Category Archives: real life

I feel change a comin’

I should be in my bed working on sleeping right now. I have a lot to do tomorrow, most of it having to do with the upcoming photo shoot. I’ve decided to really embrace it, especially since I can do a couple of different sets of photos at a time. I need to make sure that there is enough product to see me through August. That means I’m going to have to invest more money to make more money. Right now, I’m just tired. It all seems like an enormous deal when it really isn’t.

I’ve been thinking about moving out of the state for the last week. Granted, I’ve actually been thinking about it more on than off for over a year. Then, I realized that I don’t want to leave this city. I love it. That’s not to say I wouldn’t love the city to which I’m considering moving, because I have a feeling that I might (if I can get over my fear of snakes). But this will always be home. It doesn’t matter what relatives are alive or dead, this is home for me.

The real reason I’ve been thinking more favorably about moving is that I’ve changed. I’m trying really hard to wrap my head around it, but I think I’ve moved over to about a 3 on the Kinsey Scale. That means I’m more heterosexual than homosexual. I don’t know exactly how or when that happened, but it has. I’m not straight, just more interested in men. The area I would move to has a thriving tech industry that’s growing. With them comes an overflow of men. The thing is, everyone I know in the area knows me as a female-focused bi woman or as a lesbian. They’d get a bit of a shock were they to experience me as I am now. Do I really want to deal with that drama? No! I’m sick of drama. In fact, I’m going to be exorcising this blog of all the drama in the form of a couple of tags and categories because I want to reclaim my blog as my own. I feel that it’s been sullied by being viewed by TEWSNBN, who I’d like to go away now and come back in a couple of years. Better yet, don’t come back here. Let my lawyer deal with his lawyer if he just has to. Stupid move, but it’s his choice. I want to get back to being open about who I am, what’s going on with my life and feeling OK about writing the same. Right now, I feel somewhat violated.

The other thing about the area I’m considering is that it’s in the real South. There is most definitely something to be said about southern gentlemen. I’ve met a number of them. With few exceptions, they treat women a lot better than those in the North. I’m tired of being treated like crap because I’m not het. It is very painful to have someone you trust spew venomous words at you because he can’t take being told “No” because I am not into men. On the surface, this makes no sense. The South is the Bible Belt and I’m only going to get more abuse from the men down there when I reveal that I am not straight. Maybe. Maybe not. The people moving into the area aren’t necessarily of the Bible Belt variety. But if they aren’t, aren’t they the ones I’d be running from up here? I don’t know. I don’t have all the answers yet. I just know that I’ve had enough abuse of the emotional and sexual varieties to last three lifetimes. That isn’t hyperbole. I wish it was. That’s why this book is so important for me. I can think of a couple of different ways to write it, but I need to do some other things before I even begin to think about it. Of course, that hasn’t stopped me from thinking about it, but at least I know that there are other priorities and this needs to sit on the shelf for a few months. I’ll make my notes and come back to them when I can.

Someone told me that I have a life to live. Yeah, I guess they’re right. I’m going to bed and watch whatever is on my DVR as I fall asleep. It’s a damn shame I can’t travel back in time. I would do it in a hot minute. Oh well.

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It’s War!

Photo of Lucy Lawless as Xena: Warrior Princess

Lucy Lawless as Xena: Warrior Princess, the ultimate warrior woman. Photo courtesy of LucyLawless.com and CirceSkye

I’ve been scanning my handwritten journals from 2003 for the last week in an attempt to send Glenn the information on which my book will be based. I was trying to do a good deed because he swore up and down that he had no idea what I was talking about when I called him and told him about my last suicide attempt when I could no longer fight the horror of the mindfuck he’d laid on me. I dived back into the Ninth Circle of Hell to retrieve the entries and it became really clear how and why I couldn’t fight. There were a lot of things that I’d forgotten over the years–phrases and words that he’d used. I also now have three suspects who could have been on IM the day he pounded and pounded my psyche into the dust.

As I said, I’d dived back into that Ninth Circle of Hell to get information for him. My next problem was how to get it to him. I set up one method of delivery, but it became clear that if I used it, I’d be running a great risk that someone else’s hands would get the package. If I waited until next week, I’d be stuck waiting with this crap on my mind all weekend and it was bad enough that I’d devoted time I really didn’t want to or have on it. I sent a text to the cell number I’d discovered in my journals telling him that he had a choice of pulling the info out of a cloud storage service or getting the disk(s). What I got back was a declaration of war based on two legal theories. BAD IDEA! He should not have done that. I waited for a bit and then sent a return text saying one or two other things, but essentially acknowledging receipt of his . . . or her message.

That damn fool obviously thought I wouldn’t recognize what was contained in the words and the exact phrasing that was used. I am continually surprised at how stupid he thinks I am. No, let me rephrase. I am continually surprised at how stupid he/she/they think(s) I am. I know Glenn has no choice but to support hagbeast because they are married and have a house and lot that were worth $892+K, not to mention his studio, office, business and god knows what else. That’s not even considering the fact that they have two kids who, at this point, should be in their late teens or early 20s. If he didn’t support her, I’d actually think he had a grasp of right and wrong regardless of who did what! The best I could have reasonably hoped for was that he’d stay the hell out of my way. Let’s just say that I know him well enough to know that probably wouldn’t happen.

I am going to do a couple of things regarding this blog. The first is that the “glenn thornton” tag and category will be changed to “glenn t.,” and; the “dr. robin watt” and “mrs. robin watt thornton” tags and categories will be changed to “dr. w.” and “mrs. r.w.t.” The “glenn” and “hagbeast” categories and tags will remain.

The second is that I will continue to write about ME and MY life as it relates to one or both of the above-referenced individuals when appropriate. As I told him/her/them, “Be careful what you wish for.” Believe me, I know that he has seen this blog, as have a couple of other folks in his circle, probably including someone with a law degree. He’s scared and he’s hoping like hell that I’m going to fall down into a crying heap as I’ve done so many times before. Ain’t happening! Re-visiting the horror I went through was an incredibly painful experience, but it just made me stronger. I’m not the person he mistreated before. And yes, those journals revealed that HE mistreated me, regardless of who was on the last portion of the last IM session. I am strong. I am coldly angry. And every cell in my brain is determined. I am gearing up for war.

I remembered somewhere in these last 36 hours that I am one formidable woman. I did not ask for war. Indeed, Glenn had an opportunity to influence what went into the manuscript so that he wouldn’t look like the puss-blowing jerk my journals show him to be. All bets are now off. I’m thinking the way he has thought since I’ve known him: knowledge is power. Hence, I’m not going to reveal what I got out of his text. Let him continue to think I’m stupid. He’s his own worst enemy and always has been. I think that was his attraction for me. I thought I could “fix” him. No more. I wish I’d understood my motivation sooner. This puts a good ending on the book and the story.

Oh! One more thing. Glenn, or anyone monitoring this blog for him and/or hagbeast, I have two words for you:

Photo of my eyes

These eyes have seen too much. These eyes have cried enough. These eyes are determined that no more tears will be shed over you. Forever.

fuck off text

eXonerated

I’m sitting in my minivan in the Macy’s garage half crying with tears and half with dry sobs. When I’m not crying, all I want to do so scream, “GOD WHY?!!?!?!?!?!” that fucking sceptic cunt of a hag already had him! She didn’t have to destroy my life! I’d respected her space and played according to the rules of the road. Instead, that fuck pretended to be Glenn and he never knew a thing about it . . . until today.

I have a conscience. Because I do, I thought it only fair and right to tell him that I would be writing a book about our relationship. So, I called him expecting to get his answering machine. I got him. Glenn. After ten, horrible, long years. He said he didn’t remember the events leading up to the “it was a joke” comment, nor did he remember ever saying that. My thought at the time was, “So was he always a sociopath and I missed it? Or, did I spend 17 years with someone who didn’t give a damn?” I didn’t know what to think and had to digest 10 fuckhard years into a short narrative. I did it. I don’t know how. I just know that I said goodbye first because I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. It was as if time stopped. The only thing that startled me to action was the girls.

I took them out and tried to remain calm. I was not, am not and will not be “calm” for a very long time. I put them in the x-pen and sat on the bench next to them as I typed something. Oh, I was telling him that I’d send him blog entries since the gist of everything is in the blog. The thing is, I couldn’t breathe. I knew something was very, very wrong. If he’d mindfucked me, he’d gleefully remember.

I can’t write exactly what happened next, but I found the very first journal entries about him after I’d contacted in 2003. There was a lot more information than I expected. It became very clear that Glenn was NOT at the keyboard. In all probability, he never saw the video I made. It was that hagbeast, Dr. Robin Watt. She took my life and she will answer for it. By all that is holy on Earth, in heaven and beyond, Dr. Robin Watt, aka Mrs. Robin Watt Thornton, the original mean, rabid hagbeast monster, will pay.

Damn, Mom said that the sceptic cunt probably did this. I asked her why. Mom said that she was afraid of me. See, I never would have thought of that as a reason and assumed it was just him having been corrupted by proximity to her. She had nothing to fear. I knew that. Glenn wasn’t going to leave her for me. She was his golden girl. But she was scared and tore my life apart. I couldn’t put my personal life together no matter what I did. It’s understandable given how betrayed I thought I’d been. I found even more reason for my feeling of betrayal reading my journal entries. She really did take my life. And I tried and tried, but couldn’t get that one back and had so much scar tissue I’d never be able to love or trust on a very deep level again. So, she took my future too. I don’t have to think. I feel a cold, dead hatred for her and utter shock.

The Story of T & G

I’m feeling angry, hurt and mean this Sunday. Therefore, I revised this post with some visual aids. God(dess) will probably strike me dead for BEING that way.

I’m actually at a loss for words. It’s not that there aren’t enough; there are too many. I’ll start with the title and, perhaps, discuss its inspiration. BTW, for this post, and maybe for others, depending on how I feel, the bâtard is being named. I wish I knew the French words for “septic cunt” and “hagbeast” or even “hagfish” because I’d use them as well.

One, possibly two, people who read this blog know who I am in real life and that I am an aspiring online magazine publisher. I’ve been putting the building blocks in place to turn another blog I have into an online women’s magazine since last fall. My goal is to go live this year. I do have a more specific timetable, but that’s my other life and I don’t really want to talk much about it here.

My heart and soul are dying and my mind can’t hold me up on its own anymore. I can blame it on a week off my antidepressants and that would be partially accurate. However, the antidepressants only allow me to cope with real life and make better decisions (I hope). They don’t change what’s happened. Certainly, they don’t heal me in places I’m not totally sure anyone can, including me. My way of coping has always been sex, music or the written word. I was; I am; I will always be, a musician, even when my only instrument is my voice. I am and have always been, a writer, even without a pencil, paper or laptop. I have written countless stories in my head that never make it to paper because there’s no need. They were written by me for me.

I’ve been playing with an idea for the last few weeks that I’ve decided to follow through. I am going to write a book based on my truth about Glenn and me. It takes as long as it takes. What’s in it is in it. I don’t care who gets hurt as long as I can write the truth. I’ve got a lot of documentation in journals, letters, etc. I only wish I had a screen capture of his wifey-slime pretending to be him saying, “It was a joke” when referring to his supposed interest in becoming involved again after I’d poured my heart out to him. I think the only people who might understand how destroyed I was and still am are the readers here and my shrink. I’m not sure my shrink understands completely. Then again, she did understand that it was cruelty in the extreme, and one of her specialties is abuse, so I guess she must get something.

In the last two or three days I’ve gone from righteous anger to crumbling heap. I’m trying to get angry again so that it becomes a motivator for action. The problem is that when I’ve been angry I’ve also been the most hurt. I’m angry because of the things Glenn did that utterly and completely betrayed me for sport. I’m angry that he let that hagbeast be the one who was in on at least part of it with him, knowing that I detest her and have since I was 16-years-old and didn’t even know she was seeing him. I’m angry that we laid in bed together for 17 years and there was love. . . the love. He never professed love to me, but I most assuredly expressed mine to him. Even though I was sleeping with other people, there was no doubt that he was my heart. He brought me to life in a way no one ever had and no one has since. Sure, we’d get tired of each other at times, but in the end, even when I basically chased him for nearly two years, I believed it would be Glenn and me. I took “themeangirl” seriously, believe me. I watched them together and could read them and knew it would be a tough fight but that she would not be good for him in the end. Therefore, being angry with him also brings up the intense pain. The pain overcomes any benefit I could have received from the anger.

Photo of a toothed hagfish

This photo of a type of hagfish reminds me of stories told in some parts of the world about vaginas with teeth. That’s my image of the “hagbeast.”

The reason I was/am angry with Glenn is because he has yet to take any responsibility for anything. He’s a coward and what he and his hagbeast did was a twisted, sick thing. That’s not anger talking. That’s what I’d say if someone else told me that they’d been through what I have with him and the hagbeast. I have found ways to survive by running, closing myself off, crying myself to sleep and anything and everything else except drugs, although I have gotten drunk once or twice. OK, three times. Over the course of ten years, that’s not so bad. But it all has to end. I can’t do it anymore. I have things that need to be done in real life. The more I try to suppress what I feel about The Hagbeast, featuring GT as her apprentice, the sicker I will become. However, if I can write constructively and know that this is NOT my fault and that what was done was wrong, even though I already know that in my head, I have to believe I can heal.

I know that I’m no angel in this either. Hagbeast has had a ring through his nose for over 20 years. I don’t know if she knows that we were still sleeping together as late as four years after they were married and did so during her entire residency. However, I doubt things would have progressed as horribly as they did if he’d just not ignored me for two years and expected me to be in the same place when he decided to come back. I can understand him wanting to give his marriage a serious shot. I would have hated it, cried a lot, pleaded, bargained and did whatever I could. But in the end, I would have understood. This ain’t my first rodeo. But he just disappeared without a word. By the time he appeared again, he called me for phone sex. Ladies, I think you have some understanding of how . . . I don’t know . . . MIFFED I’d be about that. So I told him, “Sorry, but I am not currently sleeping with men.” He responded, “At all?!” “No. I am not having sex with men at all, nor getting them off online or on the phone.” *CLICK* He hung up on me. I was too pissed off then to regret what happened or realize how hurt he was–and he was definitely hurt–and that he’d loved me. Mom tried to tell me, but I learned to never trust anything unless he says it. He’d burned me too many times on that. Regardless, that’s when the foundations of my personal hell were laid. It took nine years and barely surviving a relative who tried to destroy me for me to come within hell’s reach. I needed Glenn again. He acted interested, but suspicious. I’d sensed someone else listening to us as he talked to me while driving down to Florida for a convention. I thought it was probably some male friend. Men are often jerks when they get together, so I just tried to pretend that I knew nothing.

By the time he arrived back home, he had a very special present waiting for him. First, a prelude.

I have loved Glenn my entire life minus 17 years. I loved him when I hated him and hated him when I’ve loved him. Hell, I love him NOW. However, when I found him and asked about resuming our involvement, I honestly thought the love had passed and that we could be good friends with benefits, meeting a few times a year to catch up on several levels, perhaps share a meal and go back to our own homes. I’d accepted, I thought, that he’d married someone else even if I detested her. Now, since she was such a hagbeast, I didn’t feel any guilt at all about shaking the chandelier with her husband. When Glenn opened up, we were great together. When he shut down, he was frustrating. He wasn’t all that happy about leaving me behind and he was lonely.

Image of a hagfish

Hagfish are real, slimy, disgusting but necessary. I apologize to any hagfish who were hurt by my bastardization of the name of your species.

I’ve loved him nearly as long as she theoretically had and I’d been the one to soothe him when she was being a right cold fish. He didn’t marry me because I’m his “Gregory.” That means that he didn’t love me quite as much as he did hagbeast just as I loved Glenn a little bit more than I loved Gregory. I also wasn’t going to make six figures coming out of training, thereby allowing him to set up his businesses without having to worry about his next meal. In addition, she was able-bodied. There’s nothing I can do about that, so she won. I don’t happen to think that being able-bodied should have been a criteria, but it was. What hurt so much is that anyone who has ever seen us together felt that they were in a room positively crackling with electricity. Given that, why does having an above-knee prosthesis on one leg make any difference? What difference does it make if I developed fibromyalgia? Apparently, a lot of difference. She’s better arm-candy, a better earner and doesn’t limp and spend much time as a patient in a hospital.

Well, as I said, by the time he got back from Florida and after talking to him a few times while he was down there, I decided to make a film of myself talking to him and telling him of this love that came rushing up from its hiding place out of my mind’s eye view. It was corny, I admit. The music in the background was Donny Hathaway singing his masterwork, A Song For You. But it fit.

Here are the lyrics.

A Song For You
Sung by Donny Hathaway

I’ve been so many places in my life and time
I’ve sung a lot of songs I’ve made some bad rhymes
I’ve acted out my life in stages
With ten thousand people watching
But we’re alone now and I’m singing this song to you

I know your image of me is what I hope to be
I’ve treated you unkindly but darlin’ can’t you see
There’s no one more important to me
Baby can’t you see through me
Cause we’re alone now and I’m singing this song to you

You taught me precious secrets of a true love witholding nothing
You came out in front when I was hiding
Now I’m so much better and if my words don’t come together
Listen to the melody cause my love is in there hiding

I love you in a place where there’s no space or time
I love you for my life you’re a friend of mine
And when my life is over
Remember when we were together
We were alone and I was singing this song to you

I love you in a place where there’s no space or time
I love you for in my life you’re a friend of mine
And when my life is over
Remember when we were together
We were alone and I was singing this song to you
We were alone and I was singing this song to you
We were alone and I was singing this song
Singing this song to you

A Song For You lyrics © EMI Music Publishing, Universal Music Publishing Group, Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

You see, by that time, I’d been a journalist for three very busy years and had definitely gotten people’s attention. I was going a few places to conferences and such, talking to people active in black gay circles and in the Welcoming Congregation movement. Indeed, that’s how I made my bones. I covered the 2001 United Methodist Church General Conference. It was one thing after another. My adrenaline was pumping and I was taking pictures and conducting interviews with people I would never have been able to get next to otherwise. I was in heaven! I attended the First Annual National Black Lesbian Conference where I watched an organization being born. Let me tell you, it was a beautiful experience. I got mobbed by the women when they found out who I was.

The lyrics to A Song For You say:

I’ve been so many places in my life and time
I’ve sung a lot of songs I’ve made some bad rhymes
I’ve acted out my life in stages
With ten thousand people watching
But we’re alone now and I’m singing this song to you

I really had lived my life on a stage of sorts. Mine was the digital and glossy paper stage. I’d written a lot of stories about a lot of people and organizations and they really were my life. To my great surprise, people knew who I was and appreciated my work. But I chose to sit on my office floor, with a cigarette (to keep me calm because I was scared to death) and told the absolute truth. I didn’t realize how much I still loved him when I contacted him and that these feelings came up almost the moment I began talking to him. I loved him regardless of his situation. We figured things out once and we could do it again.

I know your image of me is what I hope to be
I’ve treated you unkindly but darlin’ can’t you see
There’s no one more important to me
Baby can’t you see through me
Cause we’re alone now and I’m singing this song to you

I apologized for the way I told him I was, for all intents and purposes, a lesbian. I should have been more sensitive to his feelings because we had such a long and storied history. I told him that he had me if he wanted me and that I wanted him. I opened up completely. I was totally vulnerable.

I didn’t hear from him for two days. I finally caught up with someone I thought was him but, as it turned out, it was the hagbeast. I asked if he liked the movie. The reply was “No.” I said something like “Oh.” Some other thing happened that I can’t remember except that it made me go cold inside and my stomach clench. That’s when I first got a clue it wasn’t Glenn. He’d never talked to me that way. I ran to my bedroom to phone him and tell him that his wife was online pretending to be him and saying whatever else she said besides “It was a joke.” There was no answer. It is only recently that I’ve accepted that this is what happened. I didn’t want to believe that the hagbeast had that much evil in her. Certainly, I didn’t want to believe that Glenn was complicit in her games. It led me to wonder if they plotted the entire thing and laughed at me while they did it. I picture them making love while making fun of me. Even now, the humiliation is such that I really and truly want to die. No kidding. No exaggeration. If someone shot me right now, I would thank them. The only reason I don’t do it myself is because of my girls. They need me. Even an empty shell of a person is better than what would await them at the local shelter. So I live.

I don’t know how I’m going to get through writing this, but I will. I doubt it will be ready for submission even next year. So, I’m looking at two years. I’ve got to keep myself alive for at least two years. OK.

As the watchful eye of Mother Earth is my witness, I just want to die and get it over with, but I can’t. My babies need me.

Shit.

Congratulations if you’ve managed to get this far! For your efforts, I want to reveal two photos I sent to Glenn yesterday and last night.

A picture of my arm showing severe self-inflicted burns on my arm

This is a photo I sent Glenn so that he can see that I was in so much agony there were no words. The only way I could express myself was to burn myself almost to the bone and cut. I did this after the “It was a joke” comment.

Photo of a paper plate with 3 bacon strips next to a paper plate with a stack of pancakes with a dinner knife connecting the two. There are assorted food items in the background.

This photo is filled with symbolism. Some of it would only be evident to someone who knows me. I sent this to him with a letter telling him that I’m writing our story.

The deal-breaker

It came out of the blue during one night’s conversation. I’d already been told to “shut up” in so many words because Professor B had a point to make. I didn’t make a sound as she went on and on for ten straight minutes. Being the daughter of an educator, I know the syndrome: Prof. B was in “lecture mode.” It is annoying as hell as well as presumptuous. However, I allowed her to go on because I knew that I’d tell her how little I appreciated it once she figured out how pissed off I was. How I wish it had stopped there, but no, she had to do the nearly unforgivable: She referred to a profoundly developmentally disabled child as an “it.” A few sentences later, she used the phrase “these people” in reference to the same group. I suppose I should be glad that she did count those with developmental disabilities as people on some level the second time because they were not people at all in the first reference. She said that she was on her way to bed when I’d called and I suggested that she continue on her way as I quickly hung up the phone.

After I’d gotten rid of her without completely going apeshit on her, I fumed. There were so many reasons for me to be angry that I am too tired to recount them all. Suffice it to say that I’ve known and seen too many people who treat those with disabilities–be they physical, emotional, mental or developmental–as less than human that I left “outraged” about two train stops ago and have ridden into “thermonuclear.” I have a serious congenital defect. My mother was told to let me die just after I was born. She didn’t. When I didn’t die fast enough, the doctors suggested that she institutionalize me. She didn’t. A lot of other children with my condition were not so lucky. There is absolutely nothing wrong with my brain. There is something wrong with my musculoskeletal system. So, because of that, according to too many doctors, I should have been in an institution. That was the topic of the monologue Prof. B was having with herself. She was remembering what it was like to work with what used to be called “mentally retarded” children. Obviously, there are different levels of “mental retardation.” She was specifically speaking about those who were severely and profoundly disabled. She would have been the kind of person who’d be responsible for raising me if I’d been placed in an institution. Thank you, MOM!!

When I finally got around to making a serious phone call to her to talk about what happened some 48 hour earlier, we got into a yelling match. She couldn’t understand why I’d be upset. In her mind, it was perfectly reasonable to call a developmentally disabled child an “it.” The child’s parents called him/her an “it.” There have been very few times when I’ve wanted to reach through the phone and strangle someone for whom I had feelings. This was one such time. She told me that I shouldn’t take what she said personally and tried to quote some goddamn male pseudo-philosopher on the meaning of being a human being. I could care less what that son of a gun had to say because he had and never would carry life inside of him. Therefore, his feelings on the subject mean less than a damn to me. Then, Prof. B asked if I was pro-choice. Wrong question!! I spat out the difference between talking about a few cells that had divided and a fully-fledged and born HUMAN BEING. The argument went downhill from there.

A bouquet of yellow flowers

A bouquet of yellow flowers


Prof. B said that she thought I’d never speak to her again. Well, I won’t say “never” only because I know how we women are–at least the lesbians and bi-femmes among us. We tend to become friends after being love interests and cross the line from one to the other without even thinking about it at times. We either have the nastiest break-ups anyone has ever seen or the ones where there is still love, but the realization that we’re not good together . . . only to go sleep together again and again and again ad infinitum until someone says, “Hold it!” By the time that happens, both have half their wardrobes at the other’s abode or they’ve already moved in again. Women are complex creatures, to be sure. That’s why I love us.

It is quite probable that I will speak with Prof. B again. In fact, *sigh* I have to communicate with her in some way because she sent the most beautiful bouquet of yellow flowers I’ve ever seen. It has yellow daisies and the most exquisite yellow roses in a nice, heavy vase. I’m not a heathen. I will send a handwritten note or I will call. That is, assuming I still have her address in my GPS system. I saw the flowers as I was leaving the house to head to the gym Friday and figured out who they were from. They were better off in the slightly-above-freezing sleet than in a warm minivan, so I didn’t pick them up until I returned a few hours later. I had a lot to clear from my mind as I worked out. I didn’t need to have that clear mind punctured with holes upon entering the van. Right now, they are sitting on my piano where they look happy.

I am going to miss Prof. B. There is no doubt whatsoever in my mind that I would have gone absolutely ballistic had it been someone I liked even a smidgen less than I liked her who dared to call a child an “it.” The rage I feel at the suggestion that there is some justification for doing so is more than I can describe. There is no justification. Period. End of story. How dare someone, especially a woman, say otherwise! And did I mention that she can’t get why I don’t want to have my reproductive organs removed? Her answer was, “I did it!” “Yeah, and look at you now,” would have been my answer had I been being a human bitch. All in all, I think this end was going to happen one way or the other. Not in my wildest dreams did I think it would be about this. The subject wasn’t even on my radar until she brought it up. I don’t even remember the context of how it came up, only that it did. Damn shame. Damn shame.

Oh well, time to sleep. I’ve got a lot of things that need to be done later in the day, including attempting my first photo shoot for the fetish site I wrote of in “Help with a decision.”

This is all Glenn’s fault!!

The scars of your love remind me of us
They keep me thinking that we almost had it all
The scars of your love, they leave me breathless
I can’t help feeling
We could have had it all

That’s me speaking to Glenn. OK, forget about the rest of Rolling In The Deep for the moment and just focus on those words taken somewhat out of context–but just a little. That was definitely Glenn and me. If nothing else I ever write or have written thus far is worth believing, believe me when I write this: The memories of him do leave me absolutely breathless. For the longest time, I thought that he would be the only person I’d ever feel that way about. I was with someone else for three years during the first years of his marriage. After all, he’d chosen and there was nothing I could do about it as much as it damn near killed me to continue to draw each breath afterwards. That man, I’ll call him “Gregory,” was my first Master and I loved him in ways Glenn didn’t need and kept closed to me. The difference is that I knew that I’d never spend the rest of my life with Gregory. So, although I had feelings that were nearly equal to those I had for Glenn, they fell short. Still, Gregory was probably the person in the number two spot on my list of “Loves of My Life.”

Now, there’s someone else I’ll call “Professor B.” I am head over heels in love with her mind and her heart. I don’t give a damn about her body, but her body is a real factor. It’s a miracle that we found each other to begin with. It’s an even greater miracle that she, a woman who takes love and all forms of sex far more seriously than I do, is willing to wait for me to figure out: 1) If I can promise to never sleep with another person, especially another man, and; 2) Out and out told me to go to a woman with whom I was very much in love once, and talk to her about why and how lesbians of their age tend to turn off their sexuality or take sex very seriously. That takes guts! I should say that she, feels about me the way I feel about her. There is so much to say that I should start from the beginning.

First, know that I’m typing this through curtains of intermittent tears. I’ve been confused about relationships before. This is not new. What is new is that I’ve been caught in this fucking lesbian disdain for women who sleep with men! It’s not like I sleep with men in general. I don’t. There is only one that I know of at this moment I would even consider sleeping with and he’d have to work like a motherfucker to get me to let him back into my pants and actively into my heart. We all know who that man is so I won’t bother with naming him . . . again. I can wrap my mind around making that commitment if it weren’t for Prof. B’s disabilities. Neither of us is sure she can have sex now. I am going to GUESS that if her doctors say that she can, they will also say that she will have to take it easy. That is going to be a problem.

You see, for me at least, there are different kinds of sex. Each kind has its own rewards. I have made love so achingly slow and carefully that, for me, orgasm was not going to happen and I was perfectly fine with that. The only thing I cared about was that my partner reach a pinnacle he’d never forget–or, that she would never forget. I have had sex to satisfy a craving and that meant absolutely nothing afterwards. I have been fucked royally to the point I can’t forget it if for no other reason than its raw physicality and I don’t want to. Furthermore, I want to have that experience several dozen more times in my life. Fucking can happen with a stranger or it can happen with someone you’d die for. I’m coming to realize in this moment that I would probably die for Glenn, even now. Then, there is this great woman I’m falling for and who is falling for me that I’m going to have to promise to give away part of who I am if I expect to keep her. I am so absolutely torn I’m almost incapable of forming a coherent sentence.

There are some people who’d say that I was very lucky to have loved two very different men and one woman, going on two. This is true. However, it should be noted that I am not with them now, except for the one that is current. Of the three people, only two were viable in the sense that a very long-term relationship was possible. Gregory was, I do believe, a love/sex addict. In the end, we wore each other out emotionally. Anytime ALL of a Master’s slaves get together and say that he’s in trouble, he’s in trouble. He wasn’t happy with any of us afterwards, but that’s neither here nor there. I know that I stayed with him and tried to help him, terrified half the time that I would lose him. He kept the woman I loved dearly (I’ll call her “Khat”) and, although he consistently failed to acknowledge it, was really his primary partner. There is so much pain there still that I’m going to move off of him as a subject. Suffice it to say that Glenn and Khat were the only viable relationships. Although memories of Glenn turn up in odd places, he is effectively gone from my life and has been for many years. The same is true of Khat.

The title of this post was half in jest. The other, non-humorous part, is true. I don’t think I’d use the word “fault,” but he showed me how all forms of sex, but especially the combination of fucking and making love, can have a power that is absolutely indescribably, utterly, wonderful. I want that again and Prof. B cannot give it to me. I’m not sure it’s even in her to give it to me regardless of her disability. She’s more of the slow, aching kind of sex. That is going to leave me very frustrated and ultimately unhappy. I know that I absolutely must have the raw, physical kind of sex from time to time to keep me happy. She’s said that if I or anyone she’s with has an itch that just has to be scratched, she didn’t want to know about it. I can deal with that. However, when I pushed the issue tonight, she told me that she wants total monogamy even if I end up moving out of the state. I don’t think I can promise that to anyone. That’s not to say that I’d fall in love with someone else because I am damn hard to satisfy intellectually and keen intellect is a deal breaker. Therefore, I’d say that falling in love with someone else is remote. That notwithstanding, wanting to jump someone else’s bones, or vice versa, is inevitable in that circumstance. For that matter, it’s inevitable in the circumstance I’m trying so hard to get my mind around.

It has occurred to me that maybe I’m just not ready to give Glenn up. That is to say, to put him in the proper perspective of someone I loved more than I loved life itself and would have laid my life down for if need be. Notice how that’s all in the past tense. I think there’s some small part of me that knows he did what he did to me for a real reason and has a damn good idea of what that reason is. Yes, what he did was unforgivable. However, I just know/knew him too well to accept that he’d be vindictively cruel to someone who’d been his lover for 17 years. Add to that the knowledge that he knew I’d tried quite hard to kill myself due to his words and actions and I still can’t see it. I know that he’s a coward in some respects and to be pitied in others. He’s both in this one, for sure. I deserved better and I deserve better. I deserve, if anything from him, that he be a grown ass MAN and not some cowering manchild afraid of wifey and me! I don’t know if or when he will do it. I do know that I can’t put my life on hold waiting. Nevertheless, can I promise someone else that I will forsake all others, blah, blah, blah when I’m pretty sure that she cannot give me what I need sexually? We won’t even talk about our different needs where people are concerned! And, she says there’s a large class difference that I don’t see. I just see two people with different, though not incompatible, life experiences. I don’t care that she’s the first in her family to go to college or be ABD. Why should I? Yeah, there would be some things that she couldn’t relate to in my long-ago past, but I don’t even relate to them now!

Prof. B and I talked off and on all day today from the time I woke up this afternoon until I went to bed very early. I was busy going about my errands and so forth, but she was on the other end of the line. It’s a good thing she’s on leave or I can imagine a whole lot of things wouldn’t have gotten done on her end. It took a very long time for me to know through experience that I belonged with women. Glenn had gone and Gregory and I were temporarily off for the zillionth time. I was actually with someone else who I inadvertently pissed off that weekend, but he should have said something. *sigh* My point is that I’d known since I was four years old that I liked females be they girls, young women or women. That didn’t necessarily mean that I didn’t like men. Glenn was my first whole-hearted love and that’s something he can’t take from me, nor can anyone else. He married his first whole-hearted love. I should be happy for him and, on some level I am. That doesn’t mean that I don’t know I had a right to expect more from him, especially since we both knew that he wasn’t wild about the idea of giving me up completely. Had he been honest with himself, with me, with his wife, we’d have had different lives. Mine, for sure, would have been better. Then again, he would have done what Prof. B is doing: He could not deal with me being with another woman and loving it.

Whatever I do, I can’t win unless I choose. I can’t choose. Not now.