Sex doesn't equal love

Yesterday, I worked on the page Lesbian Love and Advice. I love working the page when there is discussion, and last night there was plenty of it. I asked a question about sex in the morning. I think my words were something like:

 "I don't understand how people can have sex in the morning -- bad breath, sleep in their eyes, needing to get to work but wanting to go back to sleep once you're finished..." and I received a response that still has me thinking.

The response I got was  (paraphrased):

Sex is about love and touch, hearing, smelling, tasting...it's not about all the things that you said. If it is, you shouldn't be having sex with that person anyway. Because sex is about love and you shouldn't have sex with someone you don't love.

Or something like that.

I had to count to ten a few times before I responded. I told the young woman that she had taken my question out of context, and immediately wished I had some of my regulars around to stand up for me (lol!) I know that sometimes I might come off as ... as... serious maybe? But my friends and those who get my vibe generally know when I'm saying things sarcastically and when I'm not taking myself seriously at all. Tongue in cheek -- that's the phrase I was looking for. I say a whole lot of things tongue in cheek. I write about deep things sometimes and I like to think I'm philosophical, but anyone who knows me in real life knows that I joke around a lot more than I'm serious. This post was one of those times.

Sure, I generally wonder about people who have sex in the morning. I wonder when the morning breath no longer bothers you. I wonder when you get use to being seen in the mornings and knowing your partner thinks you're beautiful. But it is more than appearance, I'm not at my best in the morning and I'm sleep and groggy and generally a little grumpy until I get oriented.

But if I can go back to the statement about sex being about love. Um... no. Sex does not mean love.
It's not all butterflies and rainbows and sweet smelling lavender drifting up to envelope you. Sex is sometimes just about getting off. And when you want to get off or fuck, you don't want to look at a bunch of sleep boogers in your partner's eyes. Ruins the whole affect, don't you think. ;)  Sex isn't about acceptance at all. It's about getting pleasure and delivering enough pleasure to your partner (maybe) so they can respond accordingly. Sex is fun. And carefree. And drama free. Sex is like babysitting a cute toddler. You know eventually the parent is going to come back and relieve you of your duties. You don't have to pay for college. You don't have to clean up vomit or deal with too much poop. Sex is easy and fast and usually delicious. It's the fairy tale. Any negativity that comes into sex ruins it faster than a child's temper tantrum ruins a person's dream of being a parent. You don't want reality when you have sex most of the time. Reality kills the vibe. Which is why people hate condoms. If you have to stop for a moment and put one on, all of a sudden you are thinking about diseases or the prevention of a disease or pregnancy. Mood ruined.

Making love is different. Making love is what happens when you know about the unflattering poses and the funny faces and you don't even mind. Making love means sex in the morning with boogers in the eyes and bad breath. Making love sees beyond all of the imperfections or changes the imperfections into (sing it with me) perfect imperfections. Because you have history and love as a foundation and not lust as one.

Sex doesn't equal love.

At least not always.

LDR -- Missing Her.

When preparing for questions for the Single's Page several months ago, I remember coming across an article on Long Distance Relationships. There were several helpful suggestions, things I had long since understood. But there was something about missing that sticks out in my mind. The author of the article said that you should never, ever, ever, under any circumstances spend a lot of time talking about how much you miss each other. She said when that happens, the relationship is pretty much doomed to fail.

I'm trying really hard not to talk to her about missing her. Especially since I'll be visiting her shortly.

But maybe this blog is the safe zone and I can let it all out in here. At least just for today, when it feels like "soon" will take forever to get here.

I miss Janelle. I miss her in ways that talking on the phone, laughing on the phone, typing to one another, and all the other things we do every day to stay connected don't even touch. Sometimes it's hard to breathe. And I don't want to tell her, because I don't want to bum her out because I know she misses me just as much. And also -- the article.  The article says that when that's all you can talk about (missing each other) that your relationship is over.

We talk about a lot of other things. It's not just gloom and doom. But I'm sincerely over the distance. I'm over not being with her and not starting a life together. I'm over not physically being with her, too -- like just holding hands and feeling the weight of her arm on my body. And I want to kiss her. Like REALLY kiss her. And then there are other things, too. I won't go into detail. But man. It sucks.

Maybe tomorrow I'll write about something else.

But for tonight that's all my heart can manage.

My Girlfriend Has a Best Friend...

My girlfriend has a best friend, and it's not me. Her name is Stacy, and she's known her forever. Well, not technically "forever" but they have a history. I'm only going to speak about the best friend component of their relationship or this blog will get too long. *grin* But Janelle told me about Stacy from the very beginning. And I knew that she was her best friend. And I was jealous.

Duh.

I mean, when a girl tells you she loves you, and then tells you that she also has a best friend that she also loves and that there is no way that you will be the best friend, you're going to have some sort of feelings about it, right?

The longer I live the more I realize that we have feelings that are authentic, and then we have those feelings we feel we are suppose to have. Women feel that we are suppose to be worried about other women because they are competition. We feel like we're supposed to feel jealous and so we do. But if you sit with your feelings long enough you realize that there's something else that is there under the surface, and usually it's just a bit of insecurity. As soon as you address that insecurity, you're fine. And so, that is what I did. I asked questions. And I listened. And I set aside the emotional part of me for a minute and looked at things logically. And then I decided I was going to love Stacy almost as much as Janelle did. Because if it hadn't been for Stacy, Janelle and I would not have made it "here."

We are told that our partner is suppose to be our best friend. "I tell my partner everything." "We have no secrets." "We are thick as thieves." Etc. Etc. and so on. Let me tell you something: My mother and my father have been married for 55 years. All you need to do is spend ten minutes with my parents to realize there ain't no way on God's green earth that my parents are best friends. My dad has a best friend. And my mother has two best friends. And those best friends hear all about my parent's idiosyncrasies. They hear all about how crazy each of them are: how my father only takes his ADD medication when he's doing something important and then bounces off walls and acts all forgetful when he's with my mother. And that my mother compulsively cleans the kitchen counter tops and cares too much about the little things like how the curtains hang and if the seams are showing. And their best friends pat them on the shoulder or give them hugs and then tell them how crazy their own spouses are and they have a drink or two. And then sometime in the evening one of the best friend's reminds my parent that they are freaking out over something that really doesn't matter in the long haul. And then my parents come home and are sweeties again and resign themselves to being married for another year or two.

I use to have a diary. I remember in one of my relationships, I kept my diary in the trunk of my car (should have been a hint) because I lived with my boyfriend at the time (another hint) and I knew he would read my diary if I left it out in the open. After a trip to the store one day, Kevin found my diary and proceeded to read it. He came up to my apartment, my diary in hand, and proceeded to ask me questions about everything that I had written. Why was I worried about our relationship (duh)? Why did I feel he didn't listen? Did I really feel that way about his smoking? Why did I say he made my skin crawl? Were the things I wrote in my diary true? Hell yeah they were. Were they an expression of how I felt most of the time? I didn't believe so. But writing it all out and venting about it helped me gather my thoughts and make sense of things. THAT is what a best friend is. And if your spouse is your best friend, who then will be your diary? Who is that person you can say anything to and who will not have their feelings be hurt or take things out of context or get all defensive or even tell you when you're being out of line and that you need to take a moment? 

I don't believe Janelle needs to be my best friend. She is my friend and my partner and my lover and the cupcake of my life. Her attention span for my "venting" is about 2 days shorter than that of my best friend. And there isn't anything wrong with that. My best friend is not vested in the relationship the same way that Janelle is. She can offer solutions and advice that Janelle never will be able to offer because Janelle is too close to the subject at hand. And that best friend allows for us to have the intimacy that we have -- not void of the discussions that couples should have, but void of the extra stuff that happens when we just need to vent for a moment. Janelle can and does tell me everything. And I can and do tell her everything. Almost. But Janelle can not tell me about myself the way that she can vent to her best friend about me. And she needs to have that outlet. Just like I need the outlet.

I want the time that we have together to be more than best friend level. She's my best companion. It will be a gift if I can be the same for her.

My Coming Out Story (Basically)

I wrote about this on my facebook page, but I figured since Jay's post is about Bisexuality, I should probably write my story. There are sure to be questions.

So, I was born in 1967 in Milwaukee, Wisconsin one spring morning in April.

I'll fast forward.

I never dated in high school. It was a combination of being the only black girl in a small school and also a bit of childhood history that included quite a bit of abuse. We won't get into all of that except to say this: there is certain abuse that when experienced as a kid can kind of screw up your whole conception of what sex and attraction mean.

Continuing on.

When I got to college, I dated men. And, throughout my life, I had what I perceived to be "healthy" relationships with men. I never had any "feelings" about men except the feeling that I enjoyed being wanted and I thought it was pretty much my duty to please men (well, anyone, really) and so I did what I had been trained since the age of seven to do.

I don't talk much about my abuse with Jay because I know that it would upset her. She has met my family, and there are many things that have been resolved, and I hate the thought of her having to go through the kind of pain one goes through when they hear of a loved one being hurt to the extent I was. It's not pretty. It wasn't pretty. But it's over now.

Moving on.

So I grew up thinking I had a job to do. I didn't check in with myself, and I grew up to be someone who was very disconnected from her body. I was in some really horrible relationships. I stayed when I should have left. I put up with shit that no one should really put up with. Looking back, I think punished myself for having had some of the experiences I had. I think I went on to abuse myself and picked up where my perpetrators had left off.

There was one moment when I knew that I was attracted to women. I felt things that I had never felt about a man -- felt attraction towards a woman that I had never felt towards a man. I thought this must mean, not that I was a Lesbian, but that I was simply Bisexual. And I went on believing I was for at least a year. It was easier. No matter how much shit I heard about how Bisexuals were nasty and diseased ridden and cheaters and blah blah blah, I thought that's what I was. There was no way I wanted to think of my past with men as something I did on auto pilot. Something that I did out of habit -- out of some obligation. That my "feelings" I felt were nothing. Just some fun house mirror where everything you see in the reflection is distorted.

But there you have it. I don't find men attractive beyond "pretty." I never think about the things I want to do with men, never have. I don't fantasize about men. Don't get fluttery or goofy or nervous. And so, at the age of 45 and a half, I realized I wasn't bisexual at all. I was really, quite simply, a Lesbian.

Now imagine my disgust I had realizing that I fit every "stereotype" of bisexuality that I had ever read about. Here I was saying I was just momentarily "confused" and that I said "Bisexual" until I had it figured out. And what about all the work I had done previously to bring Bisexuality out of the closet and bring some respect to the orientation? Would people think I deserted them? Would I be termed a fraud? What about the relationships I had with men -- some of them "nice" and not too terribly bad. What about that? Would they be referred to as just a "phase" I had gone through?

There is only one answer I can give to all those nagging questions: I can't worry about it. I can only be my authentic and true self and stop, once and for all, worrying about pleasing other people. Just can't do it anymore.

I do believe that Bisexuality is a legitimate thing. I believe there are people who do love someone based on who they are and not by what is (or isn't) hanging between their legs. I could never be someone to disregard what was between the legs. I am not attracted to men in that way -- and that isn't something that has happened or occurred because of my abuse, even though I am an incest survivor. I believe that my attraction, my comfort zone, my spirit is drawn to women and always has been. The abuse didn't make it happen, the abuse just confused me for years --- made the answer hard for me to see.

So there is my coming out story. Complex, but it's all basically there. I hope that in reading my story, people are more gentle with one another and allow for different stories and different experiences. We don't all have it so easy to just know in a linear kind of way who and what we are. We need to allow time for people to figure things out -- know that we all have our different experiences, our different ghosts to come to terms with. And those of us who are older and just "coming out", we need to remind ourselves to be gentle and patient with ourselves. Don't be so quick to label yourself. Know that it takes time to settle and for the repressed you to know it is safe to come out. You have time. We'll wait for you with open arms. 

Need

My mother has a few stories she tells me over and over again. These stories are my “baby” stories...stories from when I was just adopted. Barely four years old, I’m barely a baby. But these are the only stories I have. 

When my foster mother was alive, I thought it would be too much to ask her to remember another foster kid’s story. I didn’t ask her when I learned to walk. Or what my first word was. I knew it mattered, but I was too afraid she might not know the answer. Or that she would know the answer and I’d realize just how important she was to me before she ... well, before she wasn’t. 

So when my mother tells me stories I listen. Sometimes I roll my eyes and question why she has to tell the story about me peeing my pants. Or when I mistook flies for birds and completely had a melt down in the front yard. But deep down inside I cherish every story she tells me. No matter how many times she decides to tell them. I can always figure something out about myself through them. 

When my parents picked me up and brought me home with them, I sat in my mother’s lap that evening and shook. I didn’t talk for at least a month. Because I didn’t talk to my parents, when my mother took me to downtown Fargo, ND to shop, there on the corner, waiting for the light to change so we could cross, I wet my pants. The first few times my mother told me about my accident, I thought she was angry at me. I was potty trained. Why would I do such a thing? Through the years, her tone has changed. She understands that I wasn’t talking. To talk to my mother to tell her I had to go to the bathroom was, for me, much more dangerous than just peeing my pants in the middle of downtown. I didn’t know how to count on these strangers. 

Being vulnerable isn’t something I do well. My pride and stubborn nature combine and the results aren’t ever pleasant. My instinct is to close in and figure things out myself when things don’t go well. If I need someone, and I learn to depend on them, what happens if they aren’t there when I do need them? What if I like it too much and miss it too much when it’s gone, because of course old tapes and experiences tell me that good, safe feelings don’t last for long. 




Saying your fears out loud usually exposes them. I can barely write the sentences above without telling myself how silly I am. You don’t cheat yourself out of good things because of the possibility they might not last. That would be insane. The realist in me says that everything ends eventually. If I stopped doing or experiencing things because of that reality, then I’d experience nothing at all. 

So what happens when the person you’ve fallen madly in love with asks you to need them? Yeah. Exactly. You admit you need her. 

And let her in.

You Femmes...

I'm trying to figure something out.

Why does "You Femmes" in response to something I say irritate me? It's not ten on the scale of irritations, but it's definitely over the five mark.

When my mother starts forgetting how many times she's asked me the same thing I don't flippantly tell her, "You Elders!" without answering her question. She wouldn't slap me, but her death stare would probably do the same thing.

When my father takes out his pocket knife and proceeds to dig out a splinter from his palm I don't say "You Men."

When my cousin exclaims about how easy her life was living in a suburb of California and having had a pony when she grew up I don't laugh and say, "You white Girls."

I also don't ever say to my girlfriend who doesn't really identify as a boi or a stud but sort of falls into the boi category, "You Bois" when she mumbles about being dragged through the mall by her mother.

I'm not my label. My personality and my choices and my decisions are things that are a part of me. And while they might fall into whatever stereotype a femme falls into, please allow me to explain, for clarification and understanding (which is what I'm assuming the throwing around of labels is attempting to do in some passive way) who exactly I am and why I might act the way I do and why that falls into many categories -- not just being a "you femme."

I like pink. Maybe my liking pink is something to do with my surroundings. Maybe not. I like nail polish and makeup and I call my shirts blouses and I only wear t-shirts when I'm working out or when I sleep. I like shoes but heels are fricken uncomfortable, so if I wear them I'm kicking them off as soon as we get to a location where I can. I like earrings and "girly" things, if you must. But I also can bait my own hook. I spent most of my childhood digging up worms in my back yard near the lake and threading rusty hooks through their squirmy little bodies. My father had a stump by the dock and when we caught enough fish for the day we would then scale, gut, and prepare the fish to eat. When I was about twelve years old I learned how to pan fry fish the way my daddy did. I also camped, know how to set up a tent, and could probably survive longer in the wilderness than my girlfriend could -- mostly because she hates the word "camp." I'm not afraid to swim in a lake -- those are the things that don't have sandy or rocky bottoms, by the way. I know how to sail, canoe, and drive a speed boat. I also know what to do if the motor floods, and I'm good with a set of oars. Learned that shit on the lake, not in a gym by the way. In addition to the above skills, I grew up with three brothers. I spent the better part of my forty-four years not talking about my emotions. Not showing my weakness. Not crying when someone hurt my feelings. Not flinching when boys set off firecrackers under my feet. I know first hand what it takes to not dissect my feelings to death and not hang onto old arguments. I know how to pretend that stepping on a nail doesn't hurt and how to "shake off" being punched in the gut -- either literally or figuratively, by the way.

You who say "you femme" in a way to summarize my life or my experiences, do not know me.

I'm not a sum of characteristics someone else has laid out based on stereotypes of me. And even if I was, how is that even an okay response for anything I've ever said? How is that even helpful?

I have seen just as many studs and bois and butch women obsess over the same type of stuff they accuse femmes of obsessing over. It takes me a minute to get ready to go out, but I knew a boi who could pack five suitcases (two just for her shoes) in comparison to my two suitcases and take twice as long getting ready to go anywhere. I've seen studs who don't want to get people mad at them so don't say a word ever about their mistreatment. I've seen studs who cry when they don't get their own way. I've seen studs who are passive aggressive, who play mind games and manipulate circles around any femme who supposedly does that in her sleep. We are all women, so we all have a level of emotional ability that allows us to nurture and be sensitive and have a certain ability to bond with another person in a way that fewer males by design are capable of doing. Just because you're male identified does not mean that you are, indeed, a male genetically.

Just because you are male identified does not mean that you have a dick, no matter how much you may try to act like one. You just might be acting like a "femme" your own damned selves. Don't get it twisted.

*deep breath*

Just please, for the love of all that is good and holy, stop summarizing all of me by my label, because I will, in true femme fashion (sarcasm intended), kick you in your pretend balls "you bois" go around holding.

To quote my boifriend: That is all.

Faux Dominance

 It has taken me quite a few years to understand who I am.  I was exposed to more than a little bit sexually (at a very young age),  and as a result I grew up pretty fast. I've always had a keen awareness for things of adult nature -- probably many years before it was proper for me to know what I did. But with that knowledge came the opportunity to really understand things in a way that I feel very few people can reach. I've had many years to ruminate on the ins and outs of domination. Yeah. I said "ins and outs" for a reason. Because it's so much more than sex, but yet, that's where I see it expressed. We place the Stud/Boi etc. in this position to be the "top" and we think by "topping" someone you're the Dom. If you pay for her meal at dinner then you're the Dom. Make her fetch your slippers at night, get your beer or do your laundry. Suck your dick. Get on all fours and beg you for it. More often than not, being the Dom in a relationship means you call the shots in the relationship. Your way or the highway. "Dominate her" has come to mean some cave man mentality. There is no psychological work that needs to be done, nothing to earn or be given, and half the Doms out there don't even know that it has to do with the mind more than their genitals.

I did quite a bit of Dom/submissive work in my field of work. For years (and I do mean years) I worked and talked with people who were in the lifestyle so many people claim they know about. I saw first hand what it meant to have a Mistress and Master and what Dominant behavior looked like. I saw many, many submissive people and none of it looked a bit like anything I see flooding many a Lesbian website/facebook page/group. Femmes is not synonymous with submissive. Stud/Boi/Butch is not synonymous with Dom. That's worth reading over again.

I am what many would refer to as a femme. And coincidentally I do identify with being a submissive. 

Thankfully, I understand what it is that I need in my life. It's not about being bent over and forced to take dick, or have my hands put over my head and fingered until I squirt or any of the other mainstream images we have "swallowed"  like good little bois and girls. It's so much more than that. And, like I have told many submissive women and men through the years, one should be sure to give themselves to someone who truly understands the worth of the gift they are given.

So, I've given myself to a woman who understands that sometimes I need mental time outs. That sometimes I don't know how to settle myself down, that I think too much many times and that I can be extremely moody. She gets that it's not about ordering my food for me or giving me the flowers she thinks I should have. She is probably one of the most gentle people I know, but when she says "enough, baby" I know she means it. She has never talked to me about "top" and "bottom." She knows that our roles are fluid and that while we may play any number of roles in our future, we will always settle and find our true levels  and accept each other. We both know it's not her job to provide for me, but I know she is capable. And while she enjoys the fact that I am her laundry fairy, she does know not to count on my femininity or submissiveness to do it for her but rather my loving and caring for her as my partner to motivate me.

And that is why I can give myself to her -- spiritually, physically, emotionally and one day soon, sexually ;), because she has shown me she can handle it. That she won't abuse it. That it's not some hoodie she puts on at the end of the day in order to get her kicks or rocks off. That she doesn't need to flex or boast about it for me to see it. I have given in ... for her. I know that there are many things I would argue with any number of people. I don't trust them to care for me the way I know Jay can. And she knows that my giving in and trusting her is about the most expensive thing I could ever give to her. There are times when I want to grab it back. There are many times I get scared. But at the end of the day I know that she has earned a part of me that no one else has ever had the right to own.

The Beginning...