quizzical pussy

I finally had a sex dream! That I remember. Ish.

Some weird plot stuff that I only vaguely recall happened, and then I was in a tent with a strange little long haired man who may have been a shaman or possibly a hobo. I was not even moderately attracted to him, so didn’t really predict the impending plot twist of boning. Apropos of nothing, we had awkward, hurried, unprotected sex and then I was like “Damn, I’m not even sure how this happened or why, plus I’m probably pregnant now. Fuck.”

Not sure this qualifies as any type of fantasy fulfillment, which is usually how I like to think of sex dreams functioning. Not that I’ve given this a lot of thought or anything, but I’d more expect an orgy with improbably attractive nerdy cyborgs IN SPACE. Or something. Instead I got an unsettling, risky-feeling experience that I didn’t really want with someone I didn’t want to have it with. Yep, shit could easily happen while I was awake.

By now you’ve probably figured out that it wasn’t a lucid sex dream. But I’m calling it progress.

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How I know I’m generally clocked as heterosexual: When speaking to someone I’ve just met, if I mention “my girlfriend”, it is almost always assumed that she is a platonic friend that is female, in the way the term is often used by straight women. I wonder if I presented as less femme if the assumption would be that I’m having sex with her.

Yeah, we totally had sex.

(image source)

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One of my exes legit thinks I’m Satan. I am not going to say that I was an amazing girlfriend when we dated, or even that I’m proud of the decisions I made with relation to him and our relationship, but I also try not to forget that Edwin Pomble thought I was a perfectly lovely person until he realized I was never going to take him back.

Then I was evil incarnate.

Really, I try to maintain two perspectives on things like this. The first is the one where I try to be honest with myself and hold myself accountable for as much as, but no more than, seems reasonable. This perspective tells me that it was a complicated, messy relationship. He was horrible (at times), I was horrible (at times), and I stayed in it past the point where I strictly wanted to be, which is frankly what I feel most horrible about (one of my greatest fears is that people I care about are suffering my presence in their lives for no good reason, not really wanting me there, and I have profound distaste for the fact that I ever put anyone else in that position). But I don’t think my actions were ever borderline demonic, or even common, kitchenly evil.

The second perspective is the one where I accept that in his reality, I am A Motherfucking Monster. It doesn’t matter what I think happened, or even what actually happened in reality. It’s his perception, and it’s completely real. Through this perspective I realize that I’m basically his Reginald Sleeth.

Both of these perspectives are true because Edwin and I both exist, both have thoughts, and therefore both inhabit universes that only ever vaguely resembled each other. I refuse to pretend that his isn’t valid just because I don’t agree with or like it. This wasn’t always the case. For a while it really bothered me that I was the villain in his narrative. “Why doesn’t he understand that the shitty things he pulled were far shittier than the shitty things I pulled?” I’d demand of my Universe, which silently agreed. Didn’t matter. Didn’t touch him. He didn’t live there, or anywhere it would make sense.

And really, it doesn’t take much to ruin someone’s life. It just takes them thinking you did. There’s no reason to take that blame on if you don’t feel it’s deserved, but it’s useless to pretend they’re not feeling that pain.

And further, it’s crossed my mind– in fact I think it’s absolutely true– that Reginald Sleeth, who certainly abused me by the book, lives in a reality where he was largely faultless, maybe even victimized. That’s perfectly natural. There may be a part of me that wants him broken and riddled with shame and regret, but it’s puny and vestigial now compared to what it was. Shame is highly combustible, and for most of us it cannot remain stable over time. We have to contain it or transmute it somehow, or we’re utterly consumed. He’s allowed to have a life without that baggage. He’s allowed to try for better, and I hope that’s exactly what he’s doing.

When I learned that Edwin saw me out in public recently, surrounded by people I care about and behaving like I think I’m people, I understood why he felt slapped, discomfited. I think I can even relate to it. I’ve gotten pretty far along in the process of accepting that to him, there may be no way to relate to me as a human being. What I’m wondering is, if it happens again, and I actually see him too this time, what is a hell fiend to do? Do I greet him as a casual acquaintance? Do I pretend not to see him? Do I nod cordially but keep my distance? Entirely other thing? I truly don’t even know, but I do wish I could make it easier on him.

For Satan, there is no etiquette. Is there?

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At this moment, as I write this, I feel completely unmoored. I’m not sure that I know who I am or what I am or what reality is or if reality is. And it’s okay, really. There’s no reason that has to be a bad thing. In fact, I probably never really know anything; I probably only ever just forget that I don’t. Remembering feels weird and uncanny somehow.

Perhaps I will know, or think I know, things tomorrow. Today I don’t. Does that mean I will forgo giving people my opinions about their confessions? Never has before!

Sometimes I wake up and know that it’s going to be a terrible day at work, so I take the morning off of work to sit and home and masturbate.

Maybe I should try that. Is masturbation a valid treatment for feeling weird and uncanny, or would that just be positive reinforcement?

We met a couple of years ago, and there was an instant flash of recognition between us. Something really sexy, even though he’s almost 20 years older than I am (and that puts him well into senior-discount territory).

We established a friendship, but my partner was always (and rightly so) on alert because of the way his friend and I lit each other up, and I never pushed contact with his friend because I was worried about were it would go. I kept the boundaries pretty well-patrolled and I’m proud of that. It wasn’t a sacrifice at the time; I was happy with my guy and didn’t want to pursue relationships that might threaten it.

We weren’t open at the time, as you can probably tell.

Well. My guy and I broke it off — or, at least, we severed our exclusivity even though it seems as if we’re still seeing each other — and doing fine.

A few nights ago, my not-quite-boyfriend-anymore’s friend came over to my place, bearing wonderful gifts of food and books. We ran around town laughing like little kids, and ended up at my house in a ridiculous makeout session that didn’t end in sex (my choice) but that made my whole next day.

My head’s still spinning. I don’t feel guilty because my not-quite-guy’s free to do the same thing, and we’ve decided, for the moment, to keep any exploits to ourselves.

Gawd, that was fun. I really, really want to do it again.

I vote you do it again! How often in life do we meet people who really, truly light us up? Really.

I would love love love LOVE to do the group marriage. My wife watches ”Big Love” and sees Bill Paxton with his three wives, and she does not say ”game over, man!” She loves the thought of it. One wife is a business type bread-winner. Another is the domestic type, homemaker. The brides think of each other like sisters. The husband gives his love to each and all. Hell, with the right guy, I’ve no problem with a brother-husband, too. (My wife’s not sure about that.) We get economies of scale. The family wins.

Why is it so hard for this dream to be possible?

We’ve even got the first candidate for an addition picked out. I have more than once actually considered telling her.

The dream is undeniably possible for a lot of people, many of whom are currently in group marriages. The main problems include social conditioning to expect monogamy and to feel like anything else is weird or deviant or less than we deserve, and complexity. You know how hard it is to maintain a healthy relationship with one person? It necessarily takes exponentially more work the more people you add. But it’s possible. If anything is really possible or impossible or even really exists.

Another thing, though? Your wife might like to watch Star Trek and fantasize about space travel, but that doesn’t mean she’s seriously lobbying to get on a manned mission to Mars. If you’ve only talked about these issues in terms of a TV show, you may not know where she actually stands on this.

P.S. R.I.P. Sally Ride, you awesome lesbian you.

My college has a noble yearly tradition, the Beer Mile. Also known as the Naked Mile.

I’d never been naked with anyone. Not a single person. But I’ve now been naked with approximately 300 people.

It was glorious and anti-climatic and arousing and normalizing all at once. I’ve never seen so many naked bodies, but at the same time no single body stood out or was distinct. It was a sea of diverse but beautiful bodies.

My school had one of these too, but I had nothing close to approaching the gumption to strip and run it. Go you!

I will not mince words here: the thing I want the most right now is a titfuck, and I want it long, oily, and ended with me coming hard into my partner’s mouth. Furthermore, part of me wants this to happen somewhere public, in full view of other people.

I’m imagining people from all over the internet copying and pasting this directly into craigslist ads.

I wanted to mess around.
She sighed. “I don’t feel like I’ve got the time to waste,” she said. Then she said she would. I felt embarrassed. I said not to worry about it.
She went into the other room to watch TV on the couch. I felt so small and petty the rest of the night.

Yeah, cause wanting to physically connect with someone? Totally a waste of time. Totally petty.

What the fucking fuck?

Sex Confessional

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I have a tendency to surround myself with people who are, I’d say, more accepting than average. Often these people have sick senses of humor and are even mistaken for horrible human beings when they try to be funny. It doesn’t happen often and there are no guarantees, but there is something indescribably sweet about the moment when I’m finally able to disturb these people.

This may give you some measure of perspective on why I am (usually) really, really not here to judge you when you send in confessions.

I had a gay male friend who showed me photos of a man he was in love with online. I wished him luck with that and asked if they intended to meet, and he said they could not, that he’d misrepresented himself to be a young, blonde female. He’d mined the internet for pictures of a young woman and used those to send to him. They would chat online and he said the man seemed madly in love, too. I’m an extremely permissive person, but I do believe in honesty, and I wished he’d not made this confession to me. I thought less of him for toying with the other man’s emotions, and his own.

Okay, not judging here but that’s pretty douchey. (I’m judging a little.)

The dude I sit next to at work every day is british, cocky as hell, makes me laugh despite myself and is a complete smarmy fuckin jerk. Like, Hugh Grant in Bridget Jones kind of smarmy jerk, but unattractive. And he makes my clit TINGLE. Every time he throws a pencil at me like a 5 year old boy (often) I get wet. I have despised him from the day I met him and all I want to do is hatefuck his brains out, even though he looks like the back of a bus and any such entanglement would be super impractical. Worst thing is, I’m seeing this beautiful man who is interesting and respectful and compatible with me in every way, but it’s this piece of slime that gets me going. whyyyyy

I’m going to go buy pencils to throw at people. That’s my take away on this one.

I am a moderate ephebophile, in the sense that I feel an attraction for post-pubescent girls. Most folks would call this a positive thing, but as illustrated in some movies, as you grow older it merely becomes creepy.

But that doesn’t change what a person’s attracted to. I like, and have always liked, the fruit borne of youth’s bloom. The late teenage years, while often leading to the most abhorrent personalities, can lend themselves to the more appealing appearances.

With this in mind, I have to confess; I have a serious fucking hardon for my wife’s sister. She’s of legal age, but physically she’s still carrying the teenage physique. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve masturbated to thoughts of running my hands along the backs of her thighs, curving up under and appreciating the curve of her buttocks. Or how I’ve wanted to trace the lines of a low cut shirt along the exposed skin of her b-cup breasts. (I won’t even get into my desire to see what her nipples look like.) Recent times it’s been images/thoughts of her stroking me off with a handy, or of her walking in on me while I come to a fluid-spraying orgasm.

I almost wish I could claim some kind of mutual tension, but alas, it’s fairly one sided. The first time I met her, she wasn’t wearing panties- I happened to catch her putting them on under her dress, whereas nobody else could see into that room. Thoughts of what she’d be doing previous to that are only fuel to a fire.

My wife knows, somewhat, and we try to pretend it’s not an issue.. but sometimes it bothers her, and sometimes I wonder if anyone catches me watching her. I don’t have to like her (sister) to want to fuck her, that’s for sure. Hell, I’d even settle for getting a good view of her tits one time if I had to..

“Most folks would call this a positive thing…” I mean. Is that true? I’m actually curious about this and not asking to be a jerk.

Dear QP, you know how sometimes you wake up and it’s still dark and you don’t know what the fuck’s going on? I seem to get that with a side of megafuckinghorny and don’t skip on the confusion, about once a month. So I will wake at say 4am, alone, and proceed to start attempting to suck my own cock. Brain gets no input. I am not well endowed but sometimes I manage by being very flexible. I’ve got to tell you, it’s not all it’s hyped to be: It’s difficult to ejaculate and I rarely orgasm because I’m too distracted with the ridiculous difficulty involved in arching your back in a circle, cramping my chest, holding my weight in the air… It’s really difficult to open your jaw wide enough in this position to not bite your own cock and the times when you miss ’cause you slip sideways suddenly… oh god the mess… and besides anything else it’s actually really hard to breathe properly when you’re trying to suck in all of your chest muscles at the same time. And then in the morning my back feels like someone used it to play dance-ej before practicing their pretzel-folding technique on me. And every time I wake and remember and curse and feel ashamed and swear it’ll never happen again.

I think it’s probably important to open here by telling you that I never know what the fuck’s going on. Anyway, don’t be ashamed, droog. Just maybe get a massage or something. Sounds like you’re putting yourself under some physical stress.

I’m submissive but I find tops who share my interests terrifying. For example, I don’t know how to accept that someone has fantasies about raping women and that being okay, despite the fact that I have fantasies about being raped and I’m pretty solid on that being okay.

I feel so hypocritical, and I don’t want to hurt my partner who has trusted me with this vulnerability, but I am just so freaked out by them now.

Unless my guess is wrong, I think it might be helpful to talk to a top who has fantasies about raping women, and maybe does rape play, and is also a normal, kind, mentally sound person. And, the important part, is someone you have no intention of ever having any kind of sex or BDSM play with. In my experience, we often interpret our partners’ desires more personally than our friends’ or even strangers’. Probably because they have the potential to affect us so much more.

I’d find some people to talk to on Fetlife if there were no easy, tactful way to poll my male friends. Or, more realistically, when I polled them in the most uncomfortable, smarmy way possible and they all turned out to not have rape fantasies.

I watched that viral video of the Texas judge beating his daughter. I was turned on. I stayed aroused even though I heard her screaming and crying and read about how she was disabled. It felt horrible.

Most of the erotica I read has a lot of plot elements in common with that video, and would definitely count as child abuse / spousal abuse / rape (if there’s sex after the spanking), etc. Because of this, and because I’ve spent so much time reading about and marinating in the philosophy of corporal punishment within BDSM, I observe that my brain fails to distinguish that from corporal punishment in the real world, even when I think hard about how the victims are nonconsenting kids or about how the punishment is excessive. It’s like I’m psychologically incapable of forming an unbiased opinion on the issue of whether to spank kids, in a much deeper way than my usual ”Oh, I’m not qualified to have an opinion on that” when it comes to things like obscure economic policies.

I don’t know what to think or what to do next.

I have no idea what video you’re talking about, and it sounds very sad and upsetting. But truthfully, you really can’t control what turns you on. You can’t. It isn’t possible. You can only control your actions. And the less ethical your turn-ons, the more vigilant you must be about controlling your actions. One small part of that is keeping in mind that you may have a very biased perspective on what turns you on, and acting accordingly.

For what it’s worth, I think it’s brave you admitted that.

Confess things appalling, sexy, neither, or both here!

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I am increasingly convinced that I will never fully comprehend all the intricacies of and possibilities deriving from my sexuality. But if I ever do, there will still be yours to confound me.

So one of my favorite things to do is write erotic fiction. Today (Sunday) I spent almost the entire day holed up in my hotel room, alone, working on a new project… and I’ve lost count of how many times I had to stop and masturbate when my imagination got the better of me. At least 4 or 5. I may not be able to walk tomorrow.

But you know what would be better than a day of whacking off in a hotel room? Getting laid for real. I need a boyfriend.

I think what we need here is a meet cute involving you, a dreamy chap in lovely your area, a horrible mix-up where he accidentally picks up your laptop in the hotel bar, thinking it was his, and reads fantasies there that he swears he could have written himself (even though he certainly doesn’t have your turn of phrase), and oh, probably mad blushing on your part.

Your romance cannot be consummated until your soreness from all that fapping eases up a little. But when it is…

I recently read a post of yours about squirting and it involved doing Kegels if ejaculation doesn’t come easy. So I looked up a how-to for Kegels and found out that they’re actually really, really easy for me, and that doing the exercise gives me a bunch mini-orgasms. In fact, clenching those muscles is frequently how I cum during PIV sex, and explains why sometimes I orgasm when I pee. Still no squirting, but I thought it was an interesting discovery!

People who refuse to do kegels really don’t even know what they’re passing on. It could be mini-orgasms, or squirting, or not leaking pee when they’re septuagenarians.

So I suddenly realised that sometimes when I masterbate I fantasize my sexual story in words, possibly more than images – do others do this?

I squirted for the first time, it was a bit surprising and weird but arrived at in a very pleasurable way involving showerhead on clit, dildo and lubey ass fingering.

I texted my boyfriend to tell him this, I know he’s out at the moment and it turns me on to imagine one of his friends picking up his phone to see this…

In a sexual context (and in most other ways I can think of), the answer to “Do others do this?” is always “yes”. It’s the foundational law of nature that makes Rule 34 whir along smoothly.

Also, ::internet high five:: and I love hand showers like the internet loves disturbing people.

In what seems like a never ending quest to have my wife fuck my ass, I found some alone time the other day and was able to finger myself a little as well as slip small butt plug in. Apparently it didn’t quite hit the prostate, but it was quite comfortable. I used a finger vibe to send some vibrations through the plug, which was nice, but not earth shattering. I want to wear it while she rides my cock to see if it can hit my P-spot. Also I’m planning on finding something longer, bigger, more curved to see if something else would tickle my fancy…

Yes, so totally get something longer, bigger, and more curved. I suggest doing so on June 4th, but I’m not picky. I really just want amazing orgasms for everyone.

I’m 28, short, geeky and busty, and I am unabashedly attracted to middle aged geeks who are tall, skinny and shy. I can’t help but think I am actually an answer to somebody’s prayers. My favourite boyfriend is 50, and I honestly don’t think people know what they’re missing by not tapping this excellent niche market. Genuine enthusiasm is PRICELESS.

I like to think I was an answer to the prayers of awesome people, because for some reason I’m very attracted to them.

Okay, I’m probably not, but still.

My boyfriend and I are learning everything together. We’re both really excited to finally be having sex (it took us over four months of growing into our sex lives to get here), but! There’s always a but. (No, not a butt. A but.)

I am amazed by how much it hurts. I get very wet at all the right times, and it did hurt slightly less the second time, but when he’s in, especially going in, it hurts so much that I haven’t been able to really move around or do any serious thrusting (we’ve been doing mostly cowgirl, a bit of missionary.)

Even now, the ache feels great afterward, but I really want it to get better.

I hope it gets better too! Did you guys work up to inserting two or three fingers before the penis made its debut? If so, did that hurt? Did you or would you be willing to try it with toys? Sometimes people have more pelvic tension when penis-in-vagina intercourse is happening.

It may really and truly be worth it to go see a doctor if this doesn’t get better on its own.

I’ve never seen Dr Who. What’s worse, I have no desire to ever see Dr Who. I feel so left out… ::frowny face::

Anonymous person, I feel like I don’t even know you right now.

But don’t worry, Doctor Who is not for everyone. Although, much like short, busty 28-year-olds, geeky middle-aged men usually get well excited about it.

Sex confessions go here!

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There is an ancient prophecy. It’s been passed down from crippled harlot to slutty gimp through the generations¹. Though originally recorded in ancient Sumerian, the English translation somehow manages to be a perfect Petrarchan sonnet. Disabled trollops must have been quite magical at one point.

The tablet upon which it was carved so long ago is kept in a secret underground vault at the base of a wheelchair accessible ramp, and is guarded by vicious Gila panthers. I’ve seen all this with my own eyes. Once.

Of course, I didn’t memorize it. Even if I did I couldn’t share it on the internet, not verbatim, on pain of Hitachi Magic Wand torture. But trust me, the rhymes are ingenious coming from people who couldn’t have possibly known the English language would even be a thing.

I can tell you the gist of the prophecy, though, and it’s this: Someday thou, Quizzical Pussy, shalt stoppeth being so damn insecure. Verily.

It’s actually a little surprising that this ancient, precious prophecy ended up being about me, when I stop and think about it. Was that nice of those Sumerians or what? Anyway, knowing the future like that is a great comfort to me in times like this.

Because really, I am ridiculous.

I told Laramy a few days ago that I’m kind of waiting for him to get sick of me and leave². Which, as it turns out, is not a charming thing to say to one’s sweetheart. In retrospect, it was hurtful. It brushes up against ignoring what we have together, telling him I don’t really think he loves me even though I absolutely know he does. The problem is really that I don’t understand why, so I keep waiting to fuck it up by accident.

This is all mostly-to-entirely because I’m insecure. This is the same reason I lose touch with friends while I’m trying not to bother them. This is the same reason I feel like a creepasaurus creep whenever I try to flirt. It’s even why I’m afraid to say no to people I don’t want to have sex with. Insecurity has gotten me into so much more trouble than cockiness that I wonder why I’m still careful not to brag or build myself up. It should really be the other way around by now. But! Here we are.

Laramy never seems insecure about our relationship. We have a good thing going, and it doesn’t seem like I want to end it, so he doesn’t worry about it. This is pretty much just sense, but it feels like alien logic. I can’t imagine feeling that way. I’m glad he does, but it’s so counter-intuitive to me that part of me insists he’s not worried about losing me because it really wouldn’t matter much. But that isn’t fair. He’s probably just doing what emotionally healthy people do.

Why should anyone assume they’re on borrowed time in their relationship? What good does it do? And it’s not even that being single scares me as a general rule; I just specifically don’t like the idea of not being with him. We really do have a good thing going. And I think my insecurities have the potential ruin it more thoroughly and efficiently than anything else.

Does anyone ever really know why they’re loved, anyway? Is it necessary? Is it possible?

1. Did you not realize we have a sacred fraternal order? Cause we do. [↩]
2. This is not because of something he’s done or anything in particular about us. I’ve tended to feel this way even while in shitty, ill-advised relationships. [↩]

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I’ve lost a lot of friends over the years. It’s an inevitable side-effect of being more anxious not to bother people than you are not to lose them.

When I was a kid I was nothing but an annoyance. I knew this like I knew each careful syllable of The Lord’s Prayer. I felt it from my parents, who had too many children, from my older sisters, who despised me as older, stronger, more popular kids naturally will. I came to feel it from everyone around me eventually. I don’t know how much of this I was imagining versus how much I was/am naturally bothersome, or if it became a self-fulfilling belief.  But it was very real to me.

Whatever the reason, I still get snagged on that feeling. Every time I initiate contact with someone instead of waiting for them to approach me is a struggle. I want to connect with them, but I worry I’m intruding. There they were, in the significantly more comfortable state of not having to deal with me, until I went and fucked that up.

Even now, I usually don’t even email a friend unless I have a specific reason to. I’m not so good about checking in on someone, or planning excuses to hang out, or other things that normal people who want to make and keep friends tend to do.

If you’re thinking right now that I must be a shitty excuse for a friend, I’m tempted to agree with you. The problem, of course, is that if I’m respecting the sanctity of someone not having to deal with me, that pretty much puts all the work on them. If there’s going to be a friendship, they’re going to be making it happen. I remain a grateful, passive party. That’s why I’ve lost so many friends. It’s my own damn fault.

I’m working on it.

In the past, quite a few male friends have stopped talking to me when it became clear we probably weren’t going to fuck each other. Either I started a relationship with someone else, or they did, or advances were made and rebuffed, or they just got tired of waiting for me to pick up on all the none-too-subtle hints that I would later realize, in astonishment, meant they actually wanted to have sex. And then they would just disappear. These situations felt different from my typical experience of losing friends. In these cases, it wasn’t as simple as drifting apart. I knew I’d disappointed these guys, and after that there was no more friendship, so it was easy to assume that all along they’d never had any interest in actually being my friend. Now that the something more was no longer there as a lure, they had no use for me.

A feeling like that tends to bleed backward, tarnishing all past interactions with someone. Every word I said, was it just so much noise to wait through until he could make a snatch at my pussy? Was every kind word and favor just down payment on what he really wanted? Was he ever really my friend, or was this just a very long, aborted pickup?

Out a friendship and none too happy about it, it was easy to suspect that I’d been dealing with a victim of Nice Guy Syndrome all along.

You know what, though? There’s no way I’ll ever know that. If I’d made a good faith effort to keep the friendship going, this time without the sex thing sitting there, glittering yet unreachable, I might have succeeded. But I didn’t try.

It isn’t easy to fight to hold onto a friend who just rejected you. It isn’t easy to stay in touch when you’re in the throes of New Relationship Energy. It isn’t hard to read someone’s lack of communication as a sign that they’re pretty much done with you. I would. Hell, I did. Maybe they did too.

I couldn’t possibly be the only person to have jumped to similar conclusions. Nice Guy Syndrome is a real thing, sure, but I can believe it gets over-diagnosed. Isn’t it worthwhile to give someone you’ve considered a friend the benefit of a doubt before assuming he’s an entitled creep just biding his time until he can get into your pants?

Sorry, guys. Maybe you really were nice. It would’ve been nice if I’d at least given you the chance to prove it.

(image source)

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I don’t even know where the line is between being attracted to someone because of traits they possess (which seems more or less healthy) and being attracted to someone because they belong to a certain group that either do or are perceived to possess one or more traits.

Basically, at what point does it become creepy and objectifying?

You know how some guys seem to regress to preverbal panting when confronted by a naturally redheaded woman? I wonder what it’s like to be that redhead. Is there a rush of power, knowing that she’s the brass ring for plenty of people? Is it annoying because while they’re fixating on her titian hair no one seems to be noticing her beautifully sculpted shoulders? Is it just exhausting because it’s so seldom just red hair they want, but things they associate with red hair, be it sexual dynamism, temperament, whatever the hell people tend to think they know about her before they know it. I imagine it has to be demoralizing on some level to realize that you can be someone’s perfect woman before he knows a second thing about you.

And red hair is just one example. I’ve known Asian women who’ve had a similar problem, carefully wading through fantasists to find sincere dating prospects. I’ve met people who will only fuck musicians, or rich people, or skinny people. And well-endowed women must get tired of all that eye contact their boobs get.

Where exactly does it stop being creepy and start being the normal way attraction works? I do not know. It’s hard for me to feel actual attraction for someone I haven’t gotten to know yet. Maybe if I was experienced in feeling instantaneous sexual interest I’d have a sense of that line. Or if I felt constantly fetishized I’m sure I’d have some opinions on where it is.

I suppose the one fetish/preconception trigger I sometimes feel like I’m brushing up against is the bright hair. It isn’t really the same thing, maybe, but it give me some insight. See, I like to dye my hair crazy colors most commonly seen on the heads of high schoolers and cartoon characters. I’ve been through most of the colors of the rainbow and some change. Immature, unprofessional, attention-seeking, or whatever you want to call it, it’s honestly just the way I like my hair. It looks right to me when it’s ridiculous. And maybe that does say something about me on a deeper level, but I don’t think it says much. I’m very much the same person no matter what my hair looks like.

But occasionally I’ll run into a guy who looks at me and sees a Manic Pixie Dream Girl*. He will ask me about my hair, why it’s purple or whatever, and expect an interesting response. A movie dialogue response. “It’s my natural color. I decided.” will not entirely satisfy. “I like it.” would not be valid at all because it isn’t going to blow his mind and kick off our amazing adventure that will culminate in him growing as a person.

Even getting to know me a bit, when he finds I’m silly and quirky and whimsical and creative, the illusion won’t be shattered just yet. It will take a little while to realize that instead of teaching “broodingly soulful young [him] to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures” I’m kind of just going through life as normal and trying to have a relationship (or possibly just a fling). Knowing me isn’t really opening the world up like a wacky, technicolor flower.

And then he feels resentful because I’ve lied. Not with my tongue and lips, but with my hair and playful attitude, now belied to hell by my being a real fucking person who is too busy being a protagonist in my own stuff to bother being a plot device.

I’ve just gotten tastes of that. Of course most people over four don’t really think my hair makes me magical. If they did, though, I’d have an even longer history of disappointing them.

(image source)

* I realize the link describes this stock character as “stunningly attractive”, but naturally real-life MPDGs would be held to a lower standard. These characters are usually romantic interests for main characters, and played by Hollywood actresses, so…

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I was excited to be in the first real romantic relationship of my life. The guy I’d had a crush on for years wanted me, we were “in love” and having fun, and I was sharing orgasms with someone for the first time. If I’d known the telltale signs to watch for that belie the bliss and give an ugly whiff of future abusive behavior I’d have run away screaming, but at the time I thought that things were going pretty well.

Not so Reginald. To him it was a persistent and serious problem that I wasn’t Lily. Almost as unbearable was the fact that he wasn’t, and never would be, Jack.

To me, Legend was a mediocre ’80s fantasy movie that I’d never heard of until the cute Mormon boy I had tentatively, hugs-only dated a couple years earlier had eagerly showed it to me. It was less dazzling than Willow, less imaginative than The Labyrinth and less captivating than The Princess Bride, I thought. But it seemed to have some sort of power over these two guys. It was Reginald’s favorite movie.

The protagonists, Jack and Lily, despite being portrayed (in my opinion) with all the personality of a sprouted mung bean and a pile of toenail clippings respectively, are fabulously happy together and can party with unicorns because of their unsullied innocence. Then things go awry because Lily decides to ignore Jack’s warnings about touching the unicorns, and then Tim Curry is awesome for a while. Then stuff happens and the boring people win, as they very often do in stories of this type. And there’s something about True Love™ conquering all at the end, I think. To be honest, it’s been a while.

To be really honest, I would like the movie more if it hadn’t been such a source of drama. As it was, their love, informed in the movie rather than shown, was a cynosure to him. It must’ve hit him in the exact right way at exactly the right point in his psychosocial development, because everything was compared to Jack and Lily. When things were going well, they were never going well enough because there were no unicorns asking Reginald and me to hang out with them. When we were fighting or he was bored, Reginald would literally cry because we didn’t have anything like the True Love™ featured in that Ridley Scott movie. Whatever we were doing, if it wasn’t accompanied by an original score by Tangerine Dream, it would always fall short.

In an essay entitled “This is Emo”, Chuck Klosterman basically says that he once had this girlfriend, until John Cusack stole her. Not even John Cusack, but Lloyd Dobler, John Cusack’s character in Say Anything. It seemed at first that Chuck had the edge, being both real and present. This girl was very likely never going to meet John and was absolutely fucking not going to meet Lloyd Dobler. But the fact was that he was never going to measure up to a movie, and she was never going to forgive him for it.

Love exists. It’s a beautiful, transformative force. It can inspire words and deeds and works of art. It can drive you insane or make you feel finally still for once in your life. It’s powerful, but it’s never perfect. It doesn’t look like the manufactured, scripted love you see on screens and read about in fiction. Real love is never True Love™.

When you’re in True Love™, exciting shit is happening all around. conflicting forces are in play, destiny is invoked, and everyone involved is a very special snowflake– not just to each other, but probably on a much grander scale. In a True Love™ universe, everyone gets one [1] soulmate. Or if everyone doesn’t, at least you sure do, you special snowflake.

Because that’s how stories work. In a story, everything is significant. Even throwaway details are symbolic of something important. People aren’t shown showering, or driving to work, or doing anything at all unless it advances the plot. There’s no filler, no tedium, no silences that aren’t meaningful and no dialogue that hasn’t been reviewed and tweaked and edited. A story, like True Love™, is an escape from reality, not an example of what reality would be like if all the slags around us would just cooperate.

Real love isn’t always breathtaking and spine-quivering. It won’t be all heady declarations and grand gestures. True Love™ would get exhausting; real love is comfortable and secure. There’s time for lingering in bed and cuddling because the fate of your world isn’t threatened all the time. You’re allowed to have problems individually or as a couple without it meaning that the relationship has failed. It’s okay that real love is imperfect because it’s between people, not ideals.

Having some kind of fantasy of what love is supposed to look like is responsible for more than just hurting one’s own relationships. It’s also part of the impulse to “protect marriage” from frightening homosexuals. It leads us to obsess about people we barely know rather than pursuing healthy partnerships. It makes you less adventurous, less interesting, less loving. In short, it makes your story duller and it makes you less of a hero in it.

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