When I first met my spouse, we quickly found that we had an interest in common sexually. I wanted to learn how to surrender, and she wanted to teach someone how to surrender.

It was something I longed for -- complete surrender -- heart, mind, body, soul -- all surrendering as one. I was someone who trusted no one. Surrender to another involves just a HUGE amount of trust. So in a way, learning to surrender was learning how to trust.

I soon found the ability to trust her, and my education about myself and my body began. It is just an incredible, almost indescribable feeling to surrender to someone completely. I tried to capture some of this feeling in a poem called (surprise!) "Surrender".  But trust me, I haven't found a way yet to accurately describe what it feels like.  Its almost a religious experience (that ought to piss off the religiousos!).

Surrender

This weekend I will dance

 for you wearing the black

lace bustier as

the black thong rides

my hips swaying inches

from your face

undulating to that fuck

song by Nine Inch Nails

I recorded three times

back to back.

I free the stockings

from their garters.

You appreciate

the length of my leg

propped on your thigh

your slightly parted lips

the only response

you surrender

as I ease the stocking

down its length.

 

And when I whisper "Yes",

you take control

I tempted you to lose

and exact penance

on the couch

on the floor

against the wall

my atonement

yielding

to your urgent hands

encased in fingerless black leather

my redemption

your mouth taking

as it pleases

while I ascend

irreverent

absolved.

I have never been able to be alone comfortably for any length of time. There was a time in my life where I sought to learn how to do this. To that end, I read May Sarton's Journal of a Solitude. (Why can't I underline in my blog?)

It seemed we had a lot in common, her being a writer and me being an aspiring writer and seeker. While the book affected me profoundly, and I reread it again and again, I never learned to be alone and like it.

I was uncomfortable being with my own thoughts. Tried therapy. Made some progress. There were times when I turned off the TV and the radio. It was almost torture, and usually ended with thoughts about a sad and somewhat horrible past being overwhelming to me. I tried writing it out, but I kept writing about the same things over and over. I was told that we will keep writing about certain things until we are done with them. Just because I wanted to be over and done with it, didn't mean it was going to happen. Became disgusted with myself and stopped writing for awhile.

While I am at times comfortable with being alone for short periods of time, that is not the case now. I dread my day off. I become listless. Who wants to spend your one day off per week doing housework and laundry, and getting groceries? It is getting harder and harder to motivate myself on my day off. And two days at home alone per week is a little scary for me. What will I do with myself? What can I do to make myself happy?

I must be slightly spoiled. I think I'm an excitement junkie. I get depressed when there's nothing special to look forward to that day. I like Mondays because we take our new puppy, Athena, for Dog's Night Out at The Dog Guy. This is the place we are taking her for training. Each Monday you can take your dog in there, and for $5 it can run and play with all the other dogs. This is a GOOD thing for an energetic young pup.

I look forward to going to garage sales on Fridays (my day off), but those will be ending soon with the coming of colder weather. I have been in this funk lately, and don't know what to do to make myself happy. I feel like a moron.

White-Bread Girl

I could be
wearing tribal tattoos, a shaved head,
pierced body parts slamming my fury
following bands that scream "FUCK" and smash
everything.

But I am the corn-fed, country-bred
woman who's afraid of the big city.
I am the gentlewoman
from whom people take parking spaces,
who reads her poetry
in a soft voice.

When asked, "Who will run and who will stand?",
I could be the silent, steely-eyed,
spinach-eating warrior.
But I am the white-bread girl who has vanilla clothes,
a tray full of red and plum lipsticks,
a palate whose adventures include
real mushrooms, not the ones from the can.
I am the mashed potatoes, corn, noodles, blondie girl
with every-ready smile.

How about...
a maniac howling an unholy mandate
beneath the shadow of a bridge.
A hot-blooded, hot-dawgin'
spit-in-your-eye, for God's sake bulldagger!
Be anyone, but still be me
without the karma
of being my mothers' daughter.

tm - 1997

I belong to a generation of women who were exposed to the your-prince-will-come, happily ever after theme. I was horriblly abused as a child, so these themes had special resonance for me. My favorite movies were Cinderella (with Leslie Warren) and Wizard of Oz. In Wiz I identified the Wicked Witch of the West with my mother, and hoped that someday I'd believe there was "no place like home".

Far worse was Cinderella. She had an evil stepmother, but her prince came and rescued her. I fantasized from 5 years old that someone would come rescue me. And up into high school and my twenties, I HAD to believe my prince would come. (It never occurred to me that it could be a princess!)

Those June Cleaver households were the extreme opposite of what I experienced, and I became sullen and angry the more I saw those scenarios.

It took a lot of self-talk (and later, therapy) to disabuse myself of all those childhood fantasies. Of course, I went the extreme opposite -- told myself that there were no good people (or men) in the world, and all I could rely on was myself. It took my up until my late twenties before I came to a more healthy and rounded view.

But to this day it's still hard. I tend to lapse back into the mindset that there are no good people out there. All mother's spoil and at the same time mistreat their kids. Men always cheat. But a true reality check usually brings me back into balance. And I'm so glad I found someone healthy who treats me with dignity, respects my views and opinions (and indeed seeks them out), believes I'm smart and funny and just plain awesome. But I went through a long period of being attracted to the very people who would disrespect me before I taught myself to look at the average person and see their many positive traits.

The prince never came, so I became attracted to darkly handsome, quasi-dangerous individuals. But when I realized the pattern, I took steps to change my thinking. Too bad it wasn't until my late thirties! Still and all, I ended up with someone better than what I ever could have imagined for myself.

I guess that's a happily-ever-after story after all!

My wife is more "butch" looking and I am more feminine. Maybe that is why people don't stare or give us a hard time when we hold hands in public. I think people see what they expect to see, instead of what's really there. I believe they think my wife is a guy.

Now I just want to say that it's cool that we still want to hold hands after ten years together. But sometimes when we hold hands in public I still wait for some redneck guys to follow us out to our car and give us a hard time or beat us up. I hold my head high, because there's nothing wrong with us holding hands. We love each other madly for pete's sake! And what is wrong with one human loving another?

It feels so normal for me to love her. We have friends who are accountants, teachers, officers of the peace -- all walks of life. We have good and bad times (mostly good) like most other couples. We own a home, take out our garbage, bitch about gas prices, hold jobs, have dogs and a cat -- just like other folks. So it never ceases to amaze me that there are people out there who say we shouldn't get married because we are two women. Women earn less than men, and as a two-woman household we need all the help we can get benefits-wise, etc.

There are people(my mother included) who think we are going to hell because we love each other. For proof of this they rely on an old book with archaic language that must be interpreted. And their interpretations are never wrong -- even though these interpretations vary from congregation to congregation. My spouse would like to go back to church, but I think this is one of the things that stops her.

At least the UMC is welcoming. I can't imagine going to a church where people stare and think we're going to hell. Sanctimonius thumpers. Judge lest not ye be judged and all...

I love going to places like Provincetown, MA, San Fransisco, Key West, and large metropolitan areas where we can be who we are without fear. We went to St. Barth's in the French West Indies for our honeymoon, and no one looked twice at us. Europeans are much more tolerant than we in the U.S.

Most women in Europe go topless at beaches. I think if we all did that, and boys grew up seeing all kinds of breasts, that they wouldn't fixate on them so totally. We might even have fewer rapes. Because breasts would be no big deal at all. Just another body part like an arm or a leg. It's a possibility anyway, no?