If not for you, Dear Stephen, this would be a simple, foggy, rainy autumn morning and not a dreamscape of ominous proportions.
Tonight, I sent out a bat signal on the porch while looking at the stars, reveling in the crisp autumn air, and drinking my hard cider.
And all was right in the world.
(Actual photograph of my bat signal because I’m dorky enough to photograph that)
I don’t know why this is the last thing I want to see before I go to sleep, but it is. Good night, mah lovelies ❤
I’m tired of definitions. I’m tired of boxes. I’m too damn claustrophobic for boxes.
I’m good. I’m bad. I’m everything in between.
I’m easily swayed by emotions these days, but I’m as bad ass as they come.
I love pink and sparkly things and fairytales, but I will rock my thigh high black leather boots and this cleavage that the gods themselves are envious of.
I’ll be the most loyal girl you’ve ever come across, but I’ll light a bridge on fire to ensure I never cross it again.
I’m sweetness and warmth, but I’ll stand my ground and cut you down the moment you try to bring me to my knees.
I’m currently celibate, but I’ve got kinks to the moon and back. We could play, little boy, but I’d just break you.
I stand strong and dominate the world, but I’ll willingly submit to someone worthy enough for my trust. Until I decide I won’t…
I smile and laugh easily, but these teeth are sharp.
I have a strong moral compass, but I decide my own ethics.
I’m not a possession, but I’ve been known to temporarily loan myself out.
I’m flawed and messed up and often confused.
I’m in charge and in control and resolute, even when I’m making bad choices. ESPECIALLY when I’m making bad choices.
I’m impulsive and flighty.
I curse like a sailor with tourettes. And yes, I kiss my mother with this mouth.
I’m whatever the hell I want to be, whenever I want to be it. Because, quite frankly, this is my life, and life is far too short to be anything but true to oneself.
Come….dance with me. Share your tunes of today and let’s go for a spin around the floor.
And if you give me what I want
Then I’ll give you what you like
Hey, pretty…don’t you wanna take a ride with me through my world?
If I were a zombie, I’d never eat your brain.
I’d just want your heart.
Mr. Houdini, you’re a freakshow.
So share your tunes with me if’n you wanna. I always love discovering new music ❤
Serial dating isn’t what 99.999% of people seem to think it is. I’ve been approached with messages saying “Perfect Match! I’m happily married (though sexless) and here are the specs on my STD standing, my manscaping, and how long my pee-pee is.” Uh, no. No, you are most definitely not my perfect match.
And there’s the guy who is cuckold and thinks my serial dating qualifies for a cuckold relationship. He swears what I’m asking for is a cuckold coupling because he’s just as misguided by his personal definition of what I am trying to accomplish with my serial dating adventures as most everyone else.
I am not committing to anyone, therefore, I am not an adulteress. And men who are submissive do not interest me. I’m a strong woman with a strong personality, and the only way I respect a man romantically is if he is somehow stronger than me. It is in the simplest of ways…a gentle man with this underlying dominance that makes me feel girlie in a way that my inner feminist wonders about. But I take care of business on the reg, so I need to be near men who make me feel a little less responsible for a moment or two. I think maybe it makes me feel safe, like someone can handle me and handle my crazy life and can withstand and persevere. Or something like that.
So, to clear up confusion, here are the rules I make incredibly clear from the beginning even though no one seems to grasp these concepts, and it’s all probably for naught. Whatever, I stick to these, and anyone who refuses to play fair gets relegated to the bench.
*I am not trying to make a love connection. I will be dating more than one man because I don’t want to date to find myself in a little white house with a picket fence and a perfectly manicured lawn. I am not trying to change my situation.
*I do not tolerate jealousy. I am not a possession. I am not changing my mind on dating monogamously unless I actually find someone who I connect to on an instinctual level. And then! I still will not commit my heart until a good chunk of time has passed because your dedication, loyalty, honesty, and sincerity has to be resolutely proven. And, again, that is not my end goal. I just recognize the possibility that eventually someone might rise above the others. In that instance, well, I’m not stupid enough to walk away from someone who could actually walk the path with me long term.
*My heart is not a toy or prey. You can try to hunt it for the sake of hunting it, however, I am not giving it up easily at all. I know what it’s worth even though most others have no clue.
*I am not boinking you. I am not boinking others. I am not doing this to get laid. Let’s face it, I can get laid without all these theatrics. Why? Because I was born with a vagina. That’s my big qualifier. It is the ultimate procurer of all things penis.
*I will not be disrespected. I mean, sure, you can try that crap, but it ain’t getting you anywhere you want to go. I am not the girl who likes to be torn down because bad boys are oh so sexy! No, no you are not. I don’t dig the bad boys. I drop those real quick.
*You may not have all my time. I have children. I have a job. I am a full-time student. I have friends. I have hobbies. I sometimes just want to lay in bed and read and ignore my phone and refuse to text anyone back and disappear into the hidey-hole of my mind.
*You are not allowed too far into my personal space. No Facebook. No Twitter. No Instagram. No blog access. The deeper and more intimate looks into the core of me are off limits to you. For now, at least.
*If you are not down with what I am trying to find, then move along. Look, I know damn well this lifestyle isn’t for everyone. It wasn’t for me until very recently. I am not trying to be won. This is not a competition where you try to be the man who proves I want everything I specifically say I don’t want. I want dinner, quirky dates, interesting conversations, camaraderie, new friends, and someone(s) who can let me be free and unencumbered and comfortable getting to experience the world with various others. We could have a lot of fun if you could only accept that I am not anything but what I present to you from the word go. Scout’s honor.
I’m going places I’ve never been before. No one will derail this journey…I have things to see, adventures to have, lessons to learn.
Dem’s da rules, son. You are not allowed to change the rules to fit your game better. This isn’t really about you, this is about me. This is about me being fully present in each moment and learning more about myself and the world I’m in and how it feels to finally, finally, finally, do the things that grow ME and please ME and brings me the things that will fulfill me on varying levels. I don’t care how selfish that sounds. I have spent thirty-nine years, three months, and seventeen days being what everyone else wants me to be…giving what everyone else wants from me.
Try to be the guy who gets this. Be the guy who wants to go on adventures with me, not the guy trying to lock me away because you’re scared following my adventures will be too hard for you. Don’t try to clip my wings.
I’m too busy trying to fly with or without you…
Everyone following along with my serial dating adventures and blog are well aware of my List of Losers. I was going to save these for Wednesday Write-offs, however, I’m trying to avoid doing my algebra, so here I am.
Most of you know I added a Craig’s List ad to my dating repertoire. The messages back are mind-numbingly ridonkulous. I think I have enough material in a mere three weeks to write an entire novel based on the responses flooding in. I’ve seen more penises than Debbie in her sojourn in Dallas. I don’t know how many times I’m supposed to specify that’s not the most attractive part of a man’s anatomy, but one thing is certain…I’ve obviously not stressed it enough.
Guys, if you ever wonder what you are doing wrong in your pursuit of women, please, follow me, and you shall witness plenty of examples of things you should never, ever, ever, ever do under any circumstances ever. Such as this one:
One, please use spell check. In this day and age of computers and smart phones which all come equipped with handy dandy spell check services, there is absolutely no excuse to send such atrocious emails.
Secondly, this is his introduction. His very first email. It is generally not a good idea to start out with misogynist beliefs that show you resent women as a whole and view yourself as a victim and will view partnership and the compromises that come with it as a woman making you grovel because she has the upper hand. By upper hand and groveling, I immediately think he doesn’t like having to do things to make his partner happy, and he’s a miserable human who is bitter and sad, sad, sad. Sounds like a real hoot! Sign me up!
Another introductory email. I am accused of not being serious and answering the responses when this guy NEVER WROTE ME BEFORE. I did write back which led to a confused conversation where he wasn’t getting what I was saying about not responding to all ads because I have discernment. He took that to mean I was implying he was sending me dick pics and was angry at him. I had to spell it out as if he’s a child, and then I just stopped. Men, again, attacking a woman as soon as you open your mouth instead of saying hello won’t generally find you any favor.
I’m going to end with this one today. This is Mr. Got A Second Date. Slowly but surely, his jesting about my dating prowess became much more than just jesting. I have witnessed acute jealousy and some rather hurtful things being said in supposed “joking” ways. This last text felt like a physical slap. I jumped, my eyes widened, and I took a sharp intake of breath. He won’t be a part of my world any longer, rest your pretty little head on that one.
I am not sure if there is an extreme overpopulation of disgusting and horrible men in this world or if I have a unique ability to locate all of the ones in a fifty mile radius, but either way, I’m discovering a lot of things in this dating experiment of mine. One of which is, if it’s attracted to me, it is probably a truly diseased specimen which I dare to hope isn’t representative of the majority.
I know one thing for sure. There are definitely people out there who love me. My sweetness Ashley would probably have happily murdered him without remorse that night. All 5’2″ of her was vibrating at the speed of vengeance, and you really shouldn’t underestimate her simply because she’s tiny and dresses adorably and has those big, gorgeous eyes. She’ll cut a bitch.
And Mr. Yesterday suggested someone hold down the guy and remove his testicles, be forced to watch them be barbequed, then have them force-fed to him. If you ever wondered why I became so amazingly attached to him, there’s your answer.
This adventure was set upon with the intention of keeping it light and breezy. I just wanted to keep my walls from coming up and locking in place while enjoying conversation and fun times with men who would not expect me to open my heart to them or to focus on building a foundation for a house I’m not ready to live in yet. I just wanted to have experiences and laughter and share my own honest approach with others. I didn’t start this to be demeaned and stalked, bored to death and attacked, torn down and sneered at. But that’s what I’ve encountered most. I have discarded dozens of men and located ONE MAN who is fun and sweet and intelligent enough to let into my world. One.
But I’m still trying. There are three new guys waiting in my inbox to have their chance. Maybe one of them will turn into a grand dance partner. I am starting to learn how to safeguard myself, though, so I’ve put on my steel-toed boots to protect myself from clumsy hoofers just in case…
…she can tell her eight year old to go take a bath because she’s starting to look awfully grody. And the child will respond with, “You don’t own my body!”
….she can try to get that eight year old to get ready for ballet class, and the child will respond with, “Stop treating me like I’m an item! I control what I do and where I go!”
….she can tell her seventeen year old that she’s going on a date, and the child will respond with, “Don’t forget, just because he pays for dinner doesn’t mean you owe him anything in return.”
….she can tell her seventeen year old that her legs feel prickly while cuddling in bed together watching a movie, and the child will respond with, “I know. I don’t feel like succumbing to western beauty standards this week.”
….she can tell her eight year old to feed the animals, and the child will respond with, “I’m not a servant. You should ask me to do things instead of telling me I have to.”
….she can tell her seventeen year old to not stay out too late because it always makes her nervous, and the child will respond with, “That’s why you bought us phones. I can keep in touch with you, I know to look at the license plate and color of car if shoved in a trunk so I can call 911, I know to kick out a tail light, and I won’t let the chance of evil people attacking me keep me from living my life.”
And then the child will add…
…”Besides, we both know if anyone took me, they’d bring me back within the hour.”
I’ve reached the point where I don’t know whether I’m supposed to be proud of my children or terrified of how similar they are to me. I’m thinking it’s probably both.
I added his guy because we both are on a blogger site together, and within the first five minutes, I started to realize the error of my ways. I became completely unresponsive once he talked about coming to America from India next month and was obviously not wanting just camaraderie and friendship.
So, I had to block him from my online world today. I shared screenshots over the past couple days with a male friend of mine who seemed so taken aback that I was being stalked. Legitimately stalked. And so I dropped some facts on him.
Women grow accustomed to the creepers from a very young age. My first stalker arrived on the scene when I was twelve. There was a time when I wasn’t left alone in my own backyard because we live in a rape culture that accepts the entitlement men feel when they want someone or something. Starting at birth, girls are taught The Rules. Men reading this might be shaking their heads, but all the ladies knew exactly what I was talking about.
*Never go anywhere without another person. Ex: Women don’t go to the bathroom together simply because we can’t stand to urinate without an audience. It’s safety. It’s less chance a strange man will follow you into the bathroom and hurt you. At this point, it’s just an unconscious thing women do without considering why we started that as young girls who weren’t allowed to visit the restroom publicly without a chaperone.
*Mind what you wear. Don’t dress too provocatively. Ex: Slut shaming has become necessary in our world because of one fact: Men cannot control their urges, so if you call attention to yourself, you are somehow asking for it. When raped, this is one of the top questions asked when trying to ascertain how a rape could happen in the first place.What was she wearing?
*Don’t let yourself get too drunk, don’t leave your drink unattended, and make sure you are aware of your surroundings at all times. You know, this is good advice. Sort of. What if I want to go overboard, though? What if I want to have that last shot of fireball before dancing with my girls to the latest hit song the DJ is throwing down? No. You might be raped. You won’t be able to fend off his advances. You’ll end up in a bad situation. And if you do end up in a bad situation, you need to take a large chunk of the blame because you broke The Rules and allowed yourself to be put into that position.
*Do not be out alone at night. You know, because a man might see you and want to have you, and if you’re alone, he could do whatever he wants.
*If your car breaks down in the middle of nowhere, call the police or another emergency number. Be wary of anyone stopping to assist you. Because, as a woman, you cannot trust any strange man. No good Samaritans can be looked at with nothing but gratitude until after they do NOT rape you because there’s a good chance that until they finish up with assisting you and leave that they’ll possibly do bad things to you…a helpless woman all alone without any supports around.
*When meeting a first date, always meet in public, never go somewhere where there aren’t enough people around, and follow the above rules. He has a very high probability that he’s an asshole who wants to rape you.
There’s more rules that are offshoots from these, but this blog would be a twenty minute read or longer if I kept going. These are the big ones, so I’ll stick with them.
If you are reading this and thinking I’m exaggerating, please consider this one vital fact. One in three women will be raped at some point in her life. Read that again. One. In. THREE. Do you not find yourself a little disgusted by those odds? Do you not see how women might feel about these rules and why they must be followed to a T lest they find themselves that one woman? How would you feel as a man going through life knowing you are viewed as something that can be taken just because someone wants you? I know many men who think women are nuts for not being flattered by all the attention they receive daily from men…completely unwarranted, unwanted attention. But if they could reverse roles and understand that we KNOW we are viewed as an available meathole…completely separate from our actual identities…that we are craved for nothing beyond our looks and what someone might want to do to us sexually…maybe THEN men could understand why we view it so differently.
And if you’re one of those men saying, “Not all guys are like that. There’s just a few bad apples. You shouldn’t judge all men by this standard,” you need to go back up and read the facts. One in three. That’s not a fluke. And that’s not something to disregard. And that’s more than the rate of deaths of cancer. And that’s more than the rate of deaths in vehicular accidents. And that’s more than the rate of how many people binge on Netflix on a Saturday morning. It’s astronomical, and none of the arguments saying women need to not be so up in arms about The Rules stand up against these facts.
The bottom line is that I should be able to walk down an alley late at night completely alone and butt ass naked while drunk as a skunk and STILL be able to say, “No, you may not stick your penis inside my vagina” and have that followed through with. But it isn’t plausible. And I could go all feminist on you about how our rape culture is in need of eradication and how instead of teaching girls The Rules, we should be teaching boys that there is absolutely no such thing as blurred lines. Wait, that’s not a feminist thing. That should be a humanist thing.
How does this all tie into my blog about not being a meathole while serial dating? If I must explain that to you, then you’re too dense to even try.
You need big balls to be a girl. Everything is a gamble. To just be and exist, we know we are taking chances that men couldn’t possibly understand because those same choices don’t come with the same consequences. It’s not fair. It’s not right. But it IS. It exists. It can’t be denied or overlooked. At least not by women.
So my adventures in serial dating come with some hefty risks. Not just in whom I’m potentially meeting up with very publicly, but also in how I am knowingly perceived and how misconstrued that is and how frustrating that is to me. I’m not okay with slut shaming. I can have sex with whomever I CHOOSE to be intimate with (which is why I haven’t been intimate in over eight months and am personally driving up sales for Energizer…and sometimes Duracell), but to automatically think I’m out hooking up randomly with all these men and what men think about a girl who does that and how it would automatically lower my approval rating as a human because girls are to be chaste enough and only used when it’s by that man in particular, well, you just became an asshole in my eyes and I think you’re what’s wrong in this world.
I’m not just a meathole. But if I were, that would be okay, too, and wouldn’t justify worrying about the risks I would encounter by not following The Rules. The Rules which are set into place to protect us but don’t protect anyone at all..