Dominant

Am I though? I don’t know. An assertive (not shy) guy would have to tell me that I am (and, crucially, why) for me to believe it.

In bed, I mean. I do have a strong personality, but I did use to forget that a lot with all the trauma and shit I’ve been through. That’s the purpose of a dog-eat-dog world. To make you forget your own strength. To try and make you forget that you shine…and boy, do I sparkle awake and shimmer in my fucking sleep.

So, this shy guy on the spectrum I met last month…omfg. Fully dickmatized. Does it look slightly different when it’s not a guy trying to work out his machismo quirks for future smooth execution; and not a woman willing/able to do whatever he fucking wants?

Cause, in this case…oh, that man is my fuck toy. I am obsessed with how I can’t get enough of him. Even over the phone. I like the sound of his voice, I like hearing him describe our sex, I like feeling so connected (sexually) to someone.

Case in point (and a lesson for the youngin’s): Yesterday, my ex came over to cuddle and fuck. I could not get this other fucking guy out of my head! I can’t see him as much as I want to because he doesn’t live close, and we’re both kinda broke, but I mean…just writing about thinking at the thought of him being my neighbor or something…my mouth is open, and I sigh and kinda pant, pondering this possibility.

If I could fuck just him, I would. I mean, my ex’s avoidant personality disorder would stop him from contacting me anyways, so, at least I wouldn’t even feel super guilty. The things we feel like we can’t live without, those are the ones we seek. If this dude’s dick was available to me pretty much 24/7…I’d seek nothing else (sexually).

So, my ex came over, and we cuddled and talked…and I kinda wasn’t there. Only towards the middle/end. His dick doesn’t work. I’d feel more understanding or compassionate or whatever, except that dick is attached to the man that selectively responds text. To the man that only apologized about the way in which he broke up with me when I brought it up, and did no mention of what he did or how he planned to never hurt me again. You know, a very substandard apology. If you want to be a better human being, learn to apologize:

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/the-dance-connection/201409/the-9-rules-true-apologies

So. That’s why I’m only halfway invested in fucking my ex. It was more of a “touch maintenance” call than a “Can’t wait to see him again”. Even without intercourse, I do love sex with him, don’t get me wrong. I’ve simply been caught up in thinking/desiring/craving that other guy’s dick in me again. And I mean…he doesn’t fucking help. Fucking masturbating me often over the phone and being all sweet and nice.

However. Can you believe he doesn’t wanna masturbate me over the phone for 2-3 hours daily till our meetup on Sunday?

Shoutout to a great movie: Mean Girls

I wanna whip him. Lash his back. Wear stilettos and dig the heel on his shoulder, order him to lick me, and whip him if I’m coming too soon/late/whatever the fuck. I wanna dominate him.

I’m telling y’all. Fully dickmatized. Alas! Let’s get back to the topic at hand. Since I’m not a wealthy White man, I can’t coerce -directly or via the influence of my economic/social standing in society (also, I’m not a rapist)- this man into doing what I say (not out of his bed, at least. For now xD).

I could coax him, though. Boy, do I want to. I want to pretend to talk about something else and then bring sex back up. Disclaimers: I am going through a limbo period at the uni because when you don’t have enough credits, you might get fucking deported. I should know by the end of this month. And I’m ovulating. But still. I know what I felt. It was damn good.

I don’t do drugs, I don’t really drink. And I’ve got ADHD so, at first, when I really like something/someone, I really like that something/someone. Right now, he it.

It could blow over or more or less remain, but definitely thinking he would be a 24/7 available fuck toy was a mistake. I could’ve been more invested in my ex’s visit last night. Cuddled him more, kissed him more. There is one thing I really like to do with my ex that I don’t like with anyone else. I like sucking his dick. I like that when he’s getting full size, he kinda pops out of my mouth because I got a small mouth and he’s not small either.

I trust him. Implicitly. He knows my mind. He’s not in love with it or anything, but he knows it and respects it. He’d never cross my boundaries. I don’t think the new guy would either (maaaaybe?). But I’m not giving him the opportunity to test that theory, so the point’s fucking moot. Some things, you really do just need time to trust someone. Time holding them, talking to them, and then certain barriers fall down. We have that.

So, if I’d known my fuck toy won’t be available to me pretty much 24/7…I’d have cherished my time with my ex last night. I’d have kissed him harder (like I normally do), talked more during sex (like I normally do), and opened up more to the experience (like I normally do). You know, be more present.

I guess, at the thought of something better and (I thought) more easily accessible, I’d choose something else. I already knew that, but still, I guess the reasons are he feels more like work. To coordinate a meetup, to be ok with his selective response to messages but, most importantly, to be actually ok with the fact that to him, I’m barely any different than his friends. He trusts no one. And in spite of the year and a half in which I loved him (and boy, did I love him); and the year in which I kept us in contact; now that we fuck again…nothing changes to him. Still a little shut tight clam.

And that irks me because I didn’t see it before, and I blamed myself a bit for that. For how he chose to tell me over the phone that we were over, for how he chose not to fight for us. How he said everything was peachy when I checked in with him emotionally, and so was fucking blindsided by his decision.

The same emotional unavailability that blindsided me and broke my heart when he decided not to try anymore, that’s the same emotional unavailability that makes him lose his erection when we’re fucking. The seconds he was in me though…oof, heaven. So yeah, I have way less patience for his bullshit than I used to. Just fucking when does he realize that he has an issue (a deep one) approaching people, and that is big enough that even stops him from having semi-casual sex?

If he were nicer, it wouldn’t be a fucking issue. I’d be thrilled to spend time with him, regardless of any dicking/attention I might get from someone else. But now it’s more like, that “touch maintenance” backup for when I can’t see my fuck toy. Also, since my ex hasn’t had a vasectomy, I’m determined to only fucking him two weeks after my ovulation period. And my fuck toy right at the peak of my ovulation week.

Sunday can’t fucking come soon enough.

I never realized that, especially if you’re not in a relationship, it’s so fucking important to be present. Be in the moment. Cherish the person you’re with, right then and there. No one else exists.

I fear my life may only consist of love drills in the future, instead of a love permanence. But that fear doesn’t negate the fact that being present when I have someone to touch is still a good idea.

So, yeah. I’m not really looking for love rn, I’m grappling with the latest insight (that came studying, of all things, for my Sexuology exam). My mom doesn’t love me. She has done to me 6 out of the 7 marks of social aggression. I remember (during and after therapy) clinging to the hope her feelings for me were ambivalent. That maybe she feels all these fucked up things (and acts towards me in all these fucked up ways), but that she also cares for me, and loves me.

She fucking doesn’t. No mom antagonizes your bf (at the time) to ask him to tell you to lose weight. When said boyfriend abuses you (and she’s your financial sponsor), no mom that loves you tells you that it was your choice to live with him, and then just sends you a crying emoji when you show her your bruises -but actually says nothing about it.

That’s my gripe with avoidants, by the way. If you’re an avoidant, you don’t “sample” care and affection. You truly do stay the fuck away from people. Where’s the hesitation (or the swift denial) when it’s you getting validation, kisses, hugs, being told that you’re loved? Where does the fucking silence go when it’s you getting all the attention?

I think those fuckers gotta choose. You’re either an avoidant or you’re an asshole. You can’t be both. I mean, you can, it’s just nasty ass shit. Pick a lane, have some decency. Because avoidants, in my view, are by definition assholes, when they approach people, see them fall in love with them, and let it go on till it’s no longer convenient.

What happened to “I’ll never touch you without your consent”? How you’re gonna fully fondle, squeeze, and massage my heart, and when I expect that shit to be a feature not a glitch, you’re gonna be all like nah, I was 1000% lying when I said everything was ok. Let’s break up.

So yeah, I think before the new guy, I had more patience for my ex. Now, less so. But, since the new guy isn’t available to me whenever I so please, I do still gotta appreciate my time with my ex.

Because I literally have no one fucking else. My mom is pure asshole, for example. Maybe on the spectrum, but not an avoidant, for sure. She only partially wanted my affection as a kid, and I picked up on how much shit she talked about me as a pre-teen. Also, this excuse about “physical affection is for posers” when I would try to hug or kiss her. She wouldn’t have told my latest ex (while we were together, via me) that he ought to “put me in my place” if I acted poorly. This, only a few months after the physically abusive ending to my previous relationship. If she loved me, she wouldn’t have asked me to translate an article on The Guardian about Woody Allen molesting his baby daughter, because she knows that I too, at 6 or 7, was orally raped by a neighbor.

Or she wouldn’t have called Scheherazade, the name of the main character in this Turkish soap opera that gets raped. When I teared up at the comparison, she said it was a joke, to not take it seriously. If indirectly, if by an off-hand comment, she can incite violence towards me…she’s OK with that choice. She…kinda hates me? It’s not an absence of love, it truly is more like a big distaste towards me. I don’t know what could have fucking caused it, she chose to have me. To keep me around. To clothe, feed, and house me (by her own hands till I was like 7 or 8, then via my grandma). To fucking financially support me till now, that I’m 34. When you’re a mouse, it doesn’t feel like the cat is playing with you. Even if it doesn’t intent to eat you.

It can still fuck you up.

And it really did. It really did. Now the Complex PTSD makes sense. Utterly emotionally abandoned for both parents, I’ve been revictimized again and again because seeking unfiltered attention will bring predators to your doorstep. You don’t know better. It’s not your fault. You only notice after the fact. After you’ve sought therapy. After you’ve seen -several- glimpses of your own pain. Of how fucking alone and abandoned you’ve been all your fucking life. Of how some things were some crystal clear to others, but everyone fucking thought it was a fucking mercy not to tell you. Is that a family? I don’t fucking think so. No one telling her to step up, but making up excuses on her behalf when I would ask why she was so mean. No one telling me to seek help which, fair, they didn’t know I was suffering so much. But that’s not why they didn’t say it. Even if they had known, they would’ve kept out. Couldn’t possibly want someone else to gain insight into their life when you don’t want to look at your own either, or for anything else to change. So yeah, no one did.

But also: not teachers. Not anyone. Not a single soul. The one time I do remember someone wanting to check up on me was an English teacher, actually. He wanted to know how I could be such a good writer (minus the long run-on sentences, which I still do), but not have an interest in studying. He wanted to know what was up with that. I was…16? 17? I actually wanted to tell him for a second and then backed away from that idea. He was actually talking to me and wanting to know what was up. Respecting me and treating me like a grown-up. He was sincerely asking.

I backed away from the idea because I realized he wasn’t sensitive. I didn’t think he’d care. I didn’t feel like: giving him the long story. I felt like he wanted 2-3 sentences to explain the whole ordeal, and I didn’t have that. I had a story. Proper one. So I (apparently still) cherish his interest, but declined the offer. Any other experience of someone wanting to know, it must have had half the sincerity and half his interest, because they don’t register in my memory as easily.

If I gotta search for it…it didn’t cause significant impact.

Losing my tether to this world (grandma) really fucked me up. I never knew loneliness the way I did after she died. The one person that had loved me. In such a flawed manner. But loved me still. The one person that had covered me in kisses and hugs. That had fed me, and saw me return from school. That had listened to me, and cared for me. The one who told me “I understand that you’re mad, and I can see how it would make sense to go away, but it would really hurt me if you left, so I hope you consider staying”, when I was a child and announced to the world I was leaving the house because I had had a fight with my mom.

You know. The one person that had ever loved me. That had been there for me. That lived with me. We slept in the same room until I was 15. When my grandpa died, she took his room and I stayed in ours. Or was it the other way around? I don’t even fucking remember anymore. But yeah, until I was 15, we’d slept in the same bedroom.

That was my mom, you know? And I’ve been wandering Earth pretty much alone, with very few fleeting passengers here or there.

Since I gained this realization I have, ironically, been feeling much better. Other than the couple of days where I was fucking devastated that my mom has close-to-zero regard for my actual life, and disinterest -bordering on contempt- in my emotional wellbeing…I’ve actually been better. Less scared/triggered when I do go out. Having kinder conversations with strangers.

It’s almost as if actually naming and describing the behavior of the person that did ignore, (sometimes) wished me ill, bully, and ostracize me, it loosened up this big knot that was holding my stress together. I still don’t like to go outside without absolute reason, but when I do, I’m actually OK. Now that I’m writing this, well yeah, it still feels heartbreaking to think that my mom so swiftly regretted (in many ways) her decision to have me. How she pushed me aside. How she has wanted others to deride me and mock me (as if the world needs help targeting a highly sensitive short, chubby Latina). How she sometimes would look away and cover her gaze with her hand, if I approached her. Or how she once got me mittens and kept insisting they had boxing gloves on the design -and yet everything else was kitchen related. They were oven mittens printed into those mittens. They were kitchen-themed mittens (who the fuck designed that atrocity, I don’t fucking know). My dad was there, when she said those were boxing gloves on my mittens. He looked uncomfortable and looked away. He knew my mom was being incredibly disrespectful and gaslighting, but he chose to be a passive bystander:

https://www.edi.unsw.edu.au/initiatives/be-better-human/what-active-bystander

And that’s my dad, you know? If the man who squirted you into your “mom’s” belly can see you be disrespected in such a way by the co-parent, and chooses not to get involved…you’d obsess about justice and people doing the right thing too. Nucleus accumbens be damned.

It turns out my three favorite things in the world (romantic love, humor, and altruistic punishment) are all located in the nucleus accumbens (well, the dopaminergic pathways that make you excited about those three, in any case), and it’s a hallmark of ADHD people to have depressed/not-as-active dopaminergic pathways in that area of the brain.

To know yourself so unloved, yeah…I was surprised when I started trauma therapy that I hadn’t become an alkie, or a junkie, or endangered myself by becoming a sex worker (my praise and support to the women who do this job, my rage against the system and compassion for the ones who got no other fucking choice). I was basically surprised I hadn’t killed myself. As I became more and more aware of all the pain I’d endured, it truly did fucking shock me to realize I had never self-harmed, for example.

I find myself shocked once again. I always thought I had had a so-so childhood. Never in a million years did I imagine mine is a tragic story, with one (mostly) saving grace: grandma. Mi querida abuelita.

I’ve had a fucked up life y’all. From beginning till my early 30s. Now shit is starting to get neutral. But the more you learn, the more you gotta keep going! Now I’m trying to activate myself to go from neutral to good. Life is this perennial balancing act that you gotta acknowledge: that fucking game/toy where there’s a ball with a board on top, and you’re trying to stay on top of it. Perfect stillness isn’t an option. You can try to move just enough to not fall (die/kill yourself), or you can realize that you can actually push/move yourself to different, far(away) places.

All up to you.

I really thought all my therapipsts from trauma therapy were batshit crazy when they said that by the time I was done, I’d be able to get my own insights, and check in with myself. The fear and anxiety were so powerful, I thought they were totally bullshitting me. I thought they were trying to give me something to look forward to when there was nothing to expect of the future. I thought they were giving me the “social” courtesy of a comforting lie. A carrot to always chase but never actually chew.

So I guess I love them too. I love my therapists. Those witches brew some potions, offered me a drink, I stupidly accepted, and then I was forced to see xD

My life for what it was. Life in general. And to stubbornly remind me that there is some fucking hope to be had. May not be the biggest, may not be the greatest, but there is. Or I could just get back to (lazily) moving just enough so I don’t fall off the balance board (that’s the name!).

Reality check tip: google “balance board” in Images (respect if you use DuckDuckGo or anything that doesn’t own your life), and see just how fucking far do you have to scroll to find a person of color using one.

Go on, I’ll wait.

I got tired and decided to stop. Otherwise, you’d see a person of color’s feet on one of those. That’s for how long I was fucking scrolling.

So yeah, I feel fucking free. I literally got nothing left to lose. No partner. No kids. No close friends. It’s like the perfect moment to become a hedonist. But alas, I’ve drank ayahuasca. I care about doing the right thing, like some do-good loser, lol.

So I have zero plans of falling from my balance board; and moving on it just enough so I don’t fall is very…been there, done that.

I’ve heard the phrase so many fucking times before, but I’ve never actually been at the “No other way to go but forward” mindset. What would be there left to do if not enjoy (and cherish) my moments with the two men I’ve chosen to sleep with exclusively -fuck Bumble. What would there be left to do except study and try to give someone else the high of knowing your life does not have to be in whatever shitty state it currently is (aka, be a therapist).

I don’t wanna numb myself in drugs, or alcohol. I would have drowned myself in cock but, only junkies/maniacs can keep up with my level of interest and focus in a new passion -and I never hang out with either so…Oh! Did I tell y’all I increased a tiny bit my ADHD meds? Boy do I have energy now! I’m not working out yet, but I am keeping myself busy. Sleep better too. It’s “truer” sleep now. It happens even if I’m anxious, because I’m just tired as fuck. And the good news, I’m just barely above the absolute minimum dosage. I’m between the minimum and the next titration. That’s how much respect I have for non-psychedelic drugs.

But this shit made me study. And when I did, I figured out I had no ambivalent mom or childhood. My shit was bad.

Stay outta school, kids. Lol, jk. You don’t have to go to school, but you do need to open a fucking book. No, not for your sake, but for the rest of us. Everytime we enlighten ourselves, or gain a new understanding, we are infinitesimally helping everyone else because of the domino effect. So yeah, read a fucking book.

I’m nearing halftime here. Not young, but not old. An old kinda young. Oldoung. Lol! Finally settling on my purpose(s) in life. A bit bummed out I don’t have a family to love (sadistic hating creeps, cough*uncles*cough, to the left, please. Narcissistic, cruel shits cough* mom and dad*cough, also to the left, please). But, I mean: I have no other option than to be hopeful, you know?

What else is there to do? I’m not gonna kill myself, and I could be sad about being single but I mean, then I’d never stop, you know? I never realized my preoccupation with being in a relationship also stemmed from the fact that I want(ed) to have someone in my life.

We are social animals. This particular mammal is already in such a closeness-restricted diet, I can’t really care about what comes first: a good friend or a good partner. And a good partner, madone, is that a tall order.

Critical of the powers that be. Caring. Affectionate. Sense of humor. Optimistic. Willing to fight for what he loves and never is ashamed to declare it to whomever may concern/want to hear it. Not only is traveling seen as a personality trait for dumb fucks everywhere, but the amount of people that care about social justice issues is tragically slim. To filter that meager amount by men who actually want a badass, not just one that tries to look like one? Even slimmer chances.

And this is, regardless, a small city. That despite to be a campus town, filled with enough internationals, their minds are also, sadly, small. Vrijmibo = Vridag Middageten Borrelen (Friday Lunch Snacks/Tapas) is another acronym that passes for a personality around here.

I don’t wanna marry a sad sack of shit that, in old age, will cry and whine about how he can’t travel anymore, or that all that he’ll have to say is infinite retellings of his stupid journeys. I want the kind of person that, when we’re 80-somethings, can hold a conversation, and make me laugh, and still be insightful about life (and himself) if the convo were to steer us that way.

I cannot fucking tell you how rare that is. But they’re out there, you know? Maybe in this province, maybe in one of the big ones (most likely in one of the big ones). And I’m not gonna lie, I’d be afraid to move out of this province. Change is hard for me. Also, to get decent housing at a cheaper price in one of the bigger cities is nearly impossible.

What I’m trying to say is, I’m currently not holding my fucking breath over meeting a partner. A man, curious about what he may find out about the world and its people, and himself, as he goes through life.

So yeah, if my desire to do nothing is forever overpowered by my reluctance to fall from my balance board…then the only other alternative for myself is to get in motion. To see what’s out there. And hope that once again, some day, someone tells me that “Even though I’m mad and it’s understandable that I’d like to leave, it’s also true that they’d like me to stay and work it out, because they’d find themselves personally devastated if I were to leave”.

I’d like to be that person to someone, and have them mean the same to me.

Here’s to hoping against hope. Yours in written words,

L.