I’ve been reading a lot of ads on Lex, the queer app for dating, friends, and events. Maybe I’m overdoing it and they’re getting in my head too much. The terse, flirty cleverness is tiresome. I’d rather be real. For me, real means direct and vulnerable. But for most people, dating isn’t about real. It’s
I always thought couples therapy was a great idea. Talking about feelings, needs, the future, compromises with another person present who could add insight and might see things we don’t see. Sounds like it would make for a healthier relationship and might help us avoid problems. Therapy on my own has been great for me.
“What could we do, to make it easier for you to pee?” I asked my spouse. It was early morning, and we were talking about health. I was proud of myself. We were on a road trip, and I kept drinking water even though it meant lots of stops to pee. “Long time ago, I
My intro on facebook lately is “processing bonding cues creatively while Rome burns.” It came about when I was looking at something about autism online, months ago. The term “bonding cues” really stood out to me. Yes, the things people do to indicate closeness or distance, privately and in a group–thrilling. I love bonding cues.
You put all your stuff in our shed and moved away. You said you would come back in six months. I txted you as you journeyed north, and I loved you so much; I almost asked you to turn around. When that volunteer palm tree was growing next to the house too long ignored, I
dear Nest, I see what kindness you did. Giving, caring, listening with your body. Being there for someone. Doing love as spiritual practice, steadfastly. I admire how completely you gave. It was rare and gorgeous. Then I admire how you pulled away, when it was too painful to maintain. You tried many ways to adjust.
“What’s a community, if it’s based on lies?” I asked. “A community of convenience. Gentlemen’s agreement. Fuckery–bullshit. A charade. A waste of time.” I was having a lot of feelings about communication issues in the community that I live in. Some friction had occurred, when I said something true but snarky in a meeting. I
I don’t know how my breasts look. They’re large; they droop. They’re soft and comforting. They’re uncomplicated. My breasts are pretty–that’s for sure. Rather symmetrical, but not entirely. Rather rounded. Substantial and trustworthy. My areolae are huge and pale pink. The nipples themselves are average size, I guess. Sometimes I fantasize about having dark, slightly