“God Made Adam First” or “Revelations in the Mirror While Naked”

In the effort of “research,” I have been reading up on other blogs.  I am researching for both content and style.  I am also looking to see the “other side” of my story.  Ignorance really is bliss.

I have stumbled upon a few blogs about gay married men or gay men that have recently been divorced.  These blogs are insightful, revealing, a few of them well-written and researched.  However, by the fifth or sixth one I read I started crying.  Do not get me wrong, most of these gay men speak highly of their wives.  They speak of their strength, kindness, and mostly of their discretion.  Because they are either still married or divorced quietly, none of these women, according to their own blog’s account, made a big fuss over this whole “gay business.”  I too divorced quietly but then moved several states away because I could no longer bear the weight of a secret that was not my own.  It also hurt me to see him with other men.  Sometimes the men were friends we had in common.   As awkward as it might be at a party when two women exchange glances knowing they have slept with the same man, imagine if that exchange were between a man and a woman.

I cannot tell you how inadequate can make a woman feel when a husband, the man you believed was your soul mate, starts having sex with other men and despite all his promises and declarations, she is never sure when it started.  Even if the “other guy” is nice and gracious about it, how can a woman help but feel inferior and embarrassed?  Despite all my liberal standings and beliefs I am embarrassed and ashamed that my husband chose men over me.  If there is a greater rejection than that, I do not want to know nor would wish it on my worst enemy.

I got up from my desk in tears and went into the bathroom to change.  I was still in my pajamas and it was well past noon.  At first, I was going to just do my regular routine and push all those feelings down, ignore them and maybe have a snack.  Sound familiar?  But instead, I took all my clothes off and stood in front of the mirror naked and had a good look at myself.

I saw long dark auburn hair, green eyes, arched brows, chubby cheeks, and full pink lips that would be the envy of many a collagen fans.  I saw nice strong shoulders and nearly perfect breasts, neither too big nor too small for my frame.  I saw a too big rounded stomach with an arguably cute little navel.  I saw long legs, thick thighs, wide hips and a big round butt.  Still, despite my size and my age, I have few stretch marks and about as much cellulite as any other average woman.  I am being fair here and very honest.  But really, what is wrong with me?  I am looking at myself trying to find flaws.  Really, what is there?  Why did he not love me?  What is so unlovable about me?  Is my body so imperfect that I be rejected so?

Then I started to make a list of my unlovable attributes.  I made a list of reasons why my ex-husband or any other man would reject me.  It is well rehearsed so of little trouble to site even in my troubled mind.  The list goes as follows in no particular order:

–          My weight

–          Too smart

–          Too dumb

–          Not interested in sports

–          Unpopular interests

–          Does not make enough money

–          Too crazy

–          Too bold

–          Talks too much

–          Too repressed

–          Too loud

–          Too shy

–          Too needy

–          Too independent

Yes, some of these items contradict each other but still I hold onto this checklist constantly revising, often adding, so when I am rejected I know exactly why.  I am heaving and sobbing at this point.  I have to sit down on the edge of bathtub to catch my breath.  Such self loathing can be exhausting.  Not only do I have this list in my head, I said them out loud giving the list that much more power over me.

And the truth is… the truth that eats me up inside… the truth that will not let me go is that my ex-husband did not care about the list.  He loved me anyway.  All the reasons why I hate myself did not matter.  He loved me. But the one thing he could not love me for was the one thing I could not change and that is what is between my legs.

To me, the list of rejectables is my to-do list.  I hate those things about me too.  I want to change them and when I have accomplished the list, than I will allow myself to be loved. I can be thinner.  I can act more dumb or get smarter if you want me to.  I can maybe get a better job and be more independent while still making you feel needed at the same time.  I can change, I can do and be whatever you want….. Just stay.

Then I looked up in the mirror again.  Now that I am sitting I can only see my face.  Honestly, it is a rather nice face, unworthy of any kind of hate.  With my new eyes I see my hair lightened by the Florida sun and I still have a band of freckles across my cheeks though it is mid-winter.  Below those professionally arched eyebrows I see through blurred vision even greener eyes set off by the redness of all those tears.

When will I see myself like other men who try to love me?  When will I see a competent, beautiful woman that can make it on her own yet chooses to have a partner by her side?  When will I see the truly brave thing I did by leaving my husband and my hometown of thirty-plus years to start my life all over instead of looking at it like a retreat?

A better question still is when will I see what God sees?  When will I see a greatly loved being made in HIS image perfect and whole just as He created me?

But then I think to myself, “Even God made Adam first.”

The Knowing and the Changing: For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge

For the record, the most versatile word in the English language did not originate from an acronym.  THE WORD originated from the term fokken which means “to thrust or copulate with” (www.snopes.com).  However, this post is not about an etymology.

The Knowing….

Say whatever you want that motivates the human libido.  Old fashioned propagation of the species?  The “conquering” of foreign lands?  The pursuit of “the strange”?  Or is it some kind of ancient bartering system trading of supply and demand?  What I think, or hope in my romantic yet hedonistic mind, is that both men and women are seeking “the knowing.”

If we go by standard stereotypes, men are seeking the “knowing” of another woman, to know what pleases her and to know how his skills can please her.  Sometimes he seeks that knowledge just to use with someone else, but I do not think that skills in the bedroom are obtained through one night stands.  Usually, I think, people pull out their “best” tried and true moves with new people and anything beyond the standards are explored in deeper, longer lasting relationships.  I know that I am a little inhibited about standing on my head and whistling Dixie the first time I am in bed with a man.  I usually reserve that little trick after we have a few “Olive Garden” dates under our belts.

Maybe women are seeking the knowing in a different way.  Maybe women want to “know” men’s secrets.  It is the only power we have: the surrender some of their pride, the distraction of the desire over to us.  Or we think we can somehow “change” them through the power of our love.  The love we trade for sex, that is.  I hope that in the new “sexual revolution” women do not become too much like men.  If women do not remember sex is also about emotional intimacy, who will?

And here is why I go into the world of too much information and why I wear a mask

When I fall in love or even infatuated I am seeking “the knowing”.  I want to know the man’s mind and his heart.  This is probably why I am attracted to mostly intelligent men so I am not bored too quickly.  I want to know his body too.  I want to know if he has freckles and where those freckles stop.  I want to know if he is ticklish.  I want to know what really turns him on.  I sometimes want to know their inner dirty little fantasies even if they scare me and/or I have no intention of acting them out.  (This has backfired on me before).  I want to know what position they like best.  I want to know if they are a breast or a butt man.  I want to know if he swears, grunts, or simply sighs when he comes.

This is what I want to know.  It is what I need to know when I want a man.  It is not about my pleasure or just about the conquest or the orgasm, it is about the knowing.  That little bit of sweet happy surrender they have right after they come when their hearts and minds are as soft and pliable as their spent penises and I can shape them to my liking.  If men knew this is what women do after sex they would rush out the bedroom as soon as possible or not enter it at all.  But maybe, secretly even unwittingly men want that molding too.  The Changing.

A Little Story About The Knowing.

When was first ushered into the world of love and sex, it was like I was in the lobby of a grand play or opera but not allowed in.  I did not have the necessary ticket of attractiveness or at least guile to get much past the foyer.  I would hear whispers of how great, terrible, fantastic, and terrifying that world was from friends and movies, but it was like seeing a trailer for a foreign movie without subtitles.  You kind of want to see it, but it is not out yet and you have no way understanding the movie without a translator, but you just gotta see it anyway.

I remember this awkward infatuation I had when I was a senior in high school.  By this time, over half my class was sexually active, and that was just the ones I knew about it.  We were a suburban school about 80% white in the early 90’s so 50% of my class being sexually active is about accurate.  I was still in that lobby waiting for my ticket.  I was very interested in this boy, oh let’s call him Brian.  Brian was in my music theory class.  I had delusions of grandeur of a career in music, but let’s not dwell.  Brian played guitar but he was also involved in drama and was in all my advanced classes, so he was a nerd.  If memory serves me, I think we even was pictured in the last issue of our school’s paper was the top ten of our class.  What can I say, I have taste.  I dare say that I was not necessarily “in love” with Brian.  I think I might have talked to the boy maybe twice.  Our exchange of words barely quantifies as a paragraph.  But I remember just wanting to TALK to him.  I fantasized more about our fascinating and revealing conversations more than I imagined any kind of nakedness or anything overtly sexual.  Instead of writing my name Mrs. _____ in my notebook, I would study the music and the album covers to every band t-shirt he would wear.  The album cover of Ritual De Lo Habitual scared the hell out of my seventeen-year-old self, but I was ready to discuss if Brian happened to pass my locker randomly.

I imagined that we would hang out in a dark basement listening to Pearl Jam or Pink Floyd and discussing the essence of Kurt Cobain lyrics. And during all this talking we happened to kiss and make out that would be cool as long as it were really dark in that basement and he could not really see my body.  This is also when I started shoplifting cute panties and bras so my mother would not know that I no longer wore K-mart training bras and plain white cotton panties.

If Brian and I bored with talking about music, or we needed a break from all that dry humping, we could talk about Fahrenheit 451 or 1984 that we read on our summer reading list for Honors English because teen boys love to sit around talking about their summer reading with their female classmates.   I read Science Fiction because I thought it would make me seem cool.  At least I knew Jane Austen and Dickens were not cool.  I fantasized that we would talk about the radical changing powers of the written word or relating how our school administration was trying to “keep us down” like the Ministry of Truth trying to keep the youth of this nation docile with misinformation.  Yeah, I was a nerd.  I read dystopic science fiction and listened to grunge thinking it would somehow impress teenaged boys.  That is a good way to have an affair with a mid-thirties English professor at a local junior college, but not the way to get the cherry of the vice president of the National Honors Society who also plays bass for his garage band with his buddies.

For the record, I have never impressed a guy with my literary knowledge.  I have never had this dream conversation of staying up all night talking about how science fiction is used to make sense of modern societal dilemmas or talk about Kurt Cobain or even comic books with a man and then end up not just having sex, but joining of like minded souls with our bodies and then fuck our brains out as a political statement against the hypocrisy of society trying to dilute us of our humanity through ridiculous sexual mores.  Sounds like fun though doesn’t?

I have impressed guys with my Wonder Woman outfit and been asked to tie them up with my lasso.

Sigh…..  Why do guys have to fuck up fucking?

Why People with Food Issues Cannot Buy in Bulk.

I was going to title this “Why Fat People Cannot Buy in Bulk”
but I thought that was demeaning to myself and others and you do not have to be
fat to have emotional eating issues.

I briefly attended Overeater’s Anonymous (OA).  I really should go
again.  OA is like all other 12 step programs only you replace the word “alcohol” or “drugs” with “compulsive overeating.”  Never mock someone who is
in a 12 step and takes it seriously.  It is DAMN hard.  I never got past the fourth step that was about making a “fearless moral inventory of our lives.”  One of the things I had to “inventory” was my triggers.

Please note that even as I type this I have a sense of dread.  People brag about when they got “fucked up” or their sexual exploits even if they regret them later.  No one really wants to talk about “the secret shame everyone sees” of food
addiction.  Of course bulimics hide it better.  I was bulimic in my youth.  I still feel like a bulimic, only missing a step.  I am avoiding the topic, aren’t I?

https://murmur.csail.mit.edu/thread?group_name=Backpage_Dating&tid=9099

https://murmur.csail.mit.edu/thread?group_name=Backpage_Dating&tid=9102

https://murmur.csail.mit.edu/thread?group_name=Backpage_Dating&tid=9103

https://murmur.csail.mit.edu/thread?group_name=Backpage_Dating&tid=9104

https://murmur.csail.mit.edu/thread?group_name=Backpage_Dating&tid=9105

https://murmur.csail.mit.edu/thread?group_name=Backpage_Dating&tid=9106

https://murmur.csail.mit.edu/thread?group_name=Backpage_Dating&tid=9107

https://murmur.csail.mit.edu/thread?group_name=Backpage_Dating&tid=9108

Activities, Emotions,
Foods, and Other Situations that Trigger My Emotional Eating.

Foods:  (I will start with the easiest) There are
foods that I cannot stop eating or I buy on impulse when I feel like being mean
(or really “good”) to myself.

Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups: I freaking love this candy and I
have ever since I was a chubby little kid.  When I was very little, my brother and I were not given any candy.  We had candy at Halloween, Easter, and Christmas.  When I was old enough to be sent to the store I would get a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup or Reese’s Pieces and a Mountain Dew.  As a ten-year-old I was consuming
roughly 400-500 calories as a “snack.”  Now I will only eat the peanut buttery goodness at the assigned holidays of my youth or when I am on a road trip.
The food gives me comfort, reminds me of my first taste of freedom.

Pizza:  I had a whole post about pizza.  The first reason I
avoid pizza is because I worry about diabetes.  I have told you all I was pre-diabetic and I still have to watch out.  The second is because I can never seem to get full on pizza.  I think I go into some kind of metabolic amnesia when it comes to carbs.  Carbohydrates never fill me off and they seem to set off this vicious blood sugar cycle of ups and downs.  If there is pizza in the house, it is gone.  Just for the sake of irony, it was by pure coincidence that my ex-husband worked a second job as a pizza delivery guy when we first started dating.

Pasta:  I have the same problem with pasta as I do with pizza.  I will eat until I am just about ready to burst.  This is also a left over issue from my childhood.  Pretty much I should stay away from traditional Italian dishes altogether.

Count Chocula and other sugary cereals:  This is definitely one of my earliest binge foods.  Cereal is almost always in the house when kids are around.  It was a food I could fix for myself and eat and eat and eat and no one could tell.
If I had one bowl, I wanted four.  Let’s do the math.  One little binge of 4 bowls of cereal is approximately 480 calories.  And that is if you go by the serving size on
the side of the box which if you are binging, you are not exactly measuring.  I started the cereal thing when I was a latch key kid in the fourth grade.
To this day I hardly ever eat any kind of cereal because of the bad
memories that each bowl brings to mind.

Grocery Shopping:  I love grocery shopping, but I do not think that is necessarily a good thing.  When I feel frightened or insecure whether that fear is conscious or sub-conscious, I like to go to the grocery store.  I do not go to the store to by junk food either.  That is a late night spur of the moment walk (drive) of shame.
I like to wonder the aisles meal planning or thinking of all the good
food I am going to feed my loved ones, or pick up a box of hors douves and
fantasize about the next “impromptu” get together I would have at my
house.  I also fantasize about whatever latest diet I am on and buy accordingly.
Then I fantasize about the new body and new life I would have after the
successful completion of said diet.

Bored/Lonely:  This is when the “grazing” behavior starts.  This
is the mindless eating and snacking that can go on all day.   I am bored and/or lonely, but usually bored because I am lonely.  This was my typical day
when I had a very boring office job: I just have a granola after breakfast,
then maybe a 100 calorie pack cookies or a piece of fruit about 10 o’clock,
then about 3 o’clock I get the munchies bad and I will either have a protein
bar or pretzels. If I did not have those at my desk, then all hell would break
loose and I would hit the vending machine for a 440 calorie cinnamon bear claw
warmed in the microwave for 35 seconds for maximum warmth right before it went nuclear and the icing was like lava.  Then I would have whatever snack or bit of lunch in the car on the ride home.  I would cook a healthy “light dinner” either
before or after a workout, and then I would have a late night desert of a low
calorie ice cream bar, yogurt, or nuts.  Yeah… that is a lot of food.
Anyone else in this boat?  Grazing is the toughest habit to break
because it is the kind of behavior you barely notice.  You are never really full but you never allow yourself to get really hungry either.

Angry/Depressed:  This is the binging behavior one envisions when they watch Oprah or see “documentaries” which I think are sometimes exploitive of the very obese.  This is where I just tear into whatever is available in the pantry/refrigerator.  I am so ashamed about what I have put in my mouth over the years.  I have eaten dry ramen noodles straight from the packaging sprinkling the spice packet on top.  Who does this?  I have eaten raw cake batter.  I have mixed it up, eaten it with a spoon, ate until I wanted to vomit and then never baked what was left over and poured the evidence down the sink.  The next time I would go to the store, I would replace the cake mix so no one was the wiser…except the waist of my pants.

In these “textbook binges” I would just eat until the pain went away.  I would eat until whatever hole I had in my heart be it disappointment, loneliness, self defeat,
rejection, failure, whatever the cause, I would fill it with food.  And you know what?  It worked.  Not all those who binge or drink heavily or take drugs because they WANT to destroy themselves, at least not actively.
People binge, drink heavily, and take drugs because they want to feel something differently than what they are feeling at that moment.  That
moment is so dark, so awful, that any little pleasure, no matter the long term
(or in the case of drugs and alcohol short term) costs you just want to feel
better.  Food made me feel better. Even bowl after bowl of cereal would scrape the roof of my mouth, my teeth felt like it was coated with a film of sugar and my jaw hurt from chewing was better than whatever emotion I was feeling at that moment.
All that food eventually would fill my stomach up until I could not eat
anymore or my blood sugar would spike and I would feel calm.

I would eat until the emotional turmoil would pass.  It was as if I was caught in a storm of emotions and binging was the brief sunshine whisking clouds away.  But really, that momentarily calm was just the eye of the storm because the guilt and shame would set in.  When I was still bulimic, this is when I
would make myself vomit, take a bunch of laxatives (and I mean a lot, like 3-5
at a time 2-3 times a day) or I would exercise like a fiend or some sort of
combination.  I did not enjoy vomiting and only did it in extreme cases of shame or bloat.  I have had only the occasional bout of purging in the last few years as an adult.  Mainly working a “day job” where bathroom accessibility was an issue and
living with a spouse that would catch on to the purging put an end to the
purging.

I still binge from time to time, but not like when I was an adolescent or in my early
twenties.  Now, I graze thoughtlessly and if I really feel like binging and eating something really bad for me, it would involve a trip to the store.  I do not
have much snack food in the house either.  Pretty much everything I have is ingredients.  If I have to go through the effort of fixing something to eat even if it is canned soup, this is enough time for my bad mood to pass.  If I really want junk food, I would have to get in my car, drive to the store, and then go up and down the
aisles looking for junk food and having to consider my actions and their
consequences.  This is also enough time and forethought for the mood to pass.
This is my way of self management.  But of course, this makes living with me challenging.  Living with my diabetic dad and stepmom has
not been a huge issue because they cannot have snack food around either.  Also the guilt of eating “their” food is pretty decent deterrent.  Besides, around
them I might be depressed or angry, but I am not lonely and I can talk to
either one of them about what is causing the emotional upheaval in the first
place.  Living with my ex-husband was bad.  Before he went on this massive and
very restrictive Atkins diet, he would eat cookies by the sleeve and just have
all kinds of junk around.  He liked food and I believe has developed a bit of a warped body image now that he has to attract other males, I did not witness him seriously binge eating.  However, there were times that he would get a
pizza just for himself and eat the pizza all night and play video games.  That can’t be healthy.

Now I find myself spending much of my time with a man that
has similar eating issues to me.  I will admit to gaining 10-15 pounds in the five months or so since I have moved down here.   It is hard to tell who is a bad
influence on whom in this relationship.  But the end, I only have myself to blame for my behavior and I am the only one that can change it.

Crushes

Why do crushes get such a bad reputation?   Sure, they are heart breaking, gut wrenching, and soul crushing monsters of disappointment that can make you worry about your own attractiveness and even self-worth for years, but that doesn’t mean we can’t learn from them.

I was a late bloomer, to say the least.  Sigh… let’s not even talk about how emotionally and physically immature I was compared to my classmates.  In fact most of these “crushes” I had were in high school.  This crush phase was so innocent and fruitless that it was more on par with what most girls my age went through in middle school.  My kind of high school crush was more one of admiration rather than desire.  I don’t even really wanted to “go out” with them.  I had no idea what people did on dates.  I imagined dates were a lot like “hanging out” only with hickies.  I had no idea.  Yes, there was one boy in particular that I guess I “desired” but even that was purely theoretical.

My first “crush” I guess was in the fourth grade.  This is the first time that I even noticed boys existed let alone had any value.  I remember I liked a boy who rode my bus.  I liked him because he was cute, whatever that meant, and he was smart, in all of the enrichment classes and I remember he had one of his stories posted on the teacher’s bulletin board with a big red “A+.”  Perhaps that is what impressed me the most.

Junior high I barely attended and would really rather not recall a single moment of that hell.  Let’s move on.

The boy I remember liking the earliest and the most after my first crush on the  “A+” kid was someone in the band.   We had many shared activities including choir and church.  How a band geek from church could get me so hot, I still do not know.  If I were honest with myself I believe that my fantasism for Christ was really my love for this boy.

He was like Jesus to me, and the Devil.  My sin and my salvation.

He was like Jesus to me, and the Devil.  My sin and my salvation. I would lie down my life for him.  Sell my soul for just a kiss.  I sought for his attention like pilgrims seek enlightenment.  Oh, how I prayed that he would just talk to me, touch me, make me real.  Save me from the sin of desire.  A thousand sins of the heart and in the flesh I committed alone in his name.

Every other girl I knew liked him too.  He hit puberty light years before any of the other boys.  He had a hairy chest and could grow almost a full beard in the tenth grade.  For some reason, my fourteen-year-old self found this irresistible.  He also had nice broad shoulders and a low singing voice.  He was also shorter than me.  I was pretty tall, I guess I still am, but this was not a detraction.  I just wanted to be near him but wanted him to not be intimidated my height (or size) and this is where I cultivated the practice of standing up straight from my torso so I’d look sophisticated (and supposedly thinner) yet I’d cock one leg out to the side and bend one knee to appear shorter.  I find myself still doing this from time to time.  It was won my absolutely no favors, only the left heels of my shoes wear out faster than my right.

I “loved” this boy, or as much as a one-sided teenaged love can be.  He
could do no wrong, I would defend him to the death even though I knew he was, at times, unkind to other girls when he’d spurn their affection, but he never once gave me any hint that there was a even a glimmer of hope we’d ever be an item.  It did kill me when he dated a neighbor of mine.  She was thin, blonde, and beautiful.  I could hardly blame him.  I’d choose her over me too.  It was hopeless, and therefore pure and untainted by experience.

To this day, almost twenty years later, I still love him.  I have met him a few times in the recent past and he still makes my heart skip a beat.  The first few minutes of even the most casual meeting I find myself finding it hard to believe.  The first time I met him after a ten year absence he was with his girlfriend.  She looked just like me.  It pissed me off.  She was tall, dark haired, a little heavy and thick in the thigh.  We both were even had similar jobs.  I felt betrayed. All this time I loved him.  I was married at the time, but still.  If I knew he were into chubby girls….   I wondered if I did have some kind of influence on him in some way.  I hope I influenced him a little when he so impacted my young life.  I still measure love and attraction based on the model of my love for him.

When we have talked as adults in flashes I remember when my love for him would keep me up at night exploring my body in the dark of my room feeling the delight of my body, the thrill of the thought of him mixed with Midwestern church-girl shame.  But now, as adults, still knowing that “Us” will never happen, what once was love now feels more like nostalgia,  He also says that I am the only girl he “never messed up with.”  He was a bit of a player for a time.  He had the kind of face and swagger that could let him get away with it.  He needs his image to remain pure in at least one girl’s memory.  It is for both our egos that we do not muddy that image with too much experience.

One of my first novel efforts was about teens growing up in an Evangelical church.  He smiled shyly and asked if he was in it.  I did not lie. He already knew he was.  Sometimes I wonder if everything I write is for or because of love.   I asked him if he thought he would
be the villian or the hero.  He said, “Why not both?”

So that is what he is.  Villian, Hero, Romantic Lead, Object of Affection, the mold in which I fashion all my futures loves.  And he knows it.  And now the world does.  And I don’t care.  Never be ashamed of love.  Even when you are in love all on your own.  There is always something to be learned.

My other crushes were less defined at required fewer criterions.

There was the boy who played the guitar and seemed really into recycling, before it was cool.

I liked one boy in my homeroom for almost an entire afternoon because of the way his “Lollapalooza” t-shirt stretched over his broad, manly shoulders.  He was on the wrestling team and played football.  I am quite certain he was unaware of my existence even though he was only a locker or two down from me for seven years.

I liked one boy because he was nice during chemistry lab and we’d write up the notes for our other “partner” who totally skated by based on the notes we wrote up for him.

I remember my heart fluttering a bit when one boy was kind of being an asshole once in class, but he did it with such panache’ I couldn’t help myself.

I fell pretty hard for one troubled young man because he was wicked smart, very funny, but had a dark side that I thought I was special because I imagined I was the only one who knew.

I had crush on one boy because he had beautiful eyes and had the coolest “Luke Perry” side burns.  Almost every other girl in my class would choose a certain basketball player as “the cutest boy in school”, but for me, it was ole’ blue eyes.  He was also so relaxed and sure of himself.  God, he was cool.

That certain basketball player never really did it for me.  Don’t get me wrong, he was beautiful.  You could check off from a list of every quality of standard of American beauty for this boy.  And I’ll tell you what; time has been good to him.  But to me he was a real person.  We had some classes and certain other activities in common so he wasn’t an ethereal object like the other boys.  He spoke to me and didn’t pretend like I didn’t exist.  He was a really, really nice guy.  In fact, if I remember correctly, he even thought I was kind of funny and I helped him with his homework although he could totally do it on his own and he never asked.

Like the basketball player, once they talked to me, it broke the spell.  I didn’t like just their looks, obviously.  Seriously, there were no real criteria of looks although most of them were of average too very high intelligence.  Dumbass “bad boys” never did it for me and they still don’t.

I really liked the idea of them.  I idolized them in my head and even some of them when I meet them as adults, except for a few noted exceptions; they still make my heart beat a little faster. It is funny.  I have met a few of these boys as men and they will still make me blush, stammer, and get all weak in my knees just as they did back then.  And let me be clear and this is not trying to be gross or anything.  This blushing and stammering is not arousal at all.  I really was not and AM not sexually attracted to them.  I didn’t see them that way at the time and even though we are all adults, I still don’t have any feelings deeper or more substantial then admiration.

Some of them have gained thirty or forty pounds, maybe their hair is thinning or completely gone, it doesn’t matter.  My heart still races and I don’t want to look at them in their beautiful eyes for fear they will read my every thought.  Of course, they are grown men now and know when a woman is attracted to them, even if it is in a girlish way.  It is like I am afraid to look at them directly or it will have some kind of opposite Medusa affect and instead of turning into stone I will melt into mush.  Yes, these guys still have this power over me.  But really, most of them are really nice and it is me who gives them this power.  They do not wield it or may even know they have been given such a power.  But they could both wound and win me with a word.

Because none of these crushes have come to fruition they can remain in my memory like postcards from destinations I will never visit with a “wish you were here” inscribed across their broad manly chests encasing their un-won hearts.  I find myself writing them into my stories here and there.  Maybe it is so close to that person they could sue if I were to ever be published and weren’t careful to mask their identity.  More often it is aspects of different guys making up a mosaic that I fashion into my own romantic interest.  Maybe a character has beautiful eyes, great sideburns, a broad chest, who plays the guitar, tells jokes, and is a chemist.  Who knows?

These crushes, these series of unrequited loves helped shape my idea of what

I really wanted in a man.  After I had my first “real boyfriend” when I was 19, my crush phase kind of ended.  At that point, I decided I wanted to be loved back.  I decided I was worth it and pining for someone who will never love me back and give me even a measure of my attention or devotion is a waste of time and can be a bit demeaning.  And that is okay for a teenager.  The teen years are custom designed for discouragement and humiliation.
But as an adult, I am really worth knowing and worth loving.  If I am worked up over a guy to make me melt, his heart better be melting too.

Dating And Embarrassing Body Functions

Sometimes you can’t control your body functions.  And if you’re lucky no one is there to witness it or notice.  But that wasn’t the case a few weeks ago.  My evening started with a date with AD33.  We decided to have wings and beer at Buffalo Wild Wings.  Since she was driving, I was planning to have a couple extra drinks.

Our time at Buffalo Wild Wings was very uneventful.  We enjoyed a few good laughs as we were people watching.  There was the guy 2 tables over that looked like Fire Marshal Bill from In Living Color.  And of course there were a couple guys who were hitting the punching bag in the corner to prove how much of a bad ass they were.  Most of the time we played trivia and drank beer.  Overall it was a good time.  We spent about 3 hours there.

AD33 was ready to come back to my place to get some Swirl Love.  It was about midnight when we arrived at my place.  We had one more drink for a night cap and got naked.  AD33 and I have always been on the same page sexually and this was no different.  Once we were both satisfied, we feel asleep.  I’m not sure what time it was, but it was late.  Shortly after AD33 woke up to say, “opps… Sorry!”  I sat up with a puzzled look on my face and said, “what the hell are you talking about?”  She said, “I farted in my sleep and it woke me up.”  I couldn’t help but laugh.  If she had, I would’ve felt it (or so I imagined).  We were spooning and her butt was against me.  She didn’t think it was funny, but it was too late.

Once she drifted back to sleep, I couldn’t sleep.  I wasn’t sure if that was a warning sign of what was about to happen later in the night.  About a hour later she woke up again and said she had to go home.  She couldn’t sleep well.  After talking for a few minutes, she decided she was leaving.  

After she left, it made me wonder if this has happened to her before.  Maybe she trying to avoid something worse.  I know that we all have involuntary body functions that we can’t control, but I don’t remember this happening with another woman.  I don’t remember hearing another woman have gas while in bed.  Was it the wings and beer?  Or was it something more?

Anyone else have a similar experience?  Was it my laughter that made her self conscience?  Or should we just avoid the wings and beer combo?

Random Romance

Let’s face it; humans as a species are easy.  How hard is it to get someone to have sex with you?  Yes, I understand that it is generally easier for women. Women generally have to turn that shit down.  It is like we have to dodge dick on a daily basis being forced to duck and weave through all the lines and offers like the schlong slalom.  Seducing another human being even getting them to like you is not that challenging.  I am great at “making friends” with American guys.  Perhaps too good.  But falling in love?  That takes a little romance.

Here are some romantic gestures that really work on Ms.
Charlotte Jay and if it works on me, it is likely to work on other women.

– Opening doors. I know, it is silly.  I have lived
in the South for a few months and am already spoiled.  Yes, I can open the car door on my own, but if a man walks around the car door to open it for me, that is great.  I am too impatient for him to open the door to let me out.  That is just excessive.

– He lets me have a bite of his meal.  This is so key to me.  First of all, what he orders tells me a lot about what kind of person he is.
Does he order something healthy, spicy, or exotic?  Does he try something new?  I have this untested theory that if a man is experimental at the table, he might be experimental in bed.
I don’t know yet.  All I know so far is that I find picky eaters to be annoying and therefore I have never gotten far enough to test this theory.

–He picks me up at my house.  This is NOT recommended for on-line daters!  If a man picks a lady up at her house and interacts with her family, roommates, or dog for a few minutes before taking her out shows that he sees you as a lady with a community that cares about her and to whom she is accountable.  This might make him think twice before “stealing” her away or question is non-noble intentions.

– When he looks into my eyes.  Not in a creepy way, but he just looks into my eyes hoping to get some clues to the mysteries of my soul.  On dates, men often look at my mouth (or my breasts).  This is NOT necessarily a bad thing.  I want a man to find me attractive.  There are problems if he does not at least steal a glance once or twice, trust me.   I hypothesize that they look at my mouth imagining what it would be like to kiss me, or have more naughty thoughts like how my lips would look wrapped around their cock.  That is all well and good, but all women have lips, some are nicer than others, but no other woman has eyes or a soul like mine.

– Little gifts, notes or gestures, not huge extravagant presents.  I love little sweet texts and little notes.  Notes and love letters are a lost art in this digital age.  Little gifts would be an icy Diet Mountain Dew that is my favorite, or a fountain Diet Coke with a splash of Coke or better yet just a bit of cherry flavor that you can get convenience stores like Speedway and Tom Thumb.  If he gets my
coffee order right: Venti latte, 2% no sugar or flavor Or Iced coffee, cream no sugar or flavor, or dark roast coffee with 2 or 3 creams.  Candy could be tricky if I am dieting or something, but hardly anyone has asked what my favorite candy is.  Bonus points for any man that would ask.  Flowers for no reason as long as they are not excessive.  Some little gift that made you think of me or remind you of a moment we shared.  Sigh…. That would be lovely.  Getting a chewy bone or a toy for my dog would be nice too.  She is too old for rawhide, I wonder if a man would care enough to know that.

– Expensive gifts are NOT a good idea for a girl like me.  First of all, it makes me think you are trying to purchase me. Also, there is the stench of desparation to a man that buys expensive jewelry to early in a relationship.  DON’T FALL FOR IT and DO NOT feel obligated to the man.  If possible do not accept the gift.  I have made this mistake.   It also sets up some kind of expectation or reciprocal situation I would make me feel uncomfortable.  HUSBANDS can buy expensive gifts like jewelry. Boyfriends, stick to lattes and chewy bones.

– Walks in the park or the beach.  I know that is so lame “If you like pina coladas, and getting caught in the rain,” thank you Jimmy Buffet.  First of all, pina coladas are great and so are margaritas, but lattes or smoothies will work on a “light weight” like me.  Getting caught in the rain with the right person can be kind of fun, even sexy.
If you walk on the beach or in a park, you might accidently brush up
against each other, hold hands, or just enjoying the simple beauty of the earth with the right person can be magical.

– Road trips. I have not been on a good road trip with anyone for years.  I have driven cross country with my dog, but
it is not the same.  A good road trip could be with a friend or family members can be fun as well.  My brother and I travel well together.  But an actual road trip with a boyfriend or with at least a spark of romantic potential, sigh.  The heart can dream, right?

– Not only how he touches me, but how he does not touch me as well.  Ladies, do you remember a time when a man was making out with you and did not just “go for the gold” or try to get whatever he can get but instead respected your body and waited to be “invited” to touch you? Wow, what would that feel like? You know when you are friends with a person and there is that electricity between the two of you and how you might casually touch them and then jerk your hand away because you felt that jolt of attraction you were not ready for?  That is divine, is it not?  That electricity is not just for
virgins, it is for anyone who is open to falling in love again.  A good lover, the right lover, will make you feel like a virgin ala’ Madonna circa 1984 in how they make you feel like you have never been touched.

– He respects that I have a life outside of him.  I was on a date once and I had to go to a writer’s club meeting and instead of being all greedy and encouraging me to stay with him for his pleasure which he could have talked me into especially if I thought I would lose him if I left, he made sure that I got to my writer’s group on time because he knew it was important to me.  Perhaps he was secure that I would come back to him.  He valued the parts of my life that made me “me.”  That is a man who knows how to love.

– He will rub my tummy and/or back when I am crampy and does not pressure me for sex. I have been informed that some other black women turn into evil beasts at that time of the month and every bit of unpleasantness that is usually suppressed in their nature comes out because she can “blame the hormones.”  I venture that she is probably a bitch 365 24/7 and she just pulls out all the stops. I am not saying I am an angel.  I have been known to complain and be lethargic, but it is ovulation is such a magical time, I just wait it out.

Advantages of Not Being a “Pretty Girl” at UK Backpage Site

“God help you are an ugly girl, but too pretty is also your doom, cause everyone has a secret hatred for the prettiest girl in the room.”  – “32 Flavors” Ani DiFranco

I was not a cute baby.  Come on people, you know that not all babies cute.  You know it, society knows it, even the baby’s own mother knows it.  I looked like my father when I was a baby, which would have been fine….if I were a boy.  I had fine light brown hair that was more or less fuzz on a round head, chubby cheeks, and way too intense light eyes that belong on any child.  To top it off, I had a profound speech impediment, kinda big for my age, socially awkward and a little defiant.

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All that is different is the speech impediment went away.

As a child, whether it was true or not, I believed I was rather masculine looking.  My mother, in an act of nothing short of cruelly cut my hair short when I was about six making matters that much worse.  I have not forgiven her to this day.  Not only did I look even more boyish, I missed out on all the grooming rituals young Birmingham girls engaging in like braiding or even holding back a Backpage friends long hair at the drinking fountain.  I was the only girl in my class with short hair.  There are pictures so I did not imagine this.  I believe this just compounded my social isolation.

Teen years did not help.  I was a “late bloomer,” shall we say.  Even to this day that term seems embarrassing and euphemistic.  I was also overweight but not in a womanly, shapely kind of way.  So yeah, boys didn’t really like me.  This was okay, I suppose, because I was so emotionally and physically immature that I did not really like boys that much either.  I guess I liked them in a theoretical kind of way like way one thinks they might enjoy the Caribbean but have never really visited.  One might listen to reggae music, see Backpage people return from cruises with tans so the Land of Boys did exist, I just had never been there and as far as I was concerned was a mythical and mysterious as Shangri-La.

Here’s the thing.  And if I believe the flattery of my classmates, I think it is true.  I look about the same I did in high school.  If anything, I am about two to three sizes smaller than when I graduated high school.  Where most people have gained 40 to 50 pounds since high school, I have lost it, but I am hardly thin.  My skin is clear, very few lines, not a lot of skin damage, and Lord knows I have not had any children to wreak havoc on my body and accelerate gravity in any way.  I tease that is just Mother Nature’s way of tricking some unsuspected sperm donor into believing I still have a few more years of beauty and fertility left to sire and heir.  At least I keep my hair dresser in Backpage business by covering up my roots lest my graying hair gives me away.

So, what is the benefit here?  What is the upside of social isolation and lack of experience with the opposite sex.

I am still trying to figure that out.  Even coming out of a 12 year marriage, I am still rather innocent, “sweet,” and woefully ignorant of men.  I believe that this makes me a danger to myself and others.  I am the weak and wounded of the herd and men can smell fresh meat.  This is going to get me in trouble.

But if you have never been pretty, you can hardly mourn the passing of that beauty.  If you were not a pretty teenager, you don’t mind if you don’t look like a teenager anymore.  If you were a size 24, (God, I hate to see that in black and white, much less on sewn in my jeans) you think you look pretty hot as a size 18.  Here is another thing I did not realize.  Men in their 30’s (and up) are less concerned with a little extra pounds as much as the attitude that comes with it.  I have never learned how to be unapproachable.  If a man says I am beautiful, I want to believe him.  This is a good and bad thing.  I might have to start to be more selective.

In earlier entries I tease that all that time without a Backpage date gave me time to develop a personality and a sense of humor.  And yeah, if people care enough to look past it, they see that some of those jokes can be defense mechanism.

I might not have been a cute kid, but I do believe I am a beautiful woman.  Please don’t hate me for thinking that.  Yeah, I am tall and “built like a brick shithouse,” whatever that means.  I think depending on the connotation that might be complimentary.  I don’t know.  The thing is, I guess you can’t miss that which you have never had.