Woman vs. Women


In December I decided to take my best friend to a psychic to have our fortunes told for her birthday. She and I had wanted to do this since we were in high school. I always felt as if my husband wouldn’t allow me to do such a thing so this was one more thing to check off my very long list of things I can do now that my husband no longer has a say in it.

It was her birthday and she made the appointment for each of us. She had seen a psychic before and swore that I would be blown away with what they’d have to tell me. But I am a skeptic. I thought these weirdos would take my money and give me a bunch of general information that could apply to basically anyone.

She and I met in the parking lot of this psychic’s office. I was still not sure it was going to be worth the $150 that it was going to cost me but I wanted to try it & I knew it’d make my girl friend happy. Her appointment was first. I sat outside and read a book she brought for me about a woman who had supernatural senses, something I relate to.

Her 30 minute reading flew by and before I knew it she was walking out. I stood and walked towards her. I could tell she had been crying but she had a big smile on her face. She said as she walked up, “she’s good”, and with that I made my way inside her office.

I sat at a table and she introduced herself. Then quickly went through what types of readings she offered. I decided to have my palms read and my fortune told. She covered a lot of information very fast. It was information that couldn’t apply to anyone but me & most of it were things no one on earth knew about. It was jaw-dropping stuff. One thing that struck me & stayed with me since that meeting with her was about my relations with other women.

She pointed out that she knew I had never had many female friends. That I always had mostly male friends. She said that women have been jealous of me since I was a very young child, through school and into adulthood. She added that women feel threatened by me because I do not follow the same protocol they do with regard to men, sex, business and relations with other women.

All of a sudden I had validation for the way I’d felt all my life. Here it was, displayed before me on the palms of my own hands and read to me by someone I had never met in my life & had no knowledge of me besides my name, date of birth and my occupation.  She could see the surprise in my face and called me on it. She asked if her statements matched with how I’d felt inside. I told her yes. She continued her reading  and I listened but I stayed on that statement in my mind until she finished.

Throughout my life I’ve always felt a little different than the image I had/have in my mind of most women. Growing up, I was the tomboy. Sometimes tougher than some of the boys. I always controlled things. At times I was cruel to the boys. I remember a few instances where I felt a rush of…something (not exactly sure how to describe it). One of them was in my front yard. We had a huge fruitless Mulberry tree that was perfect to climb. I was playing with my good friend Aaron that lived across the street and one door down. I must have been seven or eight and he was just a bit younger than me. He climbed up into the tree first and I watched from the ground. As he found his perch he looked down at me and motioned for me to climb up. Instead of following his invitation I twisted it on him. I told him he had to take his shorts off first before I’d climb up there with him and then I’d take mine off once I got up there. He hesitated at first but eventually they came off. It was the first time I had seen a boy without pants on. I stared. I never did climb the tree. I let him sit alone, half naked, vulnerably way up in the dense tree. I pretended that I was coming up at one point but I only did it so I could get closer to him so I could snatch his shorts out of his hand. Now he couldn’t get down without having everyone see that he was naked and I enjoyed how uncomfortable he looked and sounded. He begged me to give his shorts back. I wouldn’t. No amount of begging could help him. He was up there a long time before he climbed out, without his shorts, and ran home half naked while I watched. I threw his shorts into a bush and carried on with my daily antics.  –  A dozen or so years later after his family and my family had moved away from that neighborhood and Aaron and I were adults – he came looking for me. When he found me he told me that I had become the object of his desires and I had been ever since that day in my front yard. He asked me if I would consider a relationship with him. I told him no. I knew that if I did I would mistreat him and I didn’t want that. I haven’t seen him since. I have talked with his parents and they tell me he is still very much in love (lust?) with me and even they wished he & I would have gotten married because he “needs a girl like me to straighten him out”.

Aaron wasn’t the only boy I controlled like that. There were quite a few I enjoyed humiliating on a regular basis.  And all of them came to find me once they became adults.

Then at puberty my role reversed. Well, not entirely. Some boys made me slip into a submissive state when I was in their presence while others stroked the dominant in me. I never realized it until right now. I never separated the two very different personalities before like this. I see now what happened to my relationship with my husband. Deep down, I know that I need to submit to a man for the relationship to work. My relationship with my ex-husband started off with me forcing myself to see him as the dominant when he clearly was not. It became obvious to me one day when we were in San Francisco killing time. We hadn’t been together for very long and I don’t think we were married just yet. A switch went off in me. I felt it. I think he even saw it in my face. I am sure of it now. We never discussed what happened that day because we both knew what it meant. It meant that we were not right for each other and neither of us wanted to ever admit that.

(I am shocked and relieved at the same time and needing to get back on topic now)

I’m not exactly sure why I don’t relate well to women. Maybe it’s my demeanor. Maybe it’s because I don’t hate men like most women do. Maybe it’s because I love men and respect men and understand men that women don’t like me. Maybe it’s because I don’t like women that women don’t like me. I don’t mean to offend anyone by implying that all women are the same but in my experience I know that a woman is more likely to stab another woman in the back out of jealousy than a man is. With the exception of the man that acts like and idolizes women. He’s just like them. Flamboyant. Materialistic. Shallow. Spineless. Close-minded. He’ll turn his back on you as quickly as some women do.

Maybe I’m old fashioned? I have been told I have an old soul.

BUT-

I truly believe the male should always dominate but at the same time the woman should never become a doormat. Mutual respect is required and each should know one another’s role in the relationship.

That’s my opinion and if you don’t like it, go make one of your own.

FWB


 

woman-alone.jpg

FWB, Fuckbuddies, casual sex – whatever you want to call it. Basically having sex with a friend or acquaintance without the woes that come from a commitment to a ‘relationship’. Am I the only person that has a hard time with this type of arrangement?

Being that it’s been a little over a year now since my separation from my husband and one month since the complete end of my last ‘relationship’ I am again faced with the ‘friends with benefits’ relations. Well, I know I am not the only person on Earth that feels this way but I just can’t have sex without becoming emotionally and physically attached to the person. One night stands are usually an exception. I just feel that if you’re not in a committed relationship and having ongoing sex with more than one person you’re either being led on or your leading yourself on that at some point ‘things will change’. They don’t! My beliefs are that if you’re not finding all you need in that one person then they’re not the right one for you. Besides, no man can please me better or faster than I can please myself so most of the time I use the feelings of penetration, touch, sound and scent to take back with me and use them for my self-pleasure, while in a relationship or otherwise. It’s the intimacy and the closeness that I cannot recreate alone.

I am guilty of having sex with multiple partners. I see now that it wasn’t done out of my need to have an orgasm, it was done for my need to be held and touched. Nothing more. That’s exactly why I become emotionally tied to the man/men I have sex with. Hmmmm. You see, this is why I write. I work through my quirks with my pen and paper or in this case my keyboard and a white screen. It clarified something for me that I struggle greatly with and put it in a context that I can understand & work through to change.

Having figured that out just now gave me more clarity on my last relationship. I just realized that I was never just held by him, or touched. I held on so long just waiting for it to happen. Thinking that if I kept working at it & putting up with what I did that he’d want to just hold me. He’d finally trust me enough to just let himself feel and love. When all he wanted was sex. He never once just held me. Poor him! I say that only because I think intimacy is something you can give to another person if you have a strong inner being yourself.

Just fucking doesn’t prove you’re a man. Anyone can fuck. He shows he’s a real man when he holds you afterwards.

7 Years


When I was a little girl I would often have thoughts of losing one or both of my parents. I don’t mean in a grocery store. Since my parents had me quite late in life it was normal for them to be planning for the day they would die. But as a little girl, maybe 6 years old, this seemed like the scariest thing that could ever happen. But that thought would pop into my head a lot. I would always get this overwhelming feeling of panic and within a matter of seconds I’d be hyperventilating because I would just cry so hard.

A 20 year old Bride and her Daddy, circa 1993

I lost my Dad 7 years ago today. I am writing this entry at about the time that I got the phone call. My Dad was 68 years old and had only been retired for a year. My Dad was an Immigrant from Germany. He came over by boat in 1951 with his best friend Frank.

They landed in Nova Scotia. Their work visas were through the railroad and they were able to come here because they signed up to build the railroad from Nova Scotia through to Kitimat, British Columbia. When my Dad died I got all of his things. The only thing my brother wanted were some medals that my Dad had acquired as a boy from Adolph Hitler and the German Military for participating in Hitlers’ Youth (to prepare the youngsters for the SS). The stories my Dad told in the 26 years I had him with me came back to me in the photo albums packed with snapshots of his antics and daily life as he grew up, his boat ticket for when he came across as a young man, pictures of him with dozens of different women as he made his way West over the Northern American continent and eventually settling for a little while in Santa Monica, California before coming back to San Francisco.

My father wanted the American dream. Open a business and work hard. Build a family, and retire in a home he loved with no financial worries for himself or for his children’s futures. He accomplished his goal 10 fold. But his line of work was toxic, his way of life was toxic. His wife and son were toxic to him. My mother admitted marrying my father for his money only and she made him miserable. He almost left me many times to go back to Germany to live because he had never learned to write too well in English and he could not fathom trying to keep the business open without my mom running the office. He would have rather given up and gone back home. But he never did. His business was his love. He was so different at work than at home. He absolutely glowed. His customers were loyal because he was the very best in the trade. You would have never known my Father was well off. He was the most humble man I will ever know. He was always generous. Sensitive. But he could be a mean mother fucker if he needed to be. He was the hardest worker I’ve ever seen and he could drink 8 tall Seagram’s 7 and waters, pass out drunk on the family room floor, snore so damn loud that the whole neighborhood could hear him but he’d always get up the next

morning at 4:45 am and make it into work at 7am to open up.

I just wish that he could have had more time to finally enjoy all the money he earned over all those years of hard work and sacrifice. But something tells me that when he finally did retire he felt like he had no purpose in life any longer. He had gotten a bad cold from my husband and ended up having a minor heart attack which spawned several strokes. I had just found out I was pregnant when he went into the hospital. The first night, they told us he wasn’t going to pull through it. I went in alone to be with him. He was in a coma. I sat next to his bed and talked to him. He had a a breathing tube in his mouth. I was crying, I had tried so hard to stay strong for him but there was no use. I begged him not to leave me yet. I held his right hand and thought about how long it had been since I had done that. I felt how rough his hands were from the decades of hard labor. He had the most beautiful hands ever. I cried hard. I begged him not to go yet. I was so angry. I was 25, too young to have to say goodbye already.

I hadn’t had enough time yet. I gathered myself and thought that I had better let someone else come in and spend some time with him. I stood up and moved close to him. I kept his hand in mine and I told him that I loved him. I watched his face. His eyes were closed and the machine that was doing his breathing for him kept on pumping. I told him again that I love him and he squeezed my hand hard and mouthed to me ‘I love you’. He held my hand hard a long time, shaking it – his way of showing me it’s ok, be strong. I felt better. He was fighting for me again. I knew it. He knew it. I walked out confident that he’d be home soon. I walked up to my family in the waiting room and burst into tears as I told them what he said to me. My husband was so happy. We held eachother and cried. All my Mother said was, ‘I don’t believe it, he hasn’t said that to me’. Dad did pull through but while he was rehabilitating in the hospital, my mother would sit for hours trying to have him say ‘I love you’ to her. He never did. She resented me. It was pure hatred she had for me. Still does. I lost my whole family the day my Dad died a year later. But I am

here to carry on his strong morals, his relentless devotion to the things he loved, his unselfish sacrifices of himself, his love of the outdoors, his love of animals, his love of socializing and partying, his whole legacy. My brother may be the one that carries on the family name but what my father left me is more valuable than all the material things my brother will buy with his inheritance.

I love you Dad and I miss you more than any words can ever describe

and I know you know.

I know that pain that you lived with that I never understood now. I know it. And you told me I would. I guess I am carrying that part of you with me too. You are so missed. I will suffer this loss until the day I die.

And now…stay tuned for your regularly scheduled programming…