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There I was thinking I was a slut, when I realized; I was just acting like a man.

I met this dude.  It was a sweet story, and just to brag, I’ll tell ya about it….fairytale style.  ‘Twas the last day of We Fest, and it had been a hard journey.  We’d fought long and hard to keep a steady drunkenness, to not get too sunburnt, and to make sure that not too much drama ruined the weekend.  I’d already battled a racist and had just battled a homophobe by reminding him of his privilege and telling him it was absolutely not ok to use homophobic terms.  I was drunk, and I was on edge. A man walks by me and throws a piece of cardboard on the ground and I snapped.  I picked up the cardboard and threw it back at him and yelled something about littering.  He turned around and his gorgeous smile grew.  He pointed at me and told me to “come here”.   “Fuck you,” I said, standing my ground, “You come here.”  We compromised and met in the middle…”what’s your name?”  he said. And introductions were made.  He told me I was beautiful.  I told him he was cute– Ok.  I’m bored of this, and I’m sure you are too.  Anyway, we held hand the entire night, he told me that he didn’t want to let me go because he didn’t want to not see me again, and he came with me to my camp.  The fairytale/movie ending was that when I walked him to the golf-cart taxi, he turned to me and said “It’s ok, I have your number…” and he kissed me, mounted his white golf-cart taxi and gave me a shy wave as he rode into the night.  “Damn, you look hot on that taxi,” I yelled after him.

My issue is that I didn’t want to sleep with him because I’d been hearing women say lately “I don’t sleep with people on the first night when I like them because I don’t want them to get the wrong idea.”  Well, I do. And we don’t live in a fucking teen vampire novel. So I can bang anyone I want, even on the first date and it doesn’t mean that we won’t have a long lasting, meaningful relationship.

I have whored it up in Fargo.  I’ve been a total dude.  I’ve been fucking because I want to fuck.  I’ve been falling in love for 5 minutes, or a night, or not at all.  And I’ve been feeling like I’m doing something wrong.  And, further, I’ve been worrying about being too fat, too ugly, with too thin of hair, and ugly feet (LAWD, my feet are ugly, I mean, they’re bad….I mean, they’re so hobbit-y and unattractive that they need Jesus.) I’m sick of worrying about societal views on my body/sexuality. Fuck that shit.  I’m over it. For now, at least.


Therapy.  ohhhhhhhhh therapy.  Have I mentioned that I hate my therapist more than other therapists?  It’s probably a good thing.  She calls me on my shit and makes me think about things and isn’t fooled by my therapy lingo.  The meeting of We Fest guy brought on our ongoing conversation about my intimacy issues.  It’s forcing me to take a look at the relationships in my life and why I disengage sometimes.  And then, today, I saw a status on Facebook that said this:

I am rarely more mean or more difficult than when I am a delicate flower. 

I think that sums it up.  Before I left her office on Wed, she said that I need to take a look at why I sometimes alienate friends. She said she doesn’t know if I’m self-aware enough to figure it out.  I’m still searching, but that’s a good lead.

When I’m honest with myself and compassionate with myself, I enjoy things much more.  It’s obviously a work in progress.

Be honest, little darlings, with yourself and with others.  Be unapologetic about who you are (as long as it’s not mean).  And be bold, lovelies. Be. Fucking. Bold.