An Open Letter to All the Mr. [something big and important, probably married]s, Regarding Your Emails

Open Letter

Thanks for the email, but you don’t have to be embarassed by my sexuality.  I know you feel the need to save your praises for private because you’re a big shot/celebrity/lawyer/news anchor/executive something/father, or whatever other identifier raises your importance above mine, but there’s really no need to worry.

I am not a predator, try not to think yourself so persecuted.

I know I wrote a piece about sexuality and inequality and my broken disappointed heart and used words like pussy and dick (and maybe next time I won’t stop short of using anal), but those are not things to be ashamed of.  I am sorry you feel the need to read my words with the lights out.

Maybe you want to hide in the privacy because single girls have been known to wander (this is a warning from your mother) but I am not here to scandalize you.

You don’t have to be ashamed to spread my words (which are not my legs), or to be seen talking to me.  After all, your intentions are entirely innocent, no?

So while I appreciate the email, about how much you enjoyed my writing, you should have just ended it there.  It’s flattering to know that my appearance pleases you and how you think I’m going to find a great guy some day, but you should know that I have already found one.  Several actually.  And that my having of them probably won’t fit with your idea of how my life should be.  But that’s not my problem (and I’m not even entirely clear on why it’s yours).

I don’t want to get married.

I don’t want to find the one.

I want the many.

I want to hear a hundred stories.  I want to lay down with men who change the composition of my surroundings.  I want to know the world.  I am greedy but not selfish.  I want more than my hands can hold, and so I stand facing it all with open fingers.  I want to kiss and laugh and love and fuck and be my true self and rip my heart open and spill it on the floor for all to see.

I don’t want a gated community, a picket fence, a sofa to sink into.  It is already hard enough to stand up tall everyday, I don’t need more things hemming me in.

So, thanks for the email, but it’s not necessary.

You see, I don’t need you to save me.  And I know for sure that I cannot save you.

I know I posted that thing about the boy who reacted poorly to my large frame and the things about men who try to woo me with discussions of my body.  I know I got angry and frustrated and lost faith in humanity for a second but I’m only human.  I am an elastic woman and likely to bounce back.

So, I know you got to see the flaws and the heartache and the sadness, and maybe that stirred something in you but none of these things mean I need you to save me.  They are not about you.  You already chose your life and this private weirdness that you’re creating with your power and your secrecy is affecting my balance (so you should stop).

I’m standing up here, spine only partially made of jelly.  Mostly strong enough and not nearly as alone as you might think (and frankly, my friends and family all feel a little jilted that you’ve minimized their roles so emphatically in my life as to think that one singular man could replace them entirely).

So thanks for the email, but your secrecy has splinters.

Words that should be innocent enough off the tongue, show up dressed in your issues and your shame and your inadequacies.  Your email is a time bomb and frankly, sir, I don’t need your bullshit.

So unless you’re ready to stand up tall and stop acting like my sexuality is an affront to your marriage, your personhood, and your fucking existence…unless you’re ready to stop pretending that my comfort and expression is a threat to your way of being…unless you’re ready to stop imposing your danger onto me…

I would just as soon prefer that you kept your praises in your pockets and your heavy words out of my box.

Dirty Talk: Only If You Deliver

[dropcap]I[/dropcap]t always starts innocently enough.  He asks how is your day going? and I think how tedious sweet.  But if we’re on plenty of fish or okcupid or twitter or facebook or maybe even via text, it usually ends the same, he wants to turn the chatter sexual; he wants the dirty talk.

And don’t get me wrong, I love the dirty talk.

There, I said it.  When it’s good, it’s amazing.  I love it whispered in my ear.  I love it showing up via text message.  I love it in my inbox (DM stands for dirty message, no?) but here’s the thing of the thing…if you’re not eventually going to put it in my box, I’d rather you just sort out the male yourself.

You see, the problem is I’m a writer.

Which, generally speaking, means nothing except that there are probably a lot of ramen noodles and tear filled nights in my future but when we’re talking about articulating anecdotes of arousal, sending soliloquies of seduction, teasing with testimonials of torrid temptations, I admit, I may have the upper hand.  And if we’re being real, that’s basically the only one I need.

Unless, of course, you plan to deliver.  I don’t want Delissio.

In which case, you know where to find me or at least plead your case.  You go ahead and bring it.  Show me your lumberjack lasciviousness, your burly backroom bellows; hit me with your famous filthy frenzy, your slickest unchaste urges, show me what you got and don’t be shy about it.

But if you’re just looking for some escapist excitement, some bored-on-a-monday mystery, some spank bank material, some spice-it-up-with-your-wife-later-flirtation, go ahead and get the fuck out of here.  Because you are wasting my time.  And that, in and of itself, makes you a shitty person (more on this another time).

If the words you’re spouting are not a preamble to the amorous activities of the future, to be honest, I’m not interested, because after all, I can make this shit up on my own and I would do a better job.  While I may be just a fantasy behind a pair of lips to you; to me, you’re just an ordinary guy.  Which, in and of itself, is perfectly fine.  I love to date guys.  Ordinary is cool, extraordinary is better.  But we’re talking about spending time coming up with saucy things to say to you with absolutely no payout?  Fuck that.  I’d rather write the story myself.

Because you see…

I’m fairly certain you have an amazing job.  Not like amazing in a monetary way, see I couldn’t care less about that.  But in some powerful sense.  Maybe you’re a President or a CEO.  Or maybe it’s more of a heroic thing, a Fireman or Policeman perhaps.  Or even better, perhaps you’re both powerful, incredibly intelligent and in my field, a Professor maybe, the head of a publishing company perhaps, an Editor.

And I have no doubt that you find me attractive, in fact you’ve told me over and over again.  There’s no need to reveal myself just because I’m worried you don’t really grasp the fact that I’m chubby, you get it and you think I’m amazing.  In fact, the attraction is so strong that we spend most of our time in some sort of tender tousle where you try to rip my clothes off and I try to keep you at bay, temporarily.

You see, we’ve got a thing going on.  It’s passionate.  It’s secret.  It’s unbelievably fun.

And on Wednesday night, I stop by your office building.  Everybody has gone home for the night but you’re busy working late.  I show up, half expecting to find you asleep on the couch in your office, but not my hard worker, you’re vigilant, you’re aggressive, there’s a reason you’re at the top of your field.

You look up from your desk, I stand in the door frame.  Your smile is not the smile of laughter, it is not a roller-coaster smile or a punchline smile.  Your smile is brisk, it’s sharp, it owns the room, it will take me down.

“Come in,” you say and I do, slowly, so you can get the whole view, but not before closing the door.  I am me, but not me.  By now you’ve walked over and are standing dangerously close.  I can feel the seconds beat against my ribs.

“What took you so long,” you ask as you slide your left hand inside my jacket and around my waist, but I know you’re not really asking.  This is just the chatter, the preamble, the small talk that takes place while you encircle me like a shark.  You smell like a man; all skin and cologne and testosterone.

You push me back against the wall, rough and aggressive, only not, because you use one hand to brace us and the other to hold me, always just one inch shy of any actual hurt.  You press your lips into mine, I press my hips into yours.  We are the opposite of a tug-o-war.

Your mouth is warm and wet and for a moment the power dynamic changes.  This is my obstacle course, I’m leading the way.  At first the kisses are so slow that you can barely stand it.  I spread your mouth open the smallest amount with my own, trace the bottom of your upper lip with the tip of my tongue, pull back for just a moment, gently bite my lower lip and then offer it up to you.  It slips inside your mouth, and you suck on it, soft.  And then harder.  The tension matches your arm as you reach around my waist and pull me closer.

And then your demeanor changes.  The room shifts.  The temperature changes.  Your breathing sounds like drums.  Your skin feels like fire.  You taste like promises and peaches.  You reach your hand down and maneuver your way under my dress, run your hand along the softness of my underwear, and then find your way inside…

And I could go on.  In fact, I will, in my head, when I write it how I want tonight.  And I might just change it for tomorrow.  Tonight it’s an editor who takes what he wants, throws me on the couch and exacts a debt I owe.  Tomorrow it’s a Fireman with whom I do unspeakable things.  Thursday, I could be pulling an under-the-desk-lewinsky while he has a meeting with someone, only the two of us aware.  A week from now it might be on a trip to Paris with a wealthy benefactor or a naive dishwasher.  But either way, it beats the hell out of so…uh…what are you wearing?

Unless, of course, you are an intelligent powerful man who finds me to be both amazing and beautiful….

 

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