My Vagina's too Energetic to be Poly

I think my vagina is toxic. 

Whenever anyone gets near it or even THINKS about getting near it they always end up needing to then get as far away from it as possible. 

Like, fly to Sitka to meditate with the polar bears far away. 

(Ok, that only happened ONCE, it's not like it's a "pattern" or anything. *Laughs uncomfortably.*)

But seriously, for as much as I love sex you'd think it wouldn't be so difficult to find someone that, oh, I don't know, WANTED TO HAVE SEX WITH ME!!!

Yes. 

I'm shouting. 

This "problem" is annoying as fuck. 

Fuck.

That which I'm not doing. 

SEE ALSO To not give any.

And the way it danced out of my ex lovers mouth as a sign of sheer delight.

FUCK.

I met this guy. 

"Met"- I TINDERED this guy (I'm telling you, Tinder is the ambassador of my orgasms) and he was super hot & super into me. 

There was just one thing:

He was poly. 

Correction "non monogamous."

"Why don't you just say you're poly?" I'd asked him. 

'Because anyone I've met who says they're poly I don't like.' 

Um. Ok. 

I don't understand his semantic hang ups but whatever. He looks hot with his shirt off so I'm just gonna shut up about it.

So. 

Non-monogamous. 

That means he sleeps with more than one person. 

I can be open minded to that. 

I bet he's really good in bed!

The part that was the strangest for me to wrap my curly head around, though, was that he had a primary partner, a live in girlfriend, but their relationship was open and they both slept with other women. 

My first thought as he explained all this to me was, 'Am I gonna be the star in a threesome?!' Yes. STAR. Because if I ever do try a threesome it is only if I'm the guest being brought into another couples bed. I'm way too competitive to share my boyfriend with some other broad. I'd be all, eyes on the prize, mother fucker! I'm the fucking star of this show!

SEE Diva Complex.

But hey, with a rack like mine, I'm entitled.

So Poly Big Penis (Sheldon named him, I couldn't think of a better nickname) told me he even wanted me to MEET his girlfriend eventually. 

Wow. 

I'm not only gonna get with a guy whose poly, we're all gonna meet each other like real live grownups and probably sip wine and discuss pseudo intellectual things. 

Sooo Portlandia.

So Timing dances her fickle dance, as she's wont to do, and we never end up actually hooking up. 

I mean, "hooking up."

Wink. Wink.

Fucking.

I mean fucking.

The only thing we end up doing together is climbing. 

And that's when I realize, as we actually spend time together, and the conversations aren't just about the possibility of getting naked--

He kind of has the personality of a box of hair. 

I'll admit I didn't see it before. 

When a man is beautiful you don't really pay attention to much else. 

But trying to have a dialogue with him felt like work. 

Like I'm on a bad first date willing it to end. 

I called him out on it (because that's the kind of dame I am) and told him I was getting a weird vibe from him. 

He said he thought we were "just on different energy waves."

Which is funny because when he was trying to seduce me in the beginning he said I was "an amazing beautiful woman full of energy and life" and oh, my "sense of humor!"

I should mention that between his intentions to seduce me and then it not happening his primary and he decided to focus exclusively on each other for awhile so he wouldn't be getting naked with me anytime soon. 

Curious enough, as soon as being naked was no longer an option, my "energy" didn't mesh with his. 

Uh huh. 

Right. 

Men never just say what they think you want to hear to get you to take your clothes off. 

No.

Never. 

They TOTALLY mean all the abundance of flattery and there is NEVER an agenda. 

At all.

EVER.

What a twat.

I felt rejected by someone I'd already lost interest in which is the worst because my ego was like, wounded. 

It needed to listen to Fiona Apple and take black & white selfies and mourn the loss of the possibly ok sex it could have been validated by.

My ego is an angsty teenage girl.

I'd also lost a climbing buddy, which sucked because it is really hard to top rope yourself and the other climbers give you really funny looks.

In hind sight, I should have been concerned when the man sent me EIGHT DICK SELFIES!!

I finally was like, uh, yeah, hi, I'm not into that at all, I've actually deleted all of them, so if you wouldn't mind stopping with the penis promotion. I'm kinda not feeling it. 

And literally, I literally never felt it. 

Or saw it. 

Well. 

I guess I SAW it.....but not before a live studio audience. 

Only with a Valencia filter. 

Any man who needs that much advertising before actually doing the deed is compensating for a lack of SOMETHING. 

Consider yourself warned. 

An over abundance of dick pics is a good sign you're not going to have great sex. 

Or in my case, sex at all. 

Because apparently I'm not hip enough to have the energy of a guy whose poly. 

Excuse me, NON MONOGAMOUS.

Me and my super energetic toxic vagina are gonna go climb this wall alone. 

Who wants a belay partner akin to a box of hair anyway. 

Thanks for the Inspiration, Asshole

My favorite dating site, as you probably know by now is Tinder. 

Tinder has been responsible for both the best & worst sex of my life. 

It has inspired my Youtube videos. 

It has made all my Facebook friends think of me whenever they hear anything related to it.

(SEE 'Girls Are Using Tinder to Trick Guys into Ordering them Pizza' posted on my wall. TWICE.)

The other thing I love about Tinder is how it gives otherwise shy mother fuckers the courage to say the stupidest shit they would never have the balls to say to my face. 

Most of the time it's just stuff that's hilarious.

(SEE 'I'd love to devote some time when you're free to giving you a great orgasm.')

And sometimes it's just pitiful.

(SEE 'Give me a chance to bum you out in person.')

But most of the time it's just the same old same old. 

If I had to sum up every Tinder message in one sentence it'd be-

Hi-Hey-Hello WowOMGredhairSEXY whiskey/fuck/sometime?

But every once in awhile, every 73 matches or so, there's one guy whose messages stand out. 

And either get me genuinely stoked to meet him. 

Or an overwhelming desire to smack him in the face. 

(Wait. That sounds hot. Smack him in the goiter. That's never sexy.)

Cue offending bachelor #435!!

So. 

This guy writes me the other night. 

Let's call him "Paul."

No. 

Let's call him "Jack."

('J' names are the worst. They're like a yeast infection on my life.)

Jack's message starts out complimentary like the majority of them do. 

(Flattery will get you everywhere, gentlemen, so telling me I'm pretty significantly increases your chances of getting a blowjob. Or a kiss on the cheek. Depending on how I wanna fuck with you.)

Jack actually writes because he wants my dating advice. 

Because he watched some of my Youtube & dubbed me "the professional."

(More flattery. Yes. Yes. I'm a god damn genius, continue.)

So he proceeds to write--

"You are a professional here, give me good advice. If I first date wt someone and she could be the mother of my kids but now I don't need that, and I don't want to hurt her or burn that token should I stop or try to have sex and say, wrong time maybe in the future."

"Also is difficult to say if she would be mother of my kids if she doesn't pass sex test."

(Pass sex test? I-uh-i can't even. No. I don't wanna know.)

So I write back that he should find someone else to sleep with because if all he wants is casual sex then he shouldn't try to get that from a girl he sees as potential relationship material. Because if he knows he doesn't want a relationship then he should leave that bitch be. No girl's gonna be like, 'Oh, Ok, not now? But maybe someday? That's definitely the level of interest I want from a man who sticks his penis inside me.'

(Men are such idiots.)

So then he proceeds to tell me --

"I don't work well with strangers in bed."

(Yeah, NONE of you do, honey. I'm well aware. SEE 'When the Motel Bed is Harder Than Your Date')

"I did it with someone the other day on my second date and it was just ok, I used to have great sex wt my ex."

So 1--I find it rather amusing that Jack has written ME to ask advice about a girl he went out with & just days after fucking some OTHER girl. Trying to impress me with his little black book? Hmm?

2--He admits he's not into the one night stand/sex too soon just like my Motel Dandy & just like I've experienced & even HEARD guys say. I'm finding a theme here. (SEE Men need more romance/emotional connection to fully enjoy sex.)

So I find our dialogue so far to be interesting & amusing. 

And then he decides he has me all figured out and starts telling me how I am.

"You love the game and u use men."

"Do you even get attached to men? My point is that men is your stage of acting."

I'm sorry, WHaT?

"I guess we see you so much upfront that we think you don't want anything serious."

Ok. 

Let me see if I'm getting this right. 

I use men. 

Because.....I love sex?

And I communicate that?

Uhhuh.

And I couldn't possibly want anything serious from a man because I don't get attached and I just love the game. 

Because I've said I love sex. 

But it's ok for Y O U to Wanna fuck a girl you don't respect enough to be in a relationship with (And expect her to WAIT just in case you decide someday you ARE ready, when you grow into your big boy diapers). And it's also ok for YoU to fuck a girl you're not connected with at all & even bitch that the sex wasn't that great when YOU WERE THE ONE HAVING IT TOO DO YOUR FUCKING JOB AND MAKE IT GOOD.

But I. 

I am just "not going to find him on Tinder" -as you informed me-because I'M playing games. 

You have GOT to be fucking kidding me. 

How HOw for fucks sake do people still think like this?

He expects women to be down to fuck but doesn't respect them for doing so. 

He also finds me intriguing enough to want my advice on his To Fuck or Not to Fuck dilemma but criticizes me for being the type of woman to follow her own advice. 

So I was LIVID to say the least and told him he didn't get me at all. 

But that's ok because most men don't. 

And that the last blog I wrote talked about how I'm still in love with my ex. 

But it's cool. 

Shame on me for wanting my vag to get some attention. 

I should just hide the fact I like sex or that I know what I like at all so maybe one day, if I'm really lucky, I can have sex on a second date with you that's just ok. 

Cuz I'm sure every time you stick that needle dick into some lonely girls vajay it's ALWAYS JUST OK. 

Because you suck at everything. 

And I should know. 

I am a god damn professional after all. 

So don't piss me off. 

And also. 

S U C K  M Y  D I C K.

I'm sure you'd be ok at that. 

Maybe I Want to be Sad

When you go through a breakup your friends want you to feel better. 

Right away. 

Like.

Yesterday. 

They don't want you wasting another moment on that loser who doesn't deserve you, who didn't appreciate you, who really should have been more interested in your hoo hoo than yayo.

They mean well. 

They just want you back to your bubbly, confident, all sass and no frass vim & vigor self.

(Vim & Vigor? Does anybody actually say that? Do I even know what the fuck that means??)

It's a good thing. 

It's a good thing when you're fortunate enough to have people in your life who want you to be happy. 

But no one ever seems to understand that you might not be ready to give up your sadness. 

Maybe I want to be sad. 

I'd already done what I was "supposed" to. 

I'd already embraced the supposed cure all for a lost love--the only way to get over one guy was to get under a new guy. 

That's what Mother always used to say. 

(I'm kidding. If my mother actually ever said that I would die laughing. Love you, Mama).

I threw all my cares out the happy hour window and dove into the spontaneity of a stranger. 

But surprise, surprise he wasn't amazing. 

And instead of feeling satisfied it only made me crave my lost love even more. 

Why would being with someone else right away help me get over the person I still had feelings for?

I compared everything. 

The way his kisses were different. 

The way his eyes didn't look at me the way his had. 

I didn't want someone else. 

I still wanted him. 

I still wanted to want him. 

I had a revelation. 

The only reason I was doing any of it was because I thought it was what I was supposed to be doing.

To LETGO.

To MOVEON.

Everyone kept saying it like some chant from the bleachers watching the game of my life. 

️Portlandia in unison.

Let Go. Let go. let go.

But God dammit.

Could everyone just shut the fuck up and let me think for a moment. 

I'm not ready to let go. 

I haven't gone through it all yet. 

The sadness is holding my hand while he won't. 

Do you have any idea how long it's been since I even liked a guy enough to be sad about him?

So fucking long!

It feels good to miss someone. 

It feels good to be sad about a boy. 

I guess that makes me a raging masochist. 

But to be able to remember.

To remember the nights he stared into my eyes like I was the raddest girl in Portlandia.

To mourn that loss. 

To actually have a fucking loss to mourn. 

Of course I still wanted him. 

I wanted just to SEE him. 

But if I couldn't hug him I could at least hold onto my pain.

I could marvel at that. 

See part of what makes love so brilliant isn't just the joy that embodies it but the pain.

Great love is like great sex. 

There are moments where it's almost too much.

Where it frightens you.

Where it pushes you past your breaking point and you don't think you can take anymore. 

But you do. 

And it's lovely. 

To say the least. 

I'd made several more dates because the Motel Dandy had made his way back from whence he came.

(Which is a shame because we really almost had something there. Just nothing that wasn't-- too hard --to release).

I couldn't help myself. 

#sorrynotsorry

So I'd have more dates. 

Because more dates meant I was putting myself back out there.

It meant I might be one Jameson away from my next orgasm. 

But. 

I.

  Didn't.

            Want.

                     To.

The thought of enduring one more mediocre date or one more disappointing roll in the 12 count scratchy sheets made me want to run screaming into the sunlight. 

(Because screaming into the night feels a little melodramatic).

I didn't want to move on. 

I didn't want to stop checking my phone hopefully in the morning. 

I wanted to still believe. 

And I wanted to be alone. 

I wanted to be free to miss him. 

Every day. 

Because I did. 

And I wanted to hope. 

However falsely. 

I preferred misguided hope to the cynical acceptance I'd been shrouded in.

I wanted a part of me to still be that hopeless romantic who dominated my twenties. 

Back when love was forever & ever kiss hug kiss hug heart heart.

So. 

This sucks. 

I miss him. 

He's having a massive surgery with a  long recovery.

And he wants to heal in solitude. 

And there's nothing I can do. 

And even if my brain can accept "he just wasn't the one, Reese."

That still doesn't change the fact that as of May 2015  H E  W A S.

I don't want someone new until I'm finished harmonizing with my sadness. 

And I don't want to pretend I'm fine so people can stop worrying about me. 

I miss my lover. 

And I need to feel sad. 

Because then it's still real. 

Then it's not entirely over. 

And I would love for love to be real again.

Wouldn't that be something?

Just like a fairytale.  

When the Motel Bed is Harder than your Date

You know how in every horror movie the slut is always the first to die?

You'd think as women we'd take that as a clue that slutty behavior is never rewarded. 

It always results in Death. 

Or just sheer disappointment and embarrassment. 

Which is pretty much the same thing. 

I decided to be a slut. 

Nay, I embraced it with the kind of style and grace, as though the film crew was behind me capturing my every move. 

I was going to get laid. 

I needed to get laid. 

After the emotional roller coaster mind fuck disappointment traumatic news of the week-month-or two-I was ready for something different. 

Someone different. 

I just wanted someone else's tongue down my throat, let's be real. 

Cue Tinder. 

*Violins swell*Trumpets blare*

*Crescendo*Decrescendo*

(God, I'm a nerd).

And oh yo oh yo check this: tall, lanky, artsy nerd in town for just the week. 

Swipe right. 

And match!

Ding ding ding ding ding!

We have a penis!!

We were both so stoked to meet each other we changed our plans around so we could meet at 5.

Nobody has a date at 5:00pm on a Saturday except for maybe your Grandma. 

I lived with my Grandma for a few years and I remember someone knocking on the door around 7 once and she frowned, "Who could be knocking at this hour? Don't get the door."

But we didn't care!

I think somehow we both knew we were gonna want more than just a couple hours to spend together. 

And that was fucking adorable. 

We decided to meet at this Mexican dive that always has a line because the food is so damn delicious. 

And as I walked up I saw him already in line, head floating above everyone else's.

God, tall men are sexy. 

My greatest love in my twenties was 5'6".

I don't know what the hell I was thinking. 

So we talk and eat and drink. 

And it's merry. 

(Cuz tomorrow we're gonna die, again, the clues were smacking me in the face).

And he is far more charming than I was expecting. 

And I suddenly start to feel.....I can't even say it because it's so out of character for me.....because I never give any fucks on any of these stupid dates.....but I felt, dare I say, NERVOUS.

I even told him just that. 

"Your eyes are so intense, the way you're looking at me....it's unnerving."

He blinked his pale blue eyes peering back at me through his thick round spectacles. 

'Would it help if I kissed you?'

I never, ever EVER want a guy to ask if he can kiss me but there was something so adorable and confident in the way he just assumed the thing I needed to calm my nerves wasn't another sangria but simply his mouth upon mine. 

Mmmhmm.

Yep. 

'Better?' He asked after, my eyes still slowly opening. 

"Yes. Definitely better."

This is the secret to every good date:

(Are you listening, men? Cuz I'm giving the secret away right here.....

The secret to a good date is when the guy kisses you in the middle of it.

If he has to wait til the end of the date to kiss you, it wasn't a great date. 

It might be a good date or an ok date or decent enough for you to agree to let him pay for your burger again, but the only way a first date is GREAT is when he has to kiss you sooner than later. 

So. Fucking. HOT.

So we mosey on to the next venue. 

A favorite bar of mine. 

I may or may not have canoodled with another boy the last time I was there. 

The bar used to be a brothel. 

I can't help it. 

It just speaks to the inner slut within. 

(It also makes one of my favorite cocktails, with fig bourbon. It's to die. Again with the death. Mother fucker, I should have read the signs).

So we drink and we talk and he stares at me with his seductive eyes. 

And I inform him that he can't come to my place. 

(It's a fucking disaster. I'm working on it. Whatever. Moving on). 

And since he's crashing on a friend's couch the remaining few days he's in town we can't go to his place. 

What to do......what.....to.......do......

'We could get a motel,' he casually suggests. 

"We could?" I exclaim in a way that's probably more on par with the level of excitement I'd express if someone told me they were taking me to Disneyland.

But I'm just an enthusiastic woman. 

Especially where sex is involved. 

(Oh did I say sex? Don't worry, this story definitely stays PG, just wait. Don't worry, Mom).

So we find a motel nearby and head on our merry little way.

(Ominous music plays in the background).

We get to my car and start making out and good lord, his kisses are like little start buttons on my body. 

If we would have paused there--

We could have had a hot makeout sesh, like horny teenagers breaking curfew, and it would have been lovely and adorable. 

But since my romantic comedy wasn't written by Cameron Crowe, we didn't stop there. 

Instead we headed to the oh so classy motel to enact a scene that audiences would laugh at for decades to come. 

Come. 

Ha. 

I don't want to talk about it. 

So we check into the room, both admit we've never done this before & giggle as we scan the room. 

Turn down the bed, the only thing they clean is the sheets, echoes through my mind, the text I'd read minutes before we got there. 

Sluts should always have more experienced slutty friends to help them through the slutdom.

I throw down the comforter and hop on the bed. 

(Again my level of excitement is always too closely resembling a five year old about to put on her first tiara, I really need to chill the fuck out).

But he crawls over me and starts kissing me again with those intoxicating kisses that stir up every cell dancing in my body. 

'Are you gonna do what I tell you?' He whispers in my ear. 

Oh. My. GOD. 

How fucking hot is that?

Yes. Fuck yes. 

And things progress and I am like tearing at the sheets.

'You can't have me yet,' he whispers in my other ear. 

OHMYGOD.

My romantic comedy is having its soft porn moment (But don't worry, I told you it stays PG)--

Because shortly thereafter when all signs point to go time, he suddenly says, 'I don't think I can do this' and I reach down to get a read (like a doctor taking a pulse) and sure enough, NOTHING.

No pulse. 

It's fucking dead. 

Now, can we just take a moment and go back to the fact that I am chomping at the bit, salivating, ready to fucking break through a wall to get pounded and my co star is *cough* ahem--FEELING ABSOLUTELY NO HARD ON WHATSOEVER?!?!

How?

What?

I can't.

I don't even....

DO YOU LIKE FUCKING WOMEN???

DO YOU???

Before you ask, no he wasn't drunk. 

It was much more fun than that. 

He was feeling "too emotional." 

Recent breakup. 

First attempt at coitus. 

Blah. Blah. Blah. 

Jesus, I thought, is he gonna want to be held?

I'm not a heartless bitch so we talked and I was a sweetheart and he thanked me for "being so cool about this."

Of course internally I was playing out a scene where I stabbed him repeatedly. 

But you know. 

Always a lady. 

Even when slutting it up. 

Class. 

All the way. 

I graciously left while he stayed so he could "think things through"

--forehead bang against the wall, bang, bang, why does this happen to me, bang--And as I sighed a quiet sigh of relief while the door clicked behind me, I looked up and saw a greasy old guy leaning against the rail. 

He leered. 

Oh god, I thought. I have to walk past him to get to my car. 

'Hey there,' he tried to say charmingly. 

I bet he thinks I'm a prostitute, I thought.

Because this night wasn't already intensely disappointing let's have a creepy witness.

"Hello," I smiled back broadly because why the fuck not. 

Let him think I'm a hooker. 

I'd be a damn good one. 

I saw. I came. I conquered. 

Well. 

I saw anyway. 

And that. 

I guess that was something. 

At least I enjoyed kissing someone new. 

But no more sex on the first date. 

Men SUCK at it. 

'It's too much pressure,' one of my guy friends told me. 'I won't do them anymore.'

One night stands. 

And neither will I, sir. 

Neither will I. 

Because I'm not here for a damn cuddle. 

Come on. 

Seriously.

The Manginas who can't Handle our Vaginas

Women always compare their lovers. 

ALWAYS.

We compare size, we compare style, we compare the fact you weren't the first guy who was out of condoms and "didn't think it was a problem." 

We also compare our lovers with our girlfriends. 

We giggle over the fact that both our guys paid us the exact same compliment: 

"Your pussy is perfect."

Yes. Thank you. I know. Worship at the alter of perfection. 

We wonder why every male seems to think the Cock Selfie is a turn on, why they think we always want to cuddle and why they often care more about being Instagram friends with our siblings than we do. 

And often we wonder why communication is so much harder than their dicks. 

My current complaint--

Men who use sex shaming. 

We, as women, have been deceived to believe that all men want is sex, all men care about is sex, sex, sex, sex, give men sex and they'll be happy little monkeys!

FALSE.

I have never met a man whose sexual appetite could keep up with mine. 

E V E R.

Because the truth is that a lot of women want sex MORE than their partners. 

And why not?

Women are built to have multiple orgasms, to enjoy prolonged intercourse while men just roll over and fall asleep. 

Of course I'd want it more!

I get off more. 

(Literally, it's like always in threes, unless the guy is a real flailing, fumbling buffoon).

Cue Monsieur Clitoris, the lover I was currently lusting after. 

No, I'm not gay. 

(I kissed a girl once and that was more drama then I ever thought possible without actually sleeping with someone so I concede my "Open to Experimenting" hat & concluded instead that women are bat shit crazy & I'm enough wackadoo for one life, thank you).

But I do tend to be attracted to sensitive, artistic, somewhat effeminate men. 

Like, if I had a dollar for every time a friend thought the guy I was dating was gay I'd be leaving the Dollar Tree with my arms full. 

Arms FULL, my friends. 

So ok. 

Maybe I set myself up with this one. 

He did write me a love song before we'd even had sex. 

Maybe I should have ran screaming into the night. 

But he was so fucking cute. 

And wore bow ties. 

And he kissed by the book. 

(Whatever the fuck Juliet was saying).

So we meet, we date, we make violent passionate love to each other. 

And he L E A D S me to believe his lustful appetite is right on par with mine. 

He titles me "Lover" and delves into detailed description & anticipation of all the things he has yet to do to me. 

Hot Hotty Hot. 

Cut to tragedy after drama after shit show bombarding his life and I don't see the Mother Fucker. 

For WEEKS. 

Once in a month, but whose counting?

So I begin to regret my former Fuck Exclusivity Agreement because that was with the understanding that we would actually, you know.....

Be Fucking. 

So. Ok. 

It's cool. 

We're all adults here. 

Let's discuss this dilemma like adults. 

'Maybe if you don't have much time to get together we should consider making our relationship open. I would still love to date you but I don't want to put pressure on you to be my lover if that's not what you're looking for right now."

And then guess who suddenly decided there was "no point" in seeing each other this week because I had "thoroughly deduced what was possible between us" and it was clear I had "already made up my mind"?

Monsieur Clitoris. 

Ahem. 

Are you SHAMING me for wanting SEX, sir?

Am I being PUNISHED for not sitting around in my drawing room waiting for the one dewey morn you may decide to grace my vagina with your presence?

You're seriously just going to never have anything to do with me again because I was trying to suggest a solution that would suit both our needs?

You think you have possessive ownership of my body when it's not even important enough for you to make time in your busy schedule to be near it?

FUCK YOU!!!

And how dare some supposed bohemian make me feel guilty for wanting to get my sexual needs met. 

Was sleeping with other men my first choice?

No fucking way!

But I had no idea what the fuck I was to this guy, we'd only started dating before I suddenly stopped seeing him. 

And what girl wants a sexless lover?

I wasn't his girlfriend. 

I was his lover. 

He must not have understood what that word meant. 

It's hard for Mangina's to think when they have to spend so much time changing their tampons. 

So this is what I decided--

Women have a right to get their emotional and yes--gasp--sexual needs met from their partner. 

And if their partner is not interested in making any of those needs a real priority, then the woman is entitled to look elsewhere for satisfaction. 

I cannot BELIEVE that Monsieur Clitoris was such a child to not even TALK to me about what we both wanted and needed and what our expectations were from one another. 

What a disappointment. 

The next time a guy shows up in the middle of the night with his guitar I'm kicking him out. 

The Fucker could have at least had the decency to use me for sex. 

That's all I wanted!

Fuck.

The Best First Date Ever Says Goodbye

I really thought things were over. 

I'd seen him once in a month.

O N C E.

I'd heard from him a mere handful of times. 

After seeing him Wednesday things seemed so uncertain I asked him if he wanted to see me anymore, to which he replied, "I don't know."

Ugh. 

"I don't know" had been the mantra of Sheldon when I thought we were going to get back together for an entire YEAR. 

Hearing a man say "I don't know" was the kiss of death in my book. 

Cue exit music. 

But he had already bought a ticket to my show. 

"Yeah, IF he shows up," my cast mate had told me. 

Because that's how most of us think: People will let you down. People don't come through for you.

So every day after that I heard from him. 

He texted me every day. 

And he hadn't communicated with such frequency since that first week we spent together. 

I tried desperately not to read too much into it, as I'm wont to do, and just feel valued to be thought of with such consistency.

Until I'm drunk with my best friends and look down at my phone and read--

Babe. I send Love your way. Goodnight. 

He'd never used to word L O V E before. 

Surely that wasn't an accident?

Was it?

I'm the Queen of reading way too much into anything and everything and I really didn't want to hear something he wasn't saying but--

What was that supposed to mean?

And saying that the night after making me think things were over and he didn't know if he wanted to see me anymore??

So, understandably, the day of the show, I was so nervous I couldn't eat. 

I have NEVER been one of those girls that's like, 'Oh, I'll just have a small salad.'

I LOOOVE food. 

And I'd gone to the store & gotten a yogurt parfait--I'm so fucking addicted to those lately, I don't know what's up with that!--but I couldn't eat one bite. 

I had coffee. And water. 

That's it. 

He texted, I will be seeing you soon. 

And I almost wet myself. 

I drank a lot of fucking water. 

The cast was all lined up in the hallway waiting to go on while the director made his opening speech. 

"Do you see a cute guy in a tux?" I asked two of the girls in the show who were closer to the audience than I was.

'No, we don't see anyone.'

I sighed. Doubt sunk in. 

I wonder if he's even gonna show up.

And within the same breath, he walked in. 

Both girls who'd been searching for him saw him the same time I did & they gasped. 

'There he is!!'

He saw me and smiled and tossed me a small wave. 

'Oh, he's CUTE!' They shared in my excitement. 

Shit. 

Now I was REALLY fucking nervous. 

The show went on and I felt so proud of my performance. 

Musically, I felt very connected to my voice and hit every one of my high notes with the best precision I'm capable of. 

Acting wise, I had an absolute ball and felt focused in every scene. 

I really gave it my absolute all. 

And throughout the show, several times throughout, while I wasn't performing, we both managed to make eye contact and smile at each other. 

He even blew me a kiss once. 

It was so fucking cute. 

Him sitting there in his tux, tossing his shaggy hair occasionally to get his bangs out of his face. 

And me trying desperately to watch the scene in progress from my seat. When all I wanted to do was stare at his stupidly adorable face. 

The show ended and we left the stage. 

Flooded with excitement I was the first to leave the green room because of how anxious I was to see him. 

He already was walking into the hallway when I rushed out and threw my arms around him in a big hug. 

'You were amazing,' he said.

And we just stood there. 

Staring at each other. 

And staring. 

'That face,' he said. 

"What about my face?" I wanted to hear more. 

'I have no idea what my face is doing at all. Ever! And you seem aware of everything your face is doing. You were wonderful.'

He looked me up and down.

'And you look amazing.'

I looked at him adoringly. 

'That first song that one girl sang, about marriage, I thought, I wanna hear her sing that,' he continued pointing at me and then leaned his head against the wall.

'I have to go,' he said, sadly. 

"I know, you have your concert. Thank you so much for coming."

I paused and stared at him again for probably much too long. 

"I hope I get to see you again soon."

We looked at each other and he suddenly leaned in and kissed me, a slow, long kiss. 

And even though I heard murmurs of people around me, it was like the world fell away and the only thing existing in that moment was us. 

He stopped and looked at me but I kept my eyes closed a moment longer. 

'I'm sorry. I couldn't help it.'

He started to walk away. 

'Fuck!' He cried out, the way he did on our first couple dates, in this hilarious tourrets sort of way. 

Which had become our inside joke. 

Like, kissing each other was so insanely wonderful, it turned us on to the point of explosion. And there was nothing you could do or say except squeak out a 'Fuck!'

I laughed as I turned and watched him walk away. 

It was exactly the perfect thing for him to say. 

Because that meant he still felt as connected to me as he had on that first date. 

I was radiant. 

I felt so beautiful. 

I had dreamed that someday a man would be so moved by my singing, by watching me perform, that he would fall in love with me. 

And I had told one of my best friends that week that if he came to my show and wasn't moved to be with me after hearing me sing, when singing is my heart, when it's my soul, then he wasn't the right man for me anyway. 

Because the right man would be drawn to me, seeing my talent and passion unveiled. 

And he was so moved, he looked at me starry eyed. 

My cast mate told me she watched his face when I was performing and that his face lit up when I was up there. 

'He was starry eyed,' she told me later. 

And that's exactly what I'd felt!

It was also the first time he'd ever kissed me with my red lipstick on. 

Most guys are weird about lipstick so I always make a point to wipe it off during the course of a date or simply not wear it. 

But my red lipstick is a part of who I am. 

And I've only had one man in my life be so passionate about me that he just grabbed my face and kissed me with my red lipstick on. 

But he was married. 

And I don't want to talk about it. 

So he not only was moved by my performance to kiss me, he didn't care about the lipstick!

It was perfect. 

I felt like I was in a movie. 

Later he texted me, Got to rehearsal and didn't realize I was covered in lipstick...

I mean, how fucking adorable is that?

I was starring in my very own romantic comedy. 

And then, jump to today--

And the magic is gone. 

And he got back from his camping adventures and was the same distant man who'd uttered "I don't know" where "Of course" should have been on Wednesday.

"Can't we just meet sometime this week and spend time together?" I tried to reason with him. 

'What would be the point?' He said, defeated. 'I already told you what I'm going through and I haven't been making you a priority. So. I'm just not the right person for you right now.'

And that was that. 

I ended the conversation angry and hung up. 

HE was the one that didn't want to spend time with me. 

HE was the one that didn't want me. 

And he seemed annoyed by the fact I'd texted while he was away seeking clarification. 

But I had no idea what the fuck we were to each other!!

And how could I know if what I felt Saturday was even real?

When you're in love you believe what you want to believe, you see what you want to see. 

How could I know if I hadn't just imagined the whole thing?

But it didn't matter. 

Because whatever the moment was, it was over. 

But I KNEW what I'd seen and felt had been real. 

You can't see love in someone's eyes if it's not there. 

Our eyes are the gateways to our soul. 

And if he would have met me instead of hiding behind his phone today, I doubt we would have said goodbye. 

Because our eyes wouldn't have let us. 

Because how could they when we're so obviously crazy about each other?

But a man in grief, a man battling tragedy, a man who doesn't know me well enough to let me into his shattered world, can't receive my love. 

And I can't spend my life waiting for a man to be strong enough to have me. 

I'm a passionate, vibrant, sexual, loving woman. 

And surely there was a man somewhere who wanted to be in my bed as much as I was desperate for him to be in mine. 

And I was going to find it. 

Fuck. 

And to find that feeling again. 

But God damnit.

I really wanted it to be him. 

I wanted those starry eyes in my world. 

Desperately.

Attack of the Angry Lesbian

I really was minding my own business. 

In fact she was the one that ambushed our table. 

I didn't even know the girl. 

But she totally interrupted girls night. 

And somehow, in spite of the over abundance of estrogen, misogyny served as our beer chasers. 

At first she was really funny. 

That kind of loud, abrasive drunk. 

No filter. 

No volume other than DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND? I MEAN, AM I RIGHT?

Some people speak in all caps when they talk. 

They make good stage actors.

Like, in outdoor parks.

Or stadiums. 

Without microphones. 

'What about you, sexy. What's your name?' The Angry Lesbian interrupted my reverie as I wondered why we'd picked this bar after The Observatory closed. 

I was out with two of my closest friends. 

And I love the intimacy that small gatherings bring. 

I'm a social butterfly, I can enjoy a party as much as any fellow diva.

But having these two unknown women crash my evening and turn my deep conversations of three to a chaotic noise vortex of five had jarred my evening. 

I thought they were going to stay for a drink and go on with their night. 

No.

Apparently we were their night. 

'What's your name?' She asked again, when the pause I took to take a breath was too long for her. 

"Teresa," I placated her. 

'And do you have kids, Teresa?'

"NO," I said, a little too emphatically.

'Do you have a boyfriend?'

"No," I replied with much more calm.

'Why NOT?' Her voice screeched. 

I made eye contact with my friend, Charmaine. She was the reason the Angry Lesbian had joined our table because the other girl accompanying her had known my friend, Charmaine through an old lover. 

Ohmygodcanwepleasegetthehelloutofhere, My eyes pleaded at Charmaine.

But she somehow didn't get the message.  

It was pretty dark in the bar. 

It was also hard to hear girl eye code when you'd had a lot of fucking whiskey.

My other girlfriend, Ann, was so polite, she just took in the whole event like a quiet observer, forgetting that she was in the middle of the ring right there with us. 

I felt alone. 

The Angry Lesbian fortunately was drunk enough to leave me be and continue on about her first wife and her newly second wife and how they didn't have sex on their honeymoon and how babies put such a strain on relationships. And right then I thought I might be able to relate to her other than the fact that my drunk karaoke voice mirrored the volume of her drunk speaking voice. 

But she suddenly turned into a middle aged white republican man. 

And I was proven most violently that I was mistaken.

'Well you better get him to marry you because otherwise what's the POINT?' She was pressuring her friend. 'What is the point of even being with him if you're not going to get married?'

My jaw fell open. 

I willed it to shut but my shock wouldn't allow it to budge. 

'And you need to have kids. Every woman should have kids. What's the point if you're not going to have kids?' She continued heckling her date for the evening, who apparently had been dating her boyfriend longer than the Angry Lesbian deemed appropriate. 

And then I couldn't be silent anymore. 

"Why does she need to get married?" I interrupted. "You just told us you didn't even have sex on your honeymoon. Maybe she wants to keep having sex."

Charmaine and Ann shot me looks of surprise and anticipated fear from poking the Angry Lesbian bear. 

But I had no fear. 

"And you just said having kids puts a huge strain on a relationship, why would you wish that on your friend? What kind of feminist pressures her friends into making the same mistakes she has?"

To my surprise the Angry Lesbian wasn't affected by any of my words but just went on rattling about "the point" of our lives as women and how we all better hurry up and find boyfriends so we could get married and have babies. 

I couldn't understand why I was so insanely angry but I made Ann move so I could get up from the booth and get out of there. 

How could a woman, a gay woman, who I'd think would understand more than any of us how maddening it is to not be accepted by society when you don't fit into some cookie cutter mold, how could SHE dare to not accept the choices we each made?

I don't want kids. 

At ALL.

And I don't know if I'll ever get married. 

And according to this expert on life, it's better to be divorced than to be single because at least then you're doing what you're "supposed to."

So......what?

We can all be miserable like you, doing the things we ought to, being the people the world decides we are, not feeling satisfied, not having sex, not getting our needs met, not being who we really WANT to be?

If any woman wants kids or wants marriage then they should pursue that with every fiber in their soul. 

But if they don't, they shouldn't be made to feel guilty for being DIFFERENT.

What the fuck decade are we living in?

And in Southeast Portlandia?!!

You've got to be fucking kidding me. 

So I guess I realized that night what's really important to me. 

A little fucking acceptance. 

I'm not a cookie cutter mold. 

And I thought that's what made me wonderful. 

But it took an Angry Lesbian to remind me that most of the world doesn't see it that way. 

And I cannot-

And I will not-

Allow A N Y O N E

To change who I am. 

This is my life. 

And I want to choose what's a part of it.