years of my life, I am wondering how I will afford to not only relocate - but live in an area where the rate of pay is undoubtedly less than the norm. This is just one of the many fears that are entering my mind at this point and I realize that these apprehensions are going to grow stronger by the day. I hope I have the strength to push through this and not succumb to the fear that has held me back from moving forward in this life to date.
I really need to do this!
I take my entrance exam on May 7th. That's 9 days away. If all goes well and I get into this program, I will be putting myself in every possible form of debt via student loans galore. The ultimate plan includes quitting my full time job and paying the rent and bills via loaned money at what I imagine will be an outrageous percentage rate. I am probably just communicating my fears. The truth is, I haven't shopped the loans just yet. I did, however, speak with the financial aid liaison at the school and he advised that they've only got one private lender willing to work with their students. Considering I have absolutely no idea what I am doing with respect to student loans, shopping them and/or any of that other fun stuff, hearing that there may be only one available option has created a bit of hysteria on my end.
There are a lot of fears involved with this decision. You have to understand something about me in order to really get the gist of what I am trying to say here. I have been working in a "professional" capacity since I'm a teenager. For those of you who are unfamiliar with a Co-Operative Education system to sum it up as easily as possible, it's a program that allows you to alternate weeks attending work and school. At sixteen years old, I was working in the corporate offices of American Express's Catalog Order division in the World Financial Center. The pay was minuscule but I felt like a big girl in my business suits and Zodiac shoes. More importantly, though, was that in addition to the small salary I earned, the work time counted toward High School credit toward graduation.
Even prior to my alternating weeks at work for chump change, I earned my keep doing whatever I could. My mother, during one of her better lengths of life, had the galley-portion of a charter fishing boat in the Sheepshead Bay area fall into her lap. She basically owned this small business and kept it stocked with various edibles. The keep wasn't much but it paid the bills. I would often work shifts for her and earn a $30.00 shift pay plus whatever tips I could ring in. I was a hustler before Jay Z made it famous.
In summary, I have been gainfully employed for the better part of the last eighteen years of my life. I don't know what it is to not be employed and earn a paycheck every week. I have no idea what it is to just trust that everything is going to be OK. The only point of reference I have to ensure that things are going to be OK is to make sure they are!. And, if all goes well with the entrance exam on May 7th and the 4 hour admissions interview to follow that, come August 2010 I will be handing in my resignation and entrusting in the universe (and a shit load of loans) to take care of me.
Holy fuck. I am terrified!
At the end of the two year program I am eligible to sit for the exam that will render me a certified Radiological Therapist. According to everything I have read the market is going to boom approximately 26% between now and 2016 as a result of baby-boomers getting older and sicker. Makes sense. Graduation will be August 2012 at which time I will be bordering thirty-four years old. I feel like I'm starting from scratch, but I suppose anything that is started is started from nothing.
Keeping the goal of leaving the city in mind, I figure Medicine is an excellent industry to enter. The fact of the matter is that people will always get sick and barring a major advancement in Cancer Care, or an outright cure, care will always be a necessity.
One of my favorite places happens to be South Florida. It has nothing to do with Daniel coming from there; that just happened to be a nice coincidence. Florida's scale of pay has always been substantially less than that of NYC and this is something I need to take into consideration for a number of reasons. There is some strange driving force that constantly tells me I need to be there. I really can't identify what it is but I have an irking feeling inside and have had this feeling for quite some time now. With what may turn out to be close to $70,000 in student loans accrued in the next two years of my life, I am wondering how I will afford to not only relocate - but live in an area where the rate of pay is undoubtedly less than the norm. This is just one of the many fears that are entering my mind at this point and I realize that these apprehensions are going to grow stronger by the day. I hope I have the strength to push through this and not succumb to the fear that has held me back from moving forward in this life to date.
I really need to do this!
Sunday, April 25, 2010
So when does this get easier?
Two weeks ago, the night that Daniel was set to come from his family vacation to Paris and walk into what would officially be "his" apartment, I had a session with my therapist. I mentioned to him that the week prior, knowing Daniel was on the other side of the Earth and that he was on a completely different time schedule than I was actually made the distance a lot easier. If it was 8pm and I was laying in bed missing him, I didn't have the option of jumping in a car and going to see him - or of even phoning him seeing as the time on his end would have been 2am. In a weird way, it made it feel as if Daniel and I existed on different plains. That, believe it or not, was easier than knowing that we are both just a short distance from one and other today.
Daniel got to keep our apartment. We went into our living arrangement with the understanding that if anything was to go bad between the two of us he'd be the one who would ultimately deal with it. At the point of our move in, Daniel was earning around 65K - with a bunch of freelance opportunities that brought in extra cash. A job change bumped him up to 80K a year. That, on top of the freelance work he does, and the random checks for thousands of dollars that his parents send his way for Christmas and Birthdays leave it safe to say that Daniel could manage the $1750.00 per month rent on the apartment. Expensive, I know... but we really did fall in love with the place when we first saw it.
Nestled on a tree lined block right off of the water and with the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge anchored to the right of it, our apartment was a 2 bedroom, one bath, all brand new modern condo-gone-rental. NYC's real estate boom brought with it a lot of luxury condos that didn't sell. Eventually they go rental and that's when we stumbled upon this place. It has a jacuzzi tub, sub-zero fridge, dish-washer, washer/dryer, and two balconies. The place was outright sick. I remember when we went to see it - and the broker brought us up and into the spot on the private elevator. I hate the fact that he's there now and I can't help but envision some loose girl (or boy - or who the fuck knows what) step off of the private elevator and just get instantly naked because of how impressive the apartment is! I guess that shit doesn't really happen, right? I watch too much porn.
When I met with my therapist, I remember he said to me 'I think this is really where it's going to get difficult. This is the real separation. He's back at the apartment and you're not.' - I didn't realize what he meant but last night it all hit me. I was in my new bedroom ironing the curtains I don't even like very much and I suddenly broke down into hysterics. I don't even know what it was about - I just, sort of, lost it. I continued to iron.. letting the tears flow. My chest was heaving the way it does when I get really out of control with the waterworks. At some point, I picked up the cat and tried to get a hug from him. I felt extremely alone. I was extremely alone.
I had plans with an old beau - to grab coffee. When he asked to reschedule I didn't jump into other plans as I should have. I figured I'd take the opportunity to just sit back and watch some TV or catch up on the studying I need to do for my school entrance exam on May 7th. None of that happened and instead I sat around and looked online at Daniel's Facebook which I have been all but deleted from - and looked at his online status on his male sex sites. Bottom boy for fun is ONLINE. None of this helps, so why am I doing it? I saw that he was signed onto AIM for the bulk of the weekend just like I had been. All seeing this does is make me sit there and ask myself why we are just a mile and a half apart from one and other, both sitting around on a Saturday night at 11pm, and not together? That's the root of the pain. I don't understand how he can sit there and see the same thing and not have the desire to not connect with me. I suppose what everyone says may be true - he could be gay? I don't know why it's hard for me to believe or accept that. If my gay friends read this they'd probably bitch smack me for even debating it. They're all convinced as convinced can be that Daniel is, in-fact, a closeted homosexual. As a matter of fact, two of my closest gay friends made absolutely no apologies about proclaiming the idea of bi-sexuality for males is non-existent and that if you wake up in the morning and have the idea of sucking cock on your mind, you are unequivocally gay.
I would love to hear some opinions on this? I don't know that it will help me heal or accept that Daniel is gay and that this break up has little to do with my just not being "the one", but maybe strength in numbers would help?
Daniel got to keep our apartment. We went into our living arrangement with the understanding that if anything was to go bad between the two of us he'd be the one who would ultimately deal with it. At the point of our move in, Daniel was earning around 65K - with a bunch of freelance opportunities that brought in extra cash. A job change bumped him up to 80K a year. That, on top of the freelance work he does, and the random checks for thousands of dollars that his parents send his way for Christmas and Birthdays leave it safe to say that Daniel could manage the $1750.00 per month rent on the apartment. Expensive, I know... but we really did fall in love with the place when we first saw it.
Nestled on a tree lined block right off of the water and with the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge anchored to the right of it, our apartment was a 2 bedroom, one bath, all brand new modern condo-gone-rental. NYC's real estate boom brought with it a lot of luxury condos that didn't sell. Eventually they go rental and that's when we stumbled upon this place. It has a jacuzzi tub, sub-zero fridge, dish-washer, washer/dryer, and two balconies. The place was outright sick. I remember when we went to see it - and the broker brought us up and into the spot on the private elevator. I hate the fact that he's there now and I can't help but envision some loose girl (or boy - or who the fuck knows what) step off of the private elevator and just get instantly naked because of how impressive the apartment is! I guess that shit doesn't really happen, right? I watch too much porn.
When I met with my therapist, I remember he said to me 'I think this is really where it's going to get difficult. This is the real separation. He's back at the apartment and you're not.' - I didn't realize what he meant but last night it all hit me. I was in my new bedroom ironing the curtains I don't even like very much and I suddenly broke down into hysterics. I don't even know what it was about - I just, sort of, lost it. I continued to iron.. letting the tears flow. My chest was heaving the way it does when I get really out of control with the waterworks. At some point, I picked up the cat and tried to get a hug from him. I felt extremely alone. I was extremely alone.
I had plans with an old beau - to grab coffee. When he asked to reschedule I didn't jump into other plans as I should have. I figured I'd take the opportunity to just sit back and watch some TV or catch up on the studying I need to do for my school entrance exam on May 7th. None of that happened and instead I sat around and looked online at Daniel's Facebook which I have been all but deleted from - and looked at his online status on his male sex sites. Bottom boy for fun is ONLINE. None of this helps, so why am I doing it? I saw that he was signed onto AIM for the bulk of the weekend just like I had been. All seeing this does is make me sit there and ask myself why we are just a mile and a half apart from one and other, both sitting around on a Saturday night at 11pm, and not together? That's the root of the pain. I don't understand how he can sit there and see the same thing and not have the desire to not connect with me. I suppose what everyone says may be true - he could be gay? I don't know why it's hard for me to believe or accept that. If my gay friends read this they'd probably bitch smack me for even debating it. They're all convinced as convinced can be that Daniel is, in-fact, a closeted homosexual. As a matter of fact, two of my closest gay friends made absolutely no apologies about proclaiming the idea of bi-sexuality for males is non-existent and that if you wake up in the morning and have the idea of sucking cock on your mind, you are unequivocally gay.
I would love to hear some opinions on this? I don't know that it will help me heal or accept that Daniel is gay and that this break up has little to do with my just not being "the one", but maybe strength in numbers would help?
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