The Housekeeping Incident(s)

The Maybe Boyfriend and I recently spent a few nights together.   We stayed two nights in a hotel in our home city, then we hit the road and spent a day and a night in a nearby (4 hours away) city.  We wanted to get to know each other, without having to change the sheets ourselves.  Hotels are the perfect place for knock down, drag out sex with privacy and anonymity.

The first hotel had a restaurant, so for the first two and a half days, we didn't have to leave the hotel walls.  We had room service, drinks and LOTS of sex.  This was the whole idea, right? have lots of sex and decide if we were as compatible in real life as we had been on our first two dates and over the two months of text and phone calls that followed. I met The Maybe Boyfriend during a break from school. I had come home for a month. We had two dates and then we were separated by my return to school. This was our first time seeing each other since we met.

Anyway, the first hotel ... It was great. I had been worried that the sex would be bland.  Our connection, otherwise, was intense, fun and refreshing.  Of course, the sex would be the deal breaker. Nope. It was great. He was everything I wanted. The first time was great.  It was a good hour of midday sex. After, we waited about 30 minutes, then we did it again. We took a nap and then had some dinner.  Then, we came back to the room, had sex again and slept more.

At some point in the early morning, I awoke to him pressed against me. I couldn't resist and before I knew it, he was inside me again.  It was just as hot as it had been the first four times.  Then, without warning, I looked up and there she was.  Our housekeeper had just let herself in. As she stood there gripping the clean towels, with me on all fours, my friends hands gripping my waist, our eyes met. She uttered some barely audible apology and saw herself back out.

It happens.  She should have knocked, but she didn't and so she had to deal with the consequences. We forgot to latch the door, so we, in turn, had to deal with ours.  We didn't let it bother us too much.  We finished up and had seconds, then we made our way down to the restaurant for breakfast.  Later that day, she let herself in again and this time she got a glimpse of me getting out of the shower. SAME LADY.  I was starting to think she wanted a show. Our room was comped for the two days and the hotel bought us dinner.

We got up early the next morning, so there was no chance our new friend could bust in before we finished and got out.  The better part of the morning was spent driving to our next destination.  I couldn't wait to spend some out-of-bed time with him, but in the back of my mind, I was longing to get back between the sheets.  We had a full day and around 6 pm we were able to check into our hotel room.

We both had a shower and then we got right down to business.  This time, it was even more intense.  We were on the table, against the wall ... he even picked me up.  This was a first.  And it was all well worth the wait.  It was exhausting and we both fell asleep really early.  We had planned to go to dinner and have a drink, but we didn't make it.  We were both out.

The next morning, we were back at it.  The sheets were tossed off the bed. Since we fell asleep unexpectedly, we hadn't turned the lights off or ... you guessed it ... latched the door.  And before we knew it, we had a new audience. Okay ... enough was enough. Do housekeepers always just walk in?!? I guess they do. This time, the surprised middle aged woman got a view of my partner's rather lovely ass.  Of course, instead of just lying there, we both sprung up, revealing all of our lovely 200 parts, as I yelled "Don't come in!"  It was too late.

As we were checking out, we passed the housekeeper and she was not shy about pointing and laughing. Of course, he cracked a joke and I laughed. Glad no one was uncomfortable about it. Maybe we can all get together for brunch next time we are in town. We can even invite our Houston audience to join.  I guess these things happen, and since I'm not really the type to stop the passion and make sure the door is latched, it might just happen again. One can hope...

I Hope They Serve Fries In Hell

So, my flight to Houston was delayed for about 4 hours.  I found myself at the Hartford Airport staring at a wall, then it occurred to me ... "Snacks."  I hopped up and made my way to the nearest kiosk to see what kind of tasty treats they had to offer.  As I was browsing the treats, another sort of treat caught my eye. It was one that I prefer over food any day of the week.  No, it wasn't a man, it was the only thing in the airport that wasn't heavily overpriced. Books.

I quickly ditched the sweets and started browsing the books.  I looked at magazines first, thinking I could indulge my shoe and clothing fetish by treating my eyes to a buffet of fashion.  Nothing really caught my eye.  The photo on the cover of Vogue was awful and all I could think of was how the photographer and designer got that horrible pic past the editor.  I put it down and went to the books.

I looked over some inspirational softcovers. There were a few romance novels.  As much as I am into romance and inspiration, I'm just not that kind of woman.  I can't be sold the handbook to making me a better person.  So, I kept looking.  Then, it caught my eye. I was looking for Aldous Huxley's Brave New World, because my ex told me I should read it.  This wasn't it.  The book that grabbed me was another one people have been telling me I should read.  It's less of a classic.  It really can't be considered literature.  And it was exactly what I was in the mood for.

The cover is a black matte finish with a picture of a man holding what appears to be a champagne bottle in one arm, with his other arm around a blond woman with a cutout on her face that read "Your Face Here." The book was Tucker Max's I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell.  I bought it.

The book is an account of one man's journey into as many bottles and beds as possible.  Everyone has praised this man as one of the biggest assholes of our time. I started reading and before I knew it, the stares started.  I was sleep deprived and hungry, so I was finding it difficult to hold the laughter back.

He is a jerk.  Let there be no doubts about that.  But, he's not as bad as everyone made him out to be.  Sure, he has chapters called Tucker Fucks a Fat Girl and he's less than a good person.  He's a middle class white boy from Kentucky.  He did a lot of dirt in college and he drinks more than he should at times.  He has asshole/douchebag friends that have racist tendencies and lack tact.  But, it's not exactly cutting edge.  He's every other white boy of his age group.  The only difference is, he can write.

I would suggest the book, if you want to laugh.  Nothing in it really shocked me.  Tucker fucks fat chicks, then makes fun of the whole thing.  He tries to get a midget in the sack.  He's overall self-interested and has little care for the feelings of others. He doesn't tell the women he's sleeping with what he is doing and he downright denies being a "player" at times.  So, he's a drunk, a liar and down to fuck any and everyone, so that he can make fun of them and the situation later.  It is what it is.  Read it if you can suspend anger and laugh at funny, dumbass stories.

Fear

Things have been better. I am at about 13 forks in the road and I have no idea where to turn. I am graduating college in 6 weeks and then ... who knows what.  I don't have a job just yet.  I am not too worried about.  I know it will happen with time. But, I am 30 and on May 18th, I will be moving back in with my parents for a month or two so that I can pull it all together and get a place. I am pretty resourceful, so I don't see this as a problem either.

The one area I am highly confused about is the area surrounding all things to do with The Maybe Boyfriend. We just spent a weekend together and I am less sure now then I was when we had only had two dates.  I flew into Houston and then he and I spent two days in a hotel room here. It was wonderful. I had been worried about how the sex would be and it was just shy of amazing. No. Actually, it was amazing. It's been two months since we last saw each other and I have been longing for him the whole time.

I can't possibly count the number of times we had sex.  It was well over 15 in two days.  We pretty much laid in bed, had sex, went out to eat, had drinks and had sex more.  The sex was great.  I have said before that sex is powerful.  It can make you feel more than you had before.  I remember all the nights laying in bed and wishing he was with me or inside me. Then, there it was. There we were. We would make love, then lay in each other's arms. It was comforting. And, I haven't had sex in over two months, so it was a much needed release.

All the stress from school has been pent up inside me and he gave me an outlet that I have needed.  As I have said, the sex was great.  It was passionate and there was feeling behind it. It's been a long time since I've had sex with someone I cared about and could see having more with.  We all know I cared about Marlon, but nothing was ever going to come from that.

Not to say that I know something will come of things with The Maybe Boyfriend.  This leads us to the dilemma that everyone goes through ... What is this? I'm still not sure.  We have talked every day since we met.  We text a lot.  But, now we have confused it with sex.  I suppose I expect it to fade now.  Now that we have been intimate, I expect it to fall off. Either he or I will start to drift. In the meantime, I will feel like I have no idea what I am doing.

I have been feeling old feelings that I had abandoned long ago and vowed never to come back to.  He jokes a lot. Good looking women are always his "boo." This is also the name he has been calling me. I don't like that. He shared with me that his ex texted him and it ruined his day. I have already expressed to him that I have a small fear that he will get back with his ex. It's not a huge fear, but it's a thought in the back of my mind. If it should happen, I will just move on.  He has also shared with me that he has been poked on FB by a rather attractive young woman. My curiosity is why he chose me to ask "What does a poke mean?" But, like I said ... If he moves on, he moves on.  It's not like I am in love.  I am just getting to know him.

If I've done nothing else, I have learned how to keep myself, even when others drift in and out of my life.  But, I have realized what I have lost.  I have lost the ability to have faith in men or relationships.  I'm sure this will come as no surprise to any of you. I have pretty much held to the fact that relationships really aren't for me.  I even went as far as adopting the pen name "PolyAmory." I knew who I was. I know who I am. The trouble is in figuring out the intentions of someone else. I don't know what I am to him. I think it's normal to feel this way.  I question if I am just a good time for him.  Am I a cushion to soften the blow of the broken heart he got from his ex just a short 7 months ago?  It's hard to know and lord knows I am not the most trusting person.

I am attempting to keep him at arm's length, but it's not working very well. And, now that we have had sex, I feel myself working to push him even further away ... Telling myself that every Facebook post and text message are the other women he's talking to.  I have even gone as far as texting and encouraging the other men I was talking to before.  I have not crossed any lines. I haven't talked to or been with anyone else since I met him, but I would not put self-sabotage past me.  The only thing that holds me back is the fact that I could let my fear hurt someone else. And he's a pretty amazing guy that has been hurt.  I don't want to do that to him.  But, I am guarded and if I am talking to other men, it won't hurt as bad when he texts to tell me that he has met someone or is going back with his ex; a fate my brain finds impossible to abandon, altogether.

Self Love

The following is a reprint of a guest post I did for GirlyFight.com

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I was 15. Then I was 20.  Then I was 25.  I wasn’t thin.  I wasn’t attractive.  I wasn’t relaxed.  I wasn’t funny.  I wasn’t pretty.  I wasn’t sexy.  I wasn’t outgoing.  I wasn’t quirky.  I wasn’t an artist.  I wasn’t a high school graduate.  I wasn’t a smart girl.  I wasn’t good. 

I had no idea what I was.  But I knew all the things I wasn’t.  I knew them to the point that I had convinced myself they were all that I was.  I was a definition in negatives. 

Turns out, there is only one ‘wasn’t’ that fit me at that time: I wasn’t right. I was wrong.  I just didn’t know what I was.  No one had ever told me all the things I was.   And I didn’t have examples of self-love or self-awareness to figure it out on my own.   I don’t blame anyone else.  The women in my life had all been sucked up by life too soon.  They hadn’t had a chance to sit and ponder who they were.  They had to work.  They had mouths to feed.  So, I just followed suit.

I knew life as a series of worries.  I knew self-reflection as a series of dislikes.  So, I went from an unhappy home-life to an unhappy first relationship.  In that relationship I explored love in the only way I knew how: I looked for the good things about me through the eyes of someone else.  I looked for my love through the eyes of a 16-year-old boy.  Needless to say, people have gotten further on treadmills.  I wouldn’t find my love there.

Then came relationship number two …  Then relationship number three …  Then relationship number four.  I did what many people do.  I searched for love outside.  I searched for it like a kid on an Easter egg hunt.  I looked in patches of tall grass.  I looked behind trees.  I looked for it in strangers’ beds.  I looked for it in their eyes and mouths.  Nothing.

Then, relationship number four fell apart.  There was nothing holding it together.  I had no foundation.  Half of the relationship was a series of ‘wasn’ts’.  I was a void.  He cheated and I fell apart.  He tried to heal the wound we thought he created.  The fact of the matter was, he just sprinkled a little salt on the wound I had picked at for years.  I had created it.  There was nothing he could have done to make it right.  Now, along with all the other things I wasn’t, I wasn’t enough.   I fell into it. 

I let it engulf me.  I cried.  I was jealous and I did everything in my power to make him as miserable as I was.  Then one day, I realized what I was doing.  Over the next few days, I realized a lot of things.  I realized that I had gone back to school.  I realized I had worked for an amazing woman that respected me as much as I respected her.  I realized I was in the middle of an application for one of the best schools in the country.  I realized I was starving for a change.  Something inside of me was dying to get out.   I realized that I had hope. I also, realized I was 27 years old.  I had spent 27 years not loving myself. 

I moved out of his house.  I moved back into the house I hadn’t lived in since I was 14.  I went back home and I started from scratch.  The summer of my 27^th year was the last time I didn’t love myself.

I was accepted to Smith College and on August 28^th of 2008, I stepped away from everyone I had ever tried to find love in and I left.  I moved to a place where I knew no one and I lived without love and with no hopes of finding it in anyone but me.  I spent nights crying and days trying to fit in amongst some of the smartest most vibrant women in the country.  I knew they were brilliant because they went to Smith, but I still had no idea what I was. 

All I could do was write.  I took time off from relationships and for the next two years I wrote.  I studied government and photography and I read a lot.  Photography became my passion.  I made good grades, but they weren’t the best.  I held my own in conversations with really smart women and I enjoyed life in a way I never had. 

Then, one day, as I sat in front of one of the most brilliant photographers I have experienced, listening to her pick apart my work … as she told me all her likes and dislikes, I realized it.  I was hearing her criticisms in a whole knew way.  A few years before, I would have been crushed.  The negatives would have defined me.  They would have burned a hole in that wound and I would have hated her for it.  But now, I wanted to hear it.  I loved her for it.  It was going to make me better.  As I walked home after meeting with her I realized it.  I was staring at my ugly snow boots, all of my hard, scrutinized work in my backpack, when I realized it.  The words entered my head like a foreign language, “I love my work.”

It didn’t come as an epiphany.  There wasn’t some great moment of realization when the skies opened up and I knew.  I didn’t realize it until I was asked to write this post.  But, those words meant more than I realized.  I love myself.  I don’t define myself as a series of negatives.  I am defined by the things that make me great.  I am smart.  I am pretty.  I am hilarious.  I am witty.  I am sexy as all get out.  I am quirky.  I am outgoing.  I am an artist.  And above all, I am loved unconditionally.  I love myself and because of that, I fill my surroundings with love and I have unlimited love to offer others.

I’ll never know if getting on that plane with one suitcase of belongings is what led me to love myself, or if it was something that was bound to happen with age.  I just know somewhere between 27 and 30.  Somewhere between being a high school drop out crying on the floor and walking across a stage to get my college diploma, somewhere inside, somewhere beautiful, I found it.  I found the person I had been hiding and I fell in love with her.  I never pretend to be wise, so I don’t have much advice for people, but I do have this: If you haven’t met the ‘you’ inside, if you haven’t taken the time to fall in love with her, you should check her out.  Trust me … she’s pretty fucking amazing.  

Happily Ever After ...

The following is a repost from MomAnonymous.
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I realized something this morning, as I skimmed through Valentine's Blogs and Ads, that I had never realized before. Valentine's Day is not for lovers. It's a way to explain "love" to people who don't have lovers. So, here's my addition to the bowl of shit. 
Valentine's Day, as most holidays, is about two things. 
Number one... 
Little kids can have a ball with it. The reason behind this one is simple. Little kids have a right to believe in magic. Little kids are adorable when they create awful crafts. Little kids are the fucking cutest when they await the approval of Mommy, or Daddy, after they've destroyed a cupcake with a horrible frosting job, or annihilated a clean white piece of paper with indiscernible scribblings. 
Kids are simple-minded.
 Isn't it precious? 
The problem with this is that these kids grow up and, on a few days out of the year, still believe that the magic of St. Valentine's Day is real. 
Is magic real? 
As adults, our collective ideas about love are bonkers. We are made to believe fairy tales, because the truth about relationships is not interesting enough to tell stories about.  Let me start with the myth of "Love at first sight".  
Absorb this! 
You see a beautiful purse on display and you have to have it. Love at first sight? Then, you take a closer look and the lining is for shit. What do you do? Do you spend a bunch of money on it, and say that you'll take it home and replace the lining yourself? HELL NO! You don't purchase it, because its crap. 
Now, having said that, I have to say that you should not be looking for a perfect purse, either. You are not perfect.  You are weird in ways that you will not even fully understand. How do you rectify this situation?
If you think that finding a mate requires a bit of research and is not very romantic, at all... Congratulations! You will, one day, be very happy. 
Let Go! 
Forget about all the bullshit about Prince Charming. There's a reason the stories didn't delve into his personality too deeply. He could've been a drug addict, or cross dresser, or cheater, or a butthole fetishist... Who the hell knows, but I know the dude was probably fucked up in one way or another. Why wouldn't he be? That's why they end the story right at the hook-up. "Happily Ever After" translates to "We'll Spare You the Uninteresting Stuff... Enjoy the Rest of Your Day, Idiot!"...
Number two...
You want a day of leisure, and/or a lovely present! This is the most reasonable desire. 
Here's where it gets stupid. You want an expensive gift and to know that someone cares about... the date. You are not so much focused on the fact that you do, or do not, have a mate who loves you. You need to know that your mate is aware of what day it is. This brings up back to the belief in magic. 
What gets me is that most people would scoff at going to a palm reader, but the belief in any type of "magic" is just as crazy as the next. You know I am right if you think about it objectively.
February 14th is a fucking day on a calendar! People have starved to death, and murdered, on this day. It's not important. 
Don't get me wrong. I bought my husband a gift, baked the cupcakes, and spent time with my daughter as she made an awesomely terrible card.  He scheduled himself to work today. I will not be spending Valentine's Day with my lover, so I did the most practical thing. I made him feel terrible and bought myself a really expensive bottle of perfume. We will celebrate our love on February 15th. It will be nice.
After all is said and done... At the end of the day, there will be dishes to do, and shitty asses to wipe. That is the true "Happily Ever After...".

In The Moods

I have recently embarked on a very interesting experiment.  I have, for years, paid attention to my hormones, my cycle, my shifts in mood.  I came to grips with the fact that PMS is very real and it affects me in a very real, very biological, very physical way.  I get cranky.  My patience is shortened and tightens like a cold rubber band that is ready to snap at any moment.  It lasts for 1 - 2 days and it ends with me sitting alone and having a good cry.  I know what it is.  I just allow it to happen. It's never a big deal anymore.  I bite my tongue and I apologize frequently during this period.  It's a work in progress, but it's part of who I am, so I try to stay very conscious of where I am in my cycle, how I'm feeling and how the two correlate.

I think it's important to note that during PMS, women aren't emotional messes.  We are actually quite the opposite.  We are fine-tuned protectors.  We are hyper-sensitive about protecting ourselves and our loved ones.  We get emotional because there is a lot going on in our bodies.  This is the time when we are either starting to grow life inside our wombs, or we are shedding the walls and eggs that our bodies have worked to create.  Either way, our bodies are weaker because they are working harder and so our emotions and senses are heightened.  This is a time when I might cry at the drop of a hat, but it's also the time when my friends, lovers and family can rely on me the most.  If something pops off around this time of the month, you want me around.  Because, my instincts are sharp and my temper is volatile.  If someone tries to fuck with someone I love, I will defend by any means necessary.  *Insert imagery of mother lion devouring flesh to protect her young.

Without even looking at a calendar, there is a certain point when I know my period will arrive within the next 12 hours.  I have narrowed it down to an almost perfect science.  I can feel the weight in my abdomen.  My eyes grow heavy, no matter how much I sleep.  I lose all appetite and I get a slight touch of nausea.  Yes, it's a rather charming time.  But, that is something I have known.  That is a time when I am super tuned to my body and I can read everything.

So, just about a month ago, I noticed that my moods changed ever so slightly every few days.  It wasn't necessarily something that just anyone would notice.  No one would think twice about it or think "J isn't herself today."  But, there were subtle changes that I notice.  We all notice them (in ourselves) in some way or another, but what we may not notice is the pattern in which they fall.  Some days I am ravenous.  Some days I eat a lot.  Some days I have no appetite.  Some days I want to hump the wall.  And some days I would like a one-mile-radius shield between me and anything with a dick.  It's just how it is.

But, on this particular day, just under a month ago, I was IN THE MOOD.  I had been having these intense sexual dreams and everything I thought about was laced in some sort of highly erotic tone.  During meals and conversations, I would find myself drifting into fantasies.  I approached conversations with the men in my life in a whole different manner.  And I was masturbating far more than usual.  I knew it had to do with my hormones.  Of course it did.  What else could it be?  So, I decided to make a note of it.  I opened my calendar, and for that day, I wrote the simple words "Want sex a lot."

But I didn't stop there.  I chronicled all the days I wanted sex.  I chronicled the days I wanted to be alone.  The days I felt sad and the days I had a lot of creative energy.  I marked my ups and my downs, however slight and I went back and read old blog posts to see how the days correlate.  It was brilliant.  I have always known my periods are like clockwork and, since I am not on prescription birth control, I have a very natural hormonal cycle.  But, this was more than I had expected to learn about myself.

It was perfectly on track.  I figured out that the days I really really want sex are the days on which I am ovulating.  The days I want the world to shut down are the days when my uterus is shutting down and starting to shed the unused eggs.  Another month gone by with my reproductive organs working in vain.   Or were they?  After tracking a full 28 days, I had a realization.  My hormones bring my creativity.  They bring my good days, as well as my bad.  Being a creature that is driven by hormonal changes is what makes me beautiful. It gives me days of brilliance and strength, as well as much needed days to step back and reflect or recharge.

This morning I woke up and I sent The Maybe Boyfriend a text.  It was ill planned and he got offended. I really meant nothing by it, but I felt bad.  I hadn't meant to offend him or hurt his feelings.  How had I gone so wrong?  I went to class and began making a series of stupid mistakes.  I asked seemingly simple, slightly dumb questions. I made ugly compositions.  I worked with colors that didn't work together.  I am really good with color.  Why couldn't I be me today?  Then, the professor put on an animation for us to watch and it was brilliant.  It was funny and the colors were vibrant.  Watching it felt great.  Then, I realized it.  Today is my dumb day.  I just wanted to sit and watch shiny things.  I thumbed back through my calendar and there it was.  Validation in blue ink, "Dumb day."  Today is the last day of my period.  It's my dumb day.  28 days ago today, I was dumb.  So, as soon as I got out of class, I came up to my room to write this post, then spend the rest of the day watching Tom and Jerry. I'm allowed to. It's my dumb day.  

So, I have to insist that everyone make a hormone calendar and track your overall moods and abilities. It's really an amazing step in getting to know yourself.  Paying attention to my body has helped a great deal in understanding me.  It helps me understand why I am feeling the things I am feeling when I am feeling them, instead of only being able to look back and understand in hindsight.  I have always been one to think on something for a few days before acting on it.  Now, I have even more reason to enact this behavior.  I have the peace of mind of knowing that this too shall pass.  My thinking, intelligence, reasoning, creativity and patience levels change from day to day.  So, there are days, like today, when I just have to give myself a pass, watch some cartoons and know that today is the day to intake and not the day to output.  It doesn't make me a moron.  It just makes me a human.  In two days, I will be able to peel the paint off the walls with my intellect, and four days after that, I will be able seduce a nun.  I can't be good at all things all the time, but it helps to know what I'm good at day-by-day.

Defined By Restraint

It's been an interesting week.  I am dealing with the things that come along with dating someone new.  I am going through all of the fun and scary things that come with the possibility of a relationship after years of dating with no plans of monogamy.  This week has also been about creating.  Dating isn't the only thing I do and, in this case, relationship prep isn't the only thing going on.  I just (moments ago) pulled down my gallery show.  It was up for a week and, like my prospective dance with monogamy, it's been both exciting and scary.  Though this week has been full of new things that frighten me, it's times like this that really make you feel the real, tangible and organic joys and sorrows of living. The willingness to be frightened and step to the edge to take risks is what propels us forward in life.  It's the way I, personally, move myself in life.  I have always been more into creation than consumption, more into exploration than restraint.

After this long week of internal struggle and growth, I woke up this morning to a tweet that I found oddly surprising.  It shouldn't have surprised me.  It is based on a notion that I have become highly used to and very well versed in.  It's a language I do not speak, but I have heard it spoken enough to understand it.  The tweet was from a woman I follow.  She is generally bitter and angry.  She makes comments about people's appearances a lot.  I find her to be entertaining at times.  And I find her tweets, like many others (including my own) to reveal more about who she wants to be than who she is.  I think this is the joy of being able to curate our lives on social networking sites.  We paint the picture of who we want to be and that is the presentation we give the world. I say "we," because I do it too.  I am my closest contact with the curation of self via the internet.

Anyway, sorry ... the tweet said "A female who has had a one night stand with a stranger is a slut..." Then, it was followed by another tweet that said "And men are slut (sic) too...but it looks way worse for a female." This woman went on to ask if any of her followers had had a one night stand.  I answered that I had.  She asked a few questions and I answered.  I wasn't angry or upset.  I just didn't have a problem owning it and I was curious what route she might take.  It was fine.  She said she could never do it.  Then I used it as an opportunity to plug my blog.  It was no big deal, but ...

The incident made me think.  What is it that makes people put others in a category based on their actions? Is there a safety in being able to categorize a group of people and in being able to say "I am not in that group?"  Women who have one night stands are sluts.  I don't have one night stands.  I am not a slut. It's like an inside out ....  I don't get it, but I think it's a part of this system women have fallen into.  A system used to lift themselves on the shoulders of their fellow women, by labeling them 'lesser women.'  It's not possible to be on the moral high-ground, if there is no one below.  I don't know what to make of it.  It doesn't sadden me anymore.  It doesn't make me feel as though I am the lesser.  In my world, there is no lesser or greater.  The women that see themselves as morally superior for the orgasms they aren't having, or for the partners they have refused appear to me as standing on an island I don't want to enter.  I don't have the need to climb up this imaginary ladder on the shoulders of others.  I like having sex and I know other women that enjoy it too.  I also know women that are happy in their relationships.  I know women who have had 2 partners or 1 partner and I have never felt the need to soar to a level that would allow me to look down on people.  We are all just different.  Respect for oneself is something that happens in the deep dark loneliness of night.  When there is no one else to which you can compare yourself.  It's about how you feel about you.