Category Archives: sexuality

Help with a decision

There is a poll at the end and I need COMMENTS, damnit!!

I was on my way here to post when I saw that the last time I’d posted was way back in August. It’s not like things haven’t been happening, they have. I just haven’t had the energy to write about them.

The first thing that’s happened is that I’ve hired a team of sharks to keep this house out of the bank’s hot, greedy hands long enough for me to repair my credit. They are good guys, too. I paid their retainer out of the largest and last of the small insurance checks. Mother, for reasons I will never fathom, was woefully underinsured. Maybe it’s because she absolutely, positively refused to accept that I will never again work whatever hours most people work these days. I can do about 10 days of a 40-hour week and then I’m in bed, tired and in pain. Maybe it was because she was sick both emotionally and with some form of dementia. I have known that she was mentally ill for many, many years. Given the things she’d been through in her life and at such a young age, I realized that, although I could be angry with her, what she was doing wasn’t necessarily her fault.

I’d also known that Mom had some form of dementia for at least three years and probably more. I think, but am not sure, that it was three years ago that I tried to force her to see a doctor to get an evaluation. To my absolute and utter frustration, the only thing they evaluated was her memory. Her memory was fine. It was her ability to make decisions that was fucked to hell and back. She actually sicced her eldest two brothers on me in an attempt to intimidate me. That only goes to prove my point. The old Mom would have known that would do no good. However, given that the doctors’ only interest was in her memory, and my only option was to petition the probate court to order a FULL mental examination and risk whatever relationship we’d managed to cobble together, I chickened out. There would have been no “winning” either way around. If I was right, I wouldn’t “win” because I’d know the mother I had wasn’t the mother she was during my childhood and earlier adulthood. She would know the same and I’d watch the light go out in her eyes when she learned that to be the case. I just couldn’t do it. I loved her too much. Frankly, in some ways, I still see her as having hung the moon along with my father. God, how I miss them both! I did have a short chat with Daddy before bed, though. Things around the room kept falling down, so I knew someone was here. Specifically, some things I had nestled quite stably on his urn fell off twice. That’s when I knew I needed to talk to him and explain myself. I also know that it made him cry and feel helpless. I’ve only seen him that way once when he was alive and yet, I knew that’s how he feels now.

Well, now the lawyers have gone through my retainer and need several thousand more. I asked a cousin who could have easily helped, but thought my business idea was going to tank even though I didn’t tell him anything about it. I don’t tell anyone exactly what it is because I’ve had too many ideas stolen and used by others as their own, including ideas that he balked at first and then stolen himself. There’s no way to copyright an idea, only the execution of an idea. He is of the opinion that I’m spoiled, a ne’er do well, a flake and a number of other things not remotely resembling who I am. He also likes to emotionally torture me for pure pleasure. I’d give the reason I know this, but it’s too long and I’m too tired. In essence, I’ve shown something he wrote about me around a decade ago to three different therapists/psychiatrists. Three terms come up either in concert or isolation: sadist; narcissist, and/or; cruel. I feared he was on the same track again and said I’ll get the money myself.

The reason I’m here tonight is because I do have a way of earning this money myself and it just so happens that it fits somewhat into the reason for this blog.

I was not aware of this until earlier this year, but there is a fetish population of men (and maybe women) who prefer women who are amputees. I wish I could remember exactly who told me about it, but I do remember it was someone in the sexual abuse community. At the time, I was completely creeped out. I shouldn’t be surprised or creeped out given the high percentage of disabled people (mostly girls and women, but also male children and adults) who are sexually assaulted because we can’t fight back and are perceived as easy targets. According to the National Center on Domestic and Sexual Violence, citing a study by the National Victim Center, 683,000 women over the age of 18 are raped each year. Only 16% are ever reported to the police. One in four girls and one in six boys will be sexually assaulted by the time they are 18 years old. Between 1/3 and 2/3 of victims, male and female, are younger than 15 years old. The book Violence and Abuse Within the Lives of People With Disabilities: The End of Silent Acceptance?, women with disabilities are sexually assaulted at twice the rate of non-disabled victims. I’ve known all of this to be true, but I did not know the exact numbers. I highly recommend both of these resources. They will obliterate any previous ideas readers may hold about rape and other forms of sexual assault.

By NO means am I saying that men (or women) who are amputee devotees are rapists or perpetrators of sexual assault. I simply mean that within any given population of people one will find those with a given fetish. Some smaller number of people who have that fetish will seek out the easiest targets and abuse them. That would be true if the fetish were pom-pom girls.

Difficult times have called for difficult decisions. After giving the idea a great deal of thought concerning how to hide my identity since I do have another life and getting down to the nitty-gritty of my comfort level regarding my own beauty and sexuality as a human being who happens to be a disabled woman–specifically an amputee–I have decided to move forward and serve as my own model for a site that publishes photos and movies of amputees. I hope to make the shoots fun for me and fun for the viewers who buy my sets. I began purchasing the masks I’d like to use and, at least until I get used to the idea, I have no plans to show more than a bikini model. Indeed, in some instances, probably less. I personally find a certain level of mystery to be highly erotic. My mother saw a set of photos I shot of myself for someone else about seven years ago. She actually couldn’t help but see them since they were mixed in with the other images on my laptop and had a bright red background. My avatar comes from that set. She didn’t disapprove. She actually kind of liked them because they were very suggestive while, in some cases, being very covered. Of the few that showed my breasts, I still had on a bodystocking. This time, it will be lingerie and erotic nighties. I understand the more explicit I get, the more money I can charge. Let’s just say that no one will be seeing my pussy for at least the next year unless their face is buried in it or there’s an “M.D.” after their name.

My question is whether or not I should keep this space and this nickname AWAY from those who purchase my photos or use it as a launch pad and area to correspond? I can think of several pros and cons for each. However, since it’s you all who have been with me throughout, I wanted to take your thoughts and feelings into consideration. In that vein, I have added an anonymous poll and opened comments. My primary concern is that those who do read this blog not get pushed aside by people panting after more photos. I know what my preference is, but it’s just barely a preference and I wouldn’t mind input that might change my mind and give me new information to consider. Indeed, that’s what I want.

So, without further ado:

I really do want and expect people to comment on this question because it affects how we relate to each other.

Forgiveness

I was originally going to title this post “The Exhaustion That Will Not End,” but the exhaustion is a symptom of, possibly, other things. It would all come back to Glenn one way or another, so I’ve decided to simply write about him. I am having a difficult time remembering what I’ve said about him in posts here and what I”ve written to him. Therefore, I’m going to assume that I’m repeating here what I’ve written in letters. If I repeat myself, I do apologize.

I wrote to Glenn, the love of my life I met in undergrad, and told him that I forgave him for something absolutely horrible he did to me about ten years ago. What he did had a profound effect on me and, had it come from someone else, I would never forgive. It took me many years to understand the reason for his betrayal, but I think I finally have with age and experience. The reason was two-fold. It was revenge for basically coming out to him in a less than stellar manner after he’d left me high and dry for two years, then called me so he could have phone sex. Needless to say, I was a little bit annoyed that he’d done that. Hence, the “Sorry, I’m not sleeping with men at the moment,” comment. He said a shocked “What?!” I repeated what I said and he hung up on me. Then, some years later, after being emotionally devoured by a cousin I couldn’t fight back because of our uncle and patriarch’s wishes, I tracked Glenn down at a club and, after several conversations leading me to believe he was still interested, he said that he was joking and that he didn’t want me because things changed. Mind you, he didn’t say this until I pressed him for a date when we’d get together since he’s 500 miles away, or was then. Now it’s more like 400+. This is the man I’d hoped to spend my life with, but he decided to marry someone else. Still, we couldn’t stay away from each other. So, for two or three years, we continued to see each other. If he’d married a woman I gave a damn about, even a stranger, I probably would have at least attempted to end things. He had to marry the woman he did and I could not have cared less about her feelings.

I believe second reason for the above-described betrayal was that he hoped I’d stay away on my own because he still had/has feelings for me. It is this reason and this reason alone that I didn’t get it. I didn’t think he had any feelings left for me at all. How could he and knowingly do what he did? Then, I began to think about men and what men will do when they are desperate and have too much pride for their own good. I didn’t want to believe that he still had feelings for me. That sentiment was born from the same one that wouldn’t allow me to believe he had ever had feelings for me. In the end, it had more to do with my lack of belief in myself than anything he hadn’t said, although he really should have said something. He broke me. No, I truly mean that he literally broke me. He pushed me up and over a cliff called “Suicide.” I almost made it.

My mother died probably not knowing that I’d forgiven her for something she’d done that wrecked both our lives. I can’t go through telling the story again, but suffice it to say that I could not go through life not forgiving Glenn for something that was nearly as bad. Like I still loved my mother, I still love Glenn, though differently than my mother of course. Furthermore, I want him back. I got so damned tired of hating him for what he did and being afraid he’d do it again that I couldn’t do it anymore. I finally threw up my hands and pulled out the tissues and wrote to him. I began the process on July 10 with one letter. It took me two days, but I finished the second one tonight. But for the fact that I had to go through his online store to tell him that it may have gotten lost between my computer and his, I’m not sure he would even have known I’d sent private e-mail. For all I know, he’s got me filtered out. In one sense, I can’t blame him. I’ve made several attempts to reach him over the years with no response, which doesn’t mean he’s not reading, but doesn’t mean he is. If he’s behaving like he did when we were in college, he had to wait to see how serious I was before he’d make a move. I wouldn’t move past the initial couple of letters because I thought it was pointless. That ended on July 10. I’m very serious. I haven’t let another man into my heart since he went off to marry the woman I’ll assume he’s still married to. He can have her. I just don’t want to be without him at all.

This is going to be a long, drawn-out fight unless he actually grows the balls to tell me that he’s uninterested. Even then, he’ll have to tell me to my face and not on the phone. Skype is a wonderful tool, isn’t it? So are the airplane and the highway. I’ll be in his area in October. If need be, he can tell me then. My guess is that I’m going to have to keep things going until he gets a big ass clue that I’m not going away quietly into that good night again. As I think I said here before, if two people have to work so fucking hard to stay away from each other, then there’s a reason. As my mother once told me, I’m a threat to his marriage. I prefer to think that I’d be an addition as opposed to a threat. The only reason I give a damn is that I know he has at least one daughter. I don’t want her caught in the games grown-ups play. I wish I hadn’t let him go so easily when he told me he was going to marry that woman. I just didn’t have the experience to fight back. All I could do was cry and I cried for days and weeks. He didn’t enjoy my pain. It hurt him, too. However, the marriage was logical. That’s the other thing I’ve had to accept.

Knowing how to fight for him meant that I had to remember things about him that I knew probably wouldn’t have changed and believing in myself. I don’t doubt one bit that I’m going to have to move once/if we reconcile. He can’t explain long absences the way he could before. With Mom dying, there’s no more reason to stay here except one and I can fly in to see her or have her fly in to see me. I’m referring to my last living great-aunt. She’s like a mother or grandmother to me. She has more than enough people to take care of her, but I adore her. I’ll also have to leave the only blood cousins in my age group. That, too, will be difficult. Basically, I don’t want to move. It’s just that I see it coming.

I’m also going to have to figure out, with his help, how do deal with my sexuality. It doesn’t lend itself readily to monogamy. In the past, I’ve used polyamory as a way to detach myself. It’s what I learned to do from those who’d practiced polyamory as the central figure in past relationships. That isn’t the way it should be. I think some part of me knew that there was only room for one love of my life and, therefore, thought it better to keep my distance on some level.

In addition to being “fluid” in my affairs of the crotch or heart, I still consider myself as a practitioner of BDSM. In short, I consider myself a leatherdyke. Or, perhaps, a leatherbyke. Whatever, BDSM is in my soul and he isn’t into it. What’s so funny is that he’s the one who got me started without knowing it. If need be, I can give it up.

The question I’ve had while making all of these compromises is: What is Glenn willing to give up to be with me? Only time will tell, assuming I can break through to him at all. I may have to resort to changing e-mail addresses periodically and actually chasing him around the Internet until he stands up and says, “Go away!” If he does that, then, aside from a few questions I want satisfied, I’ll leave him be. I’m betting he won’t, but I don’t know for sure.

I vaguely remember telling him that while I forgive him, there’s still a large part of me that doesn’t trust him not to repeat the same evil deed. It’s true. That’s something I’m only going to be able to work on once we’re in conversation again. I can’t do it alone. There’s a difference between forgiving and forgetting. I don’t know that I’ll ever forget. I do want to get to a point where I can put my distrust in the past and not have it staring at me in the present. People make mistakes. At last glance, he was a person. He is a person I want back in my life.

Hypotheticals

I said I’d write more about what I think may have been going on with Glenn since what seems like forever. I’ll write and he won’t return e-mail even to say “Don’t e-mail me.” I am honest with him in more emotionally intimate ways than is safe to be publicly. Therefore, he knows what’s going on if he’s reading my e-mail at all, even if just the subjects. I feel as though I’m trying to make someone do something that they don’t want to do. I guess I am in a way. I don’t “want” to hear from him. I genuinely need him. This isn’t some bullshit excuse. My frakking mother died, for christ’s sake! I know that he wasn’t a huge fan of his own mother, so perhaps he can’t relate. He didn’t rape me either, but that’s one time he helped a great deal. It’s not the only time, either. There were other times he didn’t even realize what he was doing. So, having said all of that, I think I’m just going to present some scenarios, think about them and try to figure out which is closest to being correct. Phbt! Actually being right isn’t even a dream. It’s something I can’t even consider. Only he knows why he’s doing what he’s doing.

Hypothetical #1

He hates me and despises me enough to play a very cruel prank that, from his perspective and mine, went sideways when I attempted suicide and almost made it because I couldn’t believe someone I’d been with for so long could willfully betray me. Now, although he still hates and despises me, he can kill two birds with one stone by: a) not talking to me because I’m despicable in his eyes, and; b) watch me writhing in emotional pain without copping to any responsibility or taking any more action than he did in the first place.

I wish I could say for sure that this isn’t even a remote possibility. Unfortunately, it is. Not so much the narcissistic aspect of creating pain to watch someone else suffer on purpose. He did that, but I don’t think he thought his words would have such a profound effect. They did. Now, although he may hate me, he can just toss me into the bit bucket and forget that I exist. I’m not going to call him or bother him in any way other than MAYBE write another letter. Honestly, I’ve run out of things to say to him. I can only be responsible for myself and my actions. That wouldn’t be the case if I thought he was reading. Then, yes, I’d have some responsibility not to be a fetid vagina.

There is also the possibility that he’s afraid to speak to me given the suicide attempt. If I’d pushed someone so hard that the only way they could stop the pain was to end their life, I think I’d have a hard time too. However, I would be there for them. For one thing, there would be a lot that needed saying. For another, I’d pretty much hate myself for being such a fucking asshole as to do something like that in the first place.

Hypothetical #2

He can’t look me in the eye because he knows that he did push me over a cliff and doesn’t hate me, but is afraid of me. He can’t give me the kind of relationship I want and he isn’t listening to me or giving me a chance to tell him what I can deal with.

You see, in my book, this is the most likely. He’s consigned me to irrelevant ancient history and doesn’t wish to go back to what he did. Furthermore, he fears doing it again.

In a way, I can’t blame him. The difference is that I’m fairly savvy about mental illness and I don’t think he is. Not to mention that he loves his family. Actually, I haven’t in any way asked him to ever give up his family. But, if we did get together, how torn would he feel? That brings me to my next hypothetical.

Hypothetical #3

This is the conclusion my mother drew. She believed that I was a very real threat to his marriage and that he wouldn’t talk to me because he knew that if he did, there’d be a certain amount of pull that could cost him everything. I would love to believe this, but I don’t know. I can see a combination of the second and this hypothetical. No, he can’t look me in the eye because he knows that he did push me over a cliff and is afraid of doing the same thing again. Frankly, in my current state, it wouldn’t be difficult. I want to fully flesh this one out.

OK, I’ll bite. I’ll consider that he still loves me and knows how much I love him. (I think I’ve just realized what he needs to know.) What does that mean for his home life? What does that mean for me as someone who is at least bisexual and is more often fully lesbian? That’s when the shit hit the fan. If I was fooling around with some guy, he could deal with that. He can fight back. However, dealing with someone who doesn’t share your sexuality is next to impossible. The only reason I say it isn’t completely impossible is because I know couples who’ve done it. It isn’t uncommon for a gay or bi man to marry a lesbian or bi woman for the purpose of companionship and raising a family. While I haven’t married a gay man, or anyone else, I have had sex with three that I know of. Two I knew were gay from the jump. The second made it fairly obvious, but I didn’t want to believe it. God, he had a dick the size of a horse’s! If I wasn’t adequately “warmed up,” the result would be PAIN. As a human being, he ended up as a pathetic, horrible individual. He didn’t do as much to me as he did to my cousin, but that’s another topic.

Truth be told, I don’t know if Glenn is still with the woman he chose to marry instead of me. For all I know, they’re divorced. On the other hand, I’m not sure Glenn would divorce her even if I weren’t in the picture nor if he was otherwise unhappy. Although I know he makes really good money, she makes REALLY good money. I could very easily be wrong, but I wouldn’t be surprised if a lot of his venture capital came from her. I can’t compete with that. He can’t risk his marriage at all under those circumstances. For that matter, he may still love her dearly and not wish to risk it. I’ve never thought he married her just for what her bank account would show. I’ve always known he loved her. What I didn’t know was whether he loved me. Mom was, I believe, right about that. I think he did, and may still, love me.

Hypothetical #4

He didn’t want to take a chance on a disabled woman disabling his dreams.

More than any other, this is the one that hurts the most. It hurts even more than the thought of him as a narcissistic terror. He did have problems in the beginning. In addition, as my shrink asked, why didn’t anyone know we were seeing each other? He and his current wife were, at that time, not exclusive. It’s very possible he was ashamed. In looking at current photos of him, he’s all about the image these days. I definitely wouldn’t fit in as far as he’s concerned. It would be easy for me to say that he really is a narcissist to look at him. However, in his business, he has to look hip/cool/young. He has to dress well and look like a yummy milk chocolate bar of sexuality. It’s the same with actors and musicians. He’s kind of in a similar business. So yes, this is a real possibility and it hurts a lot.

Conclusion

I have no way of proving any of these scenarios. For all I know, elements of all four are present. He could hate me for reminding him of what he’s done if he’s not all that happy. He certainly went for the jugular when his betrayal pushed me not just over the edge, but made me not mind the fall at all. But why? That’s the question he’s never answered. Why was what he did necessary? If I was so horrid, why did we see each other for 17 years? I realize that having kids alone would change him. Why, however, isn’t he saying that? Oh, I got the, “Things change,” bullshit. Duh! Yes, they do. But they don’t change by doing something that is deeply disturbed, exposing a lack of empathy. That’s always been my problem with the “You’re a threat to his marriage” answer. What he did was just . . . twisted. The only way I can see him doing what he did and NOT being a twisted human being is to push me away with enough force that I never come back. He didn’t count on me planning on not coming back to him or anyone else. I think that scared the crap out of him. If not, it should have.

The one thing that I haven’t mentioned is that I go running to Glenn when my life sucks. Why won’t I do it when life doesn’t suck? The love is always there. It’s never left although I’ve grown as a woman. Just as I’m a more mature and confident woman, I expect him to be a more mature and confident man. We both have more experience with life’s bumps, tumbles and joys. That’s the way with everyone who doesn’t stay where they were 30 years ago. They don’t generally change their entire personalities. For example, I used to hold a lot back from him when we were young. Now, I doubt seriously that I would, at least as often. What if he’s wondering if I’m turning to him when things are shit and will walk away when he patches me up? It won’t happen, but I can understand why he’d have his doubts.

I have to think about these. I know I won’t come up with something definitive, but maybe I’ll find some peace. What concerns me most is that he’d be ashamed of me. Unfortunately, that seems to be the most likely of all the scenarios I’ve listed. Put that together with not wishing to risk his marriage by actually loving me and there’s the formula for what he did. Damn.

I need an answer this time. I can’t deal with this as I have before. It’s time for me to change now.

Sigh

As I’ve written, I am looking for a former lover/FwB, Morgan, I knew my last year or so in undergrad. I’ve asked two sources, only one has gotten back to me, a longtime friend, and he didn’t remember him, but did remember the first name. I can understand why, actually. It wasn’t my longtime friend’s job. He booked, we had a stage crew chief and I directed publicity. However, since I know when and where I first seduced Morgan, and since it was our favorite watering hole, I’m almost surprised he didn’t have a face to go with the name. But, boys will be boys and my longtime friend is definitely a straight male. I haven’t heard anything from my second source as yet, but I kind of thought he may not check his e-mail regularly based on what my former besty wrote back. I really miss her. It’s a damn shame she’s married to an ass.

I have been very dissociative since July 4, especially today. I had to go to the main post office to mail off the final known insurance and benefits forms and almost rear-ended a car in the lane ahead that had stopped to make a left turn. Thankfully, I have quick reflexes when I think about my insurance rate getting higher. I just barely missed him by turning into an adjacent lane. If I was six inches from the rear bumper of the other car, I would be surprised. It’s one thing to dissociate at home and quite another to do so while driving. If I tell my therapist how bad things have gotten, she’ll probably insist that I see someone who specializes in dissociative disorders. As long as things were at least somewhat under control and didn’t interfere with therapy or daily life on a consistent basis, she could deal. I don’t remember ever having this kind of dissociation while out in the world. I’ve had other kinds, but in their own way, they were better.

In trying to find a reasonably thorough explanation for the condition, I ran into one that said dissociation is a risk factor for PTSD. Nooo! Ya think? Thankfully, I haven’t had any flashbacks and the memories I’m getting are, for the most part, either benign or pleasant. That is, they are where Morgan is concerned. The most present memory of Glenn, I truly hate to say, was the last time he actually communicated with me. Believe me, it was anything but pleasant. Then, he cut me off with no explanation, apology or anything. I was devastated for weeks. It got so bad that I attempted suicide and almost made it. There are days when I wish I had. Today isn’t one of those days, though. Today, I just want Morgan to be OK and I want me to be OK as well. That doesn’t seem like too much to ask, but I guess it is, at least for now.

Cover from the Robin Thicke CD Sex Therapy

Robin Thicke shares love and sensuality on his Sex Therapy CD

There are other, happier memories with Glenn too. They give me good flashbacks that are more visceral body memories than visual. Let’s just say that I can’t listen to Robin Thicke’s Sex Therapy CD at all anymore.

In re-reading the above paragraph, I am just sad. His non-responsiveness is why I had to ask myself if he was a narcissist. Narcissists love hurting people and watching the fall out. I don’t think he is, but there is that possibility. I am hoping my mom was more on the money when she said that I represented a threat to his marriage. Otherwise, I just have to lay this down to simple cruelty. I don’t want to do that. That would hurt even more than I’m hurting now. If my longtime friend can interrupt his working vacation with his wife and stepson to play phone tag with me and temperamental cell coverage, then Glenn can pick up the fucking phone or type. I guess 17 years doesn’t count for much. Yeah, there’s something that I’m missing and I think I know what it is. He can be cruel, but not this time, although that is the unintended consequence. I’m going to look at that in my next post.

On another front, I got to hear Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band’s three-hour concert from the Prudential Center in Newark taped in early May. It was great! The only song I missed was Thunder Road. I’m going to guess he played it within the first 20 minutes or so because it wasn’t there for the close. Between the van and my iPhone, I got to hear LOTS of Bruce and that made me happy.

B. Springsteen at a 2008 Obama rally

Bruce warms the thrilled audience for then-presidential candidate Sen. Barack Obama

I saw him in person performing an acoustic set when Obama made his last campaign appearance here in 2008. Alas, the view was horrible because it was raining lightly and I was slightly behind and on the side of the podium because that’s the space that was set aside for disabled people. I think I’ll have a word about that when I get back in touch with the campaign. I took photos, but I can barely see him. I had a great view of his younger kids who traveled with him on Obama’s plane. That was the second time I’d heard an acoustic version of Thunder Road. The first time I heard it was at the funeral for NBC’s Meet the Press anchor, Tim Russert, who died tragically, but quickly, while doing what he loved–working politics. I sobbed for hours because it fit so well with the very romantic story of Russert and his wife, also a journalist, but whose name I can’t remember at the moment. She works for Vanity Fair. Russert and Bruce both had an affinity for this city and Russert had more than an affinity for Bruce. He was a diehard FAN! It was only logical that Thunder Road be performed at the funeral. The acoustic version changed my entire perspective of the song, even more so the second time.

I don’t mean to write a disjointed post, but I’ve just remembered something. Yeah, the bar I hung out in with my group of friends was almost always crowded, and I could/would often find Morgan there smiling wickedly once I made my presence known. Even so, at that time, an interracial couple composed of a black woman and a white man, especially a redheaded wild man who was visibly older than his “companion,” should have been noticeable. I have to grin thinking about it. I got pretty good at pussy blocking. There were times when Morgan got a kick out of it and there were times when he left me sitting there steaming. It was probably about 60-40.

Bob Seeger & The Silver Bullet Band Greatest Hits CD

Detroit’s Bob Seeger & The Silver Bullet Band’s Greatest Hits CD is a must-have for any rock & roller.

Now that I think about it, it’s kind of funny. No, it is funny! I admit to being a bit hypocritical since I just wrote a letter to Glenn this past weekend that decried the possessiveness of straight women. Well, although I knew I was bi, I didn’t come out until I was in my late 20s, many years later. So, I guess I had reason to behave like a possessive hetero girlfriend, although we weren’t girlfriend and “boyfriend.” We were friends who very often found ourselves exchanging bodily fluids of one sort or another. Bob Seeger & The Silver Bullet Band’s We’ve Got Tonight is appropos for both Glenn and Morgan at different times. I hate to admit it, but I kind of miss those exchanges. He was definitely one of my better lovers. Halcyon days. *sigh*

I also remembered why Morgan and I didn’t make our liaisons public unless they happened in public or semi-public spaces, which was frequently where they started. There was already a really intense relationship going on between a staff person and a student that was not making things great in the organization. For that matter, it was making things difficult throughout the department. I remember sitting up with both of them at different times, drying tears, seeing that they didn’t get too drunk and just listening. I was younger than both of them. I’m sure our faculty adviser, a colonel in the Army Reserve, wanted to aim a Sherman tank at our office at times. We kept him in aspirin and Mylanta. I think it was my longtime friend who said he wasn’t having any of it, especially since our stage crew chief was in the midst of a nasty divorce. The only person who knew who was in my bed, or whose bed I was in, was the intermediary I contacted to reach the aforementioned second possible source of information regarding Morgan. At that time, about the only thing we didn’t do together was sleep with each other or anyone else.

I’ll end with Bonnie Raitt and I Can’t Make You Love Me. That song was released long after undergrad, but I’m pretty sure it was at a time Glenn and I were still seeing each other. Whenever I’ve heard it since then, he’s the one I always think of and it almost always makes me sick to my stomach. It reminds me of the day he told me he was going to marry someone else. I thought I’d die right there, but I didn’t. I cried all the way home, including the days I spent with a cousin who didn’t know what to do with me. Neither did the flight attendants. Had it not been for Jeff, someone I don’t think I’ve written about here, I doubt I would be alive. Or, if I were, I would have been self-medicating my way into an overdose or cirrhosis of the liver or both. As much as I loved Jeff, and I did, I’ve never loved anyone like I love Glenn and doubt I will. I’ll have some sort of relationship with someone, I guess. However, emotional intimacy? I can’t see it.

How Do I Write This?

I sat in my living room, unmoving, for hours after feeding and watering the girls and taking some garbage out for pick-up Friday. I sat in what was my mother’s chair and didn’t even turn the television on. You see, I’d done something earlier in the day I didn’t plan, didn’t even think about, but ended up doing anyway.

I met a very nice, very intelligent man in his 70s or 80s some weeks ago. We talked for a while and enjoyed each other’s company. Thursday, I went back to the fast food restaurant looking for him. I only wanted someone to take my mind off of my own pain and try to help someone else with theirs. You see, he’d lost both is wife and then, late last year, his girlfriend. He and I understood each other’s pain and sorrow. He let me know the first time we met that he wanted me. I was flattered, but I wasn’t interested. Today, to my surprise, I did get interested. I needed to touch someone else’s soul and I most assuredly needed someone to touch mine. It was “shrink day,” and I didn’t feel all that much better after the session. In fact, I felt worse. It wasn’t the therapist’s fault. How can she understand in 50 minutes what has taken me someone else’s lifetime to understand about myself? That, and NO ONE will let me tell the whole story without interruption which leads to some tangent that’s important, but can wait until I finish my story. It’s involved, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense when heard in pieces and I ask myself so many “whys” all the time. In fact, that’s one of my biggest problems: “Why?” It’s always been that way with me and I honestly don’t know how to change that or even if I want to do so.

I feel shame. I feel so fucking alone (no pun intended). I’m worse than I was before. I just needed someone so very much and he was there and offering, so to speak. He’s also the kind of man Mom wanted me to have before she knew I was mostly lesbian. (Don’t try to figure my sexuality. You’ll get a headache. Really.) She wanted me to settle down with a very nice older man who adored me and would let me be all of who I am. That “all of who I am” became more meaningful after my unashamed and unabashed love of women was confirmed. Mom wasn’t as old fashioned as I’d believed in that regard. She wasn’t at all happy when I told her. In fact, she bordered on, I thought, being a little bit peeved that liked women more than men. Her words were, “Hmph. I’m going to have to get used to this,” in a very grumpy voice. By that time, Daddy had died and I was spared the tiny possibility that he’d be upset. If anything, he wouldn’t have cared at all as long as I was happy. Actually, Mom and I were just about on the same page. However, while she read right to left, I read left to right. My mother would have me with a husband as a primary partner while I’d have a woman. I have loved more than one person at the same time and been loved by more than one person at the same time. If I’m really lucky, I’ll have the opportunity to do so again. To be honest, it would be much easier for me to give up men than for me to give up women. I think the latter would require severing a major part of who I am as a person. I don’t think that giving men up would do that, but it also wouldn’t be painless.

I thought my days of one night stands were over. I haven’t had one in so long that I can’t remember back that far. The reason this will be a one night stand is two-fold: I didn’t know I was going to take my clothes off in front of another person today and forgot that I’d left the house without putting any lotion on and without shaving those areas women tend to shave, and; I think we’re hopelessly sexually incompatible. He’s very old school Italian and I’m not. Men of a certain age think that women should orgasm with the wiggle of their fingers in certain places. It’s our own fault because we’ve faked orgasm so many times horrible lovers think their wonderful lovers. While I wouldn’t put him in the “horrible” category, it’s pretty damn close. Any time I can’t even make myself orgasm while with someone, then something is wrong. Then again, it could be my meds. Naah, while the meds don’t make orgasms easy at all, they haven’t stopped me from getting myself off either.

It really doesn’t matter how good or bad a lover this man was. What matters is that I feel shame, regret and dirty (in a negative way) about what I did. I do want that one, last, epic love affair and I don’t particularly care about what sex my lover is, although I honestly believe it will be a woman and not a man. I don’t want to be treated like a $10 whore getting it on in the back of my van. Those days should have been over when I left my teens, but we each had obstacles at home, although all mine were either paper, dust or had four legs. He’s a neat freak and this house is anything but right now. I never, ever should have allowed my need for some kind of solace to overshadow everything else. I think I just want to forget. I think that’s the only way I won’t feel like a $10 whore. Just forget.

I forgot to mention that I’m really having trouble eating. I’ll order something and not want it when it gets here or I’ll make a sandwich and only eat half of it. Then, I get dizzy during the day and have to stop and eat just to go on, all the while hating that I’m eating. The question popped into my head while writing, “Do I cut or do I stop eating? That is the question.” Even I have to admit that things are not getting better, at least they weren’t today. Maybe something will make tomorrow bearable. A cousin I’ve never met but have spoken with dozens of times is in town for a convention. We’re going to compare family history notes and make a plan for ferreting out more information. I wish she were coming here in a month or two. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the day tomorrow and I have to drive 20+ miles each way to get scripts for my pain meds.Damn.

Something Strange Happened Yesterday

Well, I finally did it. I drove to the Flats and handed over Poppy for euthanasia. On the way I said a lot of prayers and tried to convince Mom that this was the right thing to do for everyone, including Poppy. I felt so badly for her. She was drooling, forgot that she had food in her dish, didn’t bother with any of the cat boxes, which were spotless, btw, and kept getting harassed by Snippet. At 20 years old, she did not need a young whipper snapper of a small dog thinking of her as just another toy. I could look at Poppy and know that she wasn’t thinking straight. On top of it, she was skin and bones. No matter how much she ate–and we gave her two cans a day–we couldn’t put any weight on her. Peeing in Micki’s downstairs crate sealed her fate. It was just time.

The drive to the Animal Protective League (APL) was uneventful until I got off the highway. That was when I realized the APL was in the Flats. For all you non-Northern Ohioans, the Flats is an area that runs along the Cuyahoga River and has a lot of businesses, factories and tony restaurants and clubs. It was the first part of Cleveland that was settled in the late 1700s. It is very easy to get lost there because the streets wind around the river bank and there are hills that bring people up and down from other parts of the city and back home again. In addition, it’s one of the few places that still has swing bridges. They are so cool! I’d kind of hoped I’m see a ship navigating the water as I drove through the maze. Alas, no ships, but for once my GPS got a Flats district address right, even though I didn’t do exactly what it said.

I got there and told the clerk that I wanted Poppy euthanized. I told them that she was 20 years old, she was drooling, had some sort of infection in her guns, had licked her fur into giant mats that she wouldn’t allow anyone to comb, etc. They said, “Euthanasia. That will be $35.” My eyes bugged out. When I phoned them–twice, no less–there was no mention of a fee for euthanasia. I thought they’d do it for nothing since I didn’t want cremains. Would they rather I let her lose in the area so that she can get killed by a car? I’m on frickin’ MEDICAID, for Christ’s sake! My mother just died and her retirement checks haven’t started coming to me yet. I said, I’ll give you $20, but that’s all. Thanks, Poppy. I won’t be eating anything soon. I had to split the $20 between cash and an almost maxed out credit card. Just peachy.

I went to see my shrink before the trek to the APL. I was 20 minutes late because I’m still learning how long it takes to take the girls out, get them watered and fed, sit with them while they eat and then take Micki out again to poop. I still have to wait for her to poop since she’ll look around and see what else is going on before she feels like going. *sigh* That’s about 10 minutes spent waiting for her.

Finally, Micki does her duty and I can hurry up and get dressed. I’m really glad I took a shower the previous night because that saved around another 20 minutes. I knew that I’d see the shrink, but I also wanted to stop where I get my music supplies and show my lyrics to the sales guy who’s quite knowledgeable about things musical except music theory. Now I’m wondering if I showed him the right one. I went through my WordPress app as opposed to the browser. The WordPress app is annoying in that it doesn’t show the finished post. It shows the HTML of the post you were editing until you hit Preview and then it will show not the final product, but the edited product. Oh well. I’ll show him again later. It will give me an excuse to go back.

Like I said in another post, there’s someone I’m working on and that would be him. I don’t know what I’d do if someone called me a Cougar. I think I’d probably say, “Oh well. Just because he’s half my age doesn’t mean a very nice man should be ignored. There aren’t many left in the world and he’s single. There are even fewer of them. I told him on a previous visit that he’s been messing around with girls. It’s time you got yourself a woman. I wore a nice, little dark pink camisole top, blue jeans, sunglasses, dark reddish-purple lipstick sand black sandals. Under the cami, I had on a pink bra that, because I’ve lost weight, doesn’t quite do what it’s supposed go do. Therefore, I have to work on it a bit to get it right. Regardless, I made sure that I was noticeable. He liked the lyric that I had on my iPhone. When I left, he said, “It’s always nice to see you.” I smiled because that made me feel better and that also means that he’s getting to know me. I think he’s got an old soul. Then again, he’s also a musician and I’m used to that. Slower wins the race, in this case.

So, after I leave the music store, I drive to the Shoreway. It’s the beginning of rush hour, but traffic is moving east and not west until the split that goes to the West Side and the other to downtown and the airport. Now that was backed up. Still, we made it there by a little before 6p.

I really didn’t want to put Poppy down. She was such a spirited little devil! Even as an older cat, she was spirited, but in a gruffer way. For some reason, she looked as though she was in a permanent scowl and would accost anyone who’d dare mess with her. It was just a front, though. She was as gentle as ever. But picking her up made my skin crawl because she was all skin and bones. No animal should ever be that thin. I’m sure there was something very wrong with her that we didn’t take her to the vet to get straightened out. Most of the reason is that we thought the other cats were eating her portion. Then, when all the other cats died, Poppy really upped her intake. Still, she was skin and bones. Even the bones felt like they’d break under too much pressure.

Even after putting down my last $20, I wasn’t allowed to be with Poppy when she made her transition. That hurt. I really wanted to be there with her and not all alone with people she didn’t know. I’d been talking to her a lot on the drive there and talked to her some more when she was on the desk, knowing I’d never see her again. I told her that it would all be over after a few minutes. Then, she could run, jump, chase mice and butterflies all she wanted. Best of all, she’d be with Mommy and that would make both of them happy.

So, I said in the title that something strange happened to me today. I got off the highway and made it into my garage. I shut off the engine, but after that, I have no idea what happened. I fell asleep right in the Puppy Van with the garage door open. I don’t even remember closing my eyes. I didn’t wake up until about 11p and realized what happened. It scared me a little, especially since I don’t even remember closing my eyes. I’m not on any meds during the day that I haven’t been on already for ages. Falling asleep in the car while in the driver’s seat is something very new and potentially dangerous. OnX, get thee to the Sleep Disorders Clinic pronto!

Tears On My Tuxedo

By the time I finish writing this post, it will officially be my birthday. I was born at 6 a.m. on March 16. I was never looking forward to this one. It’s one of those “milestone” birthdays that basically says, “Yay! I’ve raised a family, my kids are all (or almost) gone, the husband/wife/partner and I can just kick it!” If only that were true for me. I am single and have been for far too long. I’m not really all that upset about it, but it would feel so good to lay wrapped in someone’s arms right now as I try to make sense of a new life.

My mother died February 27, 2012. We lived together and helped each other since I have disabilities and she was getting older. Then, one day, she collapsed on my bed and was gone. Oh, she stayed conscious long enough to reach the hospital, but crashed three times shortly thereafter, with the doctors and nurses bringing her back twice. Had I gone with her in the ambulance, I would possibly have had a few more minutes with her. However,  I was in a vehicle that had to obey all the traffic rules and in my heart, I knew she’d either be gone by the time I got there or shortly thereafter. It was the latter. I’ve known since the beginning of the year that some catastrophe was going to happen to her and I’d lose her. I just didn’t think it would be this early in the year. I thought I’d have more time to say those things we needed to say to each other. I, especially, needed to tell her something so that she could rest in peace. Hence, this birthday and all those to come, will carry with them a sense of sorrow because I may be alive but my mother isn’t.

Robin Thicke-Love After War Cover

I have this “thing” where I try to dress better when I feel like shit. Today was one of those days. I wasn’t in my usual jeans and polo, but jeans and sky blue twin set with a little lipstick. I had a horrid day that saw me begin with one bank my mother used telling me that I can’t have access to my mother’s records without a court order even though I’m the executrix of her estate as well as the sole beneficiary. I had my lawyer offer help while the other just did not get it. This was my mother and some dick of a branch manager was working under an incorrect interpretation of the law. I don’t even want whatever money might be in the account. I need to find out who she was paying so that I can begin to fight an insurance company that doesn’t want to pay, telling me that the policy lapsed three years ago. Knowing my mother, that didn’t happen. Now, the only thing left to do is go through her check copies which will probably tell me less than nothing because I’m fairly sure this was a direct withdrawal from her retirement payments.

I wrote that I really don’t mind being single. Actually, I do. My problem is that there was/is only one man I could consider spending my life with and we were over a very long time ago. I haven’t met the right woman yet and I have this penchant for younger men. Let’s face it: men in my age group are prone to erectile dysfunction and rely on those little blue pills or something similar. I don’t need or want that. “What does that have to do with that Robin Thicke image just above?” you ask. It’s simple and complicated. In essence, I’d fuck Robin Thicke in a heartbeat if given the opportunity and permission from his wife. More germane to this post, there’s something about his music that makes me feel really sexy and totally wanton. (There’s also a song on the CD called “Tears On My Tuxedo.”) It’s a feeling I love, but there’s no one to satisfy the hunger. Yes, “hunger.” I am so used to suppressing my sexuality because I could do nothing about it. I still can’t, but for different reasons. I was suppressing it because I was too ill to acquire a lover. I had nothing to offer. Now, I may have my disabilities, and there’s one very pesky problem I’m dealing with, but I’m pretty much as well as I’ve been in a decade. It’s OK to feel sexy, sensuous and ravenous. To put it plainly: I need to get my freak on. Sometimes I want a man and sometimes I want a woman. However, the word “bisexual” doesn’t really apply. The energy has to be right for me to pay attention to a man OR I have to be horny as all hell and not care who slays that beast.

My sexuality totally confuses most people. I avoid putting a label on it because that confuses the issue even more. Men, as lovers, can be good. Men as partners are just not going to do it for me. I’m working on someone male right now. I don’t know if it will go anywhere, but he reminds me of someone I once had as a lover ages ago. His hair is a darker red, but when I see that curly red mop, I smile. I saw him Thursday for a few. He was as sick as the proverbial dog. I’m trying to figure out if bringing him a fifth of bourbon tomorrow for a hot toddy would be too much. There’s a part of me that thinks it would seem as though I’m trying too hard. There’s the nurturing part of me that says he needs it.

The new reality of my life is that I can have a lover in my home now. I couldn’t before. That, too, was an impediment. Unfortunately, that son of a bastard child at the bank is making it impossible to determine whether the house is automatically paid off when I tell whatever insurance company holds the policy that my mother is deceased. (God, I still can’t wrap my brain around that.)  Nevertheless, the reality is that I can have whoever I want in this house wherever I want them. I have two drawers full of fabulous underwear to perk me up, a closet and other drawers with clothing that makes me look better than I feel and I can paste a smile on my face to show the rest of the world I’m good until I actually feel it. And yet, the tears fall.

Yes, I Am Here

Lipstick with an Outline

Lips clothed in red lipstick always impress.

My mother is the kind of woman who can wear brightly colored clothing in either prints or solids accessorized by large pieces of jewelry and not look like a $20 hooker. In fact, she looks great even at 84 years old. The fact that she is blessed with lustrous skin and the wrinkles one normally sees on someone who is in her 60s helps. Despite the fact that she’s quite shy, Mom would definitely not fade into a beige wall.

Anyone who has ever seen my mother and me together says that we look alike. With some very minor differences, this is true. Her skin is yellower and fairer than my mocha-based skin tinted with red and yellow. She also has a conspicuous fingertip-shaped birthmark that I think is adorable and a gap in her front teeth that gives her face character. With the exception of the additional shades of melanin added by my father, I almost look like my mother’s clone. However, that’s about as far as the cosmetic similarities go. Where she wears vibrant colors and prints, I wear earth tones. Where she wears larger, colorful jewelry, I tend toward simplistic gold, silver, white and some blue smaller pieces. Neither of us has ever worn much makeup–until recently.

It is not unusual to hear disabled people complain that they are invisible to the able-bodied world. In many instances, I think that’s true, especially if you’re a woman in a wheelchair. Those of us in wheelchairs are looking at everyone else’s navels (or something lower on the male body) as we try to make it through a crowd. Able-bodied people walk, talk, eat, daydream or generally don’t pay attention as they go from Place A to Place B and expect everyone else to inhabit the same general vertical space. However, if a person is in a wheelchair or on a scooter, they’re not in that space. They are somewhere else that can be blocked out of the conscious brain of the able-bodied person. Usually, a loud, “Excuse me!” will get their attention. But absent a polite (or impolite) exclamation, the wheelchair- or scooter-bound person doesn’t exist. And sex?! Most able-bodied people (read “men”) don’t think of the disabled as sexual. Again, we are invisible unless it’s for all the wrong reasons.

Some weeks ago, I realized I was tired of not existing. I think it was probably around my birthday this past March when I began to think of how long ago I was born versus how old I feel. I don’t feel older than my mid-30s. My body worked a whole lot better then than it does now. Nevertheless, in my mind–indeed, in my very being–I am that 35-year-old woman. Better yet, I am beginning to think of myself as a 35-year-old woman who is very sexual and very sexually attractive. I made a conscious decision to feel this way because, truth be told, getting laid was never a real problem for me. The problem was getting laid by the right person. I didn’t have the confidence and so I didn’t get the attention I wanted from the right people. It was as though my pheromones told people to “Stay away!” In truth, I think it was my desperation.

I have been ill for nearly seven years straight. My life has changed dramatically. People I thought were friends, really weren’t, and; people I thought were family were only related to me by chance DNA. Part of this time has been deeply painful. It has been so painful that at times I’ve wanted to leave this world forever. The only thing that stopped me was three days in ICU. But from there, I began to heal. I’d already begun some parts of my healing years before, but the last suicide attempt resulted in me finding the very best therapist I’ve ever had. If it weren’t for her helping me make sense out of something tragic, I doubt I’d be around today to write these words.

I have a birth defect called proximal focal femoral deficiency, (aka PFFD), that is the result of exposure to the drug thalidomide in utero. My right leg is significantly shorter than my left and I have to wear an above-knee prosthesis to walk. I am different. I have always been different. That difference didn’t physically effect me until I was in my mid-20s. From there, things began to slowly go to hell in a hand basket. But today, at this moment, there is a tremendous sense of hope. I think it is the hope that has unleashed my desire–my sexuality–and my yearning to be noticed. You see, part of the desire to blend into a beige wall stems from being a rape and incest survivor. We never want to be noticed. But part of it stems from being disabled–different and vulnerable to predators. So, there are two very strong instincts fighting me and telling me to go back into my cave where it’s safe. I won’t do it. I want to look and feel pretty again. I want to be noticed again, even if I’m using my wheelchair at the time.

In that vein, I’m buying accessories to brighten up and enhance the clothing I already have and I have my eye on some really cute, sexy underwear. I’ve also gone through all of my jewelry and realized that I’ve got some exquisite pieces that only need the right clothing and makeup. Yes, I have begun to wear makeup far more often. I’ve purchased two types of mascara that I’ll wear depending on the occasion and I am searching for diverse, colorful eye shadows that make my eyes POP and lipsticks. I think the eyeshadows I want are only to be found at a department store, but I’ve discovered a lipstick vendor with many varied shades at my neighborhood drug store. To be blunt, I want to be so fucking attractive that I don’t have to sit and wait for ANYone to call. It can and will happen. In fact, I think it might be happening now. But, for the moment, I think we’re playing a game. I am amused, no doubt, but this person won’t be the only suitor if they play too long. Yes, I am here!

Crushed!

Something odd is happening with me that is at once disconcerting and exciting. For the first time in a very long time, I feel a deep desire to share a romantic and sexual relationship with someone(s). There are several reasons these feelings are unfamiliar to me. The primary reason is that I’ve had to suppress them to concentrate on my health. It was not always so, but has been the case for nearly seven years now. I’ve made half-hearted attempts, but I always felt that there was something missing within me that kept me from getting serious about anyone or even finding a suitable person about whom I could get serious.

Another reason I find this reawakening of my romantic self odd is that, for the first time, I am making a conscious decision about what character traits I want my partner(s) to have. I don’t know if straight males ever sit and consider exactly what kind of mate they want, but girls usually do this in their teens. Being a teenager is, for me, a distant memory that involved so much emotional chaos that I wasn’t able to think about such things. In fact, I didn’t know that I even had a right to my own desires and needs, much less the right to actually have them met. That is what was missing in my earlier half-hearted attempts at companionship over the last seven years: a feeling that I deserved to have needs and desires; have those needs and desires met, and; most importantly, be treated with respect.

If anyone had asked me if I believed I was deserving, I would have answered affirmatively because I didn’t acknowledge to anyone, including myself, the extent of my low self-esteem. I had to learn to like myself, love myself and respect myself because no one ever taught me. For a girl, especially a disabled girl, that’s a set-up for disaster. We all know that disabled females are far more likely to be sexually assaulted than our able-bodied counterparts because we are more vulnerable. If we are not taught that we have a right to object, we can be utterly destroyed psychologically and not get the help needed to recover. Unfortunately, too many parents of disabled girls don’t consider the danger in which they place their daughters by not teaching us we deserve to have romantic and sexual needs and that we have an absolute right to decide who touches us. These are things I work on every day in some manner.

Trying to explain my sexual orientation to most people is a lesson in frustration for me. Most people view orientation as binary: heterosexual and homosexual. A few enlightened people understand that there is a great deal in between the two extremes. If I am particularly lucky, they understand that there is often some fluidity within that spectrum. I went from pretending to be straight to coming out as bisexual to coming out as lesbian to, only recently, carefully acknowledging that, every once in a while, I might find a male pleasurable.

Cover from the Robin Thicke CD Sex Therapy

Singer/songwriter/producer Robin Thicke shares love and sensuality

I usually describe myself as “mostly-lesbian” because, in a nutshell, that about covers it. I identify as lesbian in my heart and soul and, frankly, that’s all that really matters. Someone else’s perception of me has far more to do with them than it does with me.

Keeping my self-described orientation in mind, I am in the midst of a mad boy-crush on singer/songwriter/producer Robin Thicke right now. I discovered him fairly late on, of all things, the soap opera General Hospital. The executive producer of the ABC flagship soap began her career as the show’s music director many years ago and, consequently, consistently makes exceptional use of music. In this instance, it was Thicke’s delicate ballad “Angels” from The Evolution of Robin Thicke CD that was used for the reunion of über couple Luke and Laura after nearly a decade of separation. Evolution also included the mega-hit “Lost Without U,” a song I strongly suspect he’ll be performing when he’s 90 years old. That CD was followed by Something Else, which also did well, and; now, we have the red hot CD Sex Therapy. In between his own work, he’s produced for Lil Wayne and others, winning a couple of Grammys along the way.

Thicke is married to his childhood sweetheart, actress Paula Patton who graces the cover of the May 2010 issue of Ebony magazine while about seven or eight months pregnant with their first child. I can honestly say that I have never seen a more beautiful woman. Some may remember the Vanity Fair cover with a very pregnant and very nude Demi Moore many years ago. Uh uh. Demi’s star pales in comparison not only to the cover shot in which Patton is fully and beautifully clothed, but the inside two-page spread that shows a very suggestively comfortable and nearly-semi-nude Patton that will take the readers’ breath away in its artistically exquisite daring.

Actress Paula Patton on the cover of Ebony magazine

Actress Paula Patton as the sexy madonna

My only criticism of the article is that, while dense, it is too short. Someone with her intelligence has a whole lot more to say that’s worth quoting than the, perhaps, 1200 words used for the article–and I’m probably being generous in the word count. There is also a Q&A with hubby Robin that is equally far too short. However, an argument can be made that the article is about Paula and not Robin. The “problem” is that it ends just as he begins to speak in-depth about his thoughts on becoming a father for the first time. Personally, I would very much like to know his thoughts on raising a child that may look more black than white. I should mention that Paula is biracial, so this is not completely unexplored territory for her.

My crush on Thicke isn’t based on looks, though he’s got an adorable baby face. It is based on the emotional and spiritual content of his music. He admits to writing extensively about his own life, both ups and downs. One thing that is abundantly clear from his three latest endeavors is that he utterly and completely adores his wife. Now that is something I find super sexy and something I want for myself. Thicke’s unabashed sensuality, romanticism, respect and love of his partner are traits I want in my own partner. Add to that the fact that he’s very much aware of the emotional, spiritual and intellectual consequences and complexities of racism in the U.S., which indicates he’s got a brain that functions in a way that is all too rare, and there is about 95% of the reasoning behind my hard crush. Brains coupled with sensitivity are the ultimate aphrodisiac!

Did I mention that Sex Therapy is smokin’ hot? There are going to be a whole lot of babies conceived to that CD. Be that as it may, my specific attraction to it and the principal songwriter who wrote it is that it fits my sexual proclivities, be they with men or a women. It may be difficult to believe, but I was talking to one of my priests about my re-awakened sexual self yesterday afternoon in great detail. One of the things I said was that I was very sexually active and adventurous from my late teens until my early- to mid-30s. As a result, sex doesn’t hold any great mystery for me. I know what I like, what I don’t like, what I might be willing to try, what I need and how to be careful. I have zero interest in fucking the first Johnny or Mary who comes along even if they come along at a certain time of the month and I’m as horny as a rabbit in heat. What I want is a connection. Here is where things get tricky.

I am not looking for a man with whom to settle down. I am open to finding someone I genuinely like, and who genuinely likes me, who will share with me those times when only a flesh-and-blood man will do. It would definitely help if he’s a Dominant male, but that’s another post. After that itch is scratched, I’d like him to back off until one of us needs that physical intimacy again and be a real and true friend in the interim. In short, I am open to having a boy toy. It is very unlikely that I’d see myself making a life with this guy or asking for a monogamous relationship. I remain a lesbian in spite of that occasional craving and strict monogamy would not fulfill my needs sexually or emotionally regardless of the sex of my partner.

I’ve written about the extraordinary metamorphosis I am experiencing, but only in part. To write of it fully, even to the limits of my partial understanding, would be to serve a rich dessert during every course of a five-course meal. Digesting it all would be difficult, if not impossible. It would also require a great deal of intellectual exercise for me to continue at this moment. It is enough that I have simply begun.