still waiting…

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I’m still waiting for my period to start. In vain. Much like I wait for that damn harp sound to float from my phone.

In keeping with my purchasing of super-lady-part-items I was compelled to buy one of these menstrual cups. Why, I am unsure. The idea of insertion is troubling. Ditto removal. But I like to be good for the environment and not create excess trash. I may be menstruating for 10 more years!

Or I may never ever get another period again, because I bought this damn thing.

I’m actually kind of anticipating trying it out. I think because it’s so pink that it makes me drawn to it. It’s so cute The instructions on how to insert, remove, and better yet , what to do if it gets stuck  and removal proves difficult,  are not cute.  But at least I’ve got a pamphlet so I know how to handle to situation. If said situation ever arises again.

I am hoping that there are no YouTube videos about how to use these. But maybe I hope there are. If it gets stuck we’ll all find out.

I’m pretty sure that if I never get another period again I will not lament this unnecessary  purchase. But it’s not like I can, like, donate it to some cause that gives hygiene products to girls and women in need. It’s boil-able and sterilizable but who wants a second-hand menstrual cup?

Might even be too weird for a Portland free-box.


my lady parts are dying

Yep. I bought a pregnancy test and an emergency contraception. At the same time. Me & the checkout lady were laughing. I assured her that I knew that this wasn’t how it all works, and that the pregnancy test was mostly a confirmation of peri-menopause bullshit than an actual concern of actual pregnancy. I could be potentially pregnant. I am having sex. With condoms, of course. One dude has had a vasectomy, but it could happen with the other one. Condoms can fail. But I’m not pregnant. I’m just dying. Well, my lady parts are anyway.

It’s weird, to have my lady parts dying. I mean, I’m not, like, using them, per se, but it’s weird.

I don’t want to breed. But I sure love to fuck.

I live in terror that menopause will kill my sex drive altogether. I do not want that. I love sex.

This is one reason I’m so fucking furious that Benedict is celibate and opting out of my dying lady parts. I want to have as much sex as I can while I want it. And that chemistry.

But I’m having sex. As my shopping cart indicates. And I’m having really great sex. I’d just like to be having so much more of it. But some is better than none. And quality is better than quantity. And I’m getting quality, for sure.

I have always had a crazy high sex drive. I rarely find a man who matches me this way. Which is fine, I’m not enduring some massive hardship or anything, but I do want to have a sex life, hopefully for many many more years. Maybe since my libido is high it won’t die along with my lady parts.

A girl can dream.


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I feel bad about how much I write about Bene-driving-me-crazy Come-on-back. I don’t want anyone thinking that I’m sitting around crying over him. I’m not. That I am thinking of him when I’m with Ed or Andy. I don’t.

But I do think about him. I miss him. I want him. Still. And I have nowhere to put those feelings, so they get put here. This whole fucking blog was pretty much started out of the crushed hopes and fueled frustrations of his opting in & out. & in. & out. I like me some in & out but not like that.

Meeting him reminded me that I wasn’t an old hag. I’m not expired on the shelf. And I’ve finally had luck meeting men that don’t suck. That are interesting, that have some reciprocity of interest in me. That aren’t opting out every other week. You’d think I’d just forget that Benedouche. I’d love to. But I haven’t yet. But this is the place for me to vent these feelings. To try to understand what the fuck happened. I have the hope that at some point I’ll just not feel any lustful longing for that dude.

& of course that’s when he’ll opt back in.  Or not. Maybe he doesn’t think of me. Long for me. Maybe he thinks I’m a fucking cow. I just don’t know. I’m glad I’m not on some celibacy trip. I hope it works for him, in theory. In actuality I hope it doesn’t work and he decides that our sex was far more therapeutic and we can get back to it. But as previously stated, you can’t always get what you want.

I’m completely and totally excited about Ed and Andy. I am waiting impatiently to spend time with Ed Norton next week, he’s had busy man job stuff keeping him away. I’m waiting impatiently for Andy to have a night off from work to spend with me. I want to see each of them. I wait for it. I get excited. I cease to have a single thought of Benedude. But when I have too much free time, as I do lately, my thoughts drift there. And then to get them out I write. And it helps. It hasn’t helped me forget about him but I don’t feel crazy. I don’t feel overwhelmed.

Maybe that fucker’s compartmentalization skills rubbed off on me a little bit. I’d make some clever comment about oooh, rubbing but I just don’t have one.

Someday I’ll post my last post about my dear Benedict Celibate. But not today.

Or maybe, today?

the man-bullshit diet

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Peri-menopause did a number on my metabolism and depression and life events compounded it and I gained 20 pounds about 2 years ago. And at 45 nature is trying to turn me into a fat hag to signal my complete lack of usefulness or appeal to the world. This made losing the weight really tough. I was working my ass off, yet said ass was not going anywhere. Then I did start to lose some of the weight. Enough, but not as much as I wanted to, or to fit into my jeans again.

Enter the man-bullshit diet.

You can’t really break up if you never had a relationship, but the fucking and opting out yoyo game that Benedict Celibatch did was close enough. Aerobic sex helped. And then despair over loss of said aerobic sex helped more. I’ve lost all those 20 pounds. I actually lost 5 more that I didn’t want gone, my cheekbones were too sharp. There is such  a thing as too thin.

The first time BC and I got naked I was not feeling so super sexy looking. I was a little embarrassed about my body. But he didn’t see anything wrong. As I lost weight and I’d say “Don’t I look better?” he’d always say “you always looked great. you looked great before and you look great now.” and I believed him.

Now I feel pretty confident in my body again. I could be more toned, I could work out a bit more. And I will. But I’m not super obsessed with trying to look perfect. I’m so glad I fit into my jeans again!

Man-bullshit always helps me lose weight. It’s awful if I don’t have any to lose, sharp cheekbones and a disappearing ass do not help me feel more confident as I try to recover from whatever perceived heartbreak has occurred.

I’m not really heartbroken over BC and his celibacy campaign. Just sad, confused and horny for him. I miss him. I like him. I would put up with more of his brand of bullshit if only he’d come around. That chemistry. Uh.

I have great chemistry. With great guys. 2 of them! And I’m into both of these guys. A lot. But I am pretty sure I could have a man harem 20 deep and I’d still pine for him. There’s something very special and specific about our connection and chemistry. I think it’s a crime against nature to not explore and enjoy it. Neither of us are married or exclusively coupled. I just don’t really get it. And I’d like to be getting it. Getting it so good.


I wish he’d come back. Even if it’s platonic. But I’d prefer non-platonic.

But you can’t always get what you want.




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actual photo of supposed “platonic cuddling position”. uh, right. it’s 69ing with pants on.


Platonic relationships with someone you love fucking are not always possible. Because, fucking. Uh.

Andy wanted to go platonic. He initially said it was fine that I was seeing other people. Then it wasn’t fine. Hence platonic-ness. Which lasted about 2 minutes. Hallelujah. I so prefer pants-free 69ing.

Ballet boy and I just went for drinks. Totally platonic. It was lovely. We didn’t need to jump on each other. It was awesome.

I’m hoping to have some kind of platonic relationship with Benedick Celibatch. Unless he gives up on celibacy and goes full non-platonic, pants-free cuddle positions galore with me again. If only! But platonic time would be great. Not as great as penetration but great, sure.

I have 2 great men I’m seeing. And I’m into them. I’m glad Andy gave up on platonic-ness. I’m not sure Ed Norton is interested in anything exclusive as of yet. And I like Andy. And I like Ed Norton. And I wish I didn’t think about Bene-hijacking-my-mind Cum-on-back anymore. But I do. And it’s not always very platonic. Pants are not featured in my thoughts. But I could hang out with him in pants. He looks damn good in pants!

At some point maybe I’ll stop pining. Longing. Thinking. Hoping.  It’s so futile. He obviously doesn’t want to see me, if he did he’d do so. The chemistry is so mind bogglingly good and yet he’s so ready to say “nah”. Opt out. I don’t get it. And boy, would I like to get it. All night long.

But I shouldn’t complain. I am not a lonely, sexless spinster these days. I am really enjoying dating Ed & Andy. I like them both. I’m not really complaining. Just still pining a bit for someone who doesn’t want me. Because I’m not smart enough to stop. I’d love to be so over my head for someone else that I just forget about his ass altogether, but that’s not how it is, not today anyway. But maybe tomorrow.

Or, just give up on celibacy already  and text me those 3 little words I live for…

harp sounds    “on my way”

my grandmother’s pearls

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When I graduated from High School my grandmother, my mother’s mother, gave me pearls. In a beaded satin purse. I thought they were sweet and beautiful, but couldn’t imagine wearing them. I certainly had no idea that I’d take to wearing them in my 40’s.

I don’t imagine that she was expecting me to wear them with a threadbare t-shirt and cut-off Levi shorts but I’m sure she’s glad I’m wearing them just the same.

Sometimes you have something for years, decades even, and then suddenly you are just in love with it. You know why you’ve held onto it all those years.

I’ve had a pretty transitory life. Like a really boring, solitary gypsy. I’ve moved a lot since I was a small child. I’ve had friends and family come and go from my life. I never expect anyone to stick around. Shit always ends. Shit always changes. And shit often turns to shit and falls apart. But maybe it doesn’t have to be like that.

The idea of a stable, long-term partner is as appealing as it is foreign. I wonder if after years, decades even, you discover parts of your partner that you haven’t even seen or known and you fall more in love with them for it. If a string of pearls can transform from an inanimate object of sentimental value to a loved and worn part of my wardrobe I’d imagine a person could surprise me even more. People are far more complex than pearls, usually.

Maybe I have hidden, secreted away, saved and perviously unnoticed parts of myself, that once discovered will be cherished and used, not just for special occasions, but for regular life. Regular life needs to be celebrated. Wearing a vintage cocktail hat in the summer with running shorts and a t-shirt can make me so happy I almost don’t care that it’s hot as hell, that I have no idea what “I’m doing with my life” or “where I’m going”.

Inanimate objects are reliable. They can bring a lot of joy. But nothing compares to the exchange of human emotions. Both good and bad. A dress has never broken my heart. A vintage feathered cocktail hat can make me smile even if I’m not happy. But being a well dressed hermit can only last so long. I’ve been coming out of my shell, shaking off my invisibility cloak and being comfortable being seen, being known.  Feeling good in my skin again. I like it.

The person who really helped nudge me out of my hermitage, who made me feel really good in my skin, has made his own retreat. I wish it wasn’t the case. I don’t like it. I want to share some more time with him. But I understand the urge to retreat. But I don’t get why he’s running from me. I’m not scary. I’m wearing pearls, for fucks sake!


the four letter word

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I realize that my public online journal/diary disguised as a blog might make me appear to be a nymphomaniacal whore. Not the case. I am a woman who really, really, really loves sex. But I also want love. I love love. Love is the goal, right? The goal of dating?

Uh. It’s pretty much the only taboo in dating, really. You can’t say you’re “looking for love” on a dating site. Or really at a bar if someone chatted you up, old school style. It’s a scary four letter word. “Anal” is a friendlier 4 letter word in the current dating world. I’ve had lots of matches and dates ask about anal. About love, never.

And jumping/falling/obliterating into love can destroy your life. I’ve moved to 2 different countries, one was in Africa, for men. Africa. Yeah, love has made me do some crazy shit. So I’m trying to be slow. Sensible. Do things differently. Portland’s making me poly-curious perhaps. Fuck. But I’ve always liked a lot of sex and it’s hard to find one guy with enough fucking time. And ones whom I don’t drive into the cold arms of celibacy.

I do want a relationship. Love. Actual love. A partner in my life. Who also thinks the phrase “partner in crime” is itself a heinous crime. But I’ve never been in a relationship for more than 4 years. I don’t know if hardcore, 1 dick til you die, by the book monogamy is something I require or desire. I’m willing to give it a go. But I’m open to something less traditional. Perhaps.

I’m not super traditional, dude.

I’m not afraid of love. But why do we have to “fall” in, like a fucking sinkhole that opens up under your feet. Yikes. Maybe it’s something that grows, slowly, takes root over time. Not something you trip and plunge into, screaming “fuuuuuuuck” the whole way down.

You can’t hurry love.

You just have to wait.

Trust. Give it time.

No matter how long it takes.