Posts Tagged ‘imperious urge’

I Got Poked Today

November 18, 2015

I got poked a week ago.

That sounds weird doesn’t it?

Poking.

What the fuck is that?

Thanks Facecrack for “Like” and “poke.”

Where would my life be without the ubiquitous thumbs up sign on my life.

And the poke.

I mostly ignore.

In fact, that’s what happened with this guy.

I got poked a week ago.

It’s like a soft feel out.

Hey, there, girl, I’m thinking about you, but either I don’t have the balls to reach out directly, or I’m curious to see if maybe you’re interested, by, say, poking me back?

And what did I do?

I took the bait.

I poked back.

And then I forgot it.

Until I got the message saying, hey gorgeous, long time, I’m in town, let’s hang out, I’d love to see you.

And.

BTW.

I’m single.

Well.

Hello.

It’s been a few years since I have spoken to this particular gentleman and suffice to say since there are folks who know folks who know folks, I’m going to keep this on the very vague.

But the BTW I’m single bit.

Well.

Turns out I was sleeping with the guy who was not available to be slept with.

And how I found that out?

She messaged me.

On Facebook.

The day before I was leaving for Burning Man?

No.

Ha!

The day I was leaving for Burning Man.

This was right after moving back from Paris, so three burns ago.

Yes.

And I had tried to talk the gentleman in question into coming with.

It would be so much fun.

It wouldn’t have, in hindsight, I worked 23 or 24 days out on playa that year.

I think I might have had two days off?

I digress.

So.

I find out said gentleman, is not in fact quite as gentlemanly as he could have been.

And wow.

I mean.

WOW.

Did I get a message in the inbox.

I was so startled by the message at first, I did not quite get it.

I was confused.

I didn’t recognize the name.

I didn’t know exactly what was going on.

I had to read it again.

More than once.

I was at work and I was nannying, so I was distracted.

And, yes, I was getting ready to leave with the family that I was nannying for to go to Burning Man for three weeks so I didn’t understand why this woman was messaging me on Facecrack about throwing all her boyfriends shit out into the street and how I better let him know that he should call her.

Huh?

Oh.

Oh.

OH FUCK.

I might have slapped myself on the forehead.

And minutes before l was to leave as I was straightening up a few things in the kitchen and the mom was grabbing to go coffees from a cafe and the dad was doing the last-minute cross check and the baby was bouncing around the kitchen, he called.

I recall being a little terse.

I got an excuse for why he never called me back and then.

And then.

And then.

The bomb.

“I asked you not to blog about it.”

Um, excuse me?

I didn’t.

Well.

Ok.

I did.

I did indeed write about having had sex with someone.

But.

I didn’t write his name.

I was so incredibly vague that the most anyone could have gotten out of it was that I had slept with a man.

I mean.

Vague.

Vague as fuck.

But.

Apparently said girlfriend was smart and I won’t go into how she figured it out.

But she figured it out.

Then.

I told him that she had reached out to me.

Silence.

Fumbling words I listened to but did not register.

And I do recall saying, “I thought you were single.”

His response?

“You didn’t know I was in a relationship?”

Um.

No.

Because you never told me.

And yes.

I had asked.

Anyway.

I got poked today.

And I responded back to the poke.

“You get whatever you write about in your blog,” my friend teased me, “new mattress, scooter, trip to Paris for Christmas.”

(Dear blog, I want to get married, and be kissed on top of the ferris wheel at Place de la Concorde, and go on a honeymoon to Venice, and get all As in graduate school, and never have to be a nanny again, unless I’m taking care of my own children.  Dear blog, I would also like to be very securely well off financially so that I don’t have to worry about retirement, student loans, groceries, or health insurance.  Oh, I would also like a Jeep Wrangler, preferably in black, but I will take dark midnight blue and a Bambi Airstream trailer.  Dear blog, I also want to go to Hawaii, I’ve never been and I’m part Polynesian I would like to see where I came from.  Dear blog.  I want to get laid but I want it to be romantic, see, I want my cake and eat it too and icing and fondant, and chocolate sprinkles, and cherries on top, multiple kinds, because why not, and maybe crushed up Almond Joy bars because you know, I want what I want.)

And here it was.

Sex.

Sex on a stick.

Sex.

Poke, poke, poke.

I mean.

I am not stupid.

This was not a let’s go on a date and see if we have chemistry, we obviously had chemistry, but there was this thing, a girl friend, unbeknownst to me, and um, yeah, so you, my friend, good sir, revealed to me exactly who you are and what you are interested in.

Sex.

And.

You know what?

Great.

Sex is smashing.

Sex is awesome.

Yes.

I want sex.

Damn it.

But.

I do not want to be used and I don’t want to have to even think that there might be another woman out there who I am cheating on her boyfriend, husband, lover, with.

That’s called a living amends.

Not sleeping with a married man or a coupled man.

The imperious urge did rear its head.

It happens.

I entertained the thought.

Then you know what I did?

I paused.

I didn’t respond.

I wrote instead.

I read my reader for my Psych(e)analytic class.

There it was, in black and white, The Repetition Compulsion.

Oh fuck my mother.

Did that ring way too close to the truth.

I was looking down the street at a pothole I have fallen into before wondering how close I could get to the edge without falling in.

I walked away from the street.

I crossed to the other side.

I hid in a bush.

I stalled.

I went to work.

I debated.

What do I really want?

Oh.

Like I don’t know.

I do.

I know what I want.

Dear blog.

I want love.

And sex.

Both of them.

It exists.

I know it does.

I don’t have to sacrifice one for the other and I don’t have to worry about one or the other and fuck, hello, I’m in graduate school, when do I have the time to get laid anyhow and he wasn’t that great in bed anyhow.

Note to self.

Ahem.

I get wound up sometimes.

Ha.

I got home.

I had a long conversation with my Psych(e)analytic professor about the paper I wrote and I have to admit, I cried a little on the phone tears mostly, I got to see some characteristics of myself and work with them and her, my professor, that I didn’t like seeing and make some insights that I got from doing the paper clear to her.

I got an A.

Not sure I got a hard A.

I did drop the ball on one half of a salient point that she wanted the paper to make.

So out of three things she was looking for I had 2.5.

That being said, she also said in her 30 years of teaching she had never received a paper quite like mine.

That was nice to hear.

And the timing with the poke, really.

Hahahaha.

How FREUDIAN can you get?

It all aligned.

I can answer the message.

I can repeat the same silly cycle that I have done all my life.

Or.

I can let love in through the front door and be patient while it makes itself at home.

I don’t have to rush it right off to my bedroom.

I can invite it in for a cup or tea.

Or at least a Coke Zero.

And let it take its time.

Time.

I have in abundance.

Love.

There too.

On the threshold.

Standing in the sunshine.

Perhaps I’ll sit patient on the Davenport and feel the plaid patchwork rough under the palms of my hands.

While love takes off his hat and scarf.

Hang them there.

There’s a hook by the door.

Love.

Stay awhile.

Make yourself at home.

I’m not going anywhere.

I’ll Be Your Arbiter

February 4, 2015

Baby.

We both laughed.

“I want little placards that read ‘straight pepper diet’ and ‘imperious urge’ and one small gavel.”  I then laughed uproariously.

I amuse my own self.

I have been asked to run a workshop on sexuality and body image in recovery and though so flattered, did I want to do it?

No.

Fuck no.

Hell no.

I think not.

“God alone can judge my sex situation,” I explained to her, “which means, I can’t judge my sex situation.”

Always a good thing to be reminded of.

“I just immediately thought of you and how you embody your body and you’re fabulousness, and you just seemed the right person for the job.”

Again.

So flattered.

Then I thought, well god damn, I best get me laid before the event on the 28th of the month.

What does that give me?

25 days.

Let’s go boys.

Bwahahaha.

Ah.

Chuckle.

I mean, yeah, hey, I’ll take some loving other than self lovin’.

I’m down for the latter too, but my vibrator isn’t really made for making out.

Ahem.

For me, however, it’s not just about sex, it’s about letting myself be sexy.

“You sort of ooze sex, I think a lot of people think you’re getting laid all the time,” he said to me.

“Not like that,” I slapped my leg, “Jesus, no wonder I don’t get approached.”

I may not get approached also because, well, I’m fucking flamboyant as hell and got up and it takes some balls to approach this woman.

Unless of course you’ve been smoking hella weed in the soccer court at Mission Pool and Playground, then it doesn’t even matter that I’m with two young boys under the age of five, I’ll get heckled.

Or leered at, same thing really.

This morning I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, no particular reason, I just did.

I tossed my grumpy ass in the shower and washed up and dried my hair and decided what I was going to wear and I climbed into my attire for the day.

I made my bed.

I read some things.

I said some things.

I ate breakfast.

I drank coffee.

I washed my breakfast dishes.

I pulled out my notebook, aqua blue glitter, thank you very much, and started to write.

I wrote about being cranky for no particular reason and what that brought to mind.

I drank my coffee and decided I had time for a half cup more, and time to do my make up and fuck it, I’m cranky, I’m going to fake it til I make it.

And I swept my hair up into flower clips.

Not one, but three.

Because why the fuck not?

Then, yes aqua blue eyeliner, and silver hoops in my ears and glitter aqua blue stars in my ears, the second and third piercings on the left ear, and why not, I’m not saving it any longer, the lipstick from the Monoprix in Paris on the Champs Elysees that I ducked into one day on my way to Charles de Gaulle Etoile Metro stop.

I was a wild mix of purple, glitter, aquamarine, and hair flowers with feathers and glitter.

I looked mad good, in case you were wondering.

And I felt fantastic.

I’m living the Burning Man dream, riding my sparkle pony up Lincoln Avenue with a big smile on my face.

If a little face paint and a few hair flowers can change my mood, then why the hell not embrace it.

I embraced the fuck out of it.

She smiled and said, “you’re so colorful.”

“Thank you,” I said and smiled, as I pushed the stroller through the gate at the front of Mission Pool and Playground on Valencia Street.

That is what sexy is for me.

When I am having fun with myself and being bold and not caring what the world thinks of me.

“I used to keep a hula hoop in my kitchen,” I said, laughing, “not because I really hula hooped all that much (although for a weekend I got into it), but because it was a good visual reminder (being oversized and vibrant lime green with dark green sparkles threading the outer edges of it) to keep the focus on me.”

“What is outside of the hula hoop is none of my business,” I said and made a circle with my arms to represent that.  “What’s inside is my business.”

“Who are you dressing up for,” my ex boyfriend asked the week before we broke up.

“Ah, nobody, I always dress like this,” I said.

Although, truth be told, I had been taming it down, my way of dressing and makeup weren’t to his taste.

Which in hindsight is a red flag, note to self.

How I attire myself is also a reflection of myself as an artist.

My body, my hair, my tattoos, my choice in makeup, my way of dressing, of expressing my sexuality, of allowing myself to be sexy, are done in ways that I believe, really, truly, in my heart, to be an artistic expression.

I am my own walking poem.

Sometimes the stanza is a dance move, a twist of the hip, a rotation of the foot, a twirl in my bedroom, listening to Daft Punk and grooving out to my own little dance party.

Sometimes it is the sweep and swoosh of eyeliner, I like a cat eye, or a retro glam look, or it could be that the color on my eyelid matches my shoelaces, which match the second heart glitter earring on my left ear.

I am a palette and I glow and fuck yeah.

Bring it.

I’ll run a workshop on sexuality and body image.

I may even wear my leopard print, pony skin, black platform heels and make everybody get up and shake their gorgeous booties to a hot track.

I just got to step into my body, my self and be the awesome creature that God made me.

You’re not the arbiter of my conduct.

God damn it.

I’m here to enjoy this life.

This body.

This everything.

Bring on the dating.

I got 25 days to practice.

Giggle.

Break a girl off.

 

 I want a little sugar in my bowl
I want a little sweetness down in my soul
I could stand some lovin’, oh so bad

 

 


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