my mood seems to correlate with how much sun we’re having. i’ve been happy and secure and content all afternoon, and there are warm blue skies.
the sweet boy is off again, indefinitely. nothing dramatic happened, we’re just both very busy and i feel generally uninterested in him.
i painted a self portrait on a mirror yesterday. i have a dirty heart and a halo.
there’s no way i can stay seated or try to write anything less disjointed. sometimes it’s good to feel hyper.
four years ago today, i found out that i was pregnant.
did i know what i was getting myself into when i decided against an abortion? no, not really.
all i knew was that i saw potential joy in the direction that i chose, and more importantly a future with the man i was starting to fall deeply in love with.
most days, if i had it to do over again, i would make the same choice. if i had known just how hard the choice and the following years would be, i would have been a lot more okay with the minor annoyances of contraception. but… here i am.
i love my husband even more than i did the day that he said he’d stay with me and see this through. i love my son and wouldn’t know what to do with myself without him.
it’s all working out, i think. i hope.
let’s talk about diseases.
they’re not awesome.
i spent more time than i should have as a condom-phobic borderline slut. in retrospect, it was a lousy idea. at the time, it didn’t seem like a big deal, but i’m currently counting some pretty immense blessings that i didn’t wind up with any life-altering diseases. pregnancy was life altering enough, thanks.
anyways, i’m not planning on making this a big lecture or anything, but i wanted to bring it up, because it’s a bigger deal than the young and rabidly horny tend to think. if you don’t like the way condoms feel, just get over it. it’s really not that bad. if you’re sensitive to weird ingredients in lubes, try unlubricated condoms, and use a lube that works for you (i’ve had great luck with liquid silk and pink). if you’re allergic to latex, check out polyurethane condoms or the female condom (which you can insert up to 8 hours ahead of time, and doesn’t require a full-on erection for playing!). remember, the doctors say that you need 6 months of barrier-protected sex (including dams and condoms for oral, rimming, etc…) and two fully clear sti screens (make sure they’re testing you for everything) before you should seek non-barrier contraceptive methods or leave safer sex behind. i know, i know, it’s pretty unlikely that you’re going to make your new playmate slap on a dental dam. but really, it’s not all that bad. get confident with your safer-sex tools, play around and find what works for you. please don’t die of some horrible and avoidable disease. it would just be very lame of you.
in parting, please watch this amazing and incredibly beautiful and slightly gut-wrenching french hiv-awareness video (thanks boinkology!).
a certain number of you know precisely who i am. if you’re one of these lucky folks, you at least know who my husband is, and perhaps you’ve even known him since before he and i started swapping bodily fluids. you may have been to our house, eaten a meal with us, or watched our young son play with his favorite toys. you could even know the few other people that i’ve mentioned.
i invited you here. so why, if i’m comfortable with your knowledge of my more personal habits, am i writing under a pseudonym? why is my family never referred to by name, and why do i go to such lengths to avoid naming any personal acquaintances?
i have no reputation to protect. i currently have no employer, and when i do reenter the workforce i plan to work somewhere that will either ignore, respect or support the type of writing i do. i’m not trying to hide anything from my husband, or anyone else.
there are those of you who do not know me. the likelihood of running across this blog uninvited and figuring out who i am is amazingly small, but it is there. there are a notable few people that i would prefer to keep out of here. these are the small reasons.
the big reason is that, if you do know me, you might feel awkward knowing so much about me, my marriage, my sex life, my emotional ups and downs and other convolutions. maybe i hope that you’ll be able to detach the writing from me. it makes it feel less like gossip, and more like an abstract story. the characters don’t need the faces and names that i know. the elements of their selves outside of this small world are irrelevant.
i hope it helps you continue reading.
i love skin.
i love biting skin, feeling its thickness and strength, its fragility. i love the way skin smells on different parts of different bodies, the way it blooms out so clear and damp after a warm shower. i salivate over the tawny, olive skin of my slightly jewish husband. pale-to-translucent porcelain skin takes my breath away.
there is nothing i love more than nuzzling another person with as much skin as we can possibly share. noses and necks and collarbones and breasts and bellies and thighs, the backs of knees and insides of elbows, fingers and knuckles and palms, intertwining, cupping, brushing… yum.
i love foreskin and scrotum, so thin and elastic, and yet so impossibly strong, holding life and pleasure and pain.
i love the tiny, almost invisible hairs, the way they feel against different body surfaces. i love the texture of thicker hairs. i marvel over scars, large and small. there’s magic in the way a tattoo can be looked into, to see the depth and the fading and imperfections, the pores winking out of unexpected color.
skin is the place we meet. where we feel. what separates us from and joins us to the rest of the world.
is it a little far-fetched of me to be nervous that the boy has found this?
the thought just occurred to me. i probably have nothing to worry about. i mean, i know i have nothing to worry about – i have nothing to hide. then again, i would sort of like to know that my personal space is intact.
sigh.
i was a teenage lesbian.
okay, so i was a teenage lesbian-identified bi girl who just kept ending up with crushes on boys.
but still.
it really struck home today when i heard the indigo girls’ version of romeo and juliet and i just started sobbing. aaaaand then i listened to it like four times.
do the queer kids even listen to indigo girls anymore? god, i love them. and not just because i’m nostalgic.
as i’ve mentioned before, i’m a fan of cock. i’m also a fan of men with visible but not overlarge muscles, and i’m getting to be pretty friendly with body hair.
and those are all of the reasons that i now need to own vintage ’70s playgirl magazines. i mean, just look. as for the ’80s and ’90s ones on the site… well, they’re just plain hilarious.
my writing looks incomplete and disjointed to me. i don’t make the points that are in my head. i skip around. everything is too brief.
this is how it goes when you do all your writing with a wiggly, jungle book-watching three year old on your lap. crap. at least i’m still making the effort to write! at least i’m still inspired!
her: how good are you expected to be?
him: i don’t really know.
her: then how good do you want to be?
he puts his arm around her broader shoulders and touches his nose ever so lightly to her neck, resting his forehead behind her jaw.
not so much later:
she half giggles.
him: what?
her: you realize you’ve got somebody’s wife pinned to her back step?
he smiles, closes his eyes, and doesn’t let her up. he’s not supposed to yet.
——-
it’s possible that i’ll be writing coherently in a week. have patience until then, gentle readers.
