The Definition of Insanity….

…is repeatedly doing the same thing and expecting the outcome to be different.

The scene: I have avoided not just the place where he works, but the entire town, for 6 weeks. Yesterday, I went there, with my MOM. He is, of course, there, on the sidewalk. He wears lime-green tie-dyed overalls with no shirt. I hate tie dye. On him, it’s hot. I laugh. “Someone should just take a picture of you every day,” I call. He comes over, takes my hand, kisses it, looks directly into my eyes. “I’m R___” he says.

“I’m Nuria,” say I. “And this is my Mom.”

He takes her hand and kisses it, too. Turns back to me. “I am straight,” he says. “And I am married. To ___. We have an open relationship.” He gives me a rather hard look. “I was a little put off that you only wanted to date me if I was single.” My mom is goggle-eyed.

“It’s easier,” I say. What else can I say? He is holding my hand. I am melting.

He nods. “I would love to hang out with you and get to know you.”

“Yes,” I say. My eyes slide down his skin to where it disappears under his clothes. He is tan, and lean, wiry, strong. I want to eat his entire body.

“I’ll call you,” he says.

“Yes,” I say. He gives me another kleig-light megawatt soul gaze and we part company.

My Mom and I continue up the street. “Forget you heard that,” I say. And she is just old enough that she will, thank God.

So, part of me is like, hahahaha, HE SAID YES!!!

The other half is like, fuckety fuck fuck.

Because, here’s the insanity part:

I have dated (more than) my share of married men. Somehow, there is always drama involved with that. You go in with the calmest intentions, you make sensible agreements, and lo, in about 15 minutes, people are freaking out and keying your car. This man is married. Excuse me while I scream hysterically.

All I want is someone to enjoy sex with, to feel beautiful with, to touch and cuddle and get off with on an occasional, sustainable basis. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Then there is this Don’t Ask; Don’t Tell thing. Frankly, it makes me feel like I’m keeping secrets. I hate that feeling. And if this guy would have a convo like that in front of my mother,  he obviously has no sense of shame. People will talk. I’m more worried about other people spilling the beans (on FB, for example), than I am about myself.

But I am also worried about myself. I am worried about my own sense of guilt, because that’s a real danger here. If I feel guilty about what I’m doing, there is a MUCH higher chance of something going nastily wrong. One can easily create misery and drama where none need be.

And I’m worried about my sanity. I want my life to be fun and engaging, a creative adventure. Period. And I love my man. I want him to be happy.

I just can’t stand the loneliness, the isolation, the sense of futility.

So how can I remove the conditions that create feelings of guilt? How must I conduct myself in this upcoming affair? Because, let’s face it, I am unlikely to walk away from this. I want him. I do not meet a lot of people whom I find attractive. Like none. So finding a way into this that is ethically and morally clean is of the utmost importance.

A talk must be had with R. I’d like to know just how this so-called “open relationship” works, its history. And I am going to visit my man next week for a couple of days.

I will know when I get back.

Okay, decision made.

I shall simply stop. No more emails, no more calls. If he emails me or calls me, I will cheerfully respond, but I will not initiate. I will send hm the copy of my novel that he asked for, and then that’s it. If space is what he needs, he can have it. No anger, no guilt trips, no bullshit. No breaking up, either. When winter comes and it’s time for my visit, I’m going. I love him, and I miss him. But I have spent most of my life being understanding and putting myself second. I’m done. I need someone to be close to.

Whose control issue is this, anyway?

So I’m trying to work this out.

My boyfriend lives far away. In our relationship, he generally calls me. Of course, I call him, too, but usually, he initiates. I like it like that. He used to call me almost every day. Now he almost never calls. When I call him, his phone is usually off. I fucking hate that. Sometimes he calls back. When I do get him, he is always pleased to hear from me.

We also email a lot. Or we used to. I still email a couple times a week. Occasionally I get a spate of emails in return.

The last time I heard from him was 10 days ago. We had a lovely conversation, talked for an hour. Unfortunately, this call was in response to the email I sent him saying that I felt like I didn’t have a boyfriend.

The facts: I have asked, begged, and threatened for more consistent communication. He is genuinely surprised when he hears we haven’t spoken for two weeks. But it doesn’t improve.

The facts: he is broke (like, odd jobs, no rent broke). The local free wifi connection has become unstable. His cell phone costs 10¢ a minute, and his credit cards are long gone. So communication is genuinely difficult for him. But still…

I am pretty sure he doesn’t have anyone else. I am pretty sure he is still interested in me, though I could be wrong about that. I know he loves me, but that doesn’t always equal interest, if you know what I mean. One can drop on the scale from hot lover to cherished old friend and never see it coming.

I do believe he is deeply bound up in his own world. The question is, What the fuck problem of that is mine?

When you are in a relationship, you have to think of more people than just yourself, right? Not that you subordinate your life to theirs, not at all. But especially when you are in a long-distance relationship, you have to keep the smoke gathered, as Walter Mosley would say, lest it go cold and drift away from inattention.

I am going cold and drifting away.

Are my expectations too high for guy who is currently way down on his luck and hitting his second Saturn return? Has he decided I’ll probably leave him anyway and this is the easy way out?

The facts: I have been over-helpful in the past and have pulled way back. I want a man, not a baby. He wants a lover, not a mother.

Is my wanting him to call just more manipulation? Do what I say? Show me you need me? Or am I just a woman who is lonely for her lover?

Is his refusal a way of gaining space and autonomy? Or is he just too self-involved to bother?

I have this idea that the problem is in me, in some way that I see, or refuse to see, this situation. I just don’t know what that is. Yet.

It’s like, if you want to keep me, I need more attention. On the other hand, why debase myself? Why put up with a man who can’t be there for me? Maybe I need to just let go, quietly and without fanfare. At what point am I breaking up with the guy, and at what point am I just giving him space (a whole lotta space)?

I don’t want to break up with the guy. He is delicious. His hands are magic. His voice melts me. His skin is smooth and silky, and he’s easy to be around. But he’s thousands of miles away. I haven’t seen him in months, and as far as I can see, I won’t be seeing him for another half a year, b/c he’s too broke to visit.

But I’m lonely. I want a lover. And the pickings are fucking slim, let me tell you, b/c there just aren’t that many people around whom I find attractive. So any casual sexual encounter runs the risk of turning into something not so casual.

I love flirting. I love the beginnings of relationships, when it’s all rosy and hot. I love feeling beautiful and desirable. I’ve been in my share of long-term things. I’m not the love ’em and leave ’em type. But maybe I could be more relaxed about the whole thing.

I want my love life to be easy and delicious. I am way past drama. But something in me is paranoid, hiding, anxious that there will be some. That fear of exposure, so recently activated, is not gone. Where does it originate? How do I get rid of it?


I have a crush on a guy.
He wears beads in his hair. He’s skinny, smart, funny, and hot. He a flashy dresser in an offbeat artistic kind of way, Hawaiian shirt and a long black skirt. He works at the health food store. So he has no money. It finally occurred to me that no straight guy has that much fashion sense, either. We have almost never spoken. I don’t know his name. He is my no-anxiety sex fantasy, someone I can imagine happily with no reality, no real-life drama of disappointments and complicated emotional trauma.

The other day I said, “If you are ever straight and single, call me.” And I gave him my card. He beamed. I left. I hope I haven’t ruined my one reliable fantasy.

I don’t meet many people with whom I have the slightest chemistry. Like, few. So this is important. But I don’t know what I want. Technically, someone to hang out with and have sex, a fuck-buddy, if you will. I am rotting here, going to waste. It causes me acute pain to waste my last few years of sexual desirability in virtual celibacy. What is the point of having a boyfriend if you never even get to cuddle, much less get laid? We have this “don’t ask, don’t tell” clause for the time we are apart. But the question is, can I maintain multiple relationships without becoming a pool of anxious guilt? Can I have a straight-up casual sex relationship? Maybe several?

Good questions. We’ll see what happens.


Between us, who is innocent?

We orbit endlessly, twin suns,  resenting each the other’s gravity,

Yet drawn, despite our best intentions, to the fire.

What bliss, to hurtle, finally, unencumbered, into the heart of flame.

Alas, it brings destruction.

From the safety of our distance, we cajole, advance, retreat,

Tease and threaten, snipe, attack, defend, and lick our wounds.


And again,

And again.

Nano news, nano blues

It’d all over but the final frantic sibilance as scribblers everywhere rush to finish.

I am done.

Oh yes, and early. I told my sweetheart, and now he wants to read it. But there are things in there that might make him feel bad. Like hard dicks. In fact, there are quite a few. Including one beloning to a character quite like him, in form and feature. So I am in a quandary.

I am learning how to express myself without restriction–

And yet I am restricted by my dueling impulses to have my work read, to obtain my  sweeties approval, and to not hurt my his feelings, or provide evidence of some paranoid conviction that I am unsatisfied with him.

I am,

but not because of his dick. It’s more the way he is because of his dick. Or maybe his dick is like that because of the way he is. But it’s that part, that part, that shamed, self-hating, toxic, corrosive part that is the problem.

And it’s really like, who am I to complain? That’s his cross to bear, and he has to deal with it.

But I have this other set of dueling impulses, one of which is my desire to be around him and the other, which is to get away from the toxicity.

Sucks. But anyway, I tried to figure out how the hot guy could have ED. Or maybe the hot guy (who so resembles my lover), could pop a quick Viagra before the love scene.

Or I could let him read it the way it is. But I have no wish to hurt him. Maybe I should say, he’s a grown up, and he can handle it.

Decisions, decisions…

Does he have money?

“Does he have money?” That’s what everyone asked me when we started dating. I mean, everyone, from my friends to my cousins to my uncle. “No,” I said, puzzled. “He’s an actor.”  Of course he didn’t have any money. I’d never dated anyone with money. I’d never had any money myself. I couldn’t even understand why they were asking me this question.

Now I do.

My girlfriend and I were commiserating on how it sucks to find yourself supporting your man. “You know those little things you like to do for yourself,” she said. “Those manicures and massages and stuff? Well, you can kiss them goodbye.” Amen to that. You can kiss a lot of things goodbye.

So I think I am getting done with broke-ass men. I want an equal. And I think I’m getting done with being broke myself. Show me the money! I’d like to live a pleasant life. I want to be able to buy things I like from the artists and artisans I appreciate. I want to be paid well for what I do. Yeah! And be appreciated. I’m smart, funny, reliable, trustworthy, and I have an impeccable aesthetic. I enjoy travel, meeting people, and having meaningful, fun conversations about dance and art and things like that. I like cafes. I want a job that pays me well to do all these things with other fascinating, smart, funny, cool creative people.

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My boyfriend can’t get it up

My boyfriend can’t get it up. You might wonder why he’s still my boyfriend, and sometimes so do I, but not because of that. The truth is, he’s a sex god. How narrow minded you are, to think only a hard dick can be a sex god. No, he is so hot, one look and my body melts. More orgasms than you can count. He’s that good.

Unfortunately he does not understand this. He, too, is convinced that a hard dick (preferably huge) is all that counts. He’s also balding, overweight (I don’t care), and convinced that his dick is too small, even when hard (it’s not), which probably has a lot to do with why it doesn’t get hard. Size matters, but not as much as other things, like, oh,  skill, for example. Trust me, I’ve dated younger, slimmer, hairier guys who were hung like a horse, and they were completely useless in bed.

It all started out so nicely, so hot, so rich, so good. And then… He was too tired. I was masturbating before he got home because I was so horny, but he was too tired. He hurt his shoulder. I was understanding, and restrained myself. Mistake. The second year I had a drug reaction and gained 10-15 pounds. he had a lousy summer and became seriously depressed.

Not fun, living in one tiny room with a seriously depressed guy who (you are pretty certain) thinks you look repulsive. When drunk, he said we should let the whole thing go. Sober, he did not remember saying this and denied wanting to end it. I stayed. Mistake.

He tries Viagra; sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. When I’m not around is when it tends to work. Oh. No, I don’t feel completely shitty about this. So now I am dating a totally hot sex magic god who so doesn’t want to fuck me, he can’t get hard on Viagra (I’m beautiful, by the way).  I hate the Viagra because it becomes all about the dick and not about me. Getting laid with Viagra is worse than without, b/c he just gets his rocks off, and where are all my orgasms?

He comes to stay with me, has no job; I employ him. He has another lousy summer, stays at my place depressed out of his mind. I am understanding. I give him money. Mistake. I am now buying his smokes and basically supporting him and he is depressed. I am not getting laid. there isn’t even any Viagra around. I tell my therapist; she says, “So he has a mood disorder. But when you talk about him you look younger and it’s the only time you smile.”

He has the most beautiful voice and he makes me laugh and his hands are magic, but he won’t touch me. He’s not interested in my breasts and he doesn’t like to kiss. I love to kiss. He feels so bad about his body (or maybe mine), he turns the light off when we make love.

But he didn’t used to. And I am not getting laid.

I tell him I will not give him any more money. He understands (he really is not a mooch. How the fuck did I get here?) I go back where I live (we lives thousands of miles apart). Sometimes we talk on the phone. He is broke. He has let all his credit cards collapse and phone get turned off. He has only a 10 cents a minute cell phone. When I call him he has no minutes or his phone is on silent. Sometimes he doesn’t call me for days. Like 10 of them.  I am not getting laid AND I am worried. I say I need him to email me every day, write to me for at least 10 minutes. He starts, then skips three days. I tell him he will email me EVERY DAY or I am done.

I am still not getting laid.

Inside me blooms something new


Inside me blooms something new–

Or was it always there,

A small, small, hard-coated seed?

Softening, it called me across the empty desert.

Root, leaf, and stem, it brought me

To this radiant oasis.


I become

My true self–

Fragrant, brilliant, beautiful.