Une petite gâterie

(10 November 2003)

I’ve made the decision to just go after sex several times, but remain ambivalent, I really wanted more.  The fact is that I don’t know what I want, so naturally I won’t find it until I know what I’m looking for.  While in theory I’ve learned my lesson about not going to bed on the first date, I still need a more practice.  I really need to learn to play the waiting game, which is an especially slow game in France.  Lots of Frenchmen have told me they hate the dating game: “You want it; you know she wants it, but you have to wait forever, and it’s really stupid.”  Although they say they don’t like the game, if you don’t play it, they disappear into thin air.  Several men have asked if all Anglo-Saxon women are that easy, and casually mention that they should travel abroad.  You’d think I’d learn my lesson.

There was another lesson, that I learned just the other evening, after years of living in France.  I was at a dinner party where everyone was asking about my dating life, which has become The topic of conversation since I began online dating.  The subject of blow jobs came up.  Americans are known here for blow jobs.  Someone said that they’d heard that in the US women give blow jobs in return for being taken out to dinner, and that it was more acceptable to give blow jobs than to have sex with a man.  It’s amazing the things you hear.  I was even more amazed to find out that in France “une petite gâterie,” is something you only do when you already know someone quite well.  And the French are always going on about how Americans are such puritans!  Nobody could tell me when you know you’ve known someone long enough to have oral sex.  “You just know.”  No, actually I don’t.  No matter how many years I’ve lived here, there are some things which may never know.

I’ve decided upon a new strategy: put men into two categories, the ones I have sex with because I feel like it, and I don’t care if they stick around; and don’t have sex with the ones that I’m interested in.  A French girlfriend warned me that this is a dangerous strategy: “You can’t always know if you’ll want them to stick around or not.”  So you should always play hard to get.  So you should string them out until their nervous system is a wreck, “give in” to making love after you’re sure they could really be the one, only to find out that they’re lousy in bed and or have tiny cocks.  Personally, if a man doesn’t pass the road test, I’d rather know before spending months of wining and dining.  I can’t imagine putting a man through all of that only to tell him that he doesn’t pass the road test.

(15 December 2003)

So back to what I’m looking for: I’m halfway through my life, and I’ve never had an ongoing relationship which was emotionally, intellectually, and physically gratifying.  There were long periods where I was alone, or in a long distance relationship, or else with someone with whom I didn’t have a great, or even any, physical relationship.  I’ve become convinced that I’ll never find a relationship which is both emotionally and physically satisfying.  With Hervé I’ve at last discovered a gratifying long term physical relationship.  I imagine I could have both with Pygmalion if he was available--he’s the only man I’ve met on the net that I’d like to be with, what a shame he’s happily married.  Sure, sure, people tell me that there’s a man out there for me.  I think they’ve been watching too many Hollywood movies.  

Falling down

In July 2003 when a heat wave was announced, I all the more dearly wanted to get away on vacation, but it didn’t look like my finances would allow that.  So I decided to sweat it out.  Sleeping naked on top of a sheet with the windows open didn’t prevent me from waking up around six in the morning covered with sweat.  The days were miserable and there was no escape.  It occurred to me that the coolest part of France is Brittany, and it turned out that I had just enough money to get a round trip ticket and to pay for camp sites.  I’d never been on a long distance cycling trip, much less on my own, but reckoned that years of dodging Paris traffic would have me in good enough shape.

When I stepped out of the train station at Brest, it was scorching.  And to make matters worse, I discovered the only way out of town was up an endlessly long steep hill.  I pedalled slowly, never having been on a bike loaded with gear, wondering when I’d get to the top of the hill.  The people in passing by cars unrolled their windows, and cheered me on.  It felt like I was competing in the Tour de France.  I had no itinerary; I just kept pedalling until I found a camp site.  Not an attractive one, but a welcome site for this exhausted cycler.  The next two days were similar—I was getting impatient for the coast to come into view.  At least I could feel a cooler breeze once out of Brest.

Finally I came across Le Conquet, a lovely village.  I got to the campsite at dusk, in time to see one of the most surrealistic scenes I’ve ever witnessed: I was overlooking a lightly fog covered long strand of sandy beach, I couldn’t actually see the water, just ghostly forms of people wandering around in it.  I pitched my tent and then went into town to procure the evening’s alcohol.  Once comfortably drunk, I got into my sleeping bag, looking forward to a good rest.  Just then a rowdy bunch of teenagers settled in to party right next to my tent.  After a great deal of turning from one side to the next, I decided: “Well if you can’t beat them, join them.”  Alcohol flowed freely, and then joints were passed around.  Having little experience with hash, I had no idea that it’s a terrible idea to mix it with alcohol.  Beyond fucked up, I finally stumbled back to my tent.  A moment later, a stark naked young man showed up at my tent.  I made enough of a fuss to scare him off.  Then I had to go out to pee, on what I thought was level ground.  (Which it turned out to be.)  I rolled over backwards, and crouched down until my head stop spinning, made a second attempt to pee, and fell on my face.  I tried to get into a crouching position again, but fell several more times.  After I finally managed to pee, I tried to get up but my head was spinning so badly that I fell repeatedly.  I got back to my tent on my hands and knees.  Once safely inside, another young man showed up, to reassure me that everything was ok.  He was agreeable enough, but then tried to convince me to have sex.  I indicated my blood covered tent, and he said: “never mind, you can clean it up in the morning.”  Somehow I convinced him to get out, all the while aware that the group of young men were there.  I was lucky--it was a situation that could’ve easily turned into a gang rape.

The next morning I inspected the damages which I hadn’t been able to feel the night before.  My left knee and toe were ripped open.  (My right ankle was already sprained from a fall in my room.)  I left the town doctor’s with a few stitches, and wrapped in gauze, with his stern warning not to go into the water.  I limped back to what was an even more glorious beach than I’d imagined.  I couldn’t believe it, I’d made it all the way to the beach, only to be able to sit and look at it longingly.  Late in the afternoon, I hobbled into town for my night’s supply of beer—which turned out to be a mistake.  Drinking beer results in frequent peeing, and my tent was surrounded by blackberry bushes.  Too drunk to make it to the restroom, I kept squatting to pee by my tent, and falling ass first into the blackberry bushes.  I prepared for the next night by switching to hard liquor.  For several days I could do nothing but sit on the beach and look at the ocean in frustration.

Finally my wounds were healed up enough for me to spend the days taking photo walks and going cycling.  The days were enjoyable.  At night though, I felt lonely, but the bottle kept me company.  One day I felt well enough to make an expedition to the nearby Ouessant Island.  The ferry took only foot passengers and cycles—the cars on the island were only for locals, and few.  Cycling around an island with few cars was a real pleasure.  The campsite was smack in the middle of the island, surrounded by high stone walls—sleeping quarters only.  The first thing I checked out was the location of the restroom.  It was just by the entrance, and to get down into the campsites was a very irregular path.  I found the closest pitch possible, and then walked up and down the path memorizing the irregularities and rocks. 

It was a gorgeous day, and I’d healed up enough to take a lovely hike around the heather covered island.  It was a consolation to see that the surf on the beaches was so rough that no one could go in for a swim.  I stood at the cliff tops watching the surf crashing in, keeping a safe distance back.  Not that I’m afraid of heights.  But lately, I’d been having suicidal thoughts, or worse yet, perhaps, urges, I’d never been suicidal in spite of it all.  However, I’d discovered that while drunk I’d walk in front of cars.  Later I was to find out that I’m not the only alcoholic who plays “car tag.”  I’d even become obsessed with shooting myself in the head, to the point where I’d been contemplating going back to the US where it’s easy to procure a gun.  I didn’t think I’d really do it, but the idea obsessed me.  The ocean beckoned to me.  I love its beauty, and at times am tempted to become one with it.  What more beautiful way could there be to become part of infinity?  So yeah, I sat down ensconced in rocks, or stood safely back.

Back in my tent, I drank until it was time to make my way up to the restroom.  A group of young people was partying there.  I wanted to join them.  Perhaps I did—I wouldn’t know because I blacked out.  When I came to from the black out, I’d sprained my one good ankle.  I’d already been walking like a robot, now I really looked like one.

The ferry rides back were beautiful, and when I got back to Paris the weather had finally cooled down a bit.  In spite of all of the difficulties, this was one of the trips that I have the fondest memories.  I’m looking forward to going back sober, and enjoying the region to its full extent.  When I shared about this trip in my next meeting, the man who became my sponsor, and said amongst other things: “Stay sober for a year, and if you still feel like shooting yourself in the head, do it.”  He had enough years of sobriety and working with other alcoholics to know that I’d be in a totally different headspace after a year of sobriety.

Copyright © 2011

Pygmalion

(12 December 2003)

I got a message from a married man that I couldn’t resist:

Received from "pygmalion" the 12/12/2003 at 09h34 «Fun dominator seeking his playful O. » 

This isn’t just anybody.  He’s got the guts to say exactly what he wants, and he’s probably intelligent.

Sent to "pygmalion" the 12/12/2003 at 22h54

I like to be dominated sometimes, but not always—deep down I’m a wild animal—who is always looking for the big O ; -) 

Received from "pygmalion" the 13/12/2003 at 08h27 

Wild animal...I love it!

I love getting an answer.

Shall we have a drink next week? 

Sent to "pygmalion" the 13/12/2003 at 09h24

Yes, when you’d like.

Shall we exchange photos?

Reçu de "pygmalion" le 25/10/2002 à 10h18 

No, I don’t put any photos on the net. Too paranoid.

We spoke very briefly over the phone.  I liked his voice.  Voices are often more important to me than appearances.

Pygmalion called back and proposed that we meet here.  I asked if he wouldn’t prefer to meet first in a café, to see if there was something between us.  No, he wanted to meet me here directly, for more privacy, so I gave him the address and the code to get into the building.  I opened the windows and front door, to get an agreeable breeze going through the apartment.  It occurred to me that I’d left door open, for an almost perfect stranger interested in dominating me sexually.  I could imagine the reactions I would get if I told anyone that I’d done such a thing, but my instincts told me there was no danger, and when I have problems, it’s always when I don’t listen to my instincts. 

As soon as he arrived, my impression was positive.  Here was a man who looked mature, good natured, intelligent, and self-confident.  Cute!  And sensual lips--Yessssss!  It’s hard to find someone who’s good at kissing, and having the right lips helps.

He spent a long time looking through my photos thoughtfully; in his profession, he’s used to studying images.  We shift back and forth between discussing the photos, the online dating site, and getting to know each other.  One of the first things that he said was that he was happily married, to a woman he loves very much, and that he had two wonderful children.  With his game, his “trip,” he can have an adventure within a strict set of rules, which won’t menace his marriage.  A relationship based on mutual fantasy, which precludes love.  From time to time he repeated: “I look for something extra-ordinary.”  I appreciated his honesty. 

Pygmalion explained: “I cut and paste my message and send it to women without reading their profiles, often a thousand at a time without a single response, or sometimes a few who bitch me out.  When I do get an answer, it’s almost always interesting.  What the woman looks like isn’t that important, it’s her character that counts.  When he looked at my nudes, I explained how I found the models, and how I’d discovered that even when I show only a section of a woman’s body, who she is matters, if I can’t feel her, the photos don’t work.  He’s the only person that I’ve explained that to who wasn’t surprised.  Of course he knew, because he approaches particular relationships in a particular way.  He told me the stories of two women he’d been involved with.  One had been too dangerous for him.  He didn’t say why.  But it occurred to me that love is a strange creature, although it’s so hard to find when you’re looking for it, it has a way of sneaking into relationships where it’s not supposed to be.  This man, of all of the men I’ve met through the site, recognizes me, who I am.  I’m not an object, I’m not a fantasy.  And that’s dangerous.  It occurs to me that I could fall in love, that I could lose him sooner than I’d like to.

I told him about all of the men who write that they’re looking for a woman who’s feminine.  “What’s feminine?”  “You’ve got breasts, haven’t you?” “Yes.” “You’ve got a vagina, haven’t you?” “Yes.”  “So you’re a woman, aren’t you?”  “Yes.”  He’s read through a lot of what the men write, “I can’t believe they actually think they’re going to find what they’re looking for!”

I told him the story about Icarus.  He couldn’t believe it: “Was he twenty-four years old, or what?  How could he pass by such an amazing woman, just because he had an image set in his mind?”  I showed Pygmalion the photo that I send.  “You look pretty, but that’s not you at all!  When you met him were you dressed like you are now?  You should put a photo online that shows your character, with your funky glasses, and with a text that will filter out the men that aren’t worth meeting.”  He’s right; I need to find a better system for sorting men out.  What he really couldn’t get over was the teacher who didn’t bother speaking to me at all: “How could he pass by such a bomb.”  We laughed and laughed about the different stories, and then he looked at me seriously and said: “You must write a book, write it all down.”  That’s how this book started.

Hours went by.  He asked more questions about me, and he’s begun writing his first book.  I showed him Japanese bondage books and described the photos that I’d like to make.  We continued talking.  I showed him a fossil whale bone that has the textures I’d like to use for one of the prints I’m working on, and a rock I found under a tree that was struck by lightning, that had been re-melted, and some other treasures.  What was I doing?  I was showing him bits of myself.  I was slipping away from a simple game already.

It was time for him to go.  “I don’t know what I could do with you.  I don’t know if I could do my domination “trip” with you.  We might have to make love gently; romantically...I don’t know what to do with you.  Would you like to see me again?”  Me too, I’m confused.  I want to see him again, I know that.  I’m very interested in him, who he is.  What would it feel like to make love with him?  Is there any physical desire?  I don’t know.  “Yes, of course.  I wouldn’t have spent so many hours speaking with you, if I wasn’t interested.”

He got up to leave.  He threw me a punch; I blocked and threw a counterpunch.  “I like that, a woman who fights back.”  We kissed each other on the cheek tentively, we hugged.  I kissed his cheeks and neck.  It felt right, but still a bit awkward.  We hugged and kissed again, this time on the lips, briefly.  We begin to explore each other’s bodies.  I turn my back to him and let him caress my ass.  He was tall.  I stood on tip toe, so we were groin to groin.  We say goodbye again, and begin to explore again.  Become more and more turned on.  I tried to unbuckle his pants, he wouldn’t let me.  We said goodbye again, kissed again.  He said he wants me to talk, to tell him what I like.  I replied that I doubt he’ll need a Michelin guide for my body.  “But I want you to talk.”  “Don’t worry, if you want me to, I’ll talk.”  “We’ll see each other on Friday?”  “Yes, we’ll see each other on Friday.”  “I’ll wear high heals.” 

The next morning I consulted the site:

Received from "pygmalion" the 31/10/2003 at 07h54 

You really turn me on….

Sent to "pygmalion" the 31/10/2003 at 11h46

It’s reciprocal….

Received from "pygmalion" the 31/10/2003 at 11h48 

Have your reinforced your desk, arranged your plants.... 

Sent to "pygmalion" the 31/10/2002 at 12h09

I’ll get to work….

Last night I had an idea: change my pseudo and put up a photo in which I’ll look cute and "feminine," without modifying my profile.  I should get a landslide of responses—lots of material to work with for the book.  Then I’ll put up a photo which expresses me well, with a profile such as you suggested.  It should be interesting to compare the results. 

Received from "pygmalion" le 31/10/2002 at 12h19 

Something to be tried...The second profile sounds a bit dangerous...It might be better to target women.

Interesting !! 

Sent to "pygmalion" le 1/11/2003 at 12h26

I started surfing women yesterday.  Interesting!  And perhaps a bit dangerous. 

Received from "pygmalion" le 1/11/2003 at 16h30 

Tell me.

Sent to "pygmalion" the 02/11/2003 à 18h00

I’ll tell you….

(3 November 2003)

Pygmalion called, disappointed that I didn’t leave any hot sexy messages.  I wanted to but couldn’t find the words; I’ve never tried that sort of thing before.  We confirmed that we’ll see each other Friday morning.  “I’ll be wearing my high heels.”  He teased me: “You’re going to disguise yourself as a woman!”  “Well, it would be convenient since you’re so tall.”  “What else will you be wearing?”  I hesitated for a long time, trying to remember what sexy clothes I have in my wardrobe, I couldn’t think of anything, so I told him it would be a surprise.  “But I want to know, I’m a voyeur, I like to visualize....”  “Okay, I’ll be wearing black stockings with a mini skirt and a transparent black top.”  “What?  You won’t be yourself?  What about something like the clothes you were wearing the other day?” 

 After work, I had a few hours to spare before a meeting, so I went to see a movie.  Two minutes after I stepped out of the movie, he called.  (Later, when I consulted my messages, I discovered that he’d already called three times.)   It took me a few minutes to walk up out of the underground, “Okay, now I can hear you better.”  “I have to be patient to speak with you!”  “You shouldn’t be complaining, I just left a really hot girl that I went to the movies with, without even getting her number!”  “Has she got yours?”  “Yes, I hope she’ll call.”  “Do you have sleep with your models?”  “I haven’t, though twice I wanted to.”  “So you’re into women too?”  “I was into women first.  It took me years before I enjoyed having sex with a man.  They always said I was frigid.”  “They always do.”  “I was sure it wasn’t, because I didn’t have any trouble coming on my own or with a woman.”  “How old were you when you slept with your first woman?”  “Thirteen, no fourteen.  It took me three years to seduce her.”  “You were thinking about sex that early!”  “Earlier even, but I had to wait until puberty until I could really do anything about it.” 

We spoke about our fantasies.  “Are you turned on?”  “I’m so turned on, I we wish we could see each other now”.  I look around myself and describe places where we could make love in public without being seen.  He says: “There are no taboos between us.”  I try to think of any taboos I might have, my long hesitation makes him laugh, “If you had any, it wouldn’t take you that long to remember them.”  “Yes, but what if I’ve forgotten one, and then later remember it, you’ll be disappointed.”   “We’re going to get on well.”  He’s still not sure what he’s going to do with me.  “I know,” I said, “that I want to see you, to smell you, to taste you.”  The conversation lingered on.   Later we wouldn’t be able to speak, it was time for him to go home.  “I’ll call you as soon as you get out of the metro.”  There’d be a fifteen minute window during which we’d be able to talk.  We missed it.  After the meeting I get into the metro, my cell phone rings, it was him again, I couldn’t hear well: “Call me back in twenty minutes.”

As I walked out of the metro, I listened to my messages:

“This is a message for the woman in heels…remember me…I’m in the car…if you happen to leave your meeting early.  Big kisses.  Try to call me before I get home…I’ve still got 15 or 20 minutes.  Talk to you later, kisses, until tomorrow, bye bye.”

“A kiss for you, I’m arriving home…until tomorrow night don’t get into any trouble, I’m not getting into any trouble.  Kisses, bye bye.”

As soon as I got in, he called; his family had gone out, so we were able to chat for a long time.  He couldn’t get over the dude at the concert that had passed by a bomb like me, who hadn’t even taken five minutes to talk with me.  “Obviously,” I said, “he didn’t like my glasses!”  We hung up regretting that we had to let each other go.

Copyright © 2011

Badly Parked

(4 November 2003)

One of the great advantages of online dating is that most of it remains just that: online.  No one gets turned off by the fact that I’m falling down drunk, because they can’t see it.  No one can hear my slurred speech—if they request to cam I just tell them that I don’t have one which is the truth.  However, I’m still confronted by the fact that I come off as quite flirtatious when drunk, even when it’s not my intention.  I got bombed at a party recently and the man standing next to me, with whom I’d been having a long and enjoyable conversation, felt the need to remind me several times to remind me that he was gay.  The last thing I had in mind was hitting up on him, but that’s how I came across.  The keyboard filters slurring but it doesn’t filter a flirtatious manner.  Fortunately I generally manage to a strict rule of not going out once I’ve started drinking.  Going out drunk is an invitation for trouble.

There are hordes of men who do their best to get me to take a taxi to their place at all hours of the night, for their instant gratification.  Now in theory, that’s mutual gratification, but when after a short dialogue they’re trying to get me to take a taxi, my first question is: “What are the preliminaries going to be like?”  And since they’re skimping on the preliminaries, “what’s the main meal going to be like?” 

There seem to be three categories of men that I’m running across.  The first are the hopeless romantics.  Their profiles are almost invariably long, poetic, finely crafted expressions of desire for domestic bliss, which generally end with an idealized breakfast scene.  No, they’re not making breakfast; the delicious smell draws them out of the beds to the breakfast table, where the newspaper has lovingly been set out.  What year of the century is this?  All too often the sexist tone of their messages becomes even more blatant by the warning that they don’t want “preneuses de têtes.”  The literal translation is “head takers,” and I imagine that it has something to do with their feeling that their heads are being held hostage.  Whenever I ask a man what he means by that, it stops our dialoguing cold.  So I’ll have to check around and get back to you with a more precise definition.  The second category of man is the one who looks quite promising, has long, regular, and interesting conversations with you, and then cuts off all communication just when it comes time to meet in real life.  The number of men who hide behind the screen is stupendous.  The third category is the one I mentioned earlier, the man in search of instant gratification.

Today I got a phone call from a man in the third category.  We’d actually met once months ago at a café in the early evening.  I arrived first and had two beers on an empty stomach, which I usually wouldn’t even notice, but when I got up to kiss him on the cheeks, I lost my balance slightly.  He immediately announced that he was “badly parked,” which is a standard code phrase for: “I’m splitting, and you’ll never see me again.”  So today he said he wanted to see me again.  After a meeting that lasted less than a minute, and months of silence!  When I declined, he protested: “But I thought you wanted to suck my cock!"

Copyright © 2011

Fog

I’ve been wrapped in a thick cloak of exhaustion for three days now.  It’s paralyzing: I haven’t been able to do much of anything.  Yesterday I wasn’t able to go to the photo studio to do the exercises for my lighting class.  I considered dropping the class or waiting till fall to do it, without coming to a decision.  I wasn’t feeling well enough to make a decision.  When I’m in up periods, I can become much more active, but I must always bear in mind that I’m disabled, that if I take on too much, I’ll crash down into another depression.  The tricky thing is that how much is too much varies.  I slept in till 12:30 today, and could feel even before I’d had my coffee, that it wasn’t going to help lift the exhaustion.  Today was my day off, a badly need day to do the housekeeping.  So I’ll have to put it off until tomorrow, and cancel tomorrow’s activities.  My place still looks like Hurricane Katrina swept through yesterday; I really wanted to get started on the cleaning. God I hope I wake up feeling ok tomorrow.  I’m afraid I’ve slipped into what I hope will be a short lived and low level depression.  I was on a winning streak when I played online checkers today, but I couldn’t have cared less—I just plodded on from one game to the next because I didn’t know what else to do with myself.  Tonight is my home group meeting, and going will be an especially big deal because it’s my anniversary week, but I’m wondering if I’ll even have the energy to get out of my room.

I consider myself really lucky because when I’m in a deep depression, I don’t go into doom and gloom mode: the world is not all dark.  My brother Peter says that I’m the only depressive he knows who doesn’t drive him crazy when they’re depressed. That’s probably largely due to the fact that I avoid complaining about it and making negative comments.  I also have a stubborn optimistic streak that keeps me going when the going gets tough.  Even now, in the late afternoon, I’m trying to figure out what I can do to make this day feel better.  Write for starters, no matter what I’m writing about, writing makes me feel better.  And go to my meeting no matter how insurmountable a task it feels, going to my home group is the highlight of my week.

Last night I had a dream with my ex-husband in it.  It wasn’t a bad dream, but I got up anyway because I wanted to have a dream without him.  He’s been a featured actor in my dreams since I started working on this bog, which is interesting considering that he hadn’t been in my dreams at all since I left him.  For years I wanted to write about him in this journal but didn’t because I was afraid that if the journal became public, it would get back to him and hurt him.  I still don’t want that to happen, but this journal doesn’t really make sense if it’s incomplete.  A friend recently asked: “Why don’t you not write about your family, if it’s going to upset them?  I don’t want to upset them, and I certainly don’t feel like bringing out all of the family skeletons is necessary to this story, but bringing up some of what went on is.  This journal has taken on a life and direction of its own, it demands to be written and shared.


Well I got my shoes on and my feet got me to the Thursday night "home cooking" meeting, as one member calls it: the meeting you go to for a basic well balanced meal of sobriety.  When I set out I still had that disagreeable feeling that my brain was swaddled in soaking gauze.  The meeting was great, as it always is, and afterwards we went to the Champs Elysées and sat out in the warm evening at a laughter filled table.  On the way home I realized that the fog had lifted without my noticing it.

Copyright © 2011

Icarus

(28 October 2003)

Hello Sonia,

Thanks for your message. I’m looking for someone exceptional, a chimera perhaps, that I still haven’t found. If you’re still interested, I’d be delighted to receive your photo.

Icarus

So he’s warning me that he’s probably going to say no even before he sees my photo.  It’s as if he knows he’s going to let me down, and is preparing me gently.  What exactly is it that he’s looking for?  Does he even know? He’ll probably think that I won’t be pretty enough, I may be pretty, but he’s probably looking for downright beautiful.  He’s handsome enough to be that picky.  Perhaps I can write something that will catch his attention, and he’ll look beyond appearances.  What have I got to lose? 

(29 October 2003)

Good evening,

I believe that I’m exceptional, being exceptional is too vague for me to be able to confirm whether or not I’ll correspond to what your looking for.  Let me tell you a bit about myself.  I’m originally from Seattle, and like many Seattleites, I love nature: I love going to the ocean, the mountains, and the forests.  I like hiking, camping, kayaking, and I also love surfing, swimming, skiing, rollerblading, and martial arts.  In Seattle I was involved in the underground music scene, and I organized poetry readings and art happening.

I like taking risks, one example: I arrived in Paris with a one way ticket, almost no money, not a single word of French, and I didn’t know anyone.  I was confident that with my photography portfolio I would be able to find work.  After several years working in fashion photography, I decided to go back to university and get a degree in comparative literature.  I love reading and writing.  I’ve always written poetry, and now would like to write short stories.  After my studies, I went to live in Osaka, where I taught English, and started exhibiting my art photography.  Since Osaka is near Kyoto, I was able to go there frequently and explore all of the temples and gardens.  I loved photographing them, but sometimes just sat and meditated.

In photography I do several things.  My objective is to be able to do my art photography full time.  My work is a b&w series of nude women.  I try to show the female body not just as an object, but also a subject, to evoke stories, emotions, fantasies, and memories, etc.  I have a color series of still lives that I take while walking around Paris.  And this summer I started a series of waves, in which you only see the patterns of the surface of the water, this work reminds me of the time I spent contemplating Zen gardens in Kyoto.  I’m represented by some top galleries in the US, and looking for one here soon.

My principal qualities are that I’m spontaneous, sincere, kind, frank, and patient.  I’m also very sensual….  Well, I’ve been very talkative, now I’m waiting to learn more about you.  Attached is a photo of me.

Sonia

His response was baffling to say the least.

Received from "icarus" on 30/10/2003 at 10h45

 

Hello Sonia

I got your mail and thank you for it. I remain very admirative, your French is impeccable, bravo.  Indeed, from reading your career you seem to be an exceptional woman, very active and full of resources. I like the United States of America and its people of course. I lived two months in California, of which I have nothing but good memories. I really want to meet you, but I must be frank with you. I'm not looking for affair, I find you very very attractive, however my research is directed towards someone different, at least for the moment.  Even after this sentence, I hope you won’t close your door on me.
I’m looking forward to hearing from you, and I wish you a very good day.

Icarus

Why does he want to meet me even though even though it’s clear that I’m not what what he’s looking for, and he doesn’t want a light relationship?

(30 October 2003)

Icarus called in the evening, we spoke longer than I’ve spoken with any other men who have called from the net site.  He fired off questions, and loved the frankness with which I responded: “No Frenchwoman would ever have told me that.”  It reminded him of the time he’d spent in the US, he kept repeating: “You’re so cute, so adorable”, and “I love your accent.”  The flattery made me feel good, I spoke easily, but then, I started to feel like I was talking too much about myself.  So I said:  “Slow down with your questions, and let find out more about you.”  He replied: “Let’s have dinner, I can be there in about an hour.  Oh no,  I’m leaving early tomorrow morning for a two week training session, maybe just a drink.  Dinner isn’t really reasonable, since I have to get up so early.”  “Okay.”  He hesitated.  “But I have to get up so early.”  “We can wait until you get back.”  “Maybe just a drink.”  “You have to decide for yourself.” A pause. “Actually, it’s not reasonable to meet tonight, let’s wait.... No, no, I really want to meet you now.”  “Yes, it would be a good idea to meet each other before we leave each other.”  “Sonia, we won’t ever leave each other.”  Why would he say that when he’d written that I wasn’t the one for him?  He called back, “the traffic is terrible, by the time I get there we might as well have dinner after all.” 

When I stepped out of the building and saw him, I and caught my breath.  He was even more handsome than in his photo.  No wonder he’d turned me down, he could have any woman he wanted.  Tall and slender, with a gorgeous smile, great bone structure, an aquiline nose, a chiselled jaw line, warm sparkling hazel eyes, full sensual lips, positive and charming.  Not to mention fabulous shoes, perfectly cut pants, and a classy jacket. 

The restaurants were empty, it was a bit early.  So he asked: “Shall we have a drink first?” “Why not?”  As we entered the bar, Icarus asked me: “Do you know why I’m really happy to meet you?” “”No.” “Because you’re American.”  Great, my heart sank—so that’s why he wanted to meet me!    But then I told myself: “Being American can be good, you’ve got to use all of the arms you’ve got.” 

Rather chilled, I choose a table near the heater and we began to chat.  I felt at ease with him immediately, and one of the first things he said was: “Isn’t it strange how at ease we feel with each other, as if we already knew each other?  You’re cold aren’t you?”  He took my one of my hands.  Cold hands, warm heart?”  “Yes, of course.”  He held on to it and we continued talking, my hand warmed slowly, so he took both of my hands.  “Your heart is racing.  Amazing, isn’t it, we’ve just met, and we’re holding hands!”  The conversation continued.  “You’ve got beautiful eyes, they’re incredibly expressive.  You should change your photo, so people can see your eyes, the full-length shot doesn’t show your expressions.  I found another dating site that’s really good, I can give you the address.”  He said this while holding my hands, smiling, and behaving seductively.  “Please don’t start by giving me advice for meeting other men.”  “But I already told you it wasn’t possible between us.”  And he’d also told me that we’d never be separated.  It was confusing that behaved so seductively and pushed me away at the same time.  My heart sank down to my knees. 

He leaned in closer and closer to me, until our faces were within inches.  Once again, I forgot that he’d warned me nothing was possible between us.  “You’re speechless, try to speak, if I let go of your hands will you speak?”  “It’s hard to make conversation with my heart racing.  But I’ll do my best, don’t let go.”  I tried several times without success to muster up a few words, so I asked him to talk.   He said that he appreciated my depth, the depth of our conversations.  “At work, of course I have plenty of opportunities to get involved with attractive women, but I don’t want to get involved with someone at work.  Through the net, I’ve met lets of very attractive women, but they usually seem rather empty.  We could keep seeing each other as friends; I could introduce you to people, so you’d be less isolated.  Great, just what I wanted to hear. 

Icarus started to ask why I got separated, but then immediately added: “Don’t answer, that was an indiscreet question.”  In fact it’s a question that bothers me a lot.  Most men either don’t realize that it’s indiscrete or don’t care.  Sometimes they’re quite frank: “American marriage, American divorce?”  Women who have left abusive relationships are advised not to let new men in their life know about it, because even if a man has no history of abuse, when he learns that you’ve been a victim he sees you as a victim, and one day may well take advantage of that.  When I tell just part of my story, men reply that I should’ve left much sooner.  But I really don’t think it’s any of their business why I left my husband Icarus was a widower, I didn’t ask how his wife died; instead I asked how old his son was.  “Guess.”  Which meant his son was older than I would guess, so I picked a middle figure, nine.  “Eighteen.  I got married at twenty-one.  My wife died three years ago.  I’m still in love with her.  She’s still here,” he said pointing to his head.  Since then I went out with one woman….”  Clearly he was looking for his wife.  Not a wife, his wife.

He continued holding my hands, and leaned so closely to me that our lips almost met.  It was time to leave for the restaurant, but we didn’t want to have to get up and let go of each other.   He suggested: “We could eat without our hands.”  “Yes, it’s the only solution!”  “Okay, but we have to get up!”  “On the count of three!”  At three I stood up, but he stayed seated without letting go, and then finally got up without letting go.  I’d never been on a date with such a charming and seductive man.  We walked down the street arm in arm, and anything seemed possible.

As soon as we sat down in the restaurant he took my hands again.  We had a terrible time concentrating on reading the menu.... The waiter had to come around three times.  The Indian music was so sensual, our hands played and danced together.  He kissed my fingers and the palms of my hands, without breaking his gaze into my eyes. We speak openly and directly.  We teased and joked a lot.  He understood my sense of humor: “With you everything is in the third or fourth degree.”  We planned voyages, the destinations, and what we’d do when we got there.  He brought me back to reality gently from time to time:  “Our voyages are shared fantasies, nothing more.” 

He admired my hands.  “Are your feet as slender and beautiful?”  “Yes.”  “I’d like to see.”  I slipped my foot out of my shoe and placed it in his lap.  “Yes, they are, but I can’t see very well through the stocking.”  “I could take the stockings off.”  We laugh, look around.  More drunk on the seduction than on the wine, this is really crazy--I slipped off into the restroom and removed my stockings.  Back at the table he massaged my foot, my heart raced, my hands trembled and I had difficulty getting the food up from the plate to my mouth. He wanted to kiss.  I hesitated.  Where is this story that can’t go anywhere going?  Finally, I gave in.

“Shall I come up to see your photos?”  “We can’t, you know what will happen.”  “It isn’t reasonable, is it?  But then what’s reasonable?  “You’ve really turned me on.  I want to make love with you.”  “But everything would stop there, there wouldn’t be a possibility for feelings to develop later.”  “But it’s already impossible.  I can’t fall in love with you, I already told you that.  Nothing’s changed.   We’ve just been on a fantasy flight, that’s all, on a delicious cloud.  I’d like to, but it would just be physical.  It could be with you, or another woman, or another.... We can’t do it, because I respect you.”  “But why then do you keep reaching out to me?”  “I need the contact...it’s been a long time...”  The fantasy came crashing down.  He wanted me to speak, but I was choked up, silent and sad.  He wanted me to smile again and be playful, but for me it’d been a game that’d been as painful as pleasurable.  What could I say?  Sure, as he’d insisted, it was impossible from the beginning.  But I’ve never spent an evening with a man who was so seductive...who said he found me so charming and attractive, how could I not think that I hadn’t won him over a little bit?  He walked me back home.  We hugged and kissed and kissed and hugged again and then finally let go of each other.  “You want you don’t you?”  And so?

It was a wonderful evening; I’ve never been on such a lovely date, and never on one that left me so confused.  He said he wanted to see me again.  What in the world for?  More flights of fantasy?  Seduction?  The warmth of another’s touch, without any risk?  It’s not all clear, that’s for sure.  Another page to turn.  Time to step off of this cloud.

Copyright © 2011

Because I can speak

16 May 2011

Today is my 1^st anniversary of sobriety!  I’m amazed.  It’s hard to believe it’s true.  My life is so much better than it was a year ago.  It’s not my first 1^st anniversary, but each time you go out and come back it’s that much harder.  When you go out, you don’t know if you’ll get to come back.  There isn’t a revolving door for sobriety, if you’re really lucky you make it back into the rooms, the lucky you’ll end up in a psych ward or jail, and the less fortunate die before their time.  I’ve often heard it said in the rooms “Keep coming back,” and that “It gets better.”  And that when you get to your first year of sobriety you think it can’t get any better, but when you get to your second it’s even better, and to your fifth, and your tenth, and your fiftieth,  you still can’t think it can get better, but it does.  Today I’m happy to report that I can’t imagine what better might be, which means I’ve probably been doing a pretty good job of living in the day rather than projecting into the future and setting up expectations that would probably lead to disappointments.  Yesterday I spent the day in bed with a migraine, and as I was lying in bed it struck me once again just how happy I am with my life, that I wouldn’t change anything about my past if I could: every disappointment, every frustration, and every setback, has led me to where I am.  And I'm happy with my life today.  I wouldn’t choose not to be bipolar or alcoholic, for both for both diseases present constant challenges which are opportunities for growth.  I felt truly grateful to have a roof over my head, and to have a room no matter how small and inconvenient.  I felt grateful for all of the activities I have, to have a life that feels full whereas a year ago my life felt empty.

Today I felt well enough to reflect over the last year in greater detail.  Just a few days before a year ago, I was lying in bed feeling sick and tired of feeling sick and tired: I’d been in a depression that had dragged on way beyond it’s time.  While I was trying to figure out how to bring it to an end, I remembered that drinking on my psych meds makes them less effective, that once again I was auto-medicating depression with a depressant, and that therefore I wouldn’t have any chance of getting out of my depression if I didn’t get sober.  Oh I’d relapsed plenty of times all right, and I’d gotten sober plenty of times, but my last few years of drinking were different.  I was still regularly attending my alcohol support meetings, but two things were different: I’d started lying about my sobriety date out of embarrassment, and what was even more worrying, was that I’d begun to lose hope that I would be able to get sober again.  I’d been thinking of getting back into therapy for awhile and finally had insurance to cover it, so I called the S.O.S. helpline and got the name of a psychiatrist to see.

The psychiatrist asked lots of questions and took copious notes, maintaining a neutral demeanour until I brought up my alcohol history and current consumption.  She looked quite concerned, which was a great relief to me.  While I knew how serious my situation was, I needed to look at it straight in the face.  I don’t remember what her exact words were, but it doesn’t matter.  She said something about how over time, alcohol damages the cerebral cortex, making it harder to make decisions and to carry through with them.   Reflecting on what she’d said during the metro ride home, I remembered what I’d learned in my alcohol support group that you stay sober 24 hours at a time, and you can re-start your day at any time, I told myself: “I’ll stop drinking right now.  If I wait until tomorrow there will always be a tomorrow.”

I should correct myself a bit here.  The depression had actually begun to lift mid-November, immediately prior to visiting my older brother in Spain for seven weeks.  Peter pays my airfare, works on my wardrobe--buys co-ordinated clothes and jewellery in advance, and continues to complete my wardrobe while I’m there, he cooks great meals, generally spoils me, and is great company.  Not to mention that his apartment is beautifully decorated and peaceful, and is five minutes from the beach and the historical district of town.  Whenever I’m there I feel great, in fact I feel so good that I become convinced that I can do more than I can, and begin making overambitious plans for what I’ll do when I return to Paris.  Towards the end of my visit, one night on my way to sleep, I fell into a terrible self-pity mode about how I’d lost so many years of my life to bipolar disorder and alcoholism, that I’d failed--we’ll go into the importance of that another day.  (For those of you who aren’t alcoholics, you should know that one of the number one offenders for drinking and relapses is self-pity.)  The next night I was unable to sleep, I went into a manic mode of thinking: I lied awake most of the night, planning out in great detail how I’d catch up for the “lost years,” I visualized each of the series of photos that I would make for the next ten years, calculated how long it would take me to make each, and so on.  Shortly after my return to Paris I discovered that I was back in a masked depression.  I looked and felt well, terrific in fact.  I’d wake up feeling on top of the world, and wondering where to start with my day after my cup of coffee.  That was as far as I got, I was a brand new sports car with no gas in my tank.  Every time I tried to do something, I became paralyzed and frustrated.

With a little bit of sobriety, things changed.  I enrolled in a digital photography and PhotoShop class, a studio lighting class, and a gym class, in addition to my belly dance class, and increased my number of teaching hours.  And add in all of the meetings I get to, and you’ve got a pretty busy day.  And most importantly, after all these years, I’m really back into my writing and photography, which are two of the things that make me happiest.  A year ago, walking half a block down the street to the park seemed like an insurmountable task.  Today I spent a good deal of today reflecting on the progress I’ve made over the past year, feeling grateful.


I had a few hours hours to kill in a park, so I skimmed through a book on domestic violence, trying to remember what it was like.  I'm not ready to read it yet, I'm just dipping my toes into the boiling waters.  The task seemed a bit pre-mature, I’ll be able to go into greater detail on it when I work through my fourth step with my sponsor, and I’ve worked more with my new psychologist.  But from past experience I know that it will take me it will take me a bit of time to work on my own before I can work with them.  Some people will wonder why I need to dig though the past, will protest “But it’s been eleven years since you left your husband, it’s time to move on.”  It’s not that simple, there are scars, there are wounds, there are things from the past that I need to work through before I can move on to the future.  Today I know that I’m not ready to get into a new relationship that I’m still unprepared for men who want to control me or abuse me — the two words control and abuse are interchangeable. 

There are several reasons I need to address abusive relationships.  The first, for me, is that if I don’t, I’ll continue to repeat them, the second is that most women who have been abused have no public voice, and the third is that society as a whole continues to deny abuse, what it is, how it happens, how it continues to happen, and what the consequences are.  When you grow up with abuse it is what’s normal, so you don’t recognize it.  The fact that society directly or indirectly condones it, multiplies it.  Because I can speak, I must speak.  

Copyright © 2011