Holiday Party Shenanigans

I've been to a few holiday parties. Most of them were uneventful. This one, not so much. Actually, the party itself was fine. It was the after-party that was eventful. First some background information. Jos, my former boss, was (and probably still is) attractive but very difficult to work with. I half respected him, half despised him. Sometimes I wanted to strangle him. Other times I wished I was independently wealthy so I could quit my job and say "Go fuck yourself!" Then there was Benny, my former co-worker. I used to confide in him about my relationship with the Egyptian, because he had a similar cultural difference but followed his heart and married the woman he loved.

During the party, I caught up with my former co-workers whom I hadn't seen in almost two months. I thought Benny flirted with me, but given that he was married with two children I didn't think much of it. It was probably my imagination, and I'm clueless when it comes to that stuff. After the party, Jos wanted to hear live music at a bar. Sounded good to me, and, since he was no longer my boss, I didn't have to deal with his difficult personality. I had a couple of drinks at the party, so my friend drove me to the bar. Jos' friend was there. Benny joined us too. But my friend left shortly after we got there, so it was just me, Jos, Jos' friend, and Benny. Benny bought me a shot of whiskey. It tasted like oak. I sipped on it and chatted with Jos' friend and Benny while Jos sent text messages. To my new boss. WTF? Apparently Jos teased her that her new/his former employee was hanging out with him at the bar, but I still didn't know what he was saying about me, if anything. "Jos! What are you telling her?! That's my new boss!" I screeched. He laughed and continued to text her. "Jos! Let me see! What are you telling her?!" I was sitting on a bar stool facing away from the bar, the heels of my shoes hooked in the rung. Jos stood about two feet in front of me. Benny sat on the bar stool to my right. Jos' friend sat on the bar stool to my left. In an effort to peak at Jos' phone, I leaned forward and grabbed at it playfully but he laughed and pulled it away. But then my bar stool teetered forward. My heels were stuck on the rung so I couldn't plant my feet on the ground. My ass slid off the bar stool. I did a face plant...into Jos' crotch. :( My head tilted up as I fell so it was more like my neck was in his crotch, as if that was any better. My chin rested on his zipper. I looked up at him, mortified. I may as well have offered him a blow job. Then I realized something else: my hands were clenched tightly in his ass crack as I held on for dear life. Benny came to my rescue, extracted me from Jos' crotch and ass, and helped me up. We all had a good laugh at my expense. I don't mind making a fool of myself. Even so, I was embarrassed yet thankful I didn't work with Jos anymore. It was bad enough that Jos was one of my Match.com matches when I tried that two years ago.

Still embarrassed, I sipped on my whiskey and ordered another drink. I wanted to drown out the memory of my face plant into the crotch of a man I half despised. Benny and I chatted for a while, then decided we needed food. I wasn't capable of driving, so Benny drove us around town in search of late night munchies. We tried the lone 24-hour diner but the wait was about 45 minutes, so we got drive-thru food and drove back to the location of the holiday party. We chomped on our food and talked about my situation with the Egyptian. It was weighing heavy on my heart. The Egyptian would arrive in about three weeks for his second visit. Conflicted feelings encompassed me: happy yet sad, excited yet scared, relieved yet anxious. I thought I'd never see the Egyptian again, yet he would be here soon. All the letting go of outcome and enjoying the moment sucked, because I didn't see a future with the Egyptian but I wanted to spend more time with him too. Benny knew what I was going through, as I confided in him over the past year.

After we finished eating, Benny said he couldn't stop thinking about me after he saw me at the holiday party. That I was pretty, smart, and nice. That I deserved better than what the Egyptian had to offer. That I deserved to be loved and to be happy. "Part of me just wants to love you" he confessed. I was shocked. I had no idea he felt this way about me. "May I kiss you?" he asked gently. "Yes" I replied. Benny leaned over and we kissed. Surprisingly, it was a great kiss. When he pulled away, it hit me: another unavailable man hit on me. I felt sorry for myself. It was 4am, I was in Benny's car, and he just kissed me. What was I doing? "This seems like the appropriate time for me to go. Good night, Benny" I said as I exited his car. I got into my car, drove home, and cried until I passed out. Sigh.

Mi vida romantica locura.

Something Unknown

I'm home sick today and watched the season finale of Season 7 of Dexter. This was perhaps my favorite season. I love one of Dexter's closing quotes:

"We all make rules for ourselves. It's these rules that help define who we are. So when we break those rules we risk losing ourselves and becoming something unknown."

In the context of the show, the quote makes sense. Both Dexter's and Debra's beliefs were challenged and they broke rules they never imagined they would break. Their love for each other propelled them to grow. Whether or not they grew for the better is subjective. I think their changes were for the better, but, then again, I'm a criminologist who believes everything - including the idea of right and wrong - is socially constructed. In the context of our real lives, this quote makes sense too. Rules are imposed on us by society, family, friends, co-workers, ourselves, etc. We choose to internalize them. We choose to abide by them. We choose to reject them. We choose to transcend them. Would I break my most deeply held rules for someone I love? Hell yes. Would I break them for love of myself? Fuck yes.

I don't know if you believe in astrology, but I thought of it as nothing more than entertainment until I had my natal birth chart done over a year ago. My astrologer described my personality perfectly. I forced my mom to listen to my astrological reading and she thought it was spot on too. It was weird but I finally made sense to myself, especially my seemingly diametric nature. The planner who craves spontaneity. The critical thinker who follows her intuition. The practical person who welcomes impracticality. The risk taker who likes safety and security. The angel who's devilish. Things that make sense don't feel right. Things that feel right don't make sense. Welcome to my world. Two two things my astrologer said stick out in the context of the quote: 1) I'm a polite rebel. I'll do what I want, when I want; no one's going to force me to do anything I don't want to do, but I'll be polite about it. When it comes to men I like or love, my polite rebel was silenced long ago but it's been reemerging the past few years. 2) I'm an evolutionary agent of change for myself and others. I'm always pushing myself to grow, and through my interactions with others I also unintentionally push them to grow.

Thinking about the quote in the context of my life, I'm in the midst of losing myself. My internal evolutionary agent helped me identify rules that my polite rebel allowed others to place on my sexual behavior, perhaps out of self-preservation, fear, or lack of self-confidence. It took meeting Andy for me to realize the time is ripe to break my rules and venture into the unknown. It's not for Andy, it's for me. Andy's just the catalyst. Do I believe I have to be in a committed relationship to have sex? Fuck no. Am I uncomfortable having sex outside of a committed relationship? Fuck yes. Why? Because I've been punished by men for my sexual behavior that was none of their business. I'd be more comfortable if I had one-night stands or sex in a committed relationship, because I wouldn't have to break my rules or deal with my past. But I also don't like the idea of having a non-sexual relationship with Andy or, as a friend suggested she thought I was doing even though I hadn't considered it, using the promise of sex to try to lure Andy into a committed relationship...for which he's not ready. So where do I go from here with my trifecta of extremes? Fortunately, I already decided I want to live in the gray area and that I can have sex with Andy if it's what I want. Thus, it's time to break a rule and replace it with another one.

I admire pin-up girls and burlesque dancers. You'll catch me looking at them (or hot rods) before you catch me looking at men. I even have a girl crush on Imelda May, but, after I saw her in concert, I pondered my girl crush and why I admire pin-up girls and burlesque dancers. I thought it was because my dad introduced me to the beauty of the female body through his subscription to Playboy and photography magazines. When I was a child, I enjoyed finding the bunny in the Playboy cover photo. I still do. Then I discovered the allure of pin-up girls - so innocent yet sexy. For the past eight years, I've been going to burlesque shows and I often go alone. But why my fascination with these women? A couple years ago, a man I was seeing suggested it was because I saw part of myself in them. No, that wasn't it. I realized recently that I admire them because I see in them who I want to become: a self-confident, self-assured, sexy being who owns, honors, embraces, and is empowered by her sexuality.

I want to practice becoming this woman with Andy. The last time I saw him, I told him I have a surprise for him, but I thought he was coming to my place where I planned on surprising him with a private burlesque show with me as a solo dancer. But we ended up hanging out at his home and it wasn't the right place or time for me to deliver his surprise, nor was I in the right mental state. In talking with him today, I suggested that perhaps I'd be ready to give him his surprise when we see each other next. (Clearly my fears of scaring him away were irrational - damn fucking demon birds.) I admitted that I'd likely embarrass myself, but that he could at least laugh at and with me. Andy said he's sure my surprise will be great and for me to relax. The man has me figured out already - he knows I'm nervous even though he doesn't know what I'm planning. I said I'd do my best and that it'll be good for me. I also said that one thing I love about myself is that when I'm afraid of something, I tend to throw myself to the wolves rather than run from them because I'm not a fast runner, and, even if I did run, the wolves would catch me eventually. And if I make a fool of myself in the process, so be it. Yes, I'm ready to throw myself to the wolves. They can devour the rules that no longer serve me. Fortunately Andy will be out of town this weekend so I have some time to do more inner work before I see him again. Relief. So I'm taking risks, breaking rules, and venturing into something unknown. Maybe it's time for you to discover what rules are no longer working for you, take some risks, and venture into something unknown too...

Some quotes from Ralph Waldo Emerson that I like to keep in mind:

"To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you something else is the greatest accomplishment."

"Always do what you are afraid to do."

"The person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be."

Best wishes on your venture into the unknown, when you choose to embark on that journey.

The Misery Continues: Demon Birds

After two months of contemplating and waiting for the right moment, I finally talked with Ethan last night about our relationship. We're on the same page. We love each other, but we have a deep, close, loving friendship rather than a romantic one. The window of my romantic interest was small and fleeting, thanks to the introduction of Andy which helped me clarify my feelings for Ethan. And Ethan's in no place for a relationship. But I'm ready for a relationship and I'm not waiting around for anyone anymore. I also told Ethan about Andy. Ethan was jealous (what the fuck?!) but was honored to listen as I explained the boy-related things that have been going on with me over the past few months. Ethan could sense when I was emotionally drained, but, other than vague abstractions, he didn't know what was going on with me. When Ethan and I talked about "dating" in March, I told him that I was seeing someone else too but never brought it up again, mostly because I didn't think there was anything yet to tell. And Ethan confessed that he didn't believe I was seeing anyone else because I spent so much time with him, which has been part of my stress over the past month. It felt great to share with Ethan my journey with Andy (and to a far lesser degree, Bobby) over the past few months. Now that Ethan knows everything, a huge weight's been lifted off my shoulders.

I hoped my conversation with Ethan would bring some peace of mind. Yes, and no. Yes, because Ethan and I have defined our relationship and I feel liberated to openly pursue other opportunities. No, because now my relationship with Andy seems more real, more scary, more uncertain, more tenuous. And now that I'm no longer stressing out about having a relationship conversation with Ethan, the vast expanses of my brain have expanded to accommodate a plethora of chick thoughts about my relationship with Andy. I haven't heard from him in almost a week. Perhaps I've scared him off after I cried my way though sex? How could I have? We saw each other a week later. Maybe he's had more time to reconsider my psycho chick behavior? Who knows. Well, I guess he does but I don't know yet. Will I ever escape these chick thoughts? Probably not.

Being an analyzer and critical thinker is great for work and my dissertation, but it really sucks in the context of romantic relationships. I know this, yet I still give in to my thoughts and it causes me unnecessary distress. Today my brain was like a scene from Hitchcock's The Birds. I felt like Melanie Daniels in the image below, staving off the birds the best she could by protecting her head and screaming. Only my birds were swarming around inside my head - picking, picking, picking at me with their voracious assault beaks. I wanted to scream like Melanie, but I was at work so I tried my best to distract myself from the demon birds. Then I contemplated changing my pseudonym to Melanie Daniels. Fortunately Melanie survived the birds, but I was losing the battle so I reached out to my friend G who's an excellent demon-bird catcher, and she helped me quiet them down to a soft flutter sans picking beaks. I don't know what I do without G. I'd probably succumb to my thoughts, drive myself crazy, and live in heaps of misery. Thanks G. :)

Early this morning, a friend of mine was disappointed that she didn't get a hoped-for comment from her love interest about the description of what she wanted to do to her hair in her upcoming hair appointment. She wanted to hear that he would like her no matter what she did to her hair, and all he said was to have fun. My advice: first, men (and women) aren't mind readers. If you want to know the answer to a question, you have to ask a direct question. What she wanted was reassurance, which she wouldn't get from the context of their conversation. Second, if he wouldn't like her if she cut her hair a certain way, then was he the right person for her? I suggested she do what she wanted with her hair and let the locks fall where they may. But, before advising her (yep, I dispense advice that I often disregard for myself), I thought about my ex-boyfriend Eric. I was 18. He was 17. At the time, I had natural white blonde hair of mid-back length. Just before Christmas, I had my hair cut to my jawline with lots of fun layers. When I saw Eric, he patted me on the head while wearing a sad face, like someone just killed his puppy. Then I left for Christmas festivities but when I returned home, he had slipped my Christmas present in the mail slot in our front door - a very nice sliver bracelet. I called to thank Eric for the gift, then he broke up with me - because I cut my hair. As an indicator of how little I thought about myself at the time, I thought it was a mistake that I cut my hair and that Eric dumped me because I wasn't good enough for him. I've always lacked self-confidence and self-worth in the context of romantic relationships, and still do at times. But in retrospect, I realized that Eric was obviously not the right person for me. Do you know when I came to this realization? Today. At age 43. Hence my advice to my friend. So to take my own advice: if I scared (or eventually scare) off Andy, then he's not the right person for me. So begone demon birds!

What It's Like to Live in My Head
Source: http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/films/news/mystery-behind-hitchcocks-birds-is-solved-at-last-6282470.html

Friends Love Misery: Shades of Gray

"Friends love misery, in fact. Sometimes, especially if we are too lucky or too successful or too pretty, our misery is the only thing that endears us to our friends" - Erica Jong.

I love this quote. Isn't it true to some degree? I'm not saying that I'm too lucky, too successful, or too pretty, but perhaps my misery is endearing. After I finished The (Second) Night I Almost Died, I started writing a funny story, but, in the interim of finishing The (Second) Night I Almost Died, I had a date with Andy. I'd already resolved to not write about anymore of my encounters with Andy since it's gone from a one night stand to dating (not sure of my own logic here), but this encounter was too miserable - in a schadenfreude sort of way - to keep to myself. Maybe you've had a similar experience?

Over the two weeks I wrote The (Second) Night I Almost Died, I spent a lot of time in my head reliving some of the horrible events that occurred during my first marriage. Partly, I wrote that story to remind myself that I'm strong and can handle anything that comes my way; partly, I wrote that story to help put my current dating situation in perspective: easy peasy compared to my past experiences. But writing that story had the unintended and unexpected effect of reminding me how Santos used my sexual behavior (losing my virginity to someone else) as a reason to beat me for about 3 years until I gained enough weight that he didn't think I was desirable to anyone else, but then his reasons for abuse changed so I couldn't win. Then there was Mark who told me I wasn't worthy of a relationship because I had sex with him on our first date. And then there was Alan who torched my classic car because he was jealous of my feelings for and sexual history with Mark. While these men used my sexual behavior as an excuse to punish me even though I was behaving in a way that was acceptable to me (i.e., when I'm unattached, I can do what I damn well please), I still associate my sexual behavior with bad outcomes. Given my history, no wonder I prefer one night stands - there's no emotional attachment or commitment thus no chance for being punished for my sexual behavior, other than the self-loathing I experience afterwards.

On the flip side, there was my fuck-buddy-turned-second-husband. David and I had a lot of sex, but then I acquired Alan as a boyfriend so we stopped having sex. David and I started dating about six months after Alan and I broke up, and we had a lot of sex. It wasn't a particularly sexually satisfying relationship, but at least there was sex. We got married about two years later, and I looked forward to having a marriage complete with a healthy sexual component. But no. My second marriage lacked intimacy and sex. I'd be lucky to get a pat on my nose. Go figure. I believed I was the problem for my second husband's lack of sexual desire, so I spent two years in individual counseling, and then we did couples/sex counseling - our second wedding anniversary present to ourselves - for six months. By that time, I felt like my husband's mother and the thought of kissing him or having sex with him was repulsive. Through our couples/sex counseling, I realized my husband had issues that lead to our sexlessness. Even so, a lack of sexual interest is a red flag for me to run the other way. In lieu of cheating, I ended my second marriage for the opportunity to find a partner who could fulfill my needs, particularly my sexual needs. Although I've had other relationships where sex wasn't an issue, these experiences and their outcomes are more salient. All of this stuff was percolating within me, and I realized that - in my typical diametric nature - I was freaked out about having sex and freaked out about not having sex. It was with this realization that I entered the following encounter with Andy:

At my request, Andy and I went to a burlesque show two weeks ago. I've always fantasized about going to a burlesque show and then getting to go home and have sex with my partner. Finally, this was my opportunity to make one of my fantasies reality! Woo hoo! But, no, bad timing on my part, given my mental state about sex. That afternoon, I had lunch with a girlfriend and I practiced the following monologue: "I'm enjoying getting to know you and I obviously love having sex with you. I feel conflicted because I'd like to continue having sex with you, but I feel uncomfortable having sex outside of a committed relationship. I'm glad we've spent a little time together fully clothed, because I realize I'd like to continue getting to know you." I repeated that statement several times to my friend until I felt comfortable saying it. I even wrote it out so I wouldn't forget what I wanted to say. I was all set to give my spiel if Andy came home with me after the show, but I was anxious so I popped a Xanax to help calm my mind.

Andy worked until 8:30, so he met me at the venue a few minutes before the burlesque show started. It was his first burlesque show; I was excited to introduce something new to him for once. Andy finds me attractive in jeans and a hoodie, but I wanted to dress up for him. I wore a sexy red dress, a leopard wrap, and black heels. Andy was pleased with the seats and table I chose. Yay for me! He introduced me as his ladyfriend and told the couple next to us that he thought I was a doll. Awwww. "It's nice to see you" I said genuinely. "It's nice to see you too" he replied. "But if I wasn't here, you'd be here with someone else" he stated. Where did that come from? "No, I'd be here alone" I replied. Sometimes I think he's fishing to see if I'm seeing other people, but he hasn't asked directly. We enjoyed the show and had a couple of cocktails. He kept his arm around me, and I kept my hand on his leg. It was sweet. At intermission, the couple across from us asked us to watch their seats. We agreed. But then I suggested that we move their seats to another location - they were folding seats and easy to move. The couple next to us got in on it, and the man moved the seats to another part of the theater. Andy joked about how bad I was, but I claimed I was an angel, batted my eyes innocently, and drew a halo over my head. "Yeah, your devil horns are holding up your halo" he joked. Maybe. (By the way, the couple whose seats we moved loved the joke and thanked us after the show for giving them a good laugh.) "We could ask one of these guys to come home with us and eat you out while I watch. As long as someone's eating you out, what does it matter?" he suggested. "You can just keep that idea in your head" I replied. Yes, that was a fantasy and I could do it if I didn't like Andy but if I like someone, I don't want to share or be shared. Andy and I had more sexual banter throughout the night, but I asserted my control over the situation. Or, rather, I tried to convince myself that I had control over the situation. And I did, but I was conflicted. After the show, Andy walked me to my car and asked if I'd like his  company. "Of course, I would love your company" I replied. So he followed me home. Gulp.

I was nervous about my impending speech. Andy went home first to let out his dogs. A stay of execution. Phew! But I got more anxious as I waited. I sipped some cognac to help calm me down. I was so aroused and wanted Andy to sex me up, but I was conflicted because I didn't want to have sex outside a committed relationship for fear of being punished for it later. Ah! What the fuck did I want? He  took longer than expected, so I sipped more cognac while I waited. Did I mention I was also on my period? Xanax + alcohol + my period = crazy chick. About 20 minutes later, Andy called to tell me he was delayed by a chatty neighbor who was having a party, but was on his way over and wanted to stop by the store. He asked if I needed anything. Nope. Maybe I had what he wanted? Condoms. Nope. My mood plummeted, and he picked up on it. "Oh" I said. "Am I missing something?" he asked. "We just went to burlesque and you're wearing that red dress. There's no way we're not having sex tonight" he said. I was on the verge of tears. This was actually the type of response I wanted, yet I felt bad for wanting to have sex in light of my earlier resolve to abstain from sex. What the fuck was wrong with me?! "Okay," I replied meekly. "What I want to hear is 'hurry the fuck up and get over here'" he confessed. I laughed and said "Hurry the fuck up and get your ass over here."

While I waited, I played with Jeff (the scorpion). Maybe he'd sting me and I could get out of sex without having to have any conversation? No such luck. About 10 minutes later, Andy was at the front door. Shit. I buzzed him in the building. A minute later, he knocked on my door. "The door's open. Come on in" I said. One of my bathrooms is off the entry hallway, and I was half in the bathroom, half in the hallway as I tried to wrangle Jeff off of my back with his scooping ladle with no luck. Andy saw me in my red dress with a large black ladle in my right hand. "Hi! Could you give me a hand?" I greeted him. "It's troubling to enter a home to find a woman with a large spoon in her hand, especially a woman like you" he teased. I love his outlook. "Jeff's on my back and I'm having difficulty getting him off," I explained. "Could you please help me?" I asked as I handed him the spoon. Without so much as a blink, he took the spoon. "Come here little guy," he said gently as he scooped Jeff into the spoon and onto my hand. That was hot. No one who's entered my home will even go near Jeff's tank. I put Jeff away, then we talked about some of my experiences with Jeff and Jeff's recent molting. Andy washed his hands, and then explained that I should wash mine too because I probably had scorpion pee all over me. It never occurred to me that Jeff would pee on me. Gross.

After our hands were all clean, we embraced and he kissed me. I nearly melted. I poured us cognac, as if I needed more. We discussed some of the things we wanted to do together (artwork, movies, fix my entertainment center, etc.), and then we started kissing again. Andy used the bathroom and noticed that the black dildo wasn't in there anymore. "After we used it, I left it in the bedroom. The squeaky seahorse used to do lewd things to the dildo." I explained. "Now he's lonely" I faux pouted. "Do we need to incorporate the seahorse into sex too?" Damn, Andy's fucking hot. I laughed and nodded in agreement. He's just the type of person I've been desiring. Smart, quick witted, funny, dark, twisted, sexy, playful. Fuck.

I hadn't seen Andy in almost three weeks. He got sick the day after our last date and was sick for over a week, then he wanted to see me the following weekend but I had plans with Ethan (which caused me stress because I wanted to see Andy too but didn't want to cancel my plans with Ethan), and then one of his dogs had surgery so Andy had his hands full for a while. He wanted to show me photos of his dog's surgical wounds but they were on his phone in the car, but he sent one to me the day after the surgery so I already had one and I reminded him of this. "I just want you to know that I'm not a liar" Andy explained. "I never thought you were. You have my trust," I assured him. It seemed weird and out of place for him to be concerned with this, but Andy seemed more at ease. I wondered if he'd had a relationship where his partner accused him of lying. Or given the way we started our relationship, I could see why he might be concerned that I would think he's a liar, but he hasn't lied to me that I know of. Or maybe he just wanted to make sure he was making a good impression. Who knows. At some point, he said something to which I replied "I'm not going around having sex with everyone, Andy." "Well, that's good to know," he replied sincerely. Was he fishing again? The last time we had sex, I told him I wasn't having sex with anyone else (which was true at the time) but a month had passed since we had sex, so maybe he thought things had changed (which it did because I had sex with Bobby, but I nixed that because I didn't like Bobby and I only wanted to have sex with Andy), or maybe he thought I was a slut because of the way we met? Who knows, but I don't like to be accused of something I'm not doing, not that he accused me of anything. Maybe we're both uncertain of what's going on between us? Again, who knows.

We had some sexual banter, and then I hoped to get out of sex by informing him of my menstrual status: "I started my period yesterday." "Well, that leaves your your ass and your mouth," he countered. I laughed in semi-defeat. "We're not afraid of periods. Periods are good," he explained. Yes, period = not pregnant. I laughed again, then hugged him around his waist, put my head on this chest, and mustered up the courage to confess. "I think I'm out of my league here...having sex outside a committed relationship." I threw him an unintentional curve ball. Andy seemed a bit taken aback, and understandably so but I asked him before if we could take a step back from sex to see if anything else was there, and he said he wanted to see me in any capacity and we did have some sexless dates so why was I trippin'?  "We don't have to have sex" he replied. I moved into the kitchen and nervously topped off our drinks. "I don't do well with casual sex" I explained. "Causal sex? We've had sex three times now." I guess we're not having "casual" sex. He paced a little bit. "Just kissing you makes me hard," he confessed, seeming a bit bewildered. He moved into the kitchen with me, then he explained that he'd been talking to his friends about me, how they said I seemed great, and how they wanted to meet me. Wow - I had no idea. I was still under the impression that I needed to keep our relationship secret to our mutual friends, given how we started out. I felt a little better about the situation. The main reason Andy and I had our first encounter was because I let go out outcome (desire for a committed relationship) and enjoyed the moment. The pathway to a committed relationship is not guaranteed regardless of the circumstances, and relationships start out in different ways. Why not enjoy the moment? We obviously have a strong sexual connection, and we're learning that we like each other clothed too. And if our relationship advances or not, it will likely have nothing to do with how our relationship started or whether or not we're having sex. So what the fuck was my problem?

We chatted about other things, I showed him more of my artwork, my Candidate of Philosophy certificate, and the metal knife holder and butcher knife that now adorns my bedroom wall (I have sex + knife fantasies, which he learned the first time we met). Then he made himself comfortable on the sofa and I followed. We relaxed, talked and listened to music. I planted soft kisses on his jaw line and down his neck. He smelled good, a cologne that his sister-type friend helped him pick out. We lay there for a while, embracing each other, but I wanted more kisses. I sat on top of him and continued to plant soft and tender kisses on his face, neck, and mouth. I love the way he kisses me, and told him so. Just the thought of him kissing me arouses me. I confessed that I went to Easter services with a friend and spent the whole time hiding the marks he left on my body, and thinking of him. Andy was feeling hot and asked me to remove his shirt. I complied. We continued kissing. Kissing is so innocent, yet so arousing. My inner conflict festered inside. I cried and tears dripped on his face and neck. "Are you snotting on me, or crying?" he asked gently. "Crying" I replied. "It's okay" he said. "If you want to listen to this music and cry, it's okay." Yeah, Mazzy Star wasn't helping me refrain from crying in the least; I used to listen to that CD with the Egyptian. Sigh. What was I doing to myself? "You're on your period and you've been drinking, so you're probably more emotional than usual" said Andy as he tried to help me out. "I don't believe all that period stuff" I protested, but he was right and I wouldn't admit it. Plus I had a Xanax earlier. Not a good combo for me. Andy was sensitive to and respectful of my emotions, but I was sitting on top of his crotch and the waistband of his jeans was cutting into his now hard cock, causing him pain. I tried to adjust it for him, but the best option was to move and lay by his side. We continued making out, our petting progressed, and he fingered me even though I was wearing a tampon. Hot, hot, hot! I was wearing shapewear, so it was tight against his prodding hands. "It has hooks" I explained. "It does?" he asked gently. "Yeah," I whispered and guided his hands to them. He unhooked the three snaps and continued to tease my pussy and ass with his fingers. I was in the moment, and finally stopped crying. Andy laid over me, kissed me, and righted himself so he could see my pussy. He played for a while as I continued to relax and be in the moment. Even so, I kept my hands away from his cock. When he laid back down next to me, I started petting him over his jeans, then I didn't want to resist anymore. Apparently, I have no willpower against Andy or his cock. I was toast.

Lucky for me I didn't say "no sex until commitment" or I would have gone back on my word and that wouldn't have been good. He unzipped his pants to free his straining cock; I petted it innocently. Andy put his hand on mine and whispered "Don't you want this inside you?" as he squeezed my hand around his cock. "Of course I do," I whispered sincerely and longingly. "Let me go to the bathroom first," I said. I got up, went pee, then removed my shapewear and dress. I wedged myself between him and the back of the sofa. "Hello naked girl. I like this much better," he said. Andy was naked too, except for his socks. "Hello naked boy. Well, almost naked boy," I replied. "Huh?" he seemed confused. "Socks..." I replied. "Oh," he said. Off went the socks, and on went the condom. He had difficulty with the condom. "I got the big ones, but it seems so tight" he observed. I inspected it. "That's because it's inside out," I giggled. He inverted it and I helped him roll the condom down along his shaft.

He positioned himself over me in the missionary position, then gently eased his cock into my ass. He choked me, bit my nipples, smacked me, bit my calf - all the things I've grown to love - but was much more gentle and sensual this time. Very erotic and arousing. "Did you take your tampon out?" he asked. "No," I replied. "Hand me the blanket" I requested. It was laying by his feet and I couldn't reach it. "What?" he asked. "Hand me the blanket please. I'll put my tampon on it," I explained. Andy reached for the blanket but then said "You could put it on the table." The coffee table was eye level with us and I didn't want to look at my tampon so I asked for the blanket again. Andy grabbed it and put in on the floor near me, then he sat up so I could take out my tampon. I eventually found the string, pulled it out, and set in on the blanket and out of my sight. He tried to put his cock in my pussy, but I resisted. The condom had been in my ass - never go ass to pussy. "Oh yeah, we need a new condom," he realized. I nodded and smiled. He put on a new condom, then he eased his cock in my pussy. I enjoyed the feel of his warm body over me and his hard cock inside me. Andy wanted me to masturbate while his cock was in me - we both wanted to feel my orgasm. "Cum for me, baby" Andy requested gently. I tried but I was in my head again. Shut up, brain! "Cum for me, baby" he requested gently again. "Okay. I'm going to focus on myself for a bit," I whispered. "Yes, focus on yourself," he agreed. I masturbated for a while and wanted to cum, but it wasn't happening. I frustrated myself, and was in my head again. I thought of the times the Egyptian and I fooled around - either in person or while having video call sex - and how he was supposed to marry his cousin, and how I couldn't bring myself to orgasm because I couldn't get the thought of him marrying his cousin out of my head, and how painful that whole situation was. My brain won. Fuck. My emotions took over, and I cried with the voracity of Niagara Falls. Tears just kept gushing. If I didn't stop crying, Andy would need a barrel to carry him off the sofa.

My tears seemed to be a combination of an emotional release, finally finding a partner with whom I'm sexually compatible and being scared because of it, being conflicted over having sex outside of a committed relationship, reliving old stuff, and frustration about my inability to have an orgasm even though I wanted to have one. Andy couldn't see my face and continued fucking me, and I encouraged him. I grabbed his ass and pushed him into me harder. Bad idea. I winced and tensed my body. "Are you okay?" he asked. "Yeah, but it's hitting my sciatic nerve or something" I replied. We repositioned ourselves, and he saw my face. I wanted him to fuck my tears away, but my tears kept gushing. Andy noticed my tears weren't dissipating, stopped thrusting, and came to rest on top of me with his cock still inside my pussy. "It would be better if you were screaming 'stop' or 'don't rape me'," he teased. "You could ruffie me," I suggested. "That wouldn't be any fun, but I guess I could take photos," he pondered. "It is one of my fantasies, you know," I replied. Maybe it's just me, but that was perhaps one of the sexiest mid-sex conversations I've ever had, and that it rolled off our tongues as if we were exchanging pleasantries about the weather made it even better. We're both a little dark and twisted, and I love that about us. In retrospect, it makes me laugh so hard it brings tears to my eyes. But in the moment, I was overwhelmed with emotion. "Put your arms and legs around me and hold me," Andy requested gently. I complied, and we held each other until my tears subsided. "Sometimes its just nice to love each other" he said. He was right - it felt wonderful just to lay there under him. We moved so he had his back to the back of the sofa and my back was to him, our bodies pressed together. Andy held me tight with his arm, and my head lay in his other arm. "I'm really sensitive" I explained. "I'm not, but I'm gentle and kind and I knew something was wrong" he replied. "I don't mind being open and vulnerable," I said. "I don't want to be vulnerable" he said. "I keep myself busy and distracted, but it's my choice to do that," he explained. "Distracted from what?" I asked. Silence. "Distracted from what? I don't understand." I asked again. He didn't answer. He didn't want to say, so I let it go. "May I make an observation? You said you broke up with your girlfriend because she didn't have time for you, but you keep yourself busy so it doesn't make sense," I inquired. "It was more of an excuse to cut things off," he answered. "And I think I'm better in small doses. That's why I'm still single," he said. "Better in small doses?" I asked. He didn't reply. He didn't want to talk about it, so I dropped it. "I've been the most honest with you than I have anyone else" he confessed. "As my lover, I want you to know these things." His lover? I guess I have a lover now. "I use my dissertation to keep myself distracted too...from my fucked up romantic life" I confessed. "You mean us?" he asked. "Yes," I replied. We fell silent as our exhaustion caught up with us.

It was 3:30 in the morning and I had to fetch Ethan at 6:15 to take him to the airport. I nestled my face into Andy's arm wondering what's going on behind his guy-barrier, but then I moved my body and he clamped me down. "You're not going anywhere" he said gently. "I want to roll over so I can face you," I said. He released me, I rolled over, and rested my head on his chest. He fell asleep, snored, then woke himself up. "That's why you're still single...you snore," I teased. "Stop it, or I'll leave," he teased back. He fell asleep again, snored and woke himself up again. "I'm sorry," he said. "Stop apologizing" I requested. We dozed off and on until I had to get up to fetch Ethan.

I thought I set my alarm for 5:30am. Andy and I woke. "It's getting light out" he noticed. The clock said it was 5:50. Shit! I bolted up, then realized I had to move immediately. "You have to go get your friend now" Andy informed me. I was still dazed. "Yes, but you're welcome to stay. I'll be home in an hour," I replied. "I have the dogs, and I'm helping a friend move in a couple of hours" he reminded me. I flew off the sofa and went to the bathroom. When I got off the toilet, the seat looked like a bloody murder scene, as did my legs. I needed to shower. Andy was peeing in the master bath off my bedroom, but I needed to shower in there. As Andy peed, he turned to me for a kiss and I gave him several. More hotness. Damn him! I hopped in the shower, Andy asked me to call him later, and I said I would - I guessed that was a good thing. "Check out the toilet seat in the other bathroom. It's awesome," I said. If he looked at it, I didn't know. I heard the front door close. Andy left. I checked the alarm...I set it for 5:30pm. Oops.

On the way to the airport, I was in tears. I didn't want to talk to Ethan about what happened, so we drove in silence as he was heading out for his holiday. I was beating myself up for crying during sex. And then I reflected on my conversations with Andy. What the fuck did I just get myself into? Why can't I just find a normal relationship? Apparently, normal is not my cup of tea. Yes, this is my misery indeed. Maybe he is fifty shades of fucked up after all? I guess I'll find out over time. Perhaps we both have our own shades of fucked up to work though, and we're just the right people to help each other. Who fucking knows.

I left a message for Andy when I got home from the airport, and he called me back after he finished helping his friend move. I felt like a psycho and was embarrassed because I cried through sex, but Andy said that I was too much in my head, asked me to stop beating myself up about it, and then suggested that I enjoy my afternoon. I retracted my comment that what we're doing is fucked up, because it's not. In any case, we both know we like each other and agreed to talk and see each other sooner than later. Even so, I continued to beat myself up, I finished the last part of my The (Second) Night I Almost Died story over the next two days so I could stop thinking about my past, and then drove myself crazy thinking about my issues with sex for the next several days. People date and have all the time; that's part of dating, right? Sometimes people have sex straight away, sometimes they wait a few dates, sometimes they wait a long time. There are no strict rules when dating. What matters is what works for the two people involved, and if what works for one doesn't work for the other than perhaps they need to compromise or they aren't right for each other.

In my contemplation, I realized that every relationship I've had started out strong and intense, beginning with my abusive first marriage. I've never "dated" because I've always had instant relationships. Two summer ago, when I did some "dating," I only had 1 to 3 dates with most men. I had no interest in the man I chose to date longer than that, but we went snowboarding together and it was nice to have a companion. I was briefly involved as a appendage to a polyamorous relationship but that wasn't satisfying, especially since I was already in a relationship with the Egyptian who was supposed to marry his cousin. I'm not built for polyamory. And then the Egyptian came back so I focused on him. What a freak show. But I've never "dated" anyone whom I'm interested in until Andy. Our relationship started in an unusual way and it's progressing in a way that unusual for me, so it's new, scary, exciting, nerve wracking, and challenging to my inner chickness. And I want what I want and I want it now (a committed relationship), but that's not how it works. Then add to that that I seem to freak out when I have sex outside of a committed relationship (other than one-night stands) and I freak out if there is no sex regardless of whether there's a commitment (on my dates with Andy that haven't involved sex, I freaked out too but only in my head and not to him) - there's no winning for me. I don't want to live my dating life in these two extremes, and now it seems I'm finally "dating" someone for whom I have a romantic interest. I've moved past the Egyptian. I feel something for Andy, and it feels amazing. Admittedly, I'm scared to open myself up to heartache again, but there's no gain without taking risks and I'm not living unless I explore opportunities and take risks. My relationship with Andy is challenging me at both extremes (sex vs. no sex) which is what I need. I'm evolving - shedding old stuff and making room for new stuff. Maybe Andy is the one? Maybe dating Andy will open my pathway to meeting the one? Who knows. But dating, as well as life, is not black or white, evil or good, dark or light. It falls within the gray area. I live the rest of my life in gray areas, so why not live my dating life in the gray areas too. I like these shades of gray.

Given the way Andy handled this situation, I believe he's a good man. If he was in it for himself only, he would have handled things differently. Dealing with something like this may have scared off other men. We had a date last Saturday night, but I spent the whole day thinking he was going to cancel or kick my ass to the curb. I took a Xanax to quiet my plethora of chick thoughts. Instead, he threw me for a loop and invited me to his place (a first) so I could meet his dogs. Then I thought he was going to kick my ass to the curb on his territory. Nope. He showed me his home. The dogs accosted me - they liked me quite a bit. Apparently I brought out affection in one of them that normally wasn't there. When Andy offered me alcohol, I replied "We saw what that did to me last week. I'll stick with water." I was nervous and embarrassed but we chatted for a while, then we ordered in, watched one of his favorite movies (American Psycho) and one of mine (Otis), and I got to snuggle with the pooches who wedged themselves between us on the sofa. I also apologized and explained what was going on with me the week before, and explained that it had nothing do with him. Andy understood and appreciated my apology. Between movies we perused Netflix and I saw a movie called "Psycho" and said "Hey, that's me! Psycho!" to which he replied "Stop it." I brought my red dress and was hoping to re-do our last sexual encounter, but he said we'd do it another night and for that I was thankful because I wasn't ready. I was emotionally exhausted after a week of beating myself up and trying to figure out what was going on inside. I asked if we could re-do our burlesque night and he said he liked our burlesque night, but that we could go again. Phew. The next day, Andy called to make sure I wasn't mad at him. Mad at him? For what? I was the nervous and embarrassed one who freaked out on him the week before, yet he was concerned that I was mad at him? How does that work? I assured him that I wasn't mad at him, that it takes a lot to make me mad, and that if I was mad at him he'd know because I'd be like a viper going in for the kill. Andy doesn't think he'll ever do anything to make me mad. Only our interactions and time will tell. Even so, it was sweet of him to call and seemed to be an indicator that he's not in this for himself. We'll see. Sigh.

The (Second) Night I Almost Died: Part 3 of 3

Santos anticipated I'd go to Julie's. Before we arrived at Julie's place, he left several threatening messages on her answering machine. Julie wouldn't let me hear the messages, but he demanded that I come home immediately or else he would hurt the dogs, kill himself, destroy our belongings, and other awful things. Distraught and panicked, I resolved to go home. Fuck. I repeatedly attempted to leave, but Julie wouldn't let me. The phone rang. Julie answered. It was Santos. Hate seethed through his voice as he said "If you don't get home in 30 minutes, I'm going to hurt the dogs." I panicked and replied "Santos, there's no way I can make it home in 30 minutes. It's a 45 minute drive." He was being his usual unreasonable self. What a fucking asshole. "If you don't get home in 30 minutes, I'm going to kill myself" he stated matter-of-factly. I panicked and cried. "I can't make it home in 30 minutes," I pleaded. Realizing he lost control over me, Santos' anger escalated and he destroyed most of the furniture and fixtures in our home. He told me what he destroyed as I heard the accompanying sounds. Crash! Thud! Crack! Smash! He threatened to overturn my china cabinet that contained items I valued and cherished. It's just stuff, right? I continued to listen and talk to him, trying to convince him not to kill himself (even though I was secretly hoping he would - how horrible am I?). He said he loved me and didn't want me to leave him. Boo fucking hoo, psycho. I told him I loved him too, that I didn't want him to kill himself, and that I'd be home as soon as I could. My words were sort of like hostage negotiation lies, but I still contemplated going home.

Julie knew I was distraught, scared, and confused. She also knew I couldn't go home; I'd likely end up dead. Before we were married, I left Santos several times but he either threatened to kill me or promised to change his ways. I always went back. He had yet to kill me, but he changed his ways only temporarily. Julie wasn't having any of it. "You're not going home!" Julie said firmly. She took the phone from me, hung up on Santos, and called the non-emergency police for my neighborhood. Julie explained my situation to the police and stayed on the phone with them until two cop cars arrived at my house a few minutes later. Julie passed the phone to me. I listened as the officers handcuffed Santos and put him in the back seat of one of the cop cars. Then they asked me where the guns were located, so I verbally guided them through my house - several in my bedroom closet, several in the guest bedroom where Santos slept, and one under Santos' pillow. Oops, almost forgot the one in his truck but they snagged that one too. I don't remember why they didn't arrest him, but they confiscated all the guns for two months.

I stayed at Julie's and didn't go home until Monday. Santos worked during the day, but I was afraid to go there alone. Accompanied by Alan (who eventually set my classic car on fire - see Burnin' Bonnie BBQ post), I returned home. Thankful that Santos wasn't there, I assessed the damage. The first floor of the house was thrashed. The glass dining room table was shattered on the back patio, the dining table chairs were lying on the backyard lawn with their legs and backs broken. Curtain rods were torn off walls. Several kitchen appliances were smashed on the back patio. Boxes of items I packed from the master and two guest bedrooms were scattered on the living room floor - most of the contents destroyed. But the china cabinet remained in tack.

I returned home on Tuesday and stayed there for another two months. Santos was filled with remorse, and I felt relatively safe because the guns were gone. In retrospect, he could have gotten another gun somewhere but he didn't. By that time, he and Tammy had made up so it was easier for me to continue my exit. I cleaned up the mess he made and packed up the rest of the items I wanted to take with me. Sometime in August, I finally told my mom about this incident and I moved home within a couple weeks, and three days before my 28th birthday. It was the best birthday present ever. While I was waiting for my parents to arrive with the moving van, Santos sat on the living room floor and watched television. I laid down on the floor next to him, put my head on his thigh, and he stroked my hair gently. "I'm sorry I was such a horrible husband," he said sincerely. "I'm sorry you were such a horrible husband too," I replied. After my parents arrived, we packed up the van. Bear was clearly my dog, so I kept him and Santos kept Riggs and Riley. As Bear, my parents, and I drove off, I finally felt like the victor of the Wild West showdown and I never moved back.

A few months later, I traveled through Europe alone for a month to decompress. I visited Germany, Holland, and Italy, passing through Switzerland and Austria. The first time I was in Amsterdam, I met a man named Jerron on February 13. We hit it off and had a lovely evening in a fancy hotel, then spent Valentine's Day together. We exchanged contact information, then I returned to Germany to meet my dear friend Joerg for a post Valentine's Day celebration. Then I traveled to Italy, but wanted to see Jerron again so I traveled from Venice to Amsterdam - a train ride from hell. I spent four more days in Amsterdam, and hoped to catch Jerron in the illegitimate Hard Rock Cafe where we met, but he wasn't there. I left a message for him with Mark, his bartender friend who I met when I was there before. After finally exiting an awful and abusive marriage, I felt like a bat out of hell. I wanted a tattoo of a bat to signify my transition. Mark suggested Hanky Panky, only a few blocks away and famous for their tattoos. After knocking back two Amstel's, I walked to Hanky Panky and left with a small tattoo of a bat on the top of my left foot. I've had the tattoo for over 14 years. I don't really notice it anymore, but when I stop to look at it, I'm reminded of the strength, bravery, and courage it took to survive and exit my first marriage.

Most people think women who stay in abusive marriages are weak, and that it's easy to just leave. I wasn't weak and it's not easy to leave - it's not so black and white. There are too many factors involved, and for someone like me who tends to see the good in everyone and who's kind, forgiving, compassionate, optimistic, trusting, hopeful, etc., I always wanted to give Santos another chance to change like he said he would. But he never changed for long and it took my having an affair with Ray to realize I had enough and that it was finally time for me to go. In retrospect, I would prefer to not have been in an abusive relationship for 9 years, and I'm still overcoming some of the damage stemming from that marriage - particularly surrounding my sexuality - but I don't know any different. Had I not had this experience, maybe my life would have been better, or maybe it would have been worse. I'll never know. But what I do know is that I wouldn't be who I am today if my life took a different course, and I quite like the woman I've become.

When I returned from Europe, a lovely letter from Jerron was waiting for me. Our bartender friend passed on my message as promised. Jerron wanted to visit me. About a month later, we were galavanting around Los Angeles for a couple weeks and fell in love. I visited him in Amsterdam a couple months after that - lots of funny mishaps and adventures. We attempted a long distance relationship for a while, but he was on break from university and traveled through Australia with his buddies for six months. Technology wasn't like it is today, so we couldn't communicate very well. We drifted apart, and then I met Mark (see Burnin Bonnie BBQ and Gilligan's (Cock) Island posts). I've never had a shortage of men in my life, that's for sure.

The (Second) Night I Almost Died: Part 2 of 3

The gun barrel pressed against my left temple. Time seemed to stand still. My heartbeat felt slow, deep, and deliberate: lub-dup...lub-dup...lub-dup...lub-dup. Santos and I stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity but in reality was only a few seconds. It was a Wild West showdown, only I didn't have a gun because Santos held mine to my head. Fucker. Lub-dup...lub-dup. Fight or flight? Lub-dup...lub-dup. There was no way in hell I could fight. Lub-dup...lub-dup. I needed to get the hell out of there. Lub-dup...lub-dup. My survival instinct kicked in. Flight!

Time accelerated to warp speed. Where was my flux capacitor and Delorean when I needed them? I turned to my right and whipped myself around so I was facing the bottom of the stairway. Under different circumstances, I would have looked like an Aveda shampoo hair model - whipping my luxurious locks of mid-back length hair from the center of my back until it rested over my left shoulder - but today I was just a woman attempting to flee domestic violence. Two stairs at a time, I galloped down the stairs like a quarter horse and its jockey vying for first place. When my feet landed on the first floor, I turned left. I didn't look back. I dashed through the dining room and turned left into the kitchen. I looked on the kitchen counter under the phone that hung on the wall, but I didn't see my car keys were I usually kept them. Where were my fucking car keys?! Don't panic! Fuck! Think, think think! Where did I leave the damn car keys?! My purse was on the counter. Why did I leave it there? Flashback: after I went grocery shopping for my girls' night, I unloaded the groceries, put my keys in my purse, and put my purse on the counter. I snatched my purse, rummaged for and found my keys (sigh of relief!), then dashed from the back of kitchen to the door to the garage. The garage was empty and the garage door was closed. What the fuck?! Flashback: I parked the car in the driveway. Apparently it was the day for unusual things. Humph. I dashed back into the kitchen, and scrambled toward the dining room. I turned right. Santos was at the bottom of the stairs, gun still in hand but not pointing it at me. Gulp. He knew he stood between me and my pathway through the living room to the front door - and the driveway where my car was parked. I quickly contemplated going out the garage (and waiting for the automatic garage door - which was slower than molasses - to open) or through the backyard and out the side gate (a long and dark journey that required the key for the side gate lock for which I didn't want to look), and nixed both of those ideas immediately. Besides...no matter which way I went, there was no escaping Santos. Damn it! What about the dogs? I didn't want to leave Bear, Riggs, and 11-week old Riley behind! Shit! I was torn. Did I have time to wrangle up two rather large Rottweilers and their puppy? No. My heart broke for fear of their safety, but I had to get the fuck out of there. Flashback: Bear bit Santos after the last time he hit me. Certain that Bear and Riggs would attack Santos if they felt threatened, and with my mounting concern over my own safety, I took a deep breath and exhaled as I walked quickly toward the living room.

Santos grabbed my right arm to stop me. Full of fury and fear, and the desire to survive, I wrenched my arm free from his grip. I felt my car keys slip out of my hand; they jangled as they landed on the carpet. Ahhhhhhh! Seriously? My life was like a script from a cheesy horror movie. I turned to look at him, uncertain what would happen next. His eyes - filled with desperation - bored into mine. Time slowed again. Lub-dup...lub-dup. No fucking way this asshole was going to take me down. Back into flight mode: I bent down, grabbed my keys, and ran through the living room. I welcomed the sight of the front door. Almost out! I turned the door handle and yanked the door open; it whacked the entryway wall with a loud thud. The cool evening summer air greeted me, but I didn't take time to enjoy it like I normally would. Sorry summer air. Gotta flee.

Standing in the doorway, I glanced over my left shoulder. Santos was close behind. I dashed straight out the front door then veered right across the porch and jumped over the flower planter. I looked over my left shoulder. Santos was in the doorway. Shit! Finally on the driveway, I was at the passenger side of the car. I walked quickly around the front of the car to the driver's side. My hands shook as I inserted a key into the driver's side door. Wrong key! Tick tock, tick tock. Santos was on the passenger side of the car but working his way around the front. Tick tock, tick tock. My hands fumbled with the key ring. I inserted another key and turned it; the door unlocked. Phew! Tick tock, tick tock. I opened the door and hopped in the driver's seat. Santos was at the front of the car. Shit! Shit! Shit! Why didn't he just aim and fire? Tick tock, tick tock. I pulled the door closed and used the automatic door lock to lock all the doors. Santos was at the driver's side door. He yanked on the door handle and stared at me. Ha! Locked, asshole! Tick tock, tick tock. I fastened my seat belt and looked at him. A wicked grin spread across his face. Santos tapped the window slowly with the gun barrel. Gulp. I felt like a fish in a fishbowl being tormented by a siphon. Tick tock, tick tock. Fortunately my fishbowl had an engine and wheels. My hands trembled as I put the key the ignition. I turned the key and the engine thankfully roared to life. Fuck you, cheesy horror movie script! Santos raised his hand and brought the gun barrel down in a striking motion on the driver's side window. Damn script is back. The window didn't crack, so I was spared a gun barrel and shards of glass in my face. Time slowed again. I looked at Santos, my eyes wide with anger. Fucking psycho. Wait? Who's psycho? Him? Or me? No time for an inner debate. Tick tock, tick tock. Back to warp speed. Gotta jet. I released the emergency brake, shifted my car into reverse, then punched the gas pedal. My car zipped backwards out of the driveway. My heart pounded fast and hard. Would Santos shoot me as I drove away? Only one way to find out: I shifted my car into drive, punched the gas pedal again, and sped down Falcon Crest Lane.

We lived in an upper middle class neighborhood. Fortunately it was late and the streets were deserted. I chopped a left on Hummingbird, another left on Bells Vireo, then another left on El Toro. Soon I was speeding through Laguna Canyon, putting as much distance as possible between my psycho soon-to-be ex-husband and me. I continually checked my rear view mirror for his truck's headlights. Santos got more violent after I asked for a divorce, but I never imagined he'd hold a gun to my head. What the fuck just happened? So glad to be out of the house and thankful to be alive, it finally dawned on me: I was driving drunk! I had a few drinks with my girlfriends and was sipping on my third or fourth celebratory pre-divorce cocktail when Santos arrived. For someone who doesn't usually drink alcohol, that was a lot. Drunk driving? Me? But I didn't feel intoxicated - I think the adrenaline or fear sobered me up but that wouldn't register if I was pulled over and given a breathalyzer test. I kept driving. I drove so fast that I caught up with Julie on the highway. Only about five minutes passed between the time Julie left my house and the time I caught up with her on the highway. Five minutes of terror. We pulled over and formulated a plan: I'd go to her place. I followed Julie to her place in my car; we arrived about 45 minutes later. Yes, I survived those five minutes of terror, but, alas, my night was not yet over.

To be continued...

Ethan + Andy - Bobby = Two. Phew.

Bobby wanted to come over Wednesday night to cook me dinner. I warned him again that I wouldn't have sex with him. He said he still wanted to pound me hard (what a charmer!) but also talk to my heart through his heart (metrosexual? - he does dress well) because he thinks I'm sexy but also a warm friend and hoped that we could hang out. Sure. So long as his cock wasn't hanging out near my mouth or any other orifice, why not? Maybe we'd become friends?

Bobby proposed to make curry chicken. How could I refuse? Ethan doesn't cook for me, so it would be nice to have someone cook for me. Still lookin' for a Man Friday, ya know. Right now, frozen food from Trader Joe's is my Man Friday but something's lacking. Oh yeah...the man! So on Tuesday we firmed up our plans, and I touched bases with him on Wednesday afternoon to find out if he wanted me to make spicy green beans. Guess not - Bobby suggested we get together some other day. I suspected he wanted to cancel because he knew he wouldn't get laid, and given my (embarrassing to admit) passive aggressive behavior the last time I saw him, I'm not sure why he wanted to subject himself to the same fate anyway. So we carried on our conversation via text message, which itself pissed me off. Don't people call anymore?! I inquired if he canceled because I wouldn't have sex with him. Yep, and because he wasn't a "good Pounder" since I liked having sex with Andy. I had to laugh, but replied that it was a jerk reason to cancel and that canceling via text message was lame. Bobby said he didn't mean it, but it really didn't matter to me. I planned on telling him in person that dating Ethan and Andy was enough, but I was able to take the chicken shit way out. Bawk bawk bawk! The stars were aligned! Phew! We carried on a lengthy conversation via text, but it was finally done. Relief. I feel more at peace now.

This dating racket is rough, but I think it's rough because I make it rough. Earlier in the week I did the chick thing: stressing about Ethan and Andy, how I needed to talk to both of them to set things straight. What does that even mean? "Set things straight?" Who knows. If I don't know, then how am I supposed to do it? I dusted off my books of dating advice, then decided I should just burn them all because reading them stresses me out.

One thing I'm learning: women have the power in heterosexual relationships - men will treat women how women allow themselves to be treated. They're like dogs who need to be trained to please their owner, or orchestra musicians who need an assertive conductor. But I'm too damn nice. I let men walk all over me. For example, Ethan and I had a date (a non-date date, if you ask me) last night. I usually cook us meals at my home but I didn't feel like grocery shopping or cooking last night, so I suggested we have dinner at a taco truck. Neither of us had cash, so we went to my bank's ATM. After we got our money, Ethan said "I shouldn't have let you get money because I could've paid for your meal" and I replied "Oh, it's okay" when I was actually thinking "You still could dumbass, and it would be nice if you did since I've been buying groceries so I can make the meal of your choice practically every Friday night and sometimes on Saturdays for the past four months." We've gone out to eat at least a half dozen times. Do you know how many meals of mine he's paid for? One. And after he paid for that one meal - almost 2 months ago - he felt like we were "dating" and then told me he wanted to "just be friends" even though a week later we decided that we were "dating." But I don't feel like we're dating. I feel like his fucking mom. And why do I feel that way? For one, because I haven't spoken up for myself. And for two, because I've been in the "friend zone" too long and I don't have those types of feelings for him. But I do have those types of feelings for Andy, but who knows how he feels about me - I'm doing my best to keep my stupid chick thoughts at bay. I wish I could bottle them up and maroon them on a small island far away from my mind. My thoughts, not the men. Well, maybe the men too.

I sometimes feel like Annie in the opening of scene of Bridesmaids: she's fucking Ted and hoping for a meaningful relationship but she takes what she can get because she doesn't think much of herself. Yep, that's me sometimes. I'm fairly confident that's why I get into so many fucked up romantic situations - I'm too damn nice and easy going. I usually just go along with whatever the man wants. Raise your hand if you would remain in a relationship with someone who withheld information about his arranged marriage to his cousin for four months until you accidentally found out by seeing a text message on his phone that happened to be from her. Are you raising your hand? No? That's because you're smart. Not me. I stayed. Off and on for 2 more years. It was part of my (very painful) journey, but, really, how dense can I be? A lot of my inability to speak up for myself has to do with the abuse I suffered during my first marriage - if I spoke up, I got yelled at or beaten. Keeping quiet = pain avoidance. But that's not working now because keeping quiet = pain and resentment, and it's my own damn fault. I keep hoping for a man who won't take advantage of my loving, kind, compassionate, caring, trusting, and forgiving nature. This man doesn't exist. I repeat: this man does not exist! At least not for me. I need to set boundaries, have some standards, and ask for what I want until I find the man who'll treat me with the respect that I demand (and deserve). Every man pushes boundaries, even when they're defined. It's exhausting. Bobby was my most recent example. And given my nice and easy going nature and that I'll likely have to continually orchestrate the behavior of men, I'll just consider myself a musical conductor with job security.

I revisited my Dating Advice from an Asshole post to reacquaint myself with Tucker Max's advice: "You can throw out all of your stupid fucking chick-lit, self-help, why-doesn't-he-love-me books out because this is all you need to know: men will treat you the way you let them. There's no such thing as "deserving" respect; you get what you demand from people. Let a guy fuck you in the ass, cum on your back, drink all your beer and then leave, and he'll do it. But if you demand respect, he will either respect you, or he won't associate with you. It really is that simple." And if he won't associate with me, then I don't want or need him anyway. Yep, Bobby can kiss my ass. Well, he would have if I let him but that would have meant that I let him cross a boundary that I told him he couldn't cross. No thanks. Hee hee.

Polite Robber

Writing the first part of my The (Second) Night I Almost Died post reminded me of the time I was approached by a polite robber. On Tuesday, December 18, 2012, I went to Safeway around 7:30 pm to return some DVDs. When I exited the store, I saw a man standing about 50 feet away and to my left. I quickly glanced at him, but continued walking. "Excuse me, Mam'm," he said. I thought he was talking to me, but I avoided eye contact and continued walking across the parking lot to my car. I got into my car, sat down in the driver's seat, and shut the door. I put my purse on the passenger seat. Then I heard a man say "Excuse me, Mam'm." My door was closed, but it sounded like he was right next to me. I turned my head towards the sound, and there he was. Right in my face. Startled, I shrieked. He looked at me like I was an alien being. Yet he's the one who opened the driver's side door and stuck his head inside my car. Yeah, I'm the strange one. What the fuck, dude? "Can I please have your purse?" he asked politely. "No!" I snapped indigently. I looked in the rear view mirror and there was an older white truck stopped behind me, so I couldn't back out. And, well, I hadn't started my car yet. Damn it. He leaned closer into me and asked again politely "Mam'm, can I please have your purse?" "No!" I insisted more indigently than the first time. Then I wondered what the hell I was thinking. He could have a gun, and the white truck was blocking my exit. Fuck me. He reached for the door handle of the rear door. Was he going to crawl in the back seat and try to grab my purse? My anger erupted. As I rose from the driver's seat, I put my hands on his chest and shoved him hard. He looked exasperated, like I did something completely out of line. Seriously? Maybe I should have said "Don't touch my car or my purse, please"? Whatever I did worked. He left, got into the passenger side of the white truck, and they drove off. I was shaken. In retrospect, I was disappointed with my self-defense skills, and I realized that my life was worth much more than my purse and its contents. Obviously, the outcome could have been much worse. But I won the battle against this polite robber.

The (Second) Night I Almost Died: Part 1 of 3

When I was 18, Santos (aka Fuckwad in The (First) Night I Almost Died post) actively pursued me for several months. We met through mutual friends who were in a rock band. One night we were all at the Whiskey A-Go-Go for one of their gigs. I was the band's sober roadie who drove them to and from their gigs, but I was also underage so we told the 21-and-over club owners that I was a back-up singer so they'd let me in. One time I flashed my breasts - the power of breasts is underrated, or men are just idiots. Anyway, I was backstage (I met two members of Guns and Roses - awesome!) when Santos approached me and said something crude. Whatever he said pissed me off so much that I splashed my full drink in his face and on his chest. He continued to pursue me. I continued to dodge his efforts. Meanwhile, I lost my virginity to someone else and had sex with another man twice - something that would cause many years of strife in my eventual relationship with Santos even though what I did before we got together was none of his business.  Sometime in June 1988, Santos finally wore me down. I gave in. We had our first date. At Taco Bell. Seriously. Taco Bell. We had nachos. Sitting outside on a table off of a busy street with cars whizzing by. It was not a magical date, and there was nothing magical about Santos. Before we went on our non-magical first date, he continually repulsed me with his crude comments so I wasn't sure why I gave in. For example, I was hanging out with our mutual friends and he was there. I was working at Music Plus (a record and cassette store - CDs were just starting to come out) making $3.25 an hour. Santos asked me "How would you like to plant tulips for ten bucks an hour?" I contemplated and said "Sure!" Then he replied "Well, you can start right here." He grabbed my head and tried to shove my face in his crotch. Two lips, not tulips. Ugh. What an asshole. But I have to admit that it was funny. What was magical was the magnitude of my naivety - how could anyone be so damn naive as to not see any of the "danger ahead" warning signs? He pissed me off enough that I threw my drink in his face, and it takes a lot to make me mad.

I worked during the day and he worked swing shift so we started spending our weekends together. He usually picked me up at 11:30 pm on Friday and brought me home on Sunday afternoon or evening. That sounds lovely, but did I mention that during the week he demanded that I be at home every night to receive his phone calls during his work break? Yes, 7:30 on the dot. Heaven forbid if my parents were on the phone. I had hell to pay if he couldn't reach me at 7:30. The only way I was excused from the 7:30 phone call was if I was in class (I went to college at night). And this was just the beginning. I soon learned that he was controlling, possessive, jealous, over-protective, suspicious, accusatory, and an alcoholic. After about four months, he didn't show up one Friday night. I waited for a couple of hours. I worried. We didn't have cell phones back then, so I called his work and his home - no answer at either place. I finally reached him, drunk and at home at 6:30 am. He went to a party, got drunk, and acquired at least a dozen hickies on his neck and chest. I was crushed. He claimed that he "didn't know how the hickies got there." Yes, he thought I was that dumb. When I expressed my disappointment and frustration about his behavior, he blamed me for his cheating behavior because I wasn't available to him all the time. And apparently I was that dumb, because I moved in with him. That's when the physical abuse started. Yet, we were engaged two months later. What was I thinking? I wasn't thinking. Clearly. Santos and I were engaged for almost five years. While I accepted the engagement, I refused to marry him until he stopped drinking. He became sober in 1991, he didn't hit me while he was sober, we married in October 1993, he started drinking again the night of our wedding, we moved into our new house the next day, and things got really ugly again. I left him in August 1998, two months after he attempted to kill me.

Eight years of physical, sexual, and emotional abuse, and 150 more pounds later, I had an affair in December 1997 with his best friend Ray (see Drunken Nights: Prelude to an Affair - I'll share my first encounter with Ray soon - it's one of my favorite memories). When I'm in a committed relationship, I'm more loyal than a dog. In all the years I was with Santos, I never cheated on him despite his bad behavior. Santos accused me of cheating on him all the time (he wouldn't let me go to the grocery store alone, it was that bad) which was a major cause of the physical abuse I suffered during the first couple of years of our relationship. After I gained enough weight, the accusations of cheating stopped but he found other reasons to beat me. Like when I accidentally knocked over an engine piston in the garage. But little did he know that men still found me attractive regardless of my weight, and several of his friends hit on me several times over the years. That I actually cheated on him with Ray was an eyeopener for me. I knew I was done with my relationship with Santos. I was miserable, I'd been crossed and abused too many times, and there was no going back.

Two weeks after my first encounter with Ray, I asked Santos to carry a 40 pound bag of dog food from the car trunk to the garage. He yelled "Your fat lazy ass can move it yourself!" I'd been having difficulty with my hands and arms for a couple of years, to the point where it hurt to brush my teeth or hair, vacuum, wash dishes, etc., and he refused to help me with anything. (Incidentally, I was taken off work four months later for various repetitive-use upper body ailments and didn't return to my career as a paralegal.) And why would he help? I always did everything on my own because he'd either yell at me or beat me. I preferred to suffer in silence and avoid the beatings. Santos conditioned me well to be his servant. I left the dog food in the trunk, walked into the kitchen, looked at Santos, and said very calmly "I want a divorce." For the first time since we'd been together, he was speechless. Santos stared at me for a while, and then he went upstairs to watch television. While he often said he wanted a divorce when he was mad, I never did. He was probably in shock.

I wish I could say that I left immediately, but I didn't. I lived with him for eight more months, during which time he became increasingly violent as he lost control over me. I attempted to temper Santos' violent behavior by slowly withdrawing from our marriage and planning my exit. First, I started with separate sleeping areas. I slept in the master bedroom and he slept in one of the guest bedrooms. Next, I stopped making his meals and doing his laundry. Then I stopped contributing financially to the household - I wanted to make sure he would pay the mortgage on this own (I eventually forced sale of the house). In February, he started seeing Tammy, the woman who lived down the street who believed they were destined to be together because a fortune teller told her she'd marry someone with Santos' initials (by the way, Tammy was married and had been for 20 years, she left her husband for Santos, and the had a child together), which made it easier for me to withdraw from the marriage because he was distracted by her. I was taken off work at the end of March and I couldn't afford to live on my own with temporary disability and my dad wouldn't let me move home so I was sort of stuck until I could figure out where to move. I made do the best I could, and enjoyed my home while I still lived in it.

The last weekend in June 1998, Santos and Tammy went to Vegas. Since I had the house to myself, I invited the girls over for dinner and drinks on Saturday night. I was excited that I'd be moving out of the house eventually, about my upcoming month long trip to Europe, and about new beginnings in general. We were having a fabulous time - until Santos came home a day early. He and Tammy had a fight (surprise, surprise). He brought me food, so I thanked him for his thoughtfulness and asked him to put the food in the refrigerator because I wasn't hungry. That set him off and he started yelling at and berating me. The girls left one by one, and eventually Santos and I were the only ones in the house. I didn't expect to go anywhere that night, so I drank a few cocktails.

Santos was yelling as loud as he could. He didn't want a divorce nor did he want me to move out. I yelled that it wasn't his decision to make, I didn't want to be beaten or yelled at, I was miserable and unhappy, and I was done with him. I kept it to myself that I needed to move because I didn't want to go to jail for murder because I contemplated killing him in his sleep. He yelled "You're stupid and fat! No one will ever want you!" I told him calmly "I'd rather be alone than remain married to you. I don't want to do this anymore." He knew I was serious. He stormed up the stairs, but it was too quiet. Like an idiot in a horror movie who you know should run out the front door and never look back, I walked up the stairs. I heard some kind of a clicking or snapping noise, but couldn't place it. As I got near the landing, he met me there. He was on the landing and I was one step below. I stepped up to meet him on the landing; our chests were practically touching. His right arm was behind his back. I was guarded  - I expected him to hit me or push me down the stairs. Wrong. He brought out his right arm; there was a gun in his hand. My gun, no less. A Glock 19. The clip was in. I kept my clips loaded, so I knew it was loaded. The noise? He inserted the clip and cocked the chamber. Santos put the mouth of the gun barrel on my left temple, his finger on the trigger. I was toast - paralyzed with anger and fear. Through gritted teeth, I looked him in the eyes and said slowly and as cold as ice, "Go ahead and shoot me, you motherfucking pussy. I dare you."

To be continued...