The most annoying question in the world

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#facepalm

Last night I was at a craft beer joint in Hollywood. The man sitting next to me was a nice guy. We had been carrying on about movies and had already had an in-depth debate over who was a better Bond, and whether Daniel Craig could truly reinvigorate the franchise, when he looked at my right hand inquisitively. I knew it was only a matter of seconds before the subject would change to the tribal sea animal so gracefully and permanently placed along my wrist and hand. As he squinted I could almost hear him thinking to himself, “Is that an octopus? Perhaps it’s a squid?”  It’s neither.

“What is that?” he managed to ask out lout.

“It’s a starfish actually.” A brittle star to be more specific.

“What does it mean?”

If you have tattoos you know that I’m about to go off on a bitter rant right now, and if you don’t have tattoos you should be informed I’m about to go off on a bitter rant right now. And it’s one you need to hear, so put on your suit of thicker skin and perhaps bring a sewing kit, because I’m about to rip you a new asshole.

People absolutely hate having to describe their tattoo’s meaning to anyone! Yes that includes you my friend. I know you think because you can see it that it’s your business, but it’s not.  I know you think that I got tattooed because I’m dying for attention and I’m aching for you to ask me about them, but I’m not. In fact I can barely stand it, when people say anything about them at all. My Tattoo’s are none of your fucking business. I did not get them for you. I did not get them because I have low self-esteem and want attention. I did not get them so people could think I’m tough, or badass or a gangster.

I got tattoos because I wanted art.  Art that is just for me. And art is meant to be admired in one’s own mind.

It’s personal.

You wouldn’t dare walk up to Salvador Dali or Picasso and ask him to explain to you in depth, in full detail, every single brush stroke he made, why he made it and what it is suppose to mean. “What’s the story being your blue period/ why a melt-y face?”

But when you ask me what my tattoos “mean” that is exactly what you are doing.   Sure there is meaning behind them, but why am I obligated to tell you? Why can’t you just look at them, nod your head and move on? Like you would at an art gallery.

I wanted to yell all of this at the nice man at the bar, but we’d had such a lovely conversation and the mood was so cheerful between us, I couldn’t bear being mean to him, and in public to boot. So, instead I explained to him for thirty minutes the “meaning” of my tattoo as he asked question after question about every single small detail involved in my starfish. He then asked what was on my finger.

“An Om sign.”

“What’s an Om sign?”

“Like the meditative symbol, vibration of the universe?”

“Oh like Hindi?”

“Actually it’s Sanskrit."

“And what’s that? Those numbers there.”

“Those are dates.”

“Dates for what?”

“It’s my Dad’s birth date and death date.”

“Oh.”

Do you see what I mean? It’s like dealing with an ignorant a four year old who doesn’t know what the word annoying means yet. I was just lucky I was wearing pants and a sweater, because I have a large back piece, a half sleeve, stomach tattoos and most of my left foot covered in a very ornate and intricate tribal fish.

Sure, some of the tattoos have cool stories behind the experience.  And I don’t mind telling people where I got them; Florida, Hawaii, Tahiti, LA, on the side of my friend’s pool table. That information is not personal. Who is the Artist? Also not personal. 

But please for the love of humanity don’t ever ask what a person’s tattoo means. And for the love of fucking Christ, Buddha and Mohammad, not a total fucking stranger.

To be honest, had I known that I’d have to spend hours of my life trying to explain the extremely personal motivation behind my tattoos' design, only to have it trivialized by the look on people’s faces when my answers don’t fully satisfy their curiosity, I wouldn’t have ever gotten them in the first place. But since they are there, and I love them so dearly, I settle for a long-sleeve shirt.

Self-Portait

Am I sad because I stopped doing things I like or have I stopped doing things because I'm sad?  

I have realized I have placed myself in an interesting predicament and the more I try to figure it out the more confusing it gets.

How many things can I stop doing to avoid a fight? What things should I start doing?

Will it even work? 

Or make it worse?

He thinks I treat him like crap, I feel like I can't do anything right.

Same fight, different subject, every time.  

No real resolution.

I am depressed. I have cried seven out of the last nine days, sometimes for extended periods of time. 

My only positive in these down times is the massive amounts of wine and cigarettes... 

and drawing, 

 sometimes by a fire. 

Sounds romantic.

Not so much when I am alone again, after yet another fight about what a bitch I am.

I feel empty and like I can't be myself with him. 

I was able to laugh and play yesterday when he wasn't around. 

And crawled into my depression bag when I got home.

 It hurts now when he tells me he loves me. 

I  don't know what's going to happen.

Phones

People are no longer prisoners of communication. Today a phone is not just a phone. Its a computer. It thinks for you and now the iPhone 4s speaks to you and you can have a whole conversation with it instead an actual person. When we do talk to people we chose not to hear their voices but type text messages. In fact we don’t even use words, but word fragments, sentences fragments and improperly use the abbreviation lol. Because did you really just laugh out loud? Or are you trying to make me feel better.

I miss the days when I knew every persons’ number by heart. When there was actually a house phone and when it rang people raced to be the one to pick it up, “I’ll get! I got it I got it I got it!” 
I miss the days when you had to ask who was calling. And the phone was tethered to the wall by a chord. It was a family affair. When people called you actually talked to them.

I miss waiting by a phone for a boy to call. I miss rushing home to check my messages. I miss making arrangements to meet someone and having to actually go and wait for them. Now we make plans and wait for the text saying, “on my way!” and then we leave the house at the perfect time. There is no more excitement anymore. It’s all too easy. There is no more will they or won’t they show up. With our phones we can’t even get lost anymore. So if you’re late you can’t even say, “Sorry I got lost!”
 “Doesn’t you’re phone have Google maps? I texted you the address. You could’ve called. I could’ve given you directions.” 

If something comes up, the best we can do is, “Sorry my phone died.”

Because this communication device, with internet, banking, camera, GPS, Menstrual calendar, tip calculator, stocks, clocks and now a friend famed Siri, is attached to all of us, we are required to use it to our full advantage. We play Angry Birds in line at the grocery store. I almost said post office, but we don’t use those anymore either since we have email at the tips of our fingers at all times. And the one thing we rarely do on these  so called phones is call people.

It seems like today any time I call some one, they choose not to answer, listen to my message  then text me the response. Or is that what I do to them? There are few people I actually speak to on the phone, my mother, my man and all the rest are in India. I used to talk to my dad for hours. He was born in ’42 and refused to even answer an email. But he’s dead and with him is dying the generation of “people who talk on the phone.”

I hear people say all the time how they hate to talk on the phone. I don’t hate to talk on the phone, I just hate to talk to certain people. There are some that talk too much, some too little, some only about themselves. There are some people who I hate talking to because its always so awkward when it’s time to go. But when portable phones were created, I loved to walk to the end of my driveway and talk for hours. That’s all I did. I’d come home from school and pace my drive way or sit in my back yard on the phone and talk to people. Now I don’t even have to call a person to order a pizza, I can do it online or with my GrubHub app.

I sound a like I’m from some other time the way I’m going on and on about the good ‘ol days of phones. But it hasn’t even been ten years since I got my first cell phone and even then I was ahead of the game. It’s all moving way too fast. First the chord went away, then the answering machine got moved into the phone, caller ID, every major advancement had come about in a year or less after the next. 

I am all for technological advancement. I am all for making things easier. But when did the shift move away from talking to people on a phone. Why is it better to go through a machine? There is still a person on the other end fully capable of fucking it up. People don’t want to talk to a person anymore. I don’t believe it. No one wants to talk to a machine. But we are glad to text. Text in line. Text in a movie. Text while we drive. We don’t want to talk to people so bad that we get into car accidents because we are texting while we drive. And those who do still want to talk on the phone are so embarrassed of being seen with it next to their ear that they’d rather look like they have schizophrenia as they yell into a hidden device while swinging both their arms walking down the street. 

And Why do we feel like we need to be reachable all the time if we are never really reaching anyone? Why can’t we leave the phone at home and rush back to see if anyone called. The best thing in the world is when I choose to turn my phone off or leave it at home. Only then can I go back to enjoying the real world that I live in and then check the panicked messages later asking why I’m not texting back.

Bare Naked Lady

It's no secret that I posed for numerous photos for Suicide Girls. Yet, what's odd is what's happening to my mind and body now that I've decided it's no longer "for me".

But How can that be? You are a sexy tattooed goddess!!! You are PERFECT for Suicide Girls?-- said a few people on the internet.

And as much as people have written to me over and over saying how I am a Suicide Girl in their eyes, I am not, however, in the eyes of the actual company. I am still a "Hopeful".

And as flattering as it is to get comments like the ones on my set Concrete Jungle:

                "Sooo Pretty it hurts. You have a face I could fall in love with. ;-)”

                 "Great now the rest of my day is going to seem so disappointing after seeing this.... more please!"

                 "Beautiful woman, beautiful poses, beautiful set! Love your curves"

                 "An amazing set from a beautiful woman who knows her body and knows how to pose it to devastating effect. This should have gone front page months ago, and I hope it goes through soon." (front page meaning I get enough votes to get 500 bucks and transferred over to legit Suicide Girl status)

               "Crown her a SG already for crying out loud!” 

There are currenty over 1500 comments on Concrete Jungle and hundreds more on my other sets, all complimenting my naked body and a "love" percentage of 95% from the community. You'd think I'd feel good about it. But it's not enough to become full fledged Suicide Girl.

 So, instead, I am devastated. Am I too fat? Not tattooed enough? Could the lighting have been better? Maybe I should have gone for the more standard "soft focus look" all the other girls are doing now. If I could have done those poses better? 

For months after each set of mine was posted my thoughts swirled like that. I always seemed to fall just short of the bar. And by the time I got my shit together, the bar was (and is) even higher.

My weight has yo-yoed, my hair has changed, I went a really long time without shooting because I was trying to lose weight and only got fatter.

After three and a half years of putting myself out there, proud as can be, not afraid of what society thinks of beauty, I'm sad to report the one place I wanted to "fit in" has denied me access to their winner's circle.

The one community I thought would come rushing to me with open arms is nothing more than another impossible list of high standards and a daily crush to my self esteem.

I wish I could see the bright side; that there is a rather large group of people who do "approve" of me.  Yet, all I can see are the other girls, who, day by day, surpass me and are inducted.

I recently shot what I think is my best set yet! But I went about it all wrong. I was so desperate to shoot a winning set that I was willing to sacrifice my relationship. All my boyfriend asked was that I not ever shoot with a male photographer and not in our house. Well, I wanted it so bad that I did both. He felt so betrayed that he nearly broke-up with me. He drove past the house to see the lights and camera and me naked. He said it felt like I had cheated on him and I can't say I blame him. I broke his heart. I lied. I went behind his back. I did something I knew whould make him angry. And for what?

For another chance to be beaten down by people I don't even know, SG staff,  and a few nerds who have nothing better to do than critique that I got dirt on the bottom of my feet while shooting barefoot...To feel diappointed with my self that I only got a 96% instead of a 98% like I needed. to whore myself out so I can get enough comments in enough time, only to fall short once again.

Since 2009 I have submitted 6 sets.

 One by one, they have made me question my looks.

And now I have to stop and question my values.

(here comes the rant)

Why the fuck am I trying so hard to impress these people??? I don't even know these people. Not everyone is going to like me, EVER!

Deep down ,I can't honestly give a shit what they think!

I'm so tired of trying to be accepted by a site that is supposed to be about Alternative Beauty, yet focuses on female competition. The whole premise of the site is to post pictures of my naked body for Judgement!  My initial motivation was because I KNEW I was good enough. I thought it was simply a matter of time, networking and using the right photographers. Well I have done all that and I have put hours (collectively days) of my time being supportive of other girls and not being critical to others, not always with the same hospitality. I've kept my head as high as I can and have kept trying. I got better with each new shoot. I made some good friends along the way. But it's not enough.

Frankly I can't keep submitting myself to the criticism. 

I decided about six weeks ago that I would begin distancing myself from the site. And isn't it ironic that once I stopped going on the site, browsing the other girls and comparing my body and sets to theirs, that I kept losing weight and reached my goal weight of 135lbs? Down from 155lb in January and 165lb the year before.

I'm proud of my weight loss, as proud as I was to pose nude at 165lbs... It should never be about weight, but I have wanted to get back down to my "healthy" weight for a long time. Personal goal. Not for everyone.

Since I stopped looking at other naked girls and feeling shitty about how I am not an official Suicide Girl, I have felt so much better about the way I look. I am more confident and I look and feel healthier. All the time I used to spend on the Suicide Girls site has been spent on music, writing, long walks with my dog and making gourmet meals for myself and my boyfriend. I have been more creative and well, happier.

On an overall level, I'm not 100% happy. Part of me feels like a failure, part of me feels like I set out to prove I was worthy and found out I wasn't. My self-esteem is still not fully recovered from the past 3 years. I wanted to prove I AM beautiful no matter my weight, or height, or how many tattoos I have... I know all it takes is some good poses, good photography and a tiny bit of Photoshop AND EVERY SINGLE WOMAN CAN LOOK GORGEOUS!!!!Yet, I'm not sure why I had to go this route to prove that to myself.

But I'm still fighting with myself. Have I failed? Did I just waste 3 years of my life? Am I another sore loser?

Am I just one woman trying to be Happy? Or another self-centered woman who needs loads of approval and attention? Probably both. But perhaps I can now find it in a different place. My own place. Sure there will always be critics, that's life. But hopefully I can stop feeling bad about myself and start feeling good about who I am and what I HAVE accomplished....

Lay Me Down- at Vroman's Bookstore

If you didn't make it to the book signing/reading/Q&A, here is what you missed.

How 'bout that lady with all the hot-button questions!?!

To a mixed bag of about 50 people, I read an edited version of a passage from Ch. 3, "Pajama Party". 

It was edited for the audience only because the presentation area is dangerously close to the "Children's section"! Yikes! Below is the FULL Unedited version.

We walked down by the dunes and laid out a blanket. I got on top of him and we started to make out. I started to get into it grinding him in my thin cotton knickers. Just as I was about to take off my top Dan stopped and looked up. He said he thought he saw someone. 

“But who would be walking on the beach at midnight?” I asked him. 

“Well, we’re here,” he shrugged. 

“Well what should we do? Should we keep going? ‘Cause I don’t really care as long as he doesn’t get any closer.” Dan shrugged again so we continued to make out and dry hump.

Just as I took my shirt off, a flashlight popped on and was pointed directly at us. I quickly put my shirt back on and got off of him. I was freaked out. Why was this person shining his invasive light on my little boobies when I was trying to get my freak on? I wasn’t hurting anybody and if he wanted to watch this was not the way to go about it. As the light got closer it became clear what our situation was with the voyer.

 “I think that’s a cop,” Dan said in annoyance. 

But what I didn’t understand, why then did he watch us make out for so long? Why did he wait for my shirt to go off?

As the cop got closer he asked us, “Can you tell me what you’re doing on the beach so late at night folks?” 

Cops are such assholes. What the hell was he trying to prove with his whole “folks” business? If he respected us as “folks” he would have left us the fuck alone.

“Uhh? We were just enjoying the night officer!” Dan told him as politely as possible.

 “Well is that your car parked up there on the street?” the cop asked. He knew it was our car but he asked anyway.

“Yes sir it is.” Dan’s voice had a little tremble in it now. Hearing him hesitate made me nervous.

The man in blue directed us to go back to his squad car that was running up at the road with all of it’s lights conveniently Off. 

“I’m gonna need to see some ID from the both of you.” 

Dan told him it was in his car and ran over to get it,  leaving me all alone with the object of my biggest fears. 

“And what about you? Do you have ID?” 

Since I was only thirteen, I  sadly did not have ID.

 I was and still am very intimidated by a man, or woman for that matter, in a police uniform. It’s probably the bullet proof vest underneath that makes them look like they have big rooster chests. Also being a child addicted to television I had seen my fair share of COPS and knew it was never smart to lie to a man of the law. Once you lied it was all over and they were more likely to not be so hard on you if you told the truth. I told him I didn’t have a Driver’s License. So he asked for my social security number instead.  I gave it to him through gritted teeth. I should have lied and told him I didn’t know it. That would’ve actually been a believable lie, a lot more believable then the hooker on TV saying, “No, officer that’s not my crack that you found in my purse! I have no IDEA where that came from! I just give blow jobs for money I would nevah do drugs officer nevah!” That scenario usually ended in tears and hand cuffs.

The officer went inside his car and punched in my social security number. A few minutes went by and Dan came back with his proof of Identity. The cop was in his car for a while and I was beginning to wonder what the fuck was taking so long, I was starting to get cold damn it! The officer looked up at me from his police car mini-computer

 “Are you sure you gave me the right number?” 

Now I was frustrated, was he calling me a liar after I just used my better judgment Not to lie?

 “Yes I did give you the right number!” and gave it to him again. 

“Yeah I’m not getting anything. What’s your full name and address?” he asked and that’s when I was in trouble.

My social was not in the system because I didn’t have a driver’s license but my name and address was in the system from when the detectives and paramedics came for me back in January. The cop took a deep sigh then pulled Dan to the side. But not far enough because I could hear everything they were saying.

“Were you aware this young lady over here is thirteen?” Copper asked with sympathy. 

Dan squinted and then put on quite the little act

“Are you serious! She told me she was sixteen, sir, I swear! I can’t believe this!” he turned to me “I can’t believe this, you said you were sixteen!” 

He looked really mad, I would have bought it too if I hadn’t known better.  Then to my utter disbelief, the cop told him to go home, feeling bad for him that he had just almost been seduced by a thirteen-year-old. Dan shook his head at me in disappointment. And I felt the water works coming to the front of my sinuses. I did what I could to hold them back and luckily they stayed put. Dan’s car pulled away and I did not yet comprehend what had just happened. Dan ditched me with the cop and somehow I was the one in trouble?

 When I was left alone with the law, the officer looked at me irritated, “Looks like you’re no stranger to statutory rape laws.” 

He must have seen the report when he pulled up my address. 

“Now I’m sorry I have to do this but its procedure and for your own good.” 

And that’s when he put me in handcuffs.

As he placed the cuffs around my now shivering wrists he informed me that I was technically breaking a few laws this time; trespassing, breaking state curfew for minors, not to mention public indecency, and coercing someone into statutory rape. I knew at this point that the officer thought he was teaching me a lesson. It took everything in me not to burst into tears. He walked me to the side of the car and put me in the back seat, (which is still the one and only time I have been in a cop car).

"Imogen Reed"- Blogger Bullshit

Much like the rest of the Blogger community, I received what appeared to be a legitimate offer for "Professional writing for Under L. Marie"  I thought, "Awesome! I haven't posted anything in a while and why not help out a fellow writer, especially since it is so hard to get published."

She took it upon herself to write something up in the vein of my sex/relationship blog posts. But what I received was so incoherent and poorly written I just never replied. I didn't want to have to spend the time it would take to fix it. 


A few weeks later, I got a follow up emails from Imogen:
"Hi Marie,

I just wanted to touch base and see if you had any luck with that article I sent? I know you've got a lot going on, and there's no rush on my account, but I wanted to make sure it hadn't fallen through the cracks.
Very best,
Imogen"

"Marie,

It's been quite some time since I last heard from you. Is there any news on this front?

Best,
Imogen"

 I felt bad. But still not bad enough to post the article as is.


I replied,
"I've been quite busy with other projects. I will look at your piece again today.Could you possibly send a short bio?"


She replied,
"Hi Marie,

Thanks for keeping me in the loop. I look forward to hearing back from you soon.

Best,

Imogen"

I did take the time to rework her article and was in the process of posting it, I wrote up a little introduction paragraph about how I wanted to help her out by publishing. And then I was going to go on to tell the reader a little bit more about her, maybe add some links to her other works. I went back to my emails.


Me: "You really need to send me a bio, or Facebook link, at this point I have no idea who you even are."


Imogen: "I didn't realize that was a concern at this stage. But sure, here's a brief byline (feel free to add it to the article if you'd like) but note I use a pen name for my writing, especially since I usually talk about my personal life as I did with that piece.

Betty Francis is a freelance relationships and dating writer from London, England. While now settled and less care free than she'd like, She has dated men from all over the world especially during her early 20's where she spent most of her time in Asia writing for a Japanese travel site."

"Please use my pseudonym Betty Francis. Another writer in Scotland (unfortunately more famous than me) shares my name which causes some confusion otherwise."


Normally I would respect the pen name thing. But this whole time nothing was EVER said about a pen name and had I just posted the article earlier, it would have been credited as "Imogen Reed"
This got me a little curious as to who the fuck this person really was. I went back and looked at her samples. Every one was credited differently. "Yolanda Lee" "Roxy Shane" "lewis" "doodlemaster" and finally "Imogen Reed" I thought, "who the fuck does that?" So I googled "Imogen Reed" and at the top of the list was this: Who is Imogen Grey? or Imogen Reed? If you go to the site you will see a bunch of people who received the same stock email and the same concern about the quality of the writing. I also noticed that the link she wanted to include in her articles was different for each article.


She is hitting all of us Bloggers up as "Imogen Reed" so whether or not she is being credited as such, the Blogger community in now associating the name with a scammy predator, not a famous, Scottish writer just looking to get some freelance.


I thought the whole thing was crazy and genius. She must be making money off of the links and she is passing it off as legitimate literature. If you look more closely at the post about Imogen, you'll notice lots of people actually posted her articles. Although I had to chuckle when I noticed one of them said "partially written by Imogen Reed." She states that she has "been working full-time as a professional writer and researcher for five years" Are you fucking kidding me?


What I was sent was no where near professional writing. I'm not the best writer either. My shit is full of typos. But what she sent could never even pass as decent. It was confusing, unorganized and truly bad. Her introductory paragraph has nothing to do with the story. The first sentence barley makes any sense. Tense is all over the place. Serious lack of grammar.  The connection of the story with the title is loose at best. It is straight up difficult to even read. Yes, I understand she is from the UK and there may be some cultural differences, but this is simple shit here!

Yes, she very well may have been slinging her shitty writing for 5 years, but I'll bet every single site had to edit the bejesus out of her work.




Below is  my edited version followed by her submission. (I tried to keep it in her words as much as possible as any good editor should.)

"Poker Face" Edited by L. Marie Cook

I started seeing this guy. At the heart of it all he was inherently decent, a gentleman. What attracted me to him, I think, was his sweetness. He held down a good job, and was always clean and neatly turned out,  always wore sharp suits.

I became aware of some possible issues around the third or fourth date. He’d invited me back to his flat and I went because I wanted to fuck him, and presumed he wanted to fuck me too.

My jaw dropped when I noticed how Spartan his place was. How bare. Apart from the necessary bits of furniture and a bookshelf, the usual guy gadgets (computer, games console etc) there was literally nothing, and what there was, was ordered in such a military, strict fashion I worried that if I breathed the wrong way it might create chaos. It turned out he took the same approach to fucking.

Trying to get in the mood with not easy. He could only relax if his head was in total alignment with the third screw from the left on the headboard and it was about as alluring as a cup of cold sick.  

At first, if you like someone you want to say the right things, you want to be reassuring and calming and to make them feel that it’s “all okay”. That’s what I did. And then I started to wonder if it was me. Then they reassure you it’s not you at all. Then the whole thing starts going round in circles – inadequate sex, followed by half apologies, promising things will change, and then the next time you get into bed together it all happens again.

No matter what I did, what tricks I pulled out of my mouth (and believe me, I tried) we just couldn’t make it work. He always looked like he was about to cry. He screwed his face up. It sometimes became rather alarming how detached he was. It sounds so heartless. He wouldn’t talk. He just closed off.

In all the time I was seeing him, by the way, he only came back to my place once. I watched him visibly shudder at the fact my rug was slightly askew from the hearth, and that hey; I sometimes dried my pants on the radiator when all my clothes airers were full!

Not only was he obsessive about cleanliness, about neat and tidy and his appearance but that he was also seriously addicted to gambling and in particular things like (link deleted) I hadn’t been snooping. I’d just hopped on his computer to check my e-mail (he made me wipe the keyboard down with alcohol hand gel afterwards). His desktop was full of icons for poker sites. It turned out he’d go on there for hours at a time on weeknights and weekends. When he couldn’t find the time to gamble, because say for instance I’d popped round to spend time with him, (because he was supposedly my boyfriend and all) he’d get deliriously twitchy.

One evening, after a dinner date, we’d yet again gone back to his flat.   I was lying in his bed with the covers pulled round me waiting, while – I presumed, he was in the bathroom. After forty minutes of toe curling boredom setting in, curiosity got the better of me and I went to knock on the bathroom door to make sure he hadn’t fallen down the loo or anything. No reply. When I investigated further I found him hunched over the computer screen about to play his fifteenth game of Texas Hold ‘Em. I didn’t even say anything. I got dressed; I picked up my handbag and hailed a cab home. I never spoke to him again. A salutary lesson to be learned, “If he prefers poker to poking her, you need to mark his card.”



By Imogen Reed/"Betty Francis":

The Compulsive Inconclusive Lover Conundrum

The one thing you learn about sex the more you have it and the more people you have it with is that it certainly doesn’t come (if you’ll pardon the pun) in just one flavor. For every person you fuck, there’s something different to learn. It doesn’t just apply to them, it applies to you too. For one partner you could be the ultimate orgasm Queen, for some reason whatever they do to you hits the spot and sends you into realms of ecstasy you never knew existed. For another it could be like he’s trying to pick a spot, just when you think he’s gonna leave it alone and let it scab over he starts again. You’re lying there thinking “Seriously, just fucking wake me up when you’ve finished not fucking me adequately”. However, one guy I was involved with was something else in the flavor stakes. He was what I call a “compulsive inconclusive” lover. Let me try and explain:

The Compulsive Inconclusive Lover

At the heart of it all this is a guy who was inherently decent, some would say a gentleman. At the same time, a guy who was relatively inexperienced and not necessarily always able to communicate what the problem was. If you’re asking me what attracted me to him I think it was just that, his sweetness. He held down a good job, always clean and neatly turned out, wearing sharp suits. The first time I became aware of there being any sort of issue was around about the third or fourth date when things had started to develop between us. He’d invited me back to his flat and, feeling comfortable with him I decided to go. I wasn’t going to get a look of his etchings, I wasn’t going to talk to him about the finer points of backgammon or what to do when your fan belt slips off mid highway – I was going because I wanted to fuck him (and I presumed he wanted to fuck me too).

A Military Ice Skating Operation

My jaw must have dropped when I noticed how spartan his place was. How bare. Apart from the necessary bits of furniture and a bookshelf, the usual guy gadgets (computer, games console etc) there was literally nothing, and what there was, was ordered in such a military, strict fashion you worried if you breathed the wrong way it might create chaos. It turned out he took the same approach to fucking too.

You know ice skating? You know how that goes? It’s always the compulsory routine followed by the short program. This was pretty much his plan and one which he rigidly stuck too. It turned out it was about the only thing he possessed that was rigid. Trying to get in the mood with someone who can only relax if your head is in total alignment with the third screw from the left on the headboard is actually about as alluring as a cup of cold sick.  

At first, if you like someone you want to say the right things, you want to be reassuring and calming and to make them feel that it’s all okay. Then you start to wonder if it’s you. Then they reassure you it’s not you at all. Then the whole thing starts going round in circles – inadequate sex, followed by half apologies, promising things will change, and then the next time you get into bed together it all happens again. No matter what I did, what tricks I pulled out of my mouth (and believe me, I tried) we just couldn’t make it work. He always looked like he was about to cry. He screwed his face up. It sometimes became rather alarming how detached he was. In the end I just gave up. It sounds so heartless; I just didn’t know what to do. He wouldn’t talk, he just closed off.

Not long after, I discovered that not only was he obsessive about cleanliness, about neat and tidy and his appearance but that he was also seriously addicted to gambling and in particular things like cardschat poker sites. I hadn’t been snooping. I’d just hopped online on his computer to check my e-mail (he made me wipe the keyboard down with alcohol hand gel afterwards). His desktop was full of icons for sites like that. It turned out he’d go on there for hours at a time on weeknights and weekends. When he couldn’t find the time to do it because say for instance I’d popped round to spend time with him, because he was supposedly my boyfriend and all – he’d get deliriously twitchy.

The End Was Nigh

The final straw came when one evening, after a dinner date we’d yet again gone back to his. In all the time I was seeing him, by the way, he only came back to mine once. I watched him visibly shudder at the fact my rug was slightly askew from the hearth, and that hey; I sometimes dried my pants on the radiator when all my clothes airers were full! Anyway I was lying in his bed with the covers pulled round me waiting, while – I presumed, he was in the bathroom. After forty minutes of toe curling boredom setting in, curiosity got the better of me and I went to knock on the bathroom door to make sure he hadn’t fallen down the loo or anything. No reply. When I investigated further I found him hunched over the computer screen about to play his fifteenth game of Texas Hold ‘Em. I didn’t even say anything. I got dressed; I picked up my handbag and hailed a cab home. I never spoke to him again. A salutary lesson to be learned, “If he prefers poker to poking her, you need to mark his card”

If you'll notice, I kept her link in her article, but took it out of mine. If I'm going to shit all over her writing, the least I can do is make sure her precious link gets posted. That was her goal anyway right? 

PS- Other, more famous writer, Scottish, Imogen Reed- this other Imogen Reed is fucking up your reputation.

The Reverend VJ Thesis

My friend and band-mate the Reverend VJ Thesis played a solo acoustic set last night at the Corner Bar in Burbank, CA. I was there for support, to take pics, and because I genuinely love his music and his voice! Dude's got a pretty spiffy Reverbnation page and you can listen Here to his awesome, catchy,  and original tunes.

The story behind how I met VJ is much like many of my other drunken bar tales. I had gotten some work done on my sleeve one evening in April and I was in serious need of a post-session beer. With my arm still bloody and covered in Saran wrap,  I hit up  Timmy Nolan's Irish Pub in Toluca Lake, because it was close to my house and I was sick of going to Maeve's (another Irishy pub by my place).

I walked in, gently removed my sweater,  and sat next to a cool dude with a big beard and a vest. I was staring at the taps, still a bit high on endorphins, when the bearded dude suggested I try the beer he was drinking, Magic Hat no. 9. I  took a sip then ordered one for myself and a conversation was born.

About four Magic Hat's later we got on the subject of music.
"You're a bass player? That's fucking awesome! Ssscause we Need a Bass player!"
"Cool."
"We're rehearsing tomorrow and you ssshould toootaly come!"

By last call it was settled that he would drop by to check us out and we would be best friends.
"You're AWesome!"
No! Yooou're Awesome!"

We bro-hugged, I left and VJ went home, learned half our songs overnight, and then killed it at practice the next day! That fucker blew us away!  

Now I can't imagine SlowStart without him! So, please take some time to check out his solo stuff, like him on Facebook and browse the pictures I took of him last night...