[picture removed out of courtesy to the obssessee ]
I'm only going to leave this up for a couple of days. I shouldn't have it; I should not be displaying it in public; it is not mine to display, but still, I must. I have to do something, I need to testify in a manner both secret and public that there is something fucking beautiful about this man even if I'm the only one I can see it. I found it on facebook, via Marie. He looks deceptively young, almost innocent, in this photograph. He's (obviously?) the one on the right.
Look at his eyes and his smile. What is there, in them, that is so alarming? I can't pinpoint it. It's a hesitance, a serenity, a naturalness, a possible sweetness--but a sweetness that is rough around the edges. A sweetness that is vaguely insensitive and unself-conscious.
I think that Monique has mistaken his sincerity for meanness. He is lacking in sensitivity, but that is an extension, I think, of his sincerity. Authenticity is really fucking hard to come by these days. We don't know what to say when someone is absolutely blunt, refuses to sugar coat--for whom sugar coating is not even an option.
I've thought about him too much in the past 48 hours. It's awful. But the first time in, God, a year? More? I feel absolutely alive. It's almost manic. I have been so calm, so even, the past 12 months. And what is this based on? Some semi-drunken conversations, a few halted moments of superficial physical contact, some hidden signals in a random facebook photo? But still. It feels wonderful.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Mike
I think I like Mike.
I mentioned him before (specifically on May 3).
For a suit Mike is... well, kind of unique.
When he, Chris, Mo and I were at O’Leary’s last time, I was at least somewhat attracted to his personality which is, in a word, rare. He was caustic, but in a gentle way; he made fun of girls wearing sun dresses and obvious make-up—they were “trying too hard,” he said. He spoke disparagingly of Nick’s intelligence, which took me pleasantly by surprise given that Nick is, compared to most people, quite smart. Mike was confident, without being cocky. He didn’t look too hard at women. He didn’t force conversation. He was... something else.
Anyway. Last night was pretty interesting. A bunch of us went to Elwoods to see the Jimmy Swift Band (I know; these names mean nothing to you; whatever) and turns out Mike kind of likes me. Well, maybe. He was hitting on me, in retrospect, more so than any man in a long time. He told me, entirely unprovoked (and quite sober) that I was beautiful. Given that I’ve been feeling completely hideous the past few days on account of the whole hotornot disillusion, I am not taking such a word lightly.
He is a very strange mixture of intelligence and pure crudeness. It takes a certain gift to be able to talk about “the shocker,” his own penis size, and requests to touch my ass without sounding disgusting, but he could actually pull it off. He was touching me a lot—you know, an arm touch here, a shoulder-grab there, and the very strange ass-squeeze that came out of nowhere but was neither out of place nor physically awkward. He lamented Monique’s presence. It was all very unexpected. A shocker of its own, I guess.
Monique was shocked, herself, when I told her that I might have developed a thing for him. She thinks he’s judgmental, and mean, and thinks himself superior. I see where she’s coming from. He’s definitely negative—he spoke critically about Nick, this girl he came with, The Welfare State, our city, his penis, his hair, and teen pregnancy. By the same token, such criticism was delivered neutrally, simply, and seemingly without pretension. Even if he is pretentious, I can handle that. No one has ever made me feel intellectually inferior, especially when it comes to political and/or philosophical discussion. And it takes a unique man to speak with equal disparagement about his supposedly tiny penis and social security whilst still being pleasant and, to a certain extent, charming. He’s generally deprecating, but in a harmless way. In an attractive way.
Now that I think about it, he only spoke positively about one thing that whole night. And that was me.
Anyway, we’ll see what happens.
---
Eve’s plain face hotornot score (on a 1-10 scale): 9
Velcroed’s: 5.1
Ouch.
I’ve always been so angry when people would say things like “Ignorance is bliss.” The truth hurts. But it’s a good hurt.
I mentioned him before (specifically on May 3).
For a suit Mike is... well, kind of unique.
When he, Chris, Mo and I were at O’Leary’s last time, I was at least somewhat attracted to his personality which is, in a word, rare. He was caustic, but in a gentle way; he made fun of girls wearing sun dresses and obvious make-up—they were “trying too hard,” he said. He spoke disparagingly of Nick’s intelligence, which took me pleasantly by surprise given that Nick is, compared to most people, quite smart. Mike was confident, without being cocky. He didn’t look too hard at women. He didn’t force conversation. He was... something else.
Anyway. Last night was pretty interesting. A bunch of us went to Elwoods to see the Jimmy Swift Band (I know; these names mean nothing to you; whatever) and turns out Mike kind of likes me. Well, maybe. He was hitting on me, in retrospect, more so than any man in a long time. He told me, entirely unprovoked (and quite sober) that I was beautiful. Given that I’ve been feeling completely hideous the past few days on account of the whole hotornot disillusion, I am not taking such a word lightly.
He is a very strange mixture of intelligence and pure crudeness. It takes a certain gift to be able to talk about “the shocker,” his own penis size, and requests to touch my ass without sounding disgusting, but he could actually pull it off. He was touching me a lot—you know, an arm touch here, a shoulder-grab there, and the very strange ass-squeeze that came out of nowhere but was neither out of place nor physically awkward. He lamented Monique’s presence. It was all very unexpected. A shocker of its own, I guess.
Monique was shocked, herself, when I told her that I might have developed a thing for him. She thinks he’s judgmental, and mean, and thinks himself superior. I see where she’s coming from. He’s definitely negative—he spoke critically about Nick, this girl he came with, The Welfare State, our city, his penis, his hair, and teen pregnancy. By the same token, such criticism was delivered neutrally, simply, and seemingly without pretension. Even if he is pretentious, I can handle that. No one has ever made me feel intellectually inferior, especially when it comes to political and/or philosophical discussion. And it takes a unique man to speak with equal disparagement about his supposedly tiny penis and social security whilst still being pleasant and, to a certain extent, charming. He’s generally deprecating, but in a harmless way. In an attractive way.
Now that I think about it, he only spoke positively about one thing that whole night. And that was me.
Anyway, we’ll see what happens.
---
Eve’s plain face hotornot score (on a 1-10 scale): 9
Velcroed’s: 5.1
Ouch.
I’ve always been so angry when people would say things like “Ignorance is bliss.” The truth hurts. But it’s a good hurt.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Eve vs Velcroed
I have gone through most of my life thinking I was beautiful.
This is due, in most part, to my mother, the only person I trusted entirely, telling me, repeatedly, since I was about 5 years old, that I was the most beautiful girl in the whole world. I believed her. Without debate, without question.
I also believed that old adage that, when I got to a datable age, I would “be beating them off with a stick,” that they would “be lined up at the door.” It was a few years after her death that I discovered that these were, in fact, common utterances—verbatim—to young girls by their mothers all over the maritime provinces and, I suspect, all over North America.
My body has always been beautiful, I know that—Mr BMI tells me I’m perfect, and I believe that. I BELIEVE THAT. But this question of facial beauty—well, that’s a bit trickier.
I stumbled upon this website [beautycheck], which documents a very interesting and one of the most famous studies in facial aesthetics. The following two pictures are computer composites demonstrating what are, possibly, the most possibly beautiful of human faces. For details on the project, go to the site. Very interesting. Anyway, here they are.
So I’ve been thinking a lot about beauty, and how I measure up, and how others perceive me. Regarding my physicality, I’ve been the subject of relentless pursuit, blatant rejection, and indifference. I have often asked my friends and family to tell me, as objectively as possible, how attractive I am. The responses have been overwhelmingly positive, but I know this is in part because a) my loved ones, understandably, may not want to hurt my feelings by telling me that I’m plain and/or ugly, and b) may find me more attractive than I am, strictly on a physical level, on account of my unbelievably infectious personality, wit, and charm. I mean, I can be quite fetching in person.
I could always, of course, post various pictures on my blog, but again: you, reader, are like a friend to me, and may therefore not want to hurt my feelings. Another possibility, of course, is that you, too, have become smitten with my literary personality, and therefore may subconciously find me more attractive than you would if you just, say, saw me walking down Main St with a neutral expression on my face.
So there was only one answer: hotornot.com. Below is the picture I submitted to the site. It's a graduation photo, from 18 months ago.
I was expecting something in the 8-9 range for the photo below this paragraph. I mean, I look pretty damn happy in this picture, I’m wearing make-up (which I usually don’t), my hair is fairly nice, and the photography was professionally done, with “beauty-enhancing” lighting, etc.
As of now, my score is 6.6, based on 425 votes, on a scale of 1-10 (not 0-10, as it should be).
Now, there are 4 major factors worth remembering:
1) I do not look this attractive, facially, usually.
2) My body is not in the picture, and my body is, in all honesty, about 5 lbs from perfection.
3) Girls who are scantily clad and in semi-sexually-suggestive poses tend to get higher ratings on hotornot.
4) Many people, including myself, do not always take a significant amount of time to consider each picture before voting. I, for example, have been super-guilty of repeatedly clicking “6”s just to get through pictures quicker. So there is a possibly high degree of randomness in many votes.
So how can we discover how attractive velcroed is?
Good question. And I have the answer.
I’m going to put up two new photos, one of the prototype perfectly beautiful female (let’s call her “Eve”), who is wearing no make-up, a neutral facial expression, and with her hair pulled back, with one of myself, following those same criteria. I will then take Eve’s score (which will be known as x) (which will probably be, like, 7 or 8, I suspect) and mark my new score (which will be known as y) out of whatever score Eve received, dividing y by x and multiplying by 10 to give me a tidy little number on a 0-10 scale (sidenote: whoever invented 1-10 scales is a moron).
I will keep you updated on how attractive I am, if you’d like.
P.S. Hilariously, the below (and, in my opinion, completely gorgeous) photo of Monique was rejected by the hotornot moderators, on account of her looking “under 18.” She’s turning 24 soon.
This is due, in most part, to my mother, the only person I trusted entirely, telling me, repeatedly, since I was about 5 years old, that I was the most beautiful girl in the whole world. I believed her. Without debate, without question.
I also believed that old adage that, when I got to a datable age, I would “be beating them off with a stick,” that they would “be lined up at the door.” It was a few years after her death that I discovered that these were, in fact, common utterances—verbatim—to young girls by their mothers all over the maritime provinces and, I suspect, all over North America.
My body has always been beautiful, I know that—Mr BMI tells me I’m perfect, and I believe that. I BELIEVE THAT. But this question of facial beauty—well, that’s a bit trickier.
I stumbled upon this website [beautycheck], which documents a very interesting and one of the most famous studies in facial aesthetics. The following two pictures are computer composites demonstrating what are, possibly, the most possibly beautiful of human faces. For details on the project, go to the site. Very interesting. Anyway, here they are.
So I’ve been thinking a lot about beauty, and how I measure up, and how others perceive me. Regarding my physicality, I’ve been the subject of relentless pursuit, blatant rejection, and indifference. I have often asked my friends and family to tell me, as objectively as possible, how attractive I am. The responses have been overwhelmingly positive, but I know this is in part because a) my loved ones, understandably, may not want to hurt my feelings by telling me that I’m plain and/or ugly, and b) may find me more attractive than I am, strictly on a physical level, on account of my unbelievably infectious personality, wit, and charm. I mean, I can be quite fetching in person.
I could always, of course, post various pictures on my blog, but again: you, reader, are like a friend to me, and may therefore not want to hurt my feelings. Another possibility, of course, is that you, too, have become smitten with my literary personality, and therefore may subconciously find me more attractive than you would if you just, say, saw me walking down Main St with a neutral expression on my face.
So there was only one answer: hotornot.com. Below is the picture I submitted to the site. It's a graduation photo, from 18 months ago.
I was expecting something in the 8-9 range for the photo below this paragraph. I mean, I look pretty damn happy in this picture, I’m wearing make-up (which I usually don’t), my hair is fairly nice, and the photography was professionally done, with “beauty-enhancing” lighting, etc.
As of now, my score is 6.6, based on 425 votes, on a scale of 1-10 (not 0-10, as it should be).
Now, there are 4 major factors worth remembering:
1) I do not look this attractive, facially, usually.
2) My body is not in the picture, and my body is, in all honesty, about 5 lbs from perfection.
3) Girls who are scantily clad and in semi-sexually-suggestive poses tend to get higher ratings on hotornot.
4) Many people, including myself, do not always take a significant amount of time to consider each picture before voting. I, for example, have been super-guilty of repeatedly clicking “6”s just to get through pictures quicker. So there is a possibly high degree of randomness in many votes.
So how can we discover how attractive velcroed is?
Good question. And I have the answer.
I’m going to put up two new photos, one of the prototype perfectly beautiful female (let’s call her “Eve”), who is wearing no make-up, a neutral facial expression, and with her hair pulled back, with one of myself, following those same criteria. I will then take Eve’s score (which will be known as x) (which will probably be, like, 7 or 8, I suspect) and mark my new score (which will be known as y) out of whatever score Eve received, dividing y by x and multiplying by 10 to give me a tidy little number on a 0-10 scale (sidenote: whoever invented 1-10 scales is a moron).
I will keep you updated on how attractive I am, if you’d like.
P.S. Hilariously, the below (and, in my opinion, completely gorgeous) photo of Monique was rejected by the hotornot moderators, on account of her looking “under 18.” She’s turning 24 soon.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
funeral (nostalgia)
I spy on my friends, sometimes. They say things they don’t necessarily want me to hear—usually, they think I’m not listening, even though the room we’re in is so dark, anybody could be there, really. Mind you, it’s important to keep in mind that these aren’t secrets I’m overhearing, just tidbits they don’t know I know about. So when Tiffany expresses extreme enthusiasm at going to see Silversun Pickups, I notice, even though she has no idea I was even there when she was talking about it. Then, when Tara, or Monique, or someone, mentions that they heard this really awesome song by Silver-something, I remember Tiffany, and the name of the band. I say “Silversun Pickups?” and Tara/Monique says “Maybe” and that’s pretty much the end of it.
So I just watched the “lazy eye” video—by Silversun Pickups—and feel vague indigestion, and very mild anger. Not disappointment, of course—it takes so much to get me disappointed these days—but certainly unimpressed. The minor thing was that I couldn’t figure out whether the main character is male or female, which is always disconcerting if not a deal-breaker.
The major thing was that there was no real delivery—the song was good, sure, but it doesn’t go anywhere, it doesn’t do anything. A truly fantastic song both goes and does. It does not sit on the couch, night after night. It does not refuse to make eye contact. It doesn’t have to skydive, of course, or climb mountains, or run marathons, but it must have a proper climax, replete with sweat and if not at least one audible yelp of pleasure, tears. ‘Lazy eye’ does an almost-climax, but it is a tease that leaves you hungry.
When I hear of a new “indie rock” band from North America, something like hope always sparks in me. I’m looking for the Next Best Thing which is, of course, the next Arcade Fire. But even the Arcade Fire has ceased to be the Arcade Fire. ‘Neon Bible’ is a wonderful and oft-times beautiful album with very good lyrics and a couple of moments of poignancy. It is arguably the best album to be released this year thus far. That being said, ‘Neon Bible’ ain’t no ‘Funeral.’ ‘Funeral’ was the musical equivalent to my first love. I’d thought I’d been there many times—first when I was five, then once in junior high, several times in high school, a couple of times in university, but one night two years after I graduated from degree #1 I met this guy who blew my mind, and oh, that’s what everyone’s talking about.
That guy was Funeral. And there has been no second Funeral, no one even close.I do not say this pretentiously, or facetiously. It is a truth ununiversally acknowledged (but a truth nonetheless) that Funeral was the penultimate accomplishment in modern music. And when I hear Tiffany, in that dark room, talk about a man I’ve never met before, my ears perk up though I know not to get my hopes up. I know not to expect delivery on unspoken promises, but still I listen. Even if it’s just out of habit, so be it. I say there’ll never be another first love, another funeral. But what I want most is to be proven wrong.
So I just watched the “lazy eye” video—by Silversun Pickups—and feel vague indigestion, and very mild anger. Not disappointment, of course—it takes so much to get me disappointed these days—but certainly unimpressed. The minor thing was that I couldn’t figure out whether the main character is male or female, which is always disconcerting if not a deal-breaker.
The major thing was that there was no real delivery—the song was good, sure, but it doesn’t go anywhere, it doesn’t do anything. A truly fantastic song both goes and does. It does not sit on the couch, night after night. It does not refuse to make eye contact. It doesn’t have to skydive, of course, or climb mountains, or run marathons, but it must have a proper climax, replete with sweat and if not at least one audible yelp of pleasure, tears. ‘Lazy eye’ does an almost-climax, but it is a tease that leaves you hungry.
When I hear of a new “indie rock” band from North America, something like hope always sparks in me. I’m looking for the Next Best Thing which is, of course, the next Arcade Fire. But even the Arcade Fire has ceased to be the Arcade Fire. ‘Neon Bible’ is a wonderful and oft-times beautiful album with very good lyrics and a couple of moments of poignancy. It is arguably the best album to be released this year thus far. That being said, ‘Neon Bible’ ain’t no ‘Funeral.’ ‘Funeral’ was the musical equivalent to my first love. I’d thought I’d been there many times—first when I was five, then once in junior high, several times in high school, a couple of times in university, but one night two years after I graduated from degree #1 I met this guy who blew my mind, and oh, that’s what everyone’s talking about.
That guy was Funeral. And there has been no second Funeral, no one even close.I do not say this pretentiously, or facetiously. It is a truth ununiversally acknowledged (but a truth nonetheless) that Funeral was the penultimate accomplishment in modern music. And when I hear Tiffany, in that dark room, talk about a man I’ve never met before, my ears perk up though I know not to get my hopes up. I know not to expect delivery on unspoken promises, but still I listen. Even if it’s just out of habit, so be it. I say there’ll never be another first love, another funeral. But what I want most is to be proven wrong.
Monday, May 21, 2007
oh, mo
While watching Bobby, quite possibly the most boring. movie. ever. Which is shocking given that it stars Shia TheBeef.
VELCROED: You know, when you think about the fact that, like, 45,000 US casualties died during ‘Nam, the whole Iraq thing isn’t soooooo bad.
MONIQUE: I guess. Why are we even there?
VELCROED: Uh... we aren’t.
MONIQUE: Oh. We’re somewhere though, right? Where are we then? Iran?
Yes, folks, that’s my highly educated runner-up best friend, Mo-neek. She’s actually pretty smart.
***
We saw 28 Weeks Later, which I wanted to walk out of, but no, I’m strong, I can handle anything. For some comic relief I moved all of Mo's and my stuff five rows back and on the other side of the theatre when she went to the bathroom. Always a hilarious trick. Anyway, the movie was pretty good, but an entirely different movie than 28 Days Later, the latter being an absolutely fascinating, yet terribly dark view on human nature etc., starring the most beautiful man Ireland has ever squeezed out. I watched it alone last night, in a foreign house—I was cat-sitting for some friends this week-end—and managed to not be scared thanks to the FREAKING ADORABLE three 2-week old kittens crawling all over me. It’s like I’m catnip or something. Cats love me. Yet another clue as to me being destined to become a Crazy Cat Lady. Which kind of sucks. ‘Cause, you know, litter boxes stink.
VELCROED: You know, when you think about the fact that, like, 45,000 US casualties died during ‘Nam, the whole Iraq thing isn’t soooooo bad.
MONIQUE: I guess. Why are we even there?
VELCROED: Uh... we aren’t.
MONIQUE: Oh. We’re somewhere though, right? Where are we then? Iran?
Yes, folks, that’s my highly educated runner-up best friend, Mo-neek. She’s actually pretty smart.
***
We saw 28 Weeks Later, which I wanted to walk out of, but no, I’m strong, I can handle anything. For some comic relief I moved all of Mo's and my stuff five rows back and on the other side of the theatre when she went to the bathroom. Always a hilarious trick. Anyway, the movie was pretty good, but an entirely different movie than 28 Days Later, the latter being an absolutely fascinating, yet terribly dark view on human nature etc., starring the most beautiful man Ireland has ever squeezed out. I watched it alone last night, in a foreign house—I was cat-sitting for some friends this week-end—and managed to not be scared thanks to the FREAKING ADORABLE three 2-week old kittens crawling all over me. It’s like I’m catnip or something. Cats love me. Yet another clue as to me being destined to become a Crazy Cat Lady. Which kind of sucks. ‘Cause, you know, litter boxes stink.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
types
The presence of a man’s hands on your body, when you’re paying him, doesn’t necessarily mean anything. No matter how young and attractive you are, and no matter how young and attractive he is, it is still a business transaction. I should have been somewhat aroused by the experience, but I wasn’t. Is it the medication? Or the fact that the encounter was costing me $65 and therefore could not be sexual lest my subconscious mind were to feel like a john? Did he get an erection, or part of one, seeing me, touching me, like that?
His name was Liam, and he was incredible. He is, according to Marie, “really hot”; that is not how I would describe him when I first saw him. Not my type, I thought.
He talks all through the massage; our conversation was almost entirely natural. We touched on matters that could have been risqué: racism, fate, and foreign policy, but we talked only in the way people talk when they’re not interested in having a serious conversation. They could have a serious conversation, if one party wasn’t naked and the other wasn’t getting paid to touch her, but instead they simply imply intelligence and wisdom.
I suspect he saw my breasts, some pubic hair, and two stray hairs on my leg I somehow missed in my last shave. I hope his sight of the first redeems the possibly disgust he may have felt upon seeing the latter two, but I don’t know, and don’t really care.
As I’m cooking some spaghettini alfredo for dinner, it occurs to me that Liam is the Liam in the pictures Marie sent me, in a joking attempt to show me all the hot friends her "boyfriend" could set me up with at some point in the future.
See, this began about one year ago. Marie and I, acquaintances, officially became friends about a year ago. At this time, Marie also signed up for a fake identity on a local free internet dating site, and became acquainted with several men. It was all kind of a joke thing on her end, but there was one guy she really had a thing for, after a while, called Nick. Nick and Marie started e-mailing constantly, and chatting, though Marie was never forthright with him regarding her name, age, or physical appearance. As in, she lied about these things to him.
Scared to confess that their cyber relationship was predicated on multiple lies, Marie was certain she would never meet Nick.
Then she goes to Sweden, for school, in January. She comes clean with Nick about her identity, and sends him pictures etc. He claims to not care, given that he is so in love with “the real her.” Nick is a late-20s soon-to-be-divorced man with an 8-year-old daughter. Marie believes that she and Nick are in love.
Things are pretty serious between them now, as far as cyber relations go. They chat online for an average of six hours a day, and usually talk an hour or so by phone daily as well. They have cyber and phone sex regularly. I’m extremely worried for Marie. She’s, for all intents and purposes, my best friend. She’s never been in a serious relationship before and, though Nick is fairly physically attractive, he’s not very well-off, may or may not be even remotely intelligent, and seems to have poor judgment in the ladies department, given the fact that he’d been married for, like, 6 months when they decided to get a divorce. This implies that he either did not know himself, or the woman he was marrying, or both, before entering marriage. Anyway. You don’t want to hear my antiquated views on marriage, but this whole divorce/8-yr-old thing rubs me the wrong way.
So Nick’s best friend is Liam, who had his unbelievably strong hands all over me (except, regrettably, my feet. Oh well). When I relay the experience to Marie, she quickly informs me that not only is Liam not-single, but he’s a “dog.” Apparently he makes regular trips out of province to get laid by women who would have no possible connexion to his girlfriend. Yeah.
Anyway, this is 3rd-hand information (Liam tells Nick, who tells Marie, who tells me) so I’m not putting too much stock in it but either way, you know, he’s not really my type anyway.
My type is Jean, a teacher at the school I teach at who is unbearably gorgeous and funny and just-a-bit-not-too-much-just-enough dark (personality-wise, that is). He has a thick French accent—normally I dislike all accents, but on him it sounds terribly awesome—and a girl-friend he’s been dating for three years.
So this is a roundabout way of saying I have no news and no prospects. But Michael Ondaatje has a new novel out, and when I was reading it, I forgot it was Michael Ondaatje and thought I was reading Alice Munro, which was extremely pleasant. Life’s not so awful after all.
His name was Liam, and he was incredible. He is, according to Marie, “really hot”; that is not how I would describe him when I first saw him. Not my type, I thought.
He talks all through the massage; our conversation was almost entirely natural. We touched on matters that could have been risqué: racism, fate, and foreign policy, but we talked only in the way people talk when they’re not interested in having a serious conversation. They could have a serious conversation, if one party wasn’t naked and the other wasn’t getting paid to touch her, but instead they simply imply intelligence and wisdom.
I suspect he saw my breasts, some pubic hair, and two stray hairs on my leg I somehow missed in my last shave. I hope his sight of the first redeems the possibly disgust he may have felt upon seeing the latter two, but I don’t know, and don’t really care.
As I’m cooking some spaghettini alfredo for dinner, it occurs to me that Liam is the Liam in the pictures Marie sent me, in a joking attempt to show me all the hot friends her "boyfriend" could set me up with at some point in the future.
See, this began about one year ago. Marie and I, acquaintances, officially became friends about a year ago. At this time, Marie also signed up for a fake identity on a local free internet dating site, and became acquainted with several men. It was all kind of a joke thing on her end, but there was one guy she really had a thing for, after a while, called Nick. Nick and Marie started e-mailing constantly, and chatting, though Marie was never forthright with him regarding her name, age, or physical appearance. As in, she lied about these things to him.
Scared to confess that their cyber relationship was predicated on multiple lies, Marie was certain she would never meet Nick.
Then she goes to Sweden, for school, in January. She comes clean with Nick about her identity, and sends him pictures etc. He claims to not care, given that he is so in love with “the real her.” Nick is a late-20s soon-to-be-divorced man with an 8-year-old daughter. Marie believes that she and Nick are in love.
Things are pretty serious between them now, as far as cyber relations go. They chat online for an average of six hours a day, and usually talk an hour or so by phone daily as well. They have cyber and phone sex regularly. I’m extremely worried for Marie. She’s, for all intents and purposes, my best friend. She’s never been in a serious relationship before and, though Nick is fairly physically attractive, he’s not very well-off, may or may not be even remotely intelligent, and seems to have poor judgment in the ladies department, given the fact that he’d been married for, like, 6 months when they decided to get a divorce. This implies that he either did not know himself, or the woman he was marrying, or both, before entering marriage. Anyway. You don’t want to hear my antiquated views on marriage, but this whole divorce/8-yr-old thing rubs me the wrong way.
So Nick’s best friend is Liam, who had his unbelievably strong hands all over me (except, regrettably, my feet. Oh well). When I relay the experience to Marie, she quickly informs me that not only is Liam not-single, but he’s a “dog.” Apparently he makes regular trips out of province to get laid by women who would have no possible connexion to his girlfriend. Yeah.
Anyway, this is 3rd-hand information (Liam tells Nick, who tells Marie, who tells me) so I’m not putting too much stock in it but either way, you know, he’s not really my type anyway.
My type is Jean, a teacher at the school I teach at who is unbearably gorgeous and funny and just-a-bit-not-too-much-just-enough dark (personality-wise, that is). He has a thick French accent—normally I dislike all accents, but on him it sounds terribly awesome—and a girl-friend he’s been dating for three years.
So this is a roundabout way of saying I have no news and no prospects. But Michael Ondaatje has a new novel out, and when I was reading it, I forgot it was Michael Ondaatje and thought I was reading Alice Munro, which was extremely pleasant. Life’s not so awful after all.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
sexuality (one)
I’m struggling with a couple of things. Mainly because I spent the last little while reading and reflecting on certain things in the new testament. Like, depending on the translation you’re using, it may be imperative to a) not have sex before marriage or b) not engage in sexual immorality. But what is sexual immorality?,
Most religious types, whether Catholic, Protestant, Muslim, or even Buddhist (not so sure about Jewish people, or Hindus, but regardless...) would claim that any sex before marriage is “immoral.” But what exactly does that mean? Coitus? Oral sex? Anything involving an orgasm? What about masturbation? The hard-liners, I suppose, would argue that any conscious activity resulting in orgasm prior to marriage is, in a word, sinful, though finding the textual back-up for that (in the New Testament, that is) is a lot more difficult than you may imagine.
So I’m kind of struggling with that, I guess. I feel nothing but repulsion when friends and acquaintances tell me about their casual sex encounters. And I feel guilty over some of my own experiences, as though they’ve tarnished me in some way, even though I’ve always felt what I would describe as love with the men I’ve been with. I can’t figure out if those guilt feelings are legitimate, though.
Other times I feel that my sexuality is something that should only be shared with my future husband, even though I suspect I will never marry.
If one wants to take the New Testament literally, which I am inclined to do, then one cannot be a feminist. A woman, upon marrying, is to become almost completely subservient to her husband; he is to be her master, though he is also obligated to love and take care of her. I spent a long time being a die hard feminist, but now... something has changed in me. I am ashamed to admit to any of my friends that I do secretly long for said subservience, though at the same time, in my own personal history, I have always sought after power in my romantic relationships; I have always wanted some degree of control. When we will see each other. When we’ll be physical. What restaurants we’ll eat at. Etc. But deep down, I think I’ve always wanted that power usurped from me. I mean, I do admit these things, in part, to my friends, but telling them the whole truth—that I would not only be willing to but want to, eventually, subjugate myself, to have another as master—is something I cannot say out loud in any medium but this.
Most religious types, whether Catholic, Protestant, Muslim, or even Buddhist (not so sure about Jewish people, or Hindus, but regardless...) would claim that any sex before marriage is “immoral.” But what exactly does that mean? Coitus? Oral sex? Anything involving an orgasm? What about masturbation? The hard-liners, I suppose, would argue that any conscious activity resulting in orgasm prior to marriage is, in a word, sinful, though finding the textual back-up for that (in the New Testament, that is) is a lot more difficult than you may imagine.
So I’m kind of struggling with that, I guess. I feel nothing but repulsion when friends and acquaintances tell me about their casual sex encounters. And I feel guilty over some of my own experiences, as though they’ve tarnished me in some way, even though I’ve always felt what I would describe as love with the men I’ve been with. I can’t figure out if those guilt feelings are legitimate, though.
Other times I feel that my sexuality is something that should only be shared with my future husband, even though I suspect I will never marry.
If one wants to take the New Testament literally, which I am inclined to do, then one cannot be a feminist. A woman, upon marrying, is to become almost completely subservient to her husband; he is to be her master, though he is also obligated to love and take care of her. I spent a long time being a die hard feminist, but now... something has changed in me. I am ashamed to admit to any of my friends that I do secretly long for said subservience, though at the same time, in my own personal history, I have always sought after power in my romantic relationships; I have always wanted some degree of control. When we will see each other. When we’ll be physical. What restaurants we’ll eat at. Etc. But deep down, I think I’ve always wanted that power usurped from me. I mean, I do admit these things, in part, to my friends, but telling them the whole truth—that I would not only be willing to but want to, eventually, subjugate myself, to have another as master—is something I cannot say out loud in any medium but this.
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