Delia Day (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} deliaday) wrote,@ 2003-11-06 19:02:00 |
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Yo' man don't really love you...
"Yo' man crazy as shit, too, you better watch out for his crazy ass!" The email I just got, Jerry Springerized, because that statement, in its original, seemed to belong more on the Jerry Springer show than in my mail box.
It takes a lot of righteous presumption to proclaim what someone you don't know may or may not feel emotionally. It takes a lot of denial to think a twelve year track record of happy, as reported by me and him - the only people who's opinion counts on that assessment, relationship amounts to "dangerous" and "crazy" and to "he does not love you in any way shape or form."
Now we're talking about the guy that is tickled more when I don't orgasm than when I do, which was a matter related to that less than supportive comment, and the guy that makes no bones about reveling extreme sadomasochistic sexual practices, which I don't either. I like that stuff. I don't think he's cruel and uncaring to do those things for me (Note, I did not say "to me.") I would think he was cruel and uncaring to not do them, telling me they weren't right in judgmental dismissal of my own feelings about them. We're also talking about the guy that's done more for me than any other person in my life. The guy that's always there for me. They guy that cuddles with me watching movies, brings me coffee in the morning, tells me funny stories to make me laugh, and has not in twelve years ever been judgmental of me or let me down the first time.
It's an impressive track record, to say the least, and frankly, it kinda pisses me off when someone proceeds to preach to me about what his feelings may or may not be because they can't quite comprehend that whole extreme sex thing and the things I say about it don't fit neatly into any mold of romantic stereotype.
I do not wonder why I feel much safer in his company than in the company of the moral majority and s collective social conscious at work. I do not question what emotions he feels either, they've really been pretty obvious to me all along. I do live with the fellow. I do know the fellow. The good, the bad, the beautiful, and even the ugly, inside and out.
It would actually be hard for me to imagine anyone with more self-awareness and self-comfort than him. He exudes calm tranquility and stability. He is the most well rounded, emotionally well adjusted, and nice person I've ever known, which is the antithesis of "dangerous" and "crazy".
There are a lot of stories that attest to his character I've told, but oddly to me, sometimes people think my facial expression in sex says more about him than those stories, or that my thinking out loud about my own feelings somehow does.
The reference of why the commentator said what she said about him was just that, my own thinking out loud on the subject or orgasms, and reaching some clarity of thought. Good clarity. Clarity to just stop worrying about them. There's not all that important to me or my sexual gratification anymore, which has been a change that's slowly happened over the years propelled by a combination of factors from his influence to my own growing level of self-awareness and comfort.
I don't give a rats ass whether I have an orgasm ever again. I frankly get a lot more satisfaction from not having them than I ever did from having them. This is perhaps difficult for the orgasm-centric typical person to understand, though. I am quite happy with it as the atypical individual myself, however.
The only word I can use to describe the change there is liberating. It was. I am appreciative for the pushing towards it, which was deeply linked to a previously repressed out of fear of unacceptance aspect of myself. It got me out of the old closet, and comfortable admitting to the world I'm a queer queer.
Can you imagine telling the person you love, your mate for many years, who knows you as one sex, that deep down inside, you don't feel like that at all?
"Honey, I want a sex change operation." Followed by a stunned, blank look, and a divorce. That isn't something most would not just accept, but embrace, going out of their way to be supportive of you and modifying their comfortable routines of sexual practice to accommodate you better.
There are several pieces to the puzzle of orgasms.
There is him, and he is surely humored and pleased that my greatest pleasure is from pleasing him. Sex focuses on him. I focus on him. He focuses me on him. He always encouraged that, a little more and a little more until it was as natural as breathing for me. Sex is all about his physical pleasure. Gasp on that, that seems to be the statement a lot of people gasp about.
Sex is all about my psychological pleasure, and well, that is a much bigger and better pleasure, if you ask me. It's not about the sensations for me, it is the feelings, which I get in spades of gratification and satisfaction from it. Deep feelings, not shallow, fleeting ones that fade with the sexual flush. Contented feelings of meaning, purpose, and giving.
Sex is all about penises and vaginas and gender roles, as well, and when you've got to answer the question, "Gender, male or female?" with "none of the above," sex gets complicated and conflicting. There was always a conflict inside, and I always had a love hate relationship with my cunt. It was a fight that was never settled, until someone stepped in to help make peace, realizing the turmoil was not all together healthy, and also realizing an opportunity to push things more in a direction that amused him at the same time.
Looking back, I wouldn't have held in my feelings there for so many years had I known they would be so welcomed and fit so well within our relationship, but it finally did come out, and what he said was not what I had feared. It was "Well, that explains a lot. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
I don't much get fucked like a girl anymore. I don't much get reminded I have a vagina anymore. I don't much feel conflicted with myself anymore, though. I get called a faggot a lot, which really turns me on to hear unlike those other more traditional pet names of slut and cunt and whore, and humored greatly. I get to feel comfortable being me, and I get to have even more satisfaction from sex. I don't find it in conflict with other parts of me anymore.
Just let me suck your dick and fuck my ass and leave my pussy out it as much as possible, please. That makes me a happy boy, and I do feel quite loved for that and uncountable more reasons.
The puzzle of why someone would tell someone else that someone didn't love them remains unsolved, though. On the Jerry Springer show those are the sort of mean and ugly statements made to undermine the emotional security of rivals for that man that don't love you because he love me instead biiatch.
It's a reprehensible, but more obvious behavior in that context than here. Here I'm really not sure what the fuck the point was. I don't think there was one.
"Yo' man crazy as shit, too, you better watch out for his crazy ass!" The email I just got, Jerry Springerized, because that statement, in its original, seemed to belong more on the Jerry Springer show than in my mail box.
It takes a lot of righteous presumption to proclaim what someone you don't know may or may not feel emotionally. It takes a lot of denial to think a twelve year track record of happy, as reported by me and him - the only people who's opinion counts on that assessment, relationship amounts to "dangerous" and "crazy" and to "he does not love you in any way shape or form."
Now we're talking about the guy that is tickled more when I don't orgasm than when I do, which was a matter related to that less than supportive comment, and the guy that makes no bones about reveling extreme sadomasochistic sexual practices, which I don't either. I like that stuff. I don't think he's cruel and uncaring to do those things for me (Note, I did not say "to me.") I would think he was cruel and uncaring to not do them, telling me they weren't right in judgmental dismissal of my own feelings about them. We're also talking about the guy that's done more for me than any other person in my life. The guy that's always there for me. They guy that cuddles with me watching movies, brings me coffee in the morning, tells me funny stories to make me laugh, and has not in twelve years ever been judgmental of me or let me down the first time.
It's an impressive track record, to say the least, and frankly, it kinda pisses me off when someone proceeds to preach to me about what his feelings may or may not be because they can't quite comprehend that whole extreme sex thing and the things I say about it don't fit neatly into any mold of romantic stereotype.
I do not wonder why I feel much safer in his company than in the company of the moral majority and s collective social conscious at work. I do not question what emotions he feels either, they've really been pretty obvious to me all along. I do live with the fellow. I do know the fellow. The good, the bad, the beautiful, and even the ugly, inside and out.
It would actually be hard for me to imagine anyone with more self-awareness and self-comfort than him. He exudes calm tranquility and stability. He is the most well rounded, emotionally well adjusted, and nice person I've ever known, which is the antithesis of "dangerous" and "crazy".
There are a lot of stories that attest to his character I've told, but oddly to me, sometimes people think my facial expression in sex says more about him than those stories, or that my thinking out loud about my own feelings somehow does.
The reference of why the commentator said what she said about him was just that, my own thinking out loud on the subject or orgasms, and reaching some clarity of thought. Good clarity. Clarity to just stop worrying about them. There's not all that important to me or my sexual gratification anymore, which has been a change that's slowly happened over the years propelled by a combination of factors from his influence to my own growing level of self-awareness and comfort.
I don't give a rats ass whether I have an orgasm ever again. I frankly get a lot more satisfaction from not having them than I ever did from having them. This is perhaps difficult for the orgasm-centric typical person to understand, though. I am quite happy with it as the atypical individual myself, however.
The only word I can use to describe the change there is liberating. It was. I am appreciative for the pushing towards it, which was deeply linked to a previously repressed out of fear of unacceptance aspect of myself. It got me out of the old closet, and comfortable admitting to the world I'm a queer queer.
Can you imagine telling the person you love, your mate for many years, who knows you as one sex, that deep down inside, you don't feel like that at all?
"Honey, I want a sex change operation." Followed by a stunned, blank look, and a divorce. That isn't something most would not just accept, but embrace, going out of their way to be supportive of you and modifying their comfortable routines of sexual practice to accommodate you better.
There are several pieces to the puzzle of orgasms.
There is him, and he is surely humored and pleased that my greatest pleasure is from pleasing him. Sex focuses on him. I focus on him. He focuses me on him. He always encouraged that, a little more and a little more until it was as natural as breathing for me. Sex is all about his physical pleasure. Gasp on that, that seems to be the statement a lot of people gasp about.
Sex is all about my psychological pleasure, and well, that is a much bigger and better pleasure, if you ask me. It's not about the sensations for me, it is the feelings, which I get in spades of gratification and satisfaction from it. Deep feelings, not shallow, fleeting ones that fade with the sexual flush. Contented feelings of meaning, purpose, and giving.
Sex is all about penises and vaginas and gender roles, as well, and when you've got to answer the question, "Gender, male or female?" with "none of the above," sex gets complicated and conflicting. There was always a conflict inside, and I always had a love hate relationship with my cunt. It was a fight that was never settled, until someone stepped in to help make peace, realizing the turmoil was not all together healthy, and also realizing an opportunity to push things more in a direction that amused him at the same time.
Looking back, I wouldn't have held in my feelings there for so many years had I known they would be so welcomed and fit so well within our relationship, but it finally did come out, and what he said was not what I had feared. It was "Well, that explains a lot. Why didn't you tell me sooner?"
I don't much get fucked like a girl anymore. I don't much get reminded I have a vagina anymore. I don't much feel conflicted with myself anymore, though. I get called a faggot a lot, which really turns me on to hear unlike those other more traditional pet names of slut and cunt and whore, and humored greatly. I get to feel comfortable being me, and I get to have even more satisfaction from sex. I don't find it in conflict with other parts of me anymore.
Just let me suck your dick and fuck my ass and leave my pussy out it as much as possible, please. That makes me a happy boy, and I do feel quite loved for that and uncountable more reasons.
The puzzle of why someone would tell someone else that someone didn't love them remains unsolved, though. On the Jerry Springer show those are the sort of mean and ugly statements made to undermine the emotional security of rivals for that man that don't love you because he love me instead biiatch.
It's a reprehensible, but more obvious behavior in that context than here. Here I'm really not sure what the fuck the point was. I don't think there was one.
