The disciplinary review board was in the SAC. The student activity center would have been a big sack indeed, given the size of the phallic clock tower outside it. I entered via the rear of the building, avoiding the long ramp out front.
My sculpture professor, Scott, had called the meeting. He didn’t want me in his class, and this was a way he could have it on record: the problem was me. This much I knew.
He took over a department that had come unmoored with the abrupt departure of the previous professor. He had big plans. We would have a foundry and we would have it soon.
He seemed to be a gentle-tempered man. You could imagine him doing yoga clumsily. He was thick-framed and thick-lipped and overly concerned. He easily slipped into a fatherly role, nodded a little too hard, pursing his lips when you talked about your ideas: a kind of forced affability many men have. There was something under the show of empathy, and I was about to see what it was.
I was on my way up the stairs, fattened and sluggish from the medication I hated but took every day during that time and the excess food I’d taken in during this last hospitalization. I felt my cheeks heavy as they bounced with each step up until I entered the luminous main floor to turn down a yellow-looking hallway lined with colorful team-spirited decor in red and black. I looked and looked again at the numbers by the doors as I walked, sick from nerves. I held a paper in my fingers with the room number on it. I was a little early. The door was closed.
I occupied myself walking down the hall a ways, looking at the posters with smiling, hardbodied students posed in lights so the planes of their limbs and faces glowed in tawny triangles and bars. I heard the door open and saw a white-haired, slight man with wire rimmed glasses. “Katherine? Come on in.”
Scott was already seated there facing the guy’s desk in his everyday wear: a black t-shirt that hugged his barrel chest and round belly, and faded jeans with work boots. He remained seated, ankle on knee, casual, and smiled at me and asked me if I was feeling better. I hated his face. I felt his false pity as an assault.
I said I was okay.
I resented the meeting and didn’t know what it could be about. I’d had my moments, but the psychosis from the latest breakdown had happened off campus property. He hadn’t seen me really crazy and I hadn’t done anything that bad.
I knew going in to the meeting that he was not going to let me repeat my half-completed semester of Sculpture V. He told me in the studio when I went to get my enrollment approved: if I wanted to stay in the sculpture program, I would have to start over at Sculpture I. The previous work I had documented was mostly done in plaster, which was limited, he said. I argued that there were welded frames, that the work was mixed media, but he said that wasn’t adequate. The casting I’d done in a rubber mold, a process I was so eager to try in metal with the new foundry, apparently didn’t count because the forms had been made from plaster.
I’d used the materials the department had been limited to and my budget had made it so I used a lot of plaster. I guess the A’s I’d earned from the previous professor weren’t worth anything either. I was incensed, felt like I’d been punched in the solar plexus and was humiliated by the few tears that escaped in his presence, my voice husky with emotion, feeling the craft I loved pulled away from me. I wrestled with the choice of starting over.
More than the principle of the thing — going back to the professor who invalidated my record and a former faculty member’s assessment of my work — I could not imagine pretending to be learning from this guy anymore. He’d sabotaged my project, insisting I work under his compromised vision of it during the one interrupted semester I’d had with him. It was probably mostly for the sake of saving class materials, though there was no real need as there was enough fiberglass and I’d negotiated my use of the majority with the student I was sharing the bucket with.
His insistence that I do the work his way resulted in a series of problems with materials I paid for out-of-pocket when I could scarcely afford gas or groceries.
The project was an oversized fiberglass woman’s ass and legs, the 3-d element at the front of a soda-sized vending machine. There was a turn-knob that said “Beaver” on it where the vulva would show through beneath the ass. He’d insisted that rather than cast the piece as a unit custom-fit to the front of the box I was building (in other words, instead of making a huge mold to create a large, rectangular front piece), that I attach the 3-d legs to plexiglass.
The surface of the legs was unfinished-looking, wavy and imperfect. Their shine angered me more than anything because in order to get the smooth look I wanted, I would have to spend hours grinding at the piece with a power sander and would never achieve the clean shine I’d have gotten with the mold I’d wanted to build.
The plexi needed a hole cut out for the legs’ knob mechanism. The gears that formed it surpassed the legs’ flat rear plane. When, following his advice, I attempted to cut a hole in a second piece of thicker plexiglass that cost more than $60, and it also broke, I had an outburst in the studio. I threw the small piece that had broken off in my hand on the floor and pronounced his plan for my project idiotic.
“This motherfucking piece of plexi cost me $60. I hope I have enough gas to get home, ‘cause I don’t have enough money left to buy more. Fucking piece of shit!” I kicked the bowed and broken piece that hung off the sawhorse. “What the fuck was he thinking, telling me to build it this way? It looks like shit. I’m going to have to grind all this shit off. I’ll never have a smooth surface on this god damn piece of shit.”
If I’d done the project my way, it wouldn’t have had any plexiglass at all.
The professor wasn’t there for my outburst. He heard about it secondhand from students who were.
Now in the dim, windowless room, it was explained by the man behind the desk that he was going to read the complaint. The first charge was a concealed weapons charge.
“What? I never brought any weapons in.”
“Please allow me to finish reading,” he said and continued that the weapon in question was a hunting knife and that I continued to have it in the studio even after Scott had told me not to.
“That’s crazy,” I said. I’d brought a dull hunting knife in to cut the inordinate amount of plasticine I was building the initial form with. Scott had warned me that it was dull and that I might cut myself with it. I said I was fine and that was the end of it. I continued to use it and he said nothing else to me. This, in a studio with bandsaws with which you could decapitate a person. I looked at Scott frequently as I explained this, and he looked a little sad, his head cocked in an attitude of sympathy for my warped perception of events as he listened to me counter his lies.
The man behind the desk listened, but when I was done he said there wasn’t any point in my rebutting things from the report. There was a complaint, but there was to be no counter complaint. Since no legal action was being filed, my perspective was irrelevant. The complaint was just that: a complaint.
He continued reading how the other students were frightened and intimidated by my behavior, that I had caused the atmosphere in the studio to feel unsafe. The threat the other students felt, the man continued, could be addressed by my promise that should I ever feel unstable, I would take advantage of the student counseling center and seek help.
In my medicated state, I didn’t feel the fury that would have come naturally. The anger was more like an itch in my skull, fuzzy and unfixed in location, a cloud threatening something that buzzed and tickled out of reach. I absorbed the wrong being done to me. I felt my powerlessness like a sponge might feel chemicals in the water, gradually deepening in absorbtion until the lowness I felt was a resonance inside me. I was nothing. What I said meant nothing. I trudged out of the building, unable to feel this feeling completely. There was no sting. Just a dense regret and sense of injustice my mind couldn’t form into words.
Fall: a brick being thrown into a TV behind a bar, bursting the picture tube and making a white flash. We all laugh.
Porch smoking at the house on Camp, the roommate’s bedroom walls plastered with pornography: life sized vaginas everywhere.
School’s start, walking into the smell of the sour stale of it after the summer.
Fall: in the back of the class during chemistry, joking about sex I hadn’t had yet.
Underage and they won’t let me in the bar this time. I sulk and go home, mad at the friend who ditched me when she got in. I stew, alone, angry that no one wants to hang out with me.
Fall: I want rough hands that aren’t yours all over me. I don’t know anything about them, but that they’re not yours.
Waiting for the bus. The bright colors of the fallen leaves make the grass look greener. The slickness the fog’s left makes the tree trunks glimmer in a dull slimy way.
Lugging my saxophone around again for band. It knocks against my leg when I walk to and from the bus and down the hall.
Long lazy afternoons and nights, drinking, riding around in a cab.
A man inside and on me, cold corners of my body where the blankets have shifted, muted noon light through high windows.
Fall: walking through the city streets while my brains are percolating, spitting hot thoughts and making up reasons I’m alive, messages revealing themselves in figures hidden in the wood grain of a telephone pole, obvious to anyone who knows how to look for them.
Painting my face like a skull on Halloween and scaring passing children walking down the street.
Hard cider in the alley and gripping a hard ass muscle.
The crunch of leaves and the fungal smell of the inside of a pumpkin.
Protesting the war with a sandwich board sign. On one side is a painted utility knife that says “Weapon of Mass Destruction.” On the other hang two dolls painted to look burnt-black and bloody. “Liberated Iraqui Babies,” it reads.
Muscle against me with the world at arm’s length.
The smell of the inside of a lunch box, the rotten smell even fresh fruit makes and the yeasty burst of the sandwich bread upon opening the bag.
Fall: my breast is cupped for the first time behind a movie theater, the cold wind delicious on my collarbone.
By the cube at Union Square, I yearn for something I can never have while the world moves fast around my bewildered mind, breaking with reality for the first time.
The tang of new cardboard boxes and fresh paint.
Fall: the soft sound of rain on wet leaves.
A pint of cider in a bar with strangers before getting on the road to meet who I thought was fate.
Raking the big yard, the inside of my nostrils caked with pulverized leaf, with a sore throat and puberty’s rude shadow invading everything.
The bite of winter creeping in under my collar and the jingle of the buckle on my jacket.
Making music with friends, liberated and drunk, letting intuition make me scream.
Fall: as seen through the windows of the state hospital’s cafeteria, the lawn, only slightly less green, and the flags whipping in the high wind under a grey sky.
Deadbeat groggily opens door of bedroom wearing sunglasses, scratches head, puzzled, speaks in froggy, bewildered voice.
DEADBEAT: Hey. The electricity’s out.
ROOMMATE WHO’S HAD TO EAT EVERY EXPENSE SO FAR AND BEEN LIED TO ABOUT MONEY FOR MORE THAN A MONTH (RWHTEEESFABLTAMFMTAM): Yeah. I turned it off so I could permanently disable the air conditioner.
DEADBEAT: You can’t do that.
RWHTEEESFABLTAMFMTAM (Clips the wires dangling from the wall with tin-snips): I just did. I’m not paying for it anymore. You lied about paying the rent.
I have come to understand that the reason I have been used in my life is because I accepted being used.
Someone I used to care for published something today, essentially blaming me for his lack of self regard. You can’t put that shit on me. That’s what I would say to him if I had the chance to tell him anything.
That relationship, like so many in my life, was based on me expressing more regard for someone else, at certain points, than I did even for myself. It was a bond formed on emotional pressure. I felt important because I could help and I could advocate and I thought that the balance would change sometime. The person in question (PIQ) was so ill at a certain point that I wondered if he might die if I weren’t there. I spent time worrying, long hours at his side or nearby at the expense of my own life and the deteriorating relationship I had with my boyfriend at the time. I was under pressure, holding down two jobs (one of which kept me in close proximity to PIQ) and lived an hour and a half by bus away in a working class neighborhood in Buenos Aires.
Much later, I grew tired of PIQ because I saw how ungrateful and self-serving he was. It wasn’t even on my own account that I first realized it. Someone had held a benefit for him, raising cash and handing it to him on the spot. This Woman (TW) had rallied, gotten the OK of a bar and even a substantial alcohol donation, solicited auction items from the community for books and photographs and things for his benefit. He was about to move and needed a suitcase, and she had told him she’d bring one.
The event was over and PIQ was quite drunk, to the point of slurring, and a guy we know was walking with us to the bus stop. It was quite a trek. PIQ was in a foul mood, his cadence like sea waves cresting and crashing, and each statement a negative one. He was much better than he’d been when I’d feared for his life, but was sick and fed up with his situation. Despite everyone’s kindness to him that night, or maybe because of it, he spewed what was stupid and why about this and that. Finally he lit on TW, brandishing the large duffle she’d given him and saying, “Does this look like a fucking suitcase to you? What the fuck is wrong with her? Now what the fuck am I going to do?”
“I don’t know. Get some fucking boxes?” I said in a bitchy tone. He hadn’t thanked me for my effort (albeit a small one) in helping with the event and he had hundreds of pesos in his pocket, maybe around a thousand. “TW helped you a lot tonight. I’m fucking sick to death of your negativity.”
The conversation changed quickly then and the guy we were with hung out so we could make sure PIQ got on the bus. He was so drunk, we were afraid to leave him there on his own. We waited for nearly an hour, then PIQ decided to get a cab, but it was almost impossible to find an empty one of those. I was very tired. The guy we were with and I saw busses that would take us home at dwindling intervals as we attempted for nearly half an hour to hail a cab for PIQ. He didn’t appreciate it if he even remembered it and it took me another hour of waiting to decide to give up and take a cab home, wasting time and money.
I saw then that there was no slack for any perceived transgression. TW’s effort was unacceptable. You might forgive this as a drunken outburst, but it showed me something fundamental about him as he had yelled at me several times, accused me of things, even once screaming at me for making fun of a teen television drama he insisted I watch with him. In every case he was sick or drunk. He never apologized for it, and I had seen the pattern by then. Everything that was wrong in his life was someone else’s fault.
That’s why today, I was not at all surprised to read that it’s apparently my fault now that he won’t go to the doctor. His disregard for himself is brought on by the enormous blow to his spirit it was when, for the last time, I asked for an apology. He’d screamed at me after I’d spent four hours every day for a week visiting him in the hospital. I found him a place to stay, even after he’d insulted me in front of a room full of mutual acquaintances and friends. I felt responsible. But I was angry that he’d treated me the way he did.
About a month later, he asked me for a favor. I said I would do it if he would apologize for yelling at me. He became irate and told me that the aggression he’d felt free to unload on me was justified because he was upset and in a lot of pain. That was the moment I decided I’d had enough, that I’d been used enough. “After all I did for you, you can’t even bother to apologize when you’ve treated me badly. Don’t ever ask me for anything again.”
Training yourself not to be treated like shit can take a long time. I’m no master, and I’m closer to 40 than 30. But now that that’s one of my primary goals in life, I have no doubt I will succeed. Now, if you want to listen to a cheesy hair metal song from the ’80s, this would be the time.
I feel a taste of success and go flying out to remedy it. It’s not something I allow myself. It’s not something I appreciate. It’s not something I feel I will ever have. This is more than alcoholism. It’s a denial of independence.
A friend of mine died recently. He died because his body couldn’t handle alcohol, but he kept on drinking. He kept on thinking he was invincible. Or else he saw that he was killing himself. I know it’s possible to see both things at the same time. Maybe he did.
I thought the lesson of his death was that we need to treat people with mental problems with more kindness. I thought that it meant that we need to show support and love in any way we can, even when it hurts, because the person I knew him to be was someone who accepted people, who showed love in a way that was profound to the ones he gave it to. I thought that if someone could have been there in the right way at the right time with the right word, or that if a thousand someones were in little ways across time, that it might not have ended this way.
But each decision he made that pushed people away sealed him tighter in the drum he was in and the chaos was a bacteria in there with him that grew and pushed at the borders of himself. For right or for wrong.
I see now that he didn’t accept himself. He was out there. There was a touch of immortal about the way he saw things and did things and because there was a divinity mixed in with the breakdowns, the upsets, the losses, the addictions, the broken friendships, the arrests, and the assaults, because of this, there was no talking to him. There was right in the same place where the wrong was and no one could square that, least of all him. There was inspiration in the self-abuse. There was strength in the veneer of denial. There was growth in the loss — a crooked, lateral growth that expanded something that seemed important and was hard or impossible to let go of.
In this last year, since I started to drink again, I thought that the hurdles alcohol took away were worth the consequences. It’s really hard for me to contemplate letting go of that ease in access to my strongest thoughts, to the shackled person inside.
When I went back to my hometown, I saw the behaviors that hurt me. They came from outside me and became part of me. I will, forever, in my mind, be an idiot, a moron, hysterical, and ashamed of my emotions. My abuse was shone in my face like a spotlight and set off a Rube Goldberg machine inside me. “This is where it comes from!” my mind shouted. I was angry and tried so hard not to show it. I am angry. Maybe it’s all I am. And all this time, I thought the recognition of what it was and where it came from made me immune from the pain. But I’m tucked right back into that cycle. I need, selfishly, to live it large to illustrate to myself what it is. It starts small: a humiliation I can pick at and chew on until I do something worse, then worse, then worse. It’s an echo that becomes a hurricane and wipes out everything good I ever do. I do it so I can be comfortable in my worthlessness. So I can be the problem that everyone can focus on and solve, so I can be the bad guy, so I can nullify myself again and again and again. Back to 0. And when I think I’m over it, I do it again. I’m the symptom exhibitor. And in the midst of a proud hour, I have to chop myself apart no matter who’s in proximity to the hatchet.
Knowing this doesn’t change anything. It’s the same as it ever was. I have always known. I will always know. The lesson has always been the same. Without alcohol, with alcohol, I manage it anyway. Drinking is the brick on the accelerator, but the car’s already pointed toward the lake and the kids are in the trunk. It’s only the destruction of my hubris that makes me who I am, and makes me hate who I have the potential be more than who I am. It’s the only thing that saves me. It kills me.
I spent yesterday trying out a binder. The wealth of information out there on how to bind your chest is really impressive. I got pretty damn flat. It looked awesome and didn’t hurt, thanks to a technique from Amber at FuckYeahBinders. I used a lumbar support brace instead of ace bandages — much better.
Today, I tried applying the beard I bought, and it’s just not right. I think, to be minutely satisfied with my appearance when I cross, I’m going to have to go spirit gum and sticking individual hairs to my face. The mustache and beard and the sideburns I bought aren’t going to work. I spent some time figuring that out today, and I got a look I like with the real hair (and there’s still someone’s human hair in my mouth) from the beard, which, when I bought it looked like something Hell’s Angels circa 1970. I bet whoever sold their hair to the wigmakers never imagined it would be stuck to some bitch’s face. The trimmings are serving me well, though the net beard itself is not.
Wednesday, I’m going to emcee a comedy show as Frank Brohaim. He’s a closeted gay sexist prick of a comedian, and a total hack, but I’m excited as hell about this.
In the process of trying on all the “costume” of Frank, though, I’m encountering a feeling that’s not foreign to me.
After I unbound my chest yesterday, I just felt sad. I wanted to keep it on, and then I had to go out and so I took it off. And I regret the shape of my body.
That’s also nothing new. As a stocky, chubby woman who’s pushing 40, the things I already hated about my body are exactly the same, only it’s exaggerated when I see a flat chest with the rest of it because nothing about my body would ever pass.
Today with the beard, it was the same thing. I had to spend a lot of time looking in the mirror, and I liked what I saw when I got it on. I cut a little out of my hairline that I can cover with my bangs. And I started watching videos of guys who have transitioned. I went on a huge binge. To a man, the change was something positive in their lives. It isn’t without its struggles. It’s clear that there are plenty of things these guys have to contend with to this day. But there’s an overall sense of self-actualization in the videos I watched.
The thing is, it’s not always that I think about my gender. It’s been more lately because of things I’m reading, the politics I follow, because I have more lesbian friends than ever and I don’t feel weird talking to them about these things (hopefully not to the point of being annoying). I also have one awesome straight guy friend I talk about it with a lot.
I feel like I’m not transgendered, then I feel like I am. If I’m riding the fence about this, I feel like it’s not true — maybe not even in part. I see these videos from guys who made the change and are happier than ever with their lives, and I have to say that my life isn’t all that bad. It took a long time to be okay with being a psycho leather freak and being out about that. I’m doing standup and look forward to doing more. My writing is for me — I have the luxury of that. I live a life of my choosing. I have great friends.
I also have a friend who made the change. She got top surgery, and then at a certain point, had to transition back. It just wasn’t right. I don’t think she regrets it now, but what she told me about it sounded painful. She struggled for acceptance as trans, passed as a man, then had to fight for acceptance again as a woman.
Before starting the sex writing challenge, I read Roving Pack by Sassafras Lowrey. I had already decided to be Frank at open mic, and gender was something I’d been thinking about more than usual because of that. Hir book showed me a lot about being trans and about trans culture that I never knew or considered. I highly recommend it to anyone. I love hir stance on the gender binary. It’s a spectrum. I’m way more about Jung than Freud (Animus in the house!).
While all this was going on, some guy I met at an SM event wrote me wanting me to top him. What he wanted was sex. And he’s much younger than I am, and totally inexperienced. I agreed to hang out, to play with him at the next event, and things got sexual. I didn’t deliver on what he wanted right away. I was concerned with taking things slowly and introducing him to the lifestyle. It seems he lost interest, but I shocked myself by becoming unbearably turned on after struggling to keep the little brat in his place all night.
Normally, I’m not very good about writing about what’s happening in my life. If you’ve read the last four entries here, you might have noticed a pattern: I write about the past when it’s all squared away and I know how I feel about it.
I’m starting to think that’s kind of a wuss move. So while normally, I keep my writing about my confusions to myself, I think it’s time for me to push myself a little more. Is this some Jodie Foster not-coming-out coming out? I don’t even know the answer to that question. What I do know is that my perception of myself is changing, and I’m letting it because to me, that’s what freedom is all about.
I was worried that it would be too soon. I said to him in butchered Spanish, “But will you call me after? I just don’t want to do it if you’re going to lose respect for me.”
He corrected my conjugation before he said he would call.
The last time we’d hung out, we were shamelessly clothes-burning all along a long walk through Villa Crespo. A dark doorway, a street corner, behind a parked school-bus, against a tree. Big-city frottage. It was a real turn-on, and the fact that his kisses lacked subtlety was okay for me then. His eagerness was something I already knew couldn’t be learned, and kissing could, I reasoned. And he seemed to be a fast learner.
Now we were leaving a pub where we’d sat on the second floor. I was long sober then, drank water and diet soda. We wrote the words we were learning from each other in my notebook, drew little pictures as we corrected each other’s pronunciation. When he pulled me to him and kissed me full on the mouth in the midst of the other patrons, no one even seemed to notice and we spent a long hour necking in the dark room with marble tables and wrought-iron chairs.
He suggested that we leave, that we go to a nearby telo. I knew that telos were common. I knew that they were “love hotels” and that their use carries little to no stigma in Argentine society. When you have a multi-generation family home, sometimes you just need to get away to do it right.
He had tattoos over almost his entire body. To behold his wide shoulders and round tattoo-covered ass, his uncut hard-on, his wide fingers, and his taut, round belly gave me a jolt. He was so visually appealing to me, looking at him felt like being high. I stared greedily. His movements were assured and graceful and masculine. He’d given up a decades-long study of martial arts in the recent past. When I looked into his eyes, I saw a pure being there: someone interested in what was happening in my mind, someone curious about life and himself, and whose emotions were not hidden. It was a refreshing dose of honesty after fucking so many jaded losers for so many years.
In the foyer, he spoke to a young man behind a plexiglass window. He put the money into a drawer that ran beneath the counter, like the money and merchandise was handled in service stations in my old neighborhood. He paid and got the keys and I felt embarrassed.
He seemed to be rock hard effortlessly. His cock just stood up at attention with the least provocation, even though he was a couple years older than my 33. I would watch him as he went to take off the rubber and clean his dick in the sink and feel like I was ready to go again.
The room was mirrored on nearly all sides. I was immediately drawn to the knobs over the bed that were so like a car console. The headboard’s black, lacquered surface housed a radio, dials to the various sets of recessed ceiling lights for any variety of mood-lighting, and a button to call the front desk. There was a menu so you could order drinks and food and ice. The shower was frosted plexi. The bed had a black rubber mattress and an ill-fitting set of cheap sheets.
That first night, we tried at least a dozen positions: standing, sitting, lying down, off the side of the bed. I felt no compunction about making a ton of noise. I was so loud, I was even more sheepish leaving than I had been going in.
I loved the shivery way he responded to me, the vulnerable sound he made when he came, the way he regarded my body. It felt so good to be seen in such an overtly sexual way, but to be treated with affection. Affection was one thing missing from my romantic life for many years by then.
I loved surprising him with odd positions or new sensations. There was a purity to his enjoyment of sex that I also saw when he ate. I used to love watching him eat, because there was this naked happiness I could see in his face. He seemed to taste with every part of himself, and it was the same thing with his sex. He was the first person whose noisy eating wasn’t something I had to tolerate because I loved seeing him get so much pleasure that I barely noticed his horrible table manners.
When he looked at me as we fucked or when I went down on him, he was obviously so pleasantly surprised by my frank handling of his tool, and I felt more sexy watching him enjoy me. His eyes would go wide as I scratched my fingernails along his balls. I could see that I was introducing him to things he’d never experienced before and watching him assimilate new sensations gave me a joy I’d never felt with another partner.
I had never been with anyone so freely physically affectionate. There were hugs and kisses and grunting bear hugs. The love I felt from him was something I could almost breathe into myself.
We were a sweaty mess. Every surface of our bodies glistened. My eyes stung with the salt from my own skin and my eyeliner bled into dark, heroin-chic half-moons. I’d glimpse my face, red and distended in orgasm or catch a glimpse of my swinging tits as he did me from behind and look away from the mirror, at him. His truth in my raw, animal sexiness was much more pleasant to look at. I felt gratified that my orgasm made him come even if it meant shortening mine. We’d lie wordlessly with the Argentine alternative radio station on low, barely touching and sweaty and spent. Then one of us would make a joke and we’d be babbling like kids at the back of the school-bus again.
When I think about it, I see why we ended up together. And it’s hard to see how it got so bad in the end.
This post is the fourth of the Sex Writing Challenge. This challenge is more to myself than anyone else, but it’s also an invitation. Want to write about how sex goes in your own life? Comment on any post here with your own.