Day Six: Small Comforts

Free-associating. Late.

And Power Girl is out dancing at a dive bar (In the car: "Now, what do you do, Third Friend, if someone asks to buy you a drink?" "I giggle and say nothing!" "No, you ask for something nice and give it to me if you don't want it!"), Hairline Boy is asleep in the next room and I am bumping slowly, slowly down dial-up road. That is to say, when I want to video-chat in my schoolgirl skirt with yet another musician, it has to be done in the parking lot of the coffee shop down the road - but that's tomorrow's post.

The first night I spent here, I slept alone. And then the next night Hairline Boy and I talked into the night, both of us a little wounded right now, and I asked him to share his bed given up to me. He said, "All I can do is sleep." I said, "I know."

He is faithful, as faithful to his distant girlfriend as he is to the choices and ideas that have kept him at a lower level of success than makes him happy. He is constant as penury, honest as paper plates, truthful as sloppy guitar playing. He is kind, universally so, even when kindness lays his heart on the table for the cleaver, ends his relationship, breaks up the band. He is exactly the sort of man who believes the woman he left his partner for when she says, "No, we can't openly see each other right away, and I have to see this other guy as a cover..."

He doesn't want anything from me. We flirt - a very little. His eyes sparkle when he looks at me. And each night we hold each other a little less tightly, grading down from drowning outside our depth to now, merely close. I still wake each time I roll over, surprised to find him there. His hands behave, his mouth stays shut, his heart is uncovered, but not in that way.

And that is why I advise when I know it will not be taken, that is why my expertise in his field is unwasted even if unreceived, that is why I pay him with two checks to be certain he will pay himself. Custom for me is payment in kind, base currency, the attitude of prayer, and that custom is unwelcome here.

I ask him, "Do you not have kitchen things due to circumstance or because you don't want them?" I think I will get him some knives, or nice glasses.

He says, "Like what?"

I say, "Like plates."

No, he does not want kitchen things. I can't give him what he wants. My usual band-aids are all wrong, don't cover a burn unless you have to. His wounds are drying out. I use my hands to wipe his face in the night, thumbs gently taking the tears from his eye sockets, asking if I can kiss his cheek with closed lips.

I can't fix it. I can't fix anything. So I change in the bathroom and come to bed in t-shirt and leggings, lie in his arms and wish him more like me, me more like him.

Cheating 101

Here’s the why. This is the how.

Husband and are coming up on fourteen years together, thirteen of them in a legal tax-sharing agreement recognized by our state and celebrated drunkenly by my dad, angrily by my mom, and privately by us in our home a month before the big day when, after the Reception Location Skirmish, the Battle of the Invitations and the Mother of the Bride’s Dress Melee, we realized that getting married and having a wedding are two only coincidently congruent events. I have cheated for at least ten of those years, maybe twelve, had permission to do so (of which I nonetheless violated both the spirit and the letter) for two, campaigned for that permission for six or seven years, and prior to that, just slept around.

He almost always knew. He almost always knows. I’m not that good a liar. But I’m a damn good cheater. Which brings us to our lesson for the day.

There’s no point in hiding your cheating if you want out – use it as an excuse, or better yet, pack your bags and leave the key behind. Sometimes cheating is an outlet, a vent, or a window through which to step back and view your full-time relationship. Ex-Lover was much kinder to his wife once he started sleeping with me. Their relationship got better. Better enough that he realized, even when it’s good, I don’t want to be here.

And your fulltime partner must want to keep you. It’s very, very easy to get caught, unless your partner has a vested interest in the status quo. When they want to believe you, to believe that things are okay, they will wrap their minds around excuses and alibis you wouldn’t buy from a class-cutting ninth-grader.

Yeah, people were running around with water balloons at the barbecue lunch today, James got me right in the head.

I got pulled over for not having a headlight, I think I should stay in Next State Over tonight and come back in the morning

I’m just a little edgy tonight, I’m gonna go for a drive.

Try to pick someone who has as much to lose as you do. At that early stage when you notice you really like them, that’s a good place to say to yourself, will this person lose their marriage, their job, their image, their security if they tell about me? If the answer is no, it’s worth turning your attentions elsewhere, filing them under Would’ve Been Nice.

Establish and maintain a reputation. I’m flaky about some things – I can leave the house for milk and come back three hours later with a new couch – and rock-solid on others. My friends all joke about how Husband and I talk on the phone nine times a day. Which means anyone I’m with has to be okay with me ducking into the bathroom, the other room, or the car to make call number eight. If I can’t take his calls because I’m fucking, I turn off the phone so I can claim bad reception later. Likewise, make your alibis realistic – if you’re in a restaurant, be in a restaurant. If you’re out of town, be in the same town you said you were. The easiest alibi is the whole truth minus your lover’s presence. And making your friends lie for you is hard to control, difficult to get the details straight, and rotten to your friends, who shouldn’t have that burden.

Lying to two people is hard, so don’t cheat with someone if you can’t tell them the truth. Why deal with angry vengefulness because you forgot to mention your fulltime partner? Why hurt someone who thinks you’re a potential permanent relationship if you don’t have to?

Finally, keep something sacred. Beyond health and safety (duh), if your partner is really worth keeping, it’s good to have something or things that keep you mindful. After our private wedding, Husband and I went for sushi, the food we love, the food we eat wherever we can. I do not eat sushi with lovers of any stripe – not takeout, not happens-to-be-at-the-Chinese-buffet, not one tuna roll from the grocery store. I have eaten sushi with ex-Lover once, before he was my lover. It was the night he became my friend.

It hurt me more when Husband took his girlfriend for sushi than that he had a girlfriend.

Ex-Lover still refuses to eat sushi with me.

Strikeout

This is the end of the story: I walk back to the hotel alone, the snow now a fine, driving crystalline miasma that pierces through my jeans, my leggings, hunches me down to the narrow vision of the sidewalk of the next six feet, the hurried glance at the crossing signal, the white man still flashing go-go-go as I cautiously run the last fifty yards, all grace gone in the effort to achieve, at least, the door.

***

Kieran is the most enthusiastic dancer in the room. His hands on my waist, on my ass, draw me into the leg-straddling grind that passes for dancing these days (old enough to say “these days,” old enough to not recognize most of the songs) but also twirl me in and out of his arms, speak to me with his fingers that sing along, mouthing money and booty and all my ho’s as well as I love you and you’re so fucking beautiful you’re so hot. He buys me a ginger ale, he asks me repeatedly if I’m a cop, because I don’t drink. He’s a Native, I am the only light-skinned, thin-featured, light-haired person in the room of “you wanna see some wagonburners?” asked the Iranian doorman as he ushered me past frisking and metal detectors and a $25 cover. Turns out it’s the after-party for the Pow-Wow Gathering, everyone here played lacrosse all day, shook their tailfeathers on the stadium floor, shared stories and beading techniques while I drove through snow to get to the Big City, checked in, went out, passing the first two clubs (long, huddled lines of thick coats over bare legs, the last smoke in line before getting in), thankful the hotel is only two blocks away. I followed the Power Girl list, I crunched and pushed up to all of Behind The Music: America’s Next Top Model until I glowed, I showered, I changed pants three times and settled on jeans, I bought my own first ginger ale, and I am going to get laid.

Kieran takes a break, joins his friends, dances with other girls, dances with me again after I dance alone and with another man, an ironworker who abandons me when it turns out I don’t smoke anything, either. I am beautiful tonight, I am wearing my favorite top (turns out there’s a hook that keeps it closed in front, didn’t find that out until I got back to the hotel), I have good hair, I am made up the right amount, and according to Kieran I am fucking sexy. If nothing else, I will have had two hours of cardio, interrupted only by a wait in the bathroom to take off the leggings beneath my jeans, I am finally warm enough.

We talk, as much as one can in a club. He says, You are so beautiful. I thank him. He says, Where are you staying? I tell him my hotel. I tell him, You should come home with me. He says, I would never let a girl like you slip through my fingers. He asks when I want to leave. Maybe half an hour? I say. He asks what I do. I tell him he won’t believe me, but he touches my arms, my waist, my thighs with both his hands, and believes me. Kieran kisses me, and his lips are as strong and soft as his hands on me, I cannot wait to have him in me and on me and under me, and then he asks,

How come a girl like you is single?

And that’s the part of the story where no matter how literary I can be with telling what may not have happened but is the truth, no matter how I can bend the world with words, fingerpaint the pretty picture from the primary details, I cannot fail to tell the fact.

I’m married. I’m in an open relationship.

And Kieran, who describes himself as a bad, bad boy, who claims to do bad things, turns out to have a strong moral conviction that it’s wrong to mess with another man’s wife.

********

The next morning, I lie in bed, waking after four hours of fitful sleep, waking again and again to check the clock, the phone, the clock again, make sure I have not missed the call from Fucked-Up Guy, my early breakfast date. Last night we would have met, but when you have custody, you’re subject to the vagaries of your sixteen-year-old sitter’s social life. After two weeks of Facebook poking and subtle messaging (does the girlfriend still have the passwords or doesn’t she?) we have finally made a date, which he breaks without calling.

The ex is still the last man I fucked. This is not OK.

This is not OK.

This is not OK.

Flashes

So I get these…flashes. Call it too many years of paying attention. As a 15-16-17-year-old I told fortunes on the street, it was my self-created summer job, between selling shoes and the accessories store. And yeah, half of that, 70 percent of that, 90 percent of that is crap. It doesn’t take a genius to look at another teenage girl and say, “Your parents don’t understand you.” “Ohmigod! Becki! She’s so right!”

But every now and then, something happens.

Last year, prior to his departure, I told a friend about getting ripped off on his travels, that he would have it happen twice, once small, once large. Two months later I spent ten days strongly suggesting he put his cash into travelers’ checks, and when his hostel roommate got his PDA, phone, porn, new jeans, and 1500 euros on Day Eleven, I did not say “I told you so.” The guy was pretty slick – even took the respective chargers, leaving behind the cord for the phone that was being carried by my friend.

I’ve come bolt awake, shaking, before dawn three mornings in a row. No light coming in the windows, not hungry (still), don’t have to pee. Just – present. I see Lover’s next trip. I see his thing with Cute Girl. I see dead people, yeah, whatever.

Are they earthshaking? Maybe not. One thought would be nice to know for his trip, maybe save some frustration, but it wouldn’t kill him. But the other – I could be way off base, or it could be a huge thing forestalled by some simple precautions. Or maybe my subconscious is just trying to make trouble.

So the question becomes, where is my moral obligation? Is this – I hesitate to call it sight, it comes in words, in the form of a question phrased in the affirmative, answered, why, yes - truly something vital? Or merely my brain’s frantic, jealous attempt to connect? If I say nothing, and something happens, have I hurt someone through non-action?

- - -


In older times, and sometimes still, mad people were sedated in a “wet pack.” Nurses and orderlies used strips of linen to bind the struggling, thrashing patient to a board, then mummify them in wet sheets, stop the jerking, the running, the flailing. If you got a little better, sometimes they would let you have your arms free.

Maybe that would stop the shaking.

Cards on the Table (and a bit of The Code)

The first night. Midrange hotel bar. Green felt cloths. Warming trays of meatballs and chicken wings and mini eggrolls shining moistly in their own grease, nothing I can, at this moment, eat.

He comes and hugs me. Fucked-Up Guy. First hand, two years ago, end of the event and we flirted over bad burgers and catered potato salad and he drank open bar while I nibbled orange slices and maraschino cherries out of a fruited Shirley Temple. He wanted a shower before the long drive home, I offered my room (I once bought ten pairs of underwear shopping with his girlfriend, hoping that new lacy things would make Husband love me again), he considers for a moment and shakes his head, “If it’s the first time, it shouldn’t be rushed,” he says and when the beer begins to wear off he’s on the road, headed for good fathership.

Second deal, we’ve Myspaced a bit but nothing committed, neither taking the step of recognizing or asking what’s going on. In the bar, Fucked-Up Guy launches immediately into the story of his relationship, Chapter Now. They are living separately, she could no longer stand how he minimized his email every time she walked into the room. He gave up all his passwords, he has to be good, she might be watching. He and I have never had problems finding sex on the road, he’s having a hard time knowing whether to enjoy being separated or practice being better at being together. I can’t tell, so I ask, after the second time he mentions his room number, “I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be respecting your limits or pushing you over the edge.”

“I don’t know, either.” He’s rueful, he has no cards in the hole. I’m strung up like a high E wire, It’s been three weeks of housing close enough to not bother to pack my toys, shared time, shared car, so much work I can’t even step into a bathroom with a likely prospect. The meet and mingle drifts to a close, I’ve located my room, Fucked-Up Guy calls over his shoulder on his way upstairs, “I’m in Five-Oh-Three!” Raise. I call his bluff, and spend the evening giving myself a facial. The kind that comes from Wal-mart.

The Code
Play with your equals. Don’t use superior ability to overwhelm the young, the inexperienced, the awestruck. If they’ve never played this game before, take the time to find out what they think the rules are, what they hope for, what they fear.

Don’t take advantage of people when they’re down…

The next day, shoulder to shoulder, I end up kneeling in front of him several times, innocent context made naughty by my look. I ask, “Let me know if you want to be shoved.” “Last night I wouldn’t have had any resistance,” he says, looking down at my upturned face. “I know.” It’s not fun to play if you know you’ll win. Uncertainty is the spice, the goad, the challenge. Why play with someone who has to be coddled along? Raise, raise, raise. Strike your strongest blow and lose your balance when they pull... “I’m your friend, first,” I say. “If it happens, great. If it’s weird for you, tell me, I won’t be hurt.” Fucked-Up Guy knows I’m cool with whatever happens, he knows I know it’s not me. “That’s why it has to be now, in daylight, this is when I can make a real decision,” he says. We are playing with all our cards on the table. The question is not who is bluffing, but can we assemble a decent hand from what we’ve got.

That night, he’s drunk and dressed as a queen. Don’t ask. Again, I sleep alone, restless, strung out. I’m also not so much flirting as enjoying a barely concealed antagonism with another fellow on this project, BitterMan. I like assholes, every now and then I get a thing for someone who treats me with slight contempt. It’s a challenge.

The next day, Fucked-Up Guy smiles, rearranges his schedule to leave early, whispers, “thanks” in my ear. “I don’t take advantage of drunks,” I tell him and he laughs. We take a group photo. I lean against him, his body is so strong and solid, his hand around my back, he jokingly reaches for my breast and stops, my hand on his ass. There’s something so reassuringly big about him, I feel like I am leaning on a wall of comfort. I want this. Just not today.


At the elevator after a long and flirty dinner, I know BitterMan is hunting PowerGirl and we all know it’s not going to happen, but I’m past the point of reasonable caution and I stop for a moment. “Let me know if you’re up for it.” BitterMan is blindsided, it takes him a minute to process. “What?” “I lobbed a pass. You missed it.” He’s so not into me. I’m busted, flushed. I pace my room, debate calling for a second try, and foolishly do it, leading to only more embarrassment. Fortunately, it’s Harry Potter night. So I drive into the fog and search the city for a book I’m pretty sure I can’t get either, the white air around me veiling my humiliation.

Bits and Pieces

...One of the greatest feelings in the world is, after resolutely remaining as asleep as possible while the children across the aisle watch a bad, loud dvd with their father hovering over them in the aisle, forcing everyone who passes to whack me in the head with their rear end (and damn, despite the bathroom being on the other end of the plane there are a lot of passersby) and then waking for real, bleary, dry, hoping against hope that we are more than three hours – halfway – through the flight, and hearing, “Flight attendants, please prepare for landing, crosscheck...”
...here’s what makes a well-paid job: 1) Providing services not available elsewhere (whoring, specialized medicine); 2) High levels of personal danger when carrying out the job (logging, drug dealing, whoring); 3) Lack of willing job applicants (air conditioner repair, whoring); 4) High level of personal responsibility for the service recipient (medicine, whoring)...
...On the continuing theme of Mandy’s Not A Very Nice Person Now Is She, I made an intern cry yesterday. In the middle of an intense part of our job, I sent her to get me something I urgently needed and used a nasty tone of voice. After the hoo-hah was over, I noticed her teary and apologized profusely, explaining that no, it wasn’t her and in fact she had done fabulous work all day, and my tone had nothing to do with her performance and everything to do with my hyped-up state of mind. There were more apologies and a cash bonus later for all as our client was very pleased, and other people who work with me let her know that yeah, sometimes Mandy does that and it’s so not you. Internship Lesson for the Day: sometimes the boss is a bitch. There’s nothing you can do but your job until it blows over...
...On the continuing theme of Mandy’s A Self-Aggrandizing Egomaniac, one of my favorite quotes: “If everyone likes you, you must not be very good.” Discuss.

My Mother. Oh, My Mother…

I get a forwarded email from my mother. She got it from her friend Racist Homophobette (who hasn’t yet figured out why her oldest son is unmarried at 45 and doesn’t date).

It purports to be a screed by Andy Rooney. It’s not – Rooney’s quoted on Snopes saying he’d like to sue whoever started this nasty, racist piece as he feels it’s damaged his name.

The gist: why can’t white people have things for themselves if black people have special things like magazines and TV networks – isn’t that reverse racism? Followed hard upon by no girls in the Boy Scouts, guns don’t kill people people kill people, homosexuality is bad, why don’t those immigrants speak English and why do they get any social services, tattoos and piercings are bad (it’s pretty wide-ranging) and wraps up with, “since 86% of Americans believe in God” (which one?) we should tell the other 14% to “shut up and be quiet.” It concludes with “If you agree, forward this, if you don’t, delete.” Ah yes – speak up and be heard, unless you disagree, in which case shut up and be quiet.

And me, I can’t let it lie.

I address the misapplication of non-specific pseudo-statistics, point out that my brother is gay and my friends (I avoid the words ‘lovers’ and ‘clients’, tee hee) are black, mention that I’ve been beaten (briefly) by cops so maybe they’re not always right, and ask if Andy Rooney really said this, or did someone else throw his name on it and start sending it around?

I get personal:

…naming a majority as a reason for rightness reminds me of "well, all my friends are doing it..." …I'm a little embarrassed that my mother, who taught me to stand up for what is right instead of what is convenient and popular, would send me this…Up to you whether you forward this back to Racist Homophobette.

I, of course, cc it to all the family members my mother cc’d it to.

My brother points out it’s not Andy Rooney. My aunt replies back that it doesn’t matter who wrote it, it’s their opinion, “some valid points, some invalid.”

And you know, it occurs to me that it does matter who wrote it. If it's a
public figure, we weight their words more heavily than if it's just some internet nobody taking advantage of not having to spend money to spread around their words. Would Homophobette have sent it to all her friends if it was from Joe Blow she'd never heard of?

My mother is from a generation where the internet is a way to do business and a fun toy, but I get most of my news and information in this way. It personally benefits me to call people on lies, misrepresentations, and lack of accuracy in the emails they forward to all their friends, because I'd rather have an internet that's more of a library and less of a bathroom wall.

More importantly, it matters who forwards it. Would my mother – or even her friend – write in a public newspaper, with their name attached, the same sentiments? It’s safer to mass-forward an email supposedly written by a funny columnist without thinking very much about the subtle hate speech involved. When you forward an email, you endorse what it says. In this case, explicitly, as per the last line of the email. I'm not comfortable letting my family think I'm willing to go along with gay-bashing, immigrant-bashing, and racism, and "just delete."

I write to my aunt (cc-ing to everyone, why withhold the potential for family drama?)

…casual hate speech is worse than deliberate hate speech, because we take it in without thinking when it comes in a funny email instead of from a guy in a white hood. Maybe I'm one of the horrible PC people the original writer alludes to - but if he had the guts to sign his real name and stand up for what he believes, his polemic would carry a lot more weight.

Which leads me to think, am I the pot? You are, after all, reading an anonymous blog. But there is a difference, not only in that I am not claiming to be someone more important or more established to give weight to my opinions, but also that I have a persona you can use for context. You may not know Mandy, but you know “Mandy”, and she accepts comments, answers emails, and engages in dialogue when people disagree.

Feel free to forward...the name is Mandy Muse.

Art 1, Honesty/Chastity/Fidelity 0

One of the Gentle Readers comments:

The writing that's coming from your experiences is excellent, but what of the costs? Is the thrill worth having to lie to your husband, betray his trust and potentially put his health at risk? Is the creative product worth choosing to be an untrustworthy person?

I don't characterize what I'm doing as a "thrill", which I think demeans the ability of art to transcend the raw materials. I'm not in this for (cheap) thrills. I sleep around because I love the people I'm with and I'm not inherently monogamous. I whore for money and, as I am now discovering, to 'only connect'.

On one hand, I'm not Picasso. On the other, no-one said to Pablo, "Hey, you're a lousy husband and father and kind of a man-slut, why don't you give up this art thing and focus on your home life for awhile?" I suspect that this is in part because I'm female, but much more because I write about sex, which we as a society feel is unworthy of risk-taking to obtain, even while almost every popular depiction of "good sex" involves wild passion, adultery, one-night stands, violating social mores, obtaining the unattainable through heroic acts, near-rape, etc.

Right now, right or wrong, I identify the life I am leading as the major source of my creative power. I can no more choose between my husband and my writing than I could choose a favorite child. The other analogy that occurs is that of being in the military - is it fundamentally irresponsible to risk one's life in Iraq if you have dependents who will be widowed and fatherless if anything happens to you? This analogy presupposes that one finds making art to be as important and vital as serving one's country. I do find it so.

I said in an earlier post that

I think it’s worthwhile to do reprehensible things for the sake of making art. That’s why art must be good, why we cannot settle for average in our work. It must be worthy of the time spent cheating on the spouse, avoiding the friends, half-heartedly grading the students’ papers, ignoring the crying child kicking at the locked door of the room of one’s own.

And

I'd rather make great art than a great person

The struggle now is whether I'd rather make great art than be a great person.

So far Art has Human Kindness cornered in the Girls' Room with a pack of Sharpies and it's not looking good.

Dirty Little Secrets 2 (You Must Be This Tall to Ride This Ride)

Beautiful Girl commented beautifully, after I also mentioned to her privately that she might consider this line of work:

nice- glad there was a turnaround, my dear. i might try it, but there is something that wouldn't wash away, though i appreciate you thinking that i could. i am too essentially hippy, too uninterested in modifying my righteous me.[...] normal boys think twice about it. boys who pay... same as being paid to make music. there is a large sense of control that is lost.[...]

[...]i wish you were here to share in the night and the moon and the simpler things which do not involve boys and caring what they want and don't want. don't forget, dear one. you are more than the sum of these experiences, though they are heady and draw the attention like an exotic city seen first by night, with its lights and its music and its rhythm.

you are more.

She's right. Parts of it don't wash away. I noticed myself identifying with the group "prostitutes" when hearing that the group is being persecuted, and it's strange to feel one's identity shift. (A bisexual friend is married to a woman, all his long-term relationships have been with women, but he still calls himself "queer" because "when they load up the boxcars, that's who I want to be with.") No matter what else I do in my life from here, I've been a whore, and that's an indelible stamp in the passport that must be guarded forever. Once you go to Israel...

But this journey has led to a spate of writing like nothing ever before and so far the cost is high but worth every penny. Because I am writing about it, it's not about boys. Even when I am with someone, I am writing in my head and that is something they can't and don't touch, and right now it's burning so strong that it burns away a lot of the ick.

If I had to sell 20-dollar blowjobs on the corner to be able to write this well and prolifically (and hey, it's ego but I know when I'm good) I would do it. I would do anything short of shooting up to have this writing, and that's only a limit because I'm afraid of needles.

I said to Power Girl(and probably blogged)when I first started, "the memory of fucking him is already fading, but his money's still in my purse."

It's not about the money anymore. It's that for whatever reason, this is the risk that stimulates me. This is my wooden coaster, looking like it's been assembled by an old guy with a rachet set, the tracks shaking overhead while I wait in line, the jolting of the cars so strong I have to ride in the front seat only.

At the top

of the Pepsi Max One (longest-tallest-
fastest) you can see Blackpool laid out
beneath, the map edged with sea

spreading across the shingle, spreading
across the world.

There's a reason the E-ticket costs the most.

Safari

Outfitting
The musicians didn’t suck. Thank goodness. The fellow with too much receding hairline (lead vocals) and the hot black guy (bass) both made meaningful eye contact with me over several casual interactions, and I chatted with them in a muse-ish way, how they might develop their sound, other places they might perform. I asked what else they do (musicians generally do something else): hairline boy teaches music lessons on the side, and hot black guy is…wait for it…very high up in a governmental agency in which he does something complex with behavioral intervention psychology. My estimate of his worth rises exponentially. So I’ll be calling him Secret Scientist. Sorry, Hairline Boy, you’re screwed.

Still-Hunting
Power Girl and I go to dinner with Secret Scientist and Hairline Boy. Casual pizza, Secret Scientist and I stand in line to order for the table. I pull out money for the girls’ share. SS waves it away. Point! He also turns out to be 37, about ten years older than he looks. Double Points! While we’re eating, I casually let my leg touch his leg, and play a very careful conversational tennis between the boys and another lady who has joined us and is less attractive than we are. I’m not judging her looks, I’m judging her role as a hanger-on. (We are also prettier.) Power Girl eats pizza in a state of beatific observational glee as I move on Secret Scientist, Hairline Boy gives me sparkly eyes, and the hanger-on responds earnestly to my inquiries about her role in the chemical industry. Between ‘accidental’ touches and “gee-you’re-nice-but-sorry-I’m-married” looks, I learn quite a bit about refining.

Stalking
After a discussion of fans who don’t know when to quit in which Power Girl and I explain to the boys that any girl who PM’s you wants to do you, there is no other reason for a girl to PM a guy (longtime friends and short exchanges about the Chem notes excepted), we all head home. Hairline Boy hugs me for that crucial I-wanna-do-you amount of time. So does Secret Scientist, who rests his arm around my waist during goodbyes. I text him: So what are my chances?

Persistence Hunting
I generally prefer a direct club to the head. He hasn’t gotten my text. I rescue him from a group of hangers-on and tell him I texted him. He asks what I said. Then he tells me my chances would be excellent…were it not for his longtime live-in girlfriend. (Waa-waa-waaaahhhh….) I am torn. Karma-wise, I’m trying to be a better person, I should respect his thing and enjoy our flirting and not push.

Regroup. Hang out with the band and chat normally. Throughout the time we’re around each other, he and Hairline Boy each find excuses to talk to me alone, more than once one arriving as the other departs. Power Girl nearly wets herself with amusement. I casually ask Secret Scientist out of hearing, “So, does head count?” He says he believes in quid pro quo…

The last time I see him today, he waits patiently while I deal with business, then we sit alone but publicly. I tell him my deal with Husband, that I have a lover, that I like being with new people. He tells me about his girlfriend whom he wants to be with but doesn’t want to marry (minus half a point!). He’s committed to cooking at home tonight. He’s been flirted with before, often, but never with someone who “put their cards on the table” the way I do. I’m straddling a bench and in the tension between us I am oh-so-conscious of the pressure of my pussy on the metal. He is slightly dominant. He feels polyamorous. I like him. I say, “I’d like to kiss you but it’s too public here.” His thoughts exactly. “Step into my parlor,” I say and lead him somewhere marginally more private but not by much.

We stand. He looks. I step forward and put my hands on his shoulders, reach for his mouth with mine. His tongue is strong and slender and firm in my mouth. I suck it gently, part my lips as his arms go around me. One hand strays towards my breast, he’s not quite brave enough yet. We step back. Eyes. He comes to me this time, his hand solid on the small of my back, his mouth covering mine. I run my hand up the inside of his leg, stopping low enough so that he will think of me all night, cooking dinner, sleeping next to girlfriend.

Tomorrow, we go to the circus.

They Say It Broadens the Mind

A trip. Two trips, one inside the other, the everyday (to me) shell of another business-related trip, the hidden yolk a side trip to Be-My-Real-Friend’s city for our first meeting. I want to sightsee (with him) in his city, I want to see my girlfriend Computer Whiz who also lives there, I want to see if being my real self works, I want to see if we like each other in person, I want the cash.

Husband’s red suitcase on the bed. Easier to pack a larger bag than make choices. Outside big zippy pocket: files I don’t need handy on the trip. Outside little zippy pocket: extra pens, razor, tampons - Oh dear God, I’ve timed my period wrong.

(I take my pills continuously instead of taking the week off, I can go three months in a row, no mess, no expensive tampons, and it lowers the risk for ovarian cancer. Having had part of my cervix chopped already, I’m in no mood to go another round. No, wait – count the days. Stop bleeding Friday, new pills on Sunday, fly on Tuesday to see Be-My-Real-Friend, it’s all right. Back to cancer – Lover found the lump in a place Husband’s fingers hadn’t been for months and didn’t know well enough to compare.)

Main compartment. Underwear, socks, tights, remember there will be laundry, I only need four days’ worth.

Plus some extras.

Plus tights I might be in the mood to wear. Plus one more pair of socks for sleeping in. Plus pretty underwear, in case I meet someone. Whore underwear doesn’t count against the I-should-pack-less-total. I don’t know if I’ll wear mine or the whore’s with Be-My-Friend.

T-shirts (three exactly alike, I know what I wear), a long-sleeve shirt. Call out to Husband, “Can you look up the weather in Big City and DC for me?” I’m going to travelogue later so I might as well reveal – it’s a big enough place. Husband reports back – two more long-sleeve shirts.

Bag of sex toys, I love masturbating alone in hotel rooms. They probably won’t come out with Be-My-Real-Friend, I’d rather just be with a person the first time. The tiny glass dish from Epcot Japan, there’s a real branch of Mitsukoshi there. Lucky Cat (white for patience). Two plastic pigs from Husband that touch noses on hotel bedside tables in Prague, in Dayton, in Seattle. Two pictures in tough plastic frames, one of the cats, one of Husband, cooking something for his fellow workers three summers ago. He looks up over the pot, white collared shirt open at the neck, his hair in two tiny pigtails, I forget why.

A carefully timed dash to my office, while Husband changes the laundry, nets my whore bag, the phone off for more than a month now. I discard the candles that have been at other appointments, substitute some ginseng tealights, a new smell for a new plan. The bag with condoms, lube, toothbrush, mouthwash, not sure how much I’ll need but it’s faster than sorting and I don’t want to get caught. I add four outfits, I don’t know how dressy dinner will be. Kenneth Cole heels with a Mary Jane strap, my favorite, bought in Vegas years ago and still in style, still the most expensive shoes I own. Patent boots with spike heels. Stockings. Garter belt. Whore underwear, the bits of lace only suitable for being seen in and rubbing on.

Guidebook. Metro stops. Restaurants. Hotels (I still haven’t booked, trusting in Hotwire and faith). Markets. Helpful articles about the history of the city, about which I know very little. Shopping. Sights. Museums. Useful Addresses. Emergency Information. Sadly, no section marked “Tricky New Relationship, Navigation Of.”

Tired and Tremulous

I feel like Madeline Kahn.

My last full day off was Easter (I used it to clear my desk). My next full day off is Tuesday the 24th. I went into work today with a terrible attitude and was horrible to my co-workers, one of whom is in charge of a large project that she's feeling overwhelmed by. If I tell her it's just not that big a deal, it demeans the project, which is a first for her on a few levels. If I agree that yes, it's a huge deal, it just puts more weight on her shoulders.

But back on topic.

I've been corresponding with Be-My-Real-Friend, by which I mean he writes me long emails, I answer one out of ten and call him when I have time. He doesn't nag, or phone at bad times. So far, this is working great, as far as I'm concerned. I like reading what he has to say, and I'm glad he is OK with my getting back when I can. The battle is to make sure I keep my head aligned on, "I've talked to him about as much as I've talked to Beautiful Girl this month, and she's my best friend. I am not short-changing him as a friend, and he has expressly said he doesn't want my paid attention, he just happens to be giving me money so I can carve out the time to see him."

We've set a date for me to fly to see him. He's sent a deposit for the plane ticket and hotel. It's a city I enjoy visiting, and we're going to look at buildings and stroll through neighborhoods. Battle #2 is to stay me, to not defer past politeness into customer service, to act like the superior bitch I am instead of the "woman who can't wait to have sex with you" that I act like with clients. To truly take him at his word, make him work for it the way I would with any non-client, be the tease I am, make it feel edgy and slippery and doubtful.

It's still a sure thing.

I'd feel like a very, very bad person accepting the plane and hotel, let alone the cash, and not follow through at the moment of truth. The Victorians had a point when they restricted what presents a lady could safely accept without compromising herself. But we've had enough chat that I find him likeable, and he's cute in a craggy sort of way.

I'm very curious to see if I can pull this off. If so, it's the first step into courtesan-ship. If not, at least I'll learn something. And I do think he's the kind of guy who can laugh and say, "That sucked, let's do something else." Hopefully, even (if necessary), "someone else."

On Parenting

At the end of White Oleander, both the book and the movie (which I recently re-read and saw, respectively), Ingrid Magnussen admits to her daughter Astrid that when Astrid was a toddler, Ingrid left her with a neighbor for a year, “give or take a few months.” She confesses what a relief it was to be free,

To go to the bathroom by myself. To take a nap in the afternoon. To
make love all day long if I wanted, and walk on the beach, and not have
to think, where’s Astrid? What’s Astrid doing? What’s she going to get
into? And not having you on me all the time, Mommy Mommy Mommy,
clinging to me, like a spider…

Ingrid tells Astrid that she felt like a hostage. Astrid retorts, “That’s what babies are like.”

Fitch commented in an interview:

A child will take up 100 percent of you if you let them. It’s only
natural for them to want that, to try for that. So motherhood’s a dance
between individual needs and the needs of your child…Ingrid’s failing
is that she had a child but refused to dance with her.

When Janet Fitch originally wrote the short story that was the genesis for the novel, Ingrid was the protagonist. Everyone hated her, thought she was a monster, said you couldn’t possibly tell the story through her eyes, no-one wanted to empathize with her as the main character. And so the book took shape as Astrid’s story.

It’s a great book. And a lot of bad stuff happens to Astrid in a series of foster homes. But even after reading about the shooting and the foster-mother’s suicide and the blowing juvenile delinquents for weed and the eventual growing to adulthood without her mother, when Astrid confronts Ingrid at the end of the book, I think, well, yeah, no wonder Ingrid needed some time alone. She’s an artist.

I think it’s worthwhile to do reprehensible things for the sake of making art. That’s why art must be good, why we cannot settle for average in our work. It must be worthy of the time spent cheating on the spouse, avoiding the friends, half-heartedly grading the students’ papers, ignoring the crying child kicking at the locked door of the room of one’s own.

I suspect I will not be a very good parent.

In fact, I strongly suspect I’m not really fit to be a parent – I’d rather make great art than a great person (I think). I also don’t believe in an ideal childhood, and I actually hope I can settle for average in that field instead of frustrating myself by reaching for the unattainable. Everyone I know is, to some extent, fucked up by their parents. Not that they were beaten with coat hangers or burned with curling irons or molested in the kitchen while the rest of the family sat down to Sunday dinner, but that no matter how much love we receive, it’s never the amount we desire. The yearnings of unfulfilled desire are what make us discover and seek and create, in an effort to attain the recognition and love we feel we deserve. Survivors are a lot more interesting than the protected, and probably contribute a lot more to the world.

If you like who you are, you have to be okay with what you’ve come from. Bad times make us tough. We know we can survive. And if we’re inclined to making art, they give us subjects for our work.

My mother is a lovely woman. Pleasant, pretty, nurturing, handy around the house, cooked lovely meals, made some of the kids’ clothes, mostly a stay-at-home mom. But it’s my dad about whom I blog…

Bits and Pieces

…I’m seeing Sexual Athlete, my very own Energizer Bunny, next week. He’s thrilled. He’s clean, reasonably fit, nice, gives free legal advice, and he seems to be revealing similar tastes in sex. I wish I liked him more – he’s my best client thus far, is starting to book 2-hour appointments and doesn’t ever bitch about the price – and I’m trying to judge how much to let myself go with him. On the one hand, I’ll probably enjoy our appointments a lot more if I’m real. On the other, he did send me that card…
…In a related development, Sexual Athlete emailed me detailing how complimented he was that I pulled out a Magnum (instead of regular) condom for him (he’s only slightly bigger than average, but it was the one on top). Apparently, it was a total turn-on. Who’d-a-thunk…
…Lover sends me a cryptic text message. I respond “I don’t understand.” Lover later phones and apologizes for sending a flirty message intended for another woman to my phone. I say, “I had no idea that was the case…but I do now.” Turns out he didn’t actually send me the wrong message, the one meant for me just wasn’t well-phrased. This is, I think, a lesson in recognizing Lover’s status as fellow-adventurer rather than being the dog in the manger I would like to be. Worship isn’t enough – I want exclusivity. Even though I’m fucking other people (oh, yeah, and married) and we’re in cities several states apart for the foreseeable future. Totally unreasonable of me, I know. It’s a process…
…Sign in a salon window: “Nothing Says ‘I Love You’ Like a Makeover!!!” Aw, honey, I love you. But you’re ugly…

When is a Whore Not a Whore?

A new “client” (you’ll get the quotes in a minute) wants to see me. Wants, in fact, to phone me, email me, get to know me, fly me to his city, wine me and dine me (or rather, participate in my equivalent of museums, gardens, and interesting used book shops), presumably nail me, and, most importantly to him, be my friend. And have me be his.

The price is right, it’s a city I like, and he’s a nice fellow. But, he’s been very specific – he doesn’t want it to be an escort-client relationship. Not just that he doesn’t want it to *feel* that way – he doesn’t want it to *be* that way. Ay, there’s the rub.

To whore or not to whore, that is the question?
Whether tis nobler in the heart to suffer
The truth and actions of a real relationship
Or to take cash against a sea of trouble
And by accepting, play him
False.

See, that’s it – it would be…tacky…to accept that level of hospitality and not put out. Our Victorian ancestors had their reasons for dictating that ladies not accept gifts other than flowers, books and chocolates from their admirers. Even a pair of gloves was a daring attempt to compromise her virtue and pretend an intimacy that should not exist. But if he wants to know me for real, well, the real me doesn’t usually fuck on the first date. Anymore.

There’s potential for a muse-type relationship. He’s working on an artistic project and I’ve given the wee-est bit of feedback. There’s potential for friendship – I find him reasonably engaging, we have common interests. And clearly, he’s willing to step up to the plate to fund my trip to see him, as I would expect from most men who want to fuck me.

But no matter what he actually wants, the wall between us is that having taken his cash, I will feel accountable for sex. I think – I know - he would genuinely welcome my usual smart-ass, non-suck-up self. But I don’t know if that girl’s going to be into him enough to do some actual sucking upward. And if that’s the case, I’ll feel guilty as hell.

Ostensibly, the money one gives a “service provider” is not for sex. It’s for time. Sometimes “time and companionship.” And we all accept the fiction, knowing that at two or three hundred dollars an hour, the companionship’s likely to be pretty…companionable. But this time around, that’s most of what he’s actually paying for.

Is my friendship buyable?

Is it appropriate, should a true friendship develop in the time between now and when I see him, to accept a cash gift that large from a new friend?

How the heck did those French mistresses with the paid-for apartments, fur coats, diamond necklaces and monthly allowances do it? I suspect it would be a lot easier if I could figure out what the modern equivalent of my milliner’s bill is and just send him that…

Well. The deal is...

I've been getting the question a lot - "what's the deal?" with Husband and Lover and Big City Lover and other lovers and whoring and Me. And I was waiting to write something poetic and cool, but it's late and I didn't post yesterday and I feel guilty because Tom Paine wrote me something really nice and I have something in mind to write for him and C., and I haven't had a chance. Bitch, whine, moan. So here's The Deal.

Twelve years ago, I *thought* that what was happening was that I was getting married before I was ready. In fact, what was happening was that I was buying into the idea - widespread in America - that once I, a normal healthy girl, met the right normal healthy guy, I would stop liking more than one guy and stop wanting to have flirty fun sex and dirty raw sex with lots and lots of people.

Wrong-O, Mary-Lou.

At first I thought there must be something wrong with me. Everyone else manages to be monogamous, right? (Wrong)

After 12 years of lying and cheating - I am now at the age where I used to think I would get married, except I've been married the whole time - and 5 years of advocating for an open relationship, and a lot of therapy and going to the SAA meetings where I was the only girl but my therapist said that was fine because I tend to look at relationships like men do, anyway - I finally said this. Apropos of nothing. We were in the car. I wasn't currently in therapy. We weren't even having a relationship discussion.

Husband: Is everything all right?

Mandy: Yes.

Husband: Oh, good.

Mandy: I love you with all my heart and I don't ever want to leave you and you are my soul mate. But I am not monogamous and I don't think I ever can be. I will give you anything that is in my power to give you, and monogamy is not a gift I have in me to give. It's not something I'm capable of, and I don't want to be. I understand if you can't be with me any more because of that, but that's what I am and I can't lie to the person I love best in the world about who I am.

Husband: Have you been sleeping with other people this whole time?

Mandy: Yes.

Husband: Are you now?

Mandy: Yes.

Husband: I just don't want you to leave me.

Mandy: I'm not going to leave you. Ironically enough, I feel like if I was going to leave you, I've already gone through the "wow, this is a great new guy, what if?" stage and learned that it's not permanent and I don't want to leave.

Husband: Oh.

Mandy: I don't sleep with anyone you know and I don't do anything in our town. And it's important to me that you still come first all the time, like always taking your calls.

Husband: Well, that's good.

(Interlude with hugging, crying, and reaffirming that we want to stay together)

Mandy: So do you want to know details or anything like that?

Husband: I'll ask if I want to know.

("And...Scene!")

So it's just like when I was lying and cheating, except I'm allowed to be. He doesn't ask, I don't tell. I don't shame him or rub his nose in it or make it obvious - I mostly see people when I am already out of town. Though I do make some special trips for Lover.

However...I am still technically lying and cheating, because Husband has expressed his preference for me to have one-night stands, rather than an ongoing relationship with someone who he feels might threaten our partnership, and what I in fact have is occasional sex with friends and an ongoing, serious secondary partnership with someone I say "I love you" to and who owns part of me that no-one else ever touches.

Oh, and Husband has specifically and by name forbidden me to have sex with Lover...

Ah, sluttiness. How I dishonor you.

Sure, Yeah, I Own This Body...Don't I?

Big City Lover is in town. He has fetched up about 90 minutes distant, in for a week while Husband is gone (pure coincidence). He would like me to come and see him.

If I see him, we will probably fuck.

I we fuck, I will have to tell him I am a whore. BCL and I generally have condom-less sex, he knows I have another lover with whom I also have condom-less sex (they have met, warily) and occasional lovers with whom I have covered-sex and I have promised to tell BCL if that situation ever changes. You see, BCL has a child. So it is not just his own well-being at stake, but also that of a charming young lady only recently un-grounded for her forbidden forays into Myspace.

I don't want to fuck. I especially don't want to drive 90 minutes in sleet, arrive after dinner-time having bolted something in the car, show up at his hotel room, and fuck. Or worse yet, have a scene about me being a whore, supportive or otherwise.

I agonize about this. He is in town all week, I do want to see him but I don't want to fuck him - he unintentionally burned me rather badly regarding a place to stay the last time I was in Big City. And I'm sort of 'off' him, having burned him right back by not turning up the next arranged time to see him. And I don't want to do it without at least dinner and chat. And, and, and.

What is the problem here? Why do I not feel I have the right to say, "by the way, I'm happy to spend time with you but I'm not up for sex tonight/this week/ever"? Why do I feel - as I have felt my whole life - that if you show up, you fuck? Why do I feel like I am being a Bad Sport if I don't want to put out? That I have some how assumed the obligation to provide Premium Access to any man who provides me with more than one dinner, access that cannot be revoked for Any Damn Reason I Want?

During high school, I had more Good Sport Sex than sex I wanted to have. And half the sex I wanted to have was really just I'd Like To Be Held Sex. But now I'm an adult. I've learned how to come, pretty much on my own demand, I have negotiated with myself and my husband and my lover to get to the relationships I feel comfortable with, I have gone down some amazing pathways (more next week! stay tuned!) to the sex that blows my mind and makes me feel adored, worshipped, blessed. In my 'real' life, I'm known as a shark negotiator you don't want to mess with, a girl whose Super Power is "No-One Says No." I've even set up a little business providing Premium Access.

So I summon up all my will and courage, call BCL, tell him I've been in a minor car accident and reschedule for tomorrow.

I am woman, hear me roar.

Finer Points

I make an appointment for a get-to-know-you with a client.

We're going to meet at the shooting range.

"How will I know you?" I ask.

"I'm 58, 6 feet tall, and I'll be wearing a black leather jacket with a Marine Corps patch on one shoulder and my NRA patch on the other."

Should I be screening for politics?

Bits and Pieces

...for me, the money buys my instant availability rather than overcoming a lack of desire, though I am walking that line a bit...

...If your spouse sucks at cleaning, hire a maid. If your spouse works too much to care for the children, hire a nanny. If your spouse hates cooking, hire a cook or order in. But God forbid the spouse can't/won't have sex - they're an injured innocent and you're a lousy partner if you try to fulfill *that* need without leaving them...We spend our whole lives being brought up to believe that we must only have sex with people we are in love with, and that it's wrong and bad to enjoy being with more than one person in that way, that we are wrong and bad if we keep expressing a basic need, and we just have to 'deal with it' if the person we love best cannot provide for us. We'd never say that about food...

...Lying with Client, talking about Amsterdam, I say that I would like to visit a live sex show, and Amsterdam would be the place to do it since it will probably be a good one there. Thus far, I say, I have not been to Amsterdam with someone who would go to a live sex show with me, and I don't want to go alone because I'm worried I'll be mistaken for a prostitute. Oh, wait...


...My latest dilemma. Perhaps the idea that will come to be the overriding theme of this blog. If a client is doing things that do not turn me on, or feel actively bad, do I stop them, redirect them, teach them, or let them keep going and fake/enhance my enjoyment so that they think everything is just fine? On one hand, I am not there for my pleasure (we could argue), I'm there for theirs. That's why they're paying. The product is Girl Who Thinks You're a Fabulous Lover, and my job is to make them feel like the world's greatest athlete. On the other hand, the kind of personal experience I am starting to be interested in having is the outreach aspect - getting compensated like a therapist for much the same job, minus some of the professional detachment. With my circus client, I was honest about what oral was like for me, and I asked him his reasoning for a certain position for oral for him, just as I would with a personal lover. Sooo...can I make money and not offend clients if I treat them like a lover I care about being with again, and like I want to be genuinely having a good time? Or will they just feel instructed and put off by an overbearing bitch instead of the compliant little slut they paid for?

So the question, Gentle Readers - better for you if the lady, for all you can tell, is having a lovely time with no instructions to you, or if she says wait, do it like this? The client cannot (so far) tell the difference between my real and faked good time...