Blast dignity! Give me therapy.
I’ve been subjected to a casting couch cliché by a famous Hollywood director, been nearly trampled to death by an angry bull, had a loaded gun pointed at me, snuck into an ancient national treasure, been kidnapped, outran cops in a speed chase and came close to drowning as a row of guys watched. In between, I dated more than a handful of men.
Those are just the stories I was willing to put on my blog instead of greedily save for a big, life-changing publishing opportunity. You know, the opportunity we all think is waiting around the corner, ready to pounce on our one-of-a-kind, surely-to-interest-the-world-en-masse memoir.
“Does ‘nosebag’ ring a bell to you?” I texted the Exceptionally Tall Man, who is my love. I also texted it to my ex, the Perfect Man, whom I love. I notoriously love all my exes. Non-exes hate this. But then they meet my exes who love their exes too, and we all collaborate on a music video. It’s a big hippie lovefest without the orgy.
The Exceptionally Tall Man feels that his moniker on Gunmetal Geisha is lackluster, certainly in light of monikers like “Perfect Man.” I’m guessing he thinks I should come up with something pithy to encapsulate “Love of My Life Who Continuously Floors Me.” But lest he forgets, he was consulted at the get-go and approved his current sobriquet.
I’d like to think most readers don’t take the monikers at face value. I doubt too many are of the opinion that the Exceptionally Tall Man is merely tall and the Perfect Man is actually perfect.
Anyway, neither moniker-bearer remembered a thing about “nosebag” any more than I did. I had come across it in my blog notes when gathering thoughts for my Gunmetal Geisha mini comeback. But even though “nosebag” will probably elude this blog forever, sooner or later, the story behind how I named the Perfect Man will find its way in.
My stories here ended up crawling with men. I don’t mind, but I also didn’t plan it that way. I’m in the most committed relationship of my life with the Exceptionally Tall Man, but on our very first date he felt the need to ask:
“So are you gonna keep dating in order to have stories for your blog?”
“It’s not a dating blog,” I answered. “Besides, I still have twenty years’ worth of past man stories to tell.” He looked at me sideways but didn’t seem too bothered — we’d only known each for two hours and it would take one more date for us to know it was love.
Ten months later, we’re still together and I still plan to tackle the old stories.
In addition to the story of the Perfect Man, I’ll write the story of the guy who cradled my body to safety across a treacherous ravine, but also ran ass naked after me in the middle of a Hollywood street, privates swinging and everything. That was because I walked out on him when he bit my finger clear to the bone, not just to gush blood, but to leave permanent teeth marks. You might think it’s insane to have read those words just now — from me of all people — but for real insanity, try living the words. In a way, you will. Once I write it. Ain’t that the whole point of storytelling.
Oh and I will be proud about the telling. And somewhat funny.
I used to agonize over publicly writing about certain incidents, as if it would a betrayal and I somehow lacked dignity for revealing the beastly nature of unnamed individuals. A betrayal to whom, though? People who behave terribly behind closed doors and want to keep it that way?
If you don’t want to be written about, don’t date a writer who is upfront about her addiction to expression and finds her blog to be the ultimate therapy session.
Or I don’t know, maybe just…don’t be an abusive asshole?
But if you’re going to provide me with sensationalistic material with built-in conflict in the shape of your dickish dysfunction, I’d be an idiot not to take full advantage of it. Get yer teats out boy — I’m ready to milk.
Maybe not quite.
I don’t default to vicious and I do have a soft spot for the only two assholes I ever loved. They’re just a couple of unfortunate weeds in a bouquet of outstanding men. Normally, those I loved were no less than princely — in the way of fairytale nobility, not in a Prince Albert/Jack the Ripper way. So by no means am I an asshole-dater nor do I have a pattern of asshole-dating. Three is a pattern, two is a fluke.
A two-fold fluke that I’m suddenly enjoying, because it means neither asshole gets the distinction of being the only one. After all, my love is generous, and yes, I’m turning me dating two assholes into an act of generosity on my part.
As generous as it may be, my love isn’t usually instant. Other than with the Exceptionally Tall Man, it always took me about three months to understand that I might be in love. Maybe age and experience sped it up with Exceptional. Maybe the heavens opened up to drop the pre-knowledge of our love on our heads like benevolent bird poop, because we sure were disoriented about it.
“When did you know?” A bunch of people asked when I couldn’t help advertise our love-gushy pictures.
We both knew on the second day. But we also knew we needed our brains to catch up to our hearts. So we waited four months before moving in together. And then —
— our world went straight to plague and pestilence.
But we’ve made it through. That is another story I will tell.
In the meantime, there’s a lot you haven’t read. You can click on the orange links at the top of this post or piece some of it together through this phrase mashup gathered from recent posts.
- Blast dignity! Give me therapy.
- Also, give me interested readers.
- Follow-up, instructions and start date of the treasure hunt on its way soon.
- Two more new posts scheduled for this week.
- Video coming next week!
- Been busy with a dozen or so drafts, including a few brewing guest posts.
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See you soon!
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