Why’d you Come in Here Looking Like That . . .

I went to Dolly Parton a few weeks ago.

(It’s ok. You can laugh for a bit. I’ll just be here, drinking my coffee. Done now? Good)

I went with. Well, see, that’s the problem. Never mind his fucking name, he’s “Mr. I should know better.”


Dolly Parton. He asked if I was free. I offered to pay for my ticket. He declined. I bought dinner. He bought drinks. We laughed. We sang along with the music. It was. . .

Umm. It was a date. And he was the perfect date. I had a blast.

I’m in grad school. I don’t get out much these days. I’m slow as shit. I sleep with finance text books and scotch. I didn’t realize it was a date. I missed the part where he was flirting with me.

He’s lovely. Smart, funny kind, charming, nerdy, great car. Smile to knock me on my ass. Similar taste in music. Single.

He’s Mr. I should know better. 

He’s work.

And there’s this terrible moment at the end. When I look at him as he’s dropping me off at my car. We’ve been laughing the whole drive and we get to the parking lot and the laughter stops . . . .

Why’d you come in here looking like that? 

I’m on Fire

I’m sitting in a hotel lounge drinking bourbon straight, waiting for my date to get himself unstuck from traffic. 

Everyone apologized when I left my lunch meeting (if eating a crappy and expensive lunch with clients counts as a meeting) that I had to drive to Calgary. 

Yes. By all means feel badly for me. I put the top and my foot down, turned up Elle King and drove through the summer. I obviously deserve as much fucking sympathy as you can muster. I hope it’s none.  

On the drive The Queen of California came on. I would send him selfies – a thing I never do – with the top down. He would quote lyrics from the queen of California.  It was a stupid reflexive thing. An inside thing. No big thing, just a thing we did.  

Which is why it lodged in a part of my heart. It comes back sometimes.  When it’s summer and the top is down.  It doesn’t hurt. Not even sting. It just makes me wonder . . .

I’m sitting in the lounge and the singer is doing his version of ‘I’m on fire’. Just like every other Canadian singer. It penetrates my thoughts.  

I tell people I’m undateable. I’ve learned that. I am a turtle. I carry everything I need in me. I let in the steady, A few friends. I tried twice in the last year. Failed. 

Those songs come on.  I wonder. 

Was there ever anything there? 

Weighted Down

I should not read feminist theory before I go to bed. I should read, oh hell. I don’t know what the fuck I should read. The night before last it was an economics book. Before that it was a book on Enterprise Architecture.

I put the book down and turned off my light and a memory popped into my head. An older colleague, it was a work situation that had gone terribly sideways, and she cocked her head to the side and asked if I really didn’t know how fucking powerful I was.

Then I couldn’t sleep.

Which is why you shouldn’t read feminist theory.

I spent the night at the Clockmaker’s, mostly because he asked and because I had to be at a meeting on that side of the city anyway and as we were falling asleep, I told him about Exhibit A’s blog about things that people left behind at his place. I told him that I never, ever leave things behind.

That morning, as I was leaving his condo, he called out the window to me. He had to call out the window because he couldn’t call my phone. I’d left my damned phone on his kitchen counter next to the coffee maker. I apologized profusely, he kissed me goodbye again. He texted about an hour later, asking if the pills I left on his bedside table were important. It turns out that they were, so he dropped them off at my office. Two days later he commented that he liked the red bra, but it really didn’t fit him.

He was more than good humoured about it – he thought it was hilarious. It really bothered the hell out of me.

I am pathological about not leaving things behind. I have felt strange leaving non latex condoms for next time.  I say – not entirely jokingly that all that should remain is the smell of my perfume. (I don’t wear a lot anyway).

To leave things behind is to create a connection. It connects the past to the present, it means you have to follow the strings back. It creates an obligation that someone may not actually want. I can’t do it accidentally. I’m not sure I want to do it purposely.

The colleague, the one who asked if I understood how powerful I was, she became a friend. She still rides me – about how I make myself small and weightless – how I deliberately diminish my power as a woman and never as a professional. She’s not wrong.

She tells me that I can’t do it forever. You can’t be weightless forever.

I think she’s probably right.


All Those Windows, All Those Lives

I could have written about sex on a balcony in Jamaica, but I think it was dark and anyway I was concentrating more on his cock than the view. Ditto Hawaii and in California (It would seem I have a fetish, or at least a substantive habit of sex on balconies).

I thought about trying my hand at erotica, but well, when you’ve had the sort of week where you write “I will not fucking kill this goddamn client” repeatedly in your log book, you aren’t so much in the mood to write erotica.

This morning, (while carefully not killing my goddamned client) I was listening to the Savage lovecast (Episode 504) and it’s a young man trying to figure out if he should come out to his conservative family.

And I remembered.

June of 2013. I was in Vancouver. A rather horrible sort of woman, the perpetual emotional vampire who gets her sick kicks out of controlling and escalating situations so she can go and save them, told me that my eldest nephew was gay.

I went back to my hotel astounded and heartsick.

Not because he was gay. I didn’t give a flying fuck about that.

I was fucking heart sick because he had eaten so many meals, come by for so many talks, my front door had banged open and closed so often with him and why couldn’t he tell us? What on earth would hold him back?

I laid awake – staring at this. A city view of lights, all those windows, all those lives.


Inscrutable. Unknowing and unknown.

We think it’s possible to know something, really know it. We think because we stare at it long enough, because it’s a familiar view, we really know it.

All those windows opening on to all those lives. I watched them out of a hotel room for a better part of the year. I know none of those people. I only knew the view.

Familiarity is not the same as knowing.

Eventually he told us. We hugged him and told him he was loved and asked if he would bring his boyfriend along to dinner. The boyfriend still comes to dinner.

There’s a LGBTQ Ally sticker on my front door.

It tells others that I am a safe space.

It reminds me that a view into a world is not the same as knowing it.


This is me 

The new guy (so shiny and new I have not figured out his nickname) asked if I wanted to go to a polyamory meetup tonight.  

I was, at least kind of, considering it until I walked through my front door.  Then my better judgement reminded me that I had worked a 12 hour day, I have spent all week ‘on’ for work and I’m just done.  I also have 8 hours of work and 8 hours of school work to do, and maybe a date with the watchmaker.  

I thought about feeling guilty, but the god’s honest truth is that it has taken me 17 fucking years to realize that I’m an introvert.  I like small groups and thoughts and ideas and human connection.  Chit chat with strangers is worse than walking around naked.  

I’m just going to be me.  


This is Me

Originally I thought I would write about how I am open and maybe poly and kinky and absolutely discrete. I thought about telling you that I am both what I am here – and I am so much more. That photo on the left is me, but you can’t see my face. My sexual adventures are like that – they are a part of me but not all of me. I’m an aunt, I’m a knowledge worker, a runner, a best friend, a dog owner. I have some BDSM interests, but I tie up the tomatoes more than I am tied up.

It’s not that I’m an enigma, I’m a full and complete person. The fact that I like particular types of sex or that I am not interested in monogamy is only one part of who I am. My sexuality is not all of me.

I am so many things.

I have paged through their photos and their comments. What their friends said about them. Trying to see them not as gay – not as the sum total of the gender they loved or fucked or both. Seeing them as people. Noting their ages and their professions, how they posed in their photos. A mother describes her son as her baby. One of the dead had a daughter. They were accountants and pharmacists, they were 19 years old and they were 50 years old.

They were so many things.

I think about the 49 people killed in Orlando by someone who objected to their identity – the fact that they were gay. A madman who killed people because of who they loved and who they slept with. Not even their complete identity. We are always more than who we sleep with and who we love. We are more than the sum of our attractions and kinks.

This is a tough week to think about identity.

I am not ashamed of my activities and my exploits. I chose to be discrete because that is who I am. Now, today, this week, as I realize that no one is trying to kill me for my identity, that I will go on dates and get laid and curl up and sleep next to the steady or the clockmaker. .  .

It doesn’t really seem to be the time to talk about my identity.


Return on Investment

Well, what's the punishment and what's the reward? 
      What? You can't ask that. . .  
Sure I can. I need to calculate the benefit, so I need more information. 
       I think I need to explain the Dom/sub experience to you again 
Great. White Paper? Slide Deck? Oral briefing? 
        Let's go with oral briefing. 

In other words, I think Saturday is going to be fun.


I still haven’t got enough information to calculate the ROI.

On a Dark Desert Highway


Some runs you grind out. Some runs, every single fucking step hurts. Your lungs scream, your quads scream and your entire body says you can’t, even as you keep running. Some runs you make your mileage and your speed and you hate every single goddam agonizing moment.

Some runs are just runs. Some times you start and you finish and you don’t really even notice you ran. Oh, you think. That was 3 miles? Oh. Well then.

Then there are the other runs. The runs that are spectacular, and yes, I know runner’s is similar to getting high off pot and I’m probably killing brain cells. (You might think I need them. You wouldn’t be wrong there).

That’s not the point. On that high, drenched in sweat, my lungs and muscles screaming, I am in love with my body. I am in love with what it can do. I am the most powerful person in the world. My shadow body running alongside me, highlighted in the sun and I am astonished at what I can do. By what I demand of myself.

On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air

The instrumental introduction to Hotel California is about a minute long. It always makes me think of a night, almost 20 years ago,  spent having sex.

Look, even all those years ago, decades really, I was the crazy one. Nascent, I suppose, but there was an edge to me. I always wanted to push things just a bit further, go a bit harder.

(Maybe we could just turn the lights on?)


I was the crazy one.

I found myself thinking that, thinking of the edge, 3 and a half miles in, legs screaming, listening to the introduction to Hotel California.

You can check-out any time you like,
But you can never leave.


The Sting of Missing

He’s the definition of Mr. Right Now. He will be here and gone and that is enough incentive to make me enjoy the now.

I don’t want the fucking hurt of holding on anyway.

He’s the random text – I was just thinking of you . . . Sitting on my face.

He makes me howl with laughter at his filthy limericks. ( I had no idea that many things rhymed with tits). He’s mostly the perfect casual partner. An enjoyable dinner companion and a trashed bed. Never pressure to stay.

I’ll show up at the pub tonight, slightly frazzled and probably late. He’ll kiss me and compliment me.

And then he’ll smack me on the ass. Hard enough to sting and not so hard that anyone around us notices.

Because he flirts. And I miss that he’s flirting. I’m not used to it, I’m fucking bad at it, I’m up to my ass in alligators at work.

The sting will recede a bit. He’ll lean down and whisper in my ear.

That’s for not noticing the flirting. There’s more to come later.  . .  


Little Girl Child


I was standing in the grocery check out line. With my green beans and my eggs and 4 pounds of freaking butter for Sunday dinner. She was across the aisle from me, with her mum and her older brother and her little sister.

Apropos of fucking nothing, she announced that she needed to go on a diet.


You, in your pink striped t-shirt and yellow shorts, flip flops. Eight years old. Your hair brown and fine and fly-away. You tease your brother and pepper your mum with questions. Your strong arms pick up your sister and piggy back her through line. 

Oh little girl child. Nowhere near a woman. Nowhere near even a – young – woman. Little girl – child – this is not your moment and not your milestone. 

When did they do this to you? to me? to us?

When did they make us small, limit us? When did they tell you to change your body, subtly (or not so subtly  . . . ) tell me that I wasn’t ok?

Do you remember that moment?  Do I?


It is summer little girl. And there are sprinklers and summer camps and running through hot air to get a popsicle. Reality is the sun lightening your brown fly away hair, and I bet you get freckles.

There are milestones. They will come. Soon at that. For now, look at your strong arms as you piggy back your sister through the line. Listen to your giggle. It’s infectious. 

You are perfect. Just as you are.