The art of the cold shower

After a visit from the neighborhood plumber, it seems that the unpaid bill was not the cause of our hot water loss. Though the bill did go unpaid, the hot water heater kicked the bucket on its own volition.

I’ve gone without hot water for longer than this (during February, no less), but this was before I had appointments to keep. As I try to negotiate a level of involvement in sex work that feels comfortable for both me and my partner, I haven’t taken any new clients. This is fine for now, as I’ve been floating by on a substantial donation from one particularly generous individual (see: I am not a “real” escort, just a crafty sugar baby).

Peter (the generous individual) hasn’t come around for some time. Our relationship was becoming a bit muddled for him, and he was experiencing conflict over his decision to “buy” my time. After some erectile difficulties during our last encounter, he stopped contacting me. I figured guilt had got the best of him, and I was sad to see him go.

Last week, he contacted me to say that he’d be in the area this weekend. I said that I’d be delighted to get together, and we set a date.

As I rinsed off in the tub this morning, I thought: “Shit.”

According to the plumber, it could take another week before the parts come in for our water heater. In the meantime, I am a greasy, hairy mess. The water is too cold to spend more than a minute under the faucet. I’ve developed a system that allows me to stay marginally hygienic, but it’s not a system that leaves room for deep cleansing or leg shaving. It works something like this: I climb into the bath and squat under the faucet. I splash myself with freezing water and rinse my hair. I back away from the faucet, do the shampoo and soap thing, and jump back under the faucet to rinse. I turned on the shower head this morning to see how long I could stand being submerged in frigid spray. After thirty seconds, I involuntarily pissed myself.

I might be able to solicit a warm shower from a friend. If not, dear Peter will experience the unexpected delight of Bettina au Natural.

Down on my knees to pay MY bills, not yours

Big apologies for being so slow to update. Before posting the second half of my previous entry, I'd like to interrupt the broadcast with a special message.

I live with four dudes. This alone is a big point of contention in my life. On a good day, my roommates keep the heterosexist bullshit to a minimum and pay their bills on time. On a bad day, I go upstairs and cry about it. Today was a bad day.

The hot water stopped working this morning. Chilly and annoyed, I went downstairs to ask my roommate if his portion of the bill had been paid.

"Sorry dude," he said. "Funds are tight right now."

I don't know how many times we've had this conversation. This guy is nearing 30. He's been living on his own for some time now. Though I know financial difficulties are a recent development in his life, I don't see how this kind of irresponsibility is excusable when you live with four other people (all of whom are struggling to maintain a decent standard of living). I told him that we were all in this together; that he needed to keep up his end of the deal. His response?

"You've got money. Why don't you cover it in the meantime."

We're talking about someone who knows how I acquired this money. This would be an inappropriate response in any situation, but it becomes even less appropriate in this context. I'm down on my knees to cover my own ass, 'nuff said. I feel like I should have some articulate closing paragraph here, but I just can't wrap my mind around this attitude. It's one thing to lend a hand to a friend in need; it's an abomination when someone *expects* that the fruits of your labor will fall neatly onto their silver platter.

The terms and conditions of lovin'

Last month, I posted Part 1 of a polyamory-related entry and never followed up with Part 2. For a brief recap, Part 1 concerns a young man who somehow wooed me with his brazen, relentless eye contact (note: I am easily wooed). Part 2 will detail my problematic response to this young man's advances (note: I am a huge shitbag). Before delving into Part 2, I'll backtrack by first shedding a bit of light on my primary relationship.

Long before my sidekick and I became romantically involved, we were close adolescent friends. We met at the onset of pubescence and spent the next five years lashing out in our respective melancholic ways. He went the drugs and apathy route, I went the sharp objects and abusive relationships route; not sure which one of us came out on top. Our connection ran deep, but there was something standing between us that would keep us apart for many years. That "something" was a mutual friend who envied our connection; a person who wanted me only for himself, and would do anything in his power to guarantee my humiliation and submission. Fortunately, this story isn't about him; that one will have to wait.

By the time Sidekick and I reconnected, I had changed a great deal. In his absence, I had learned to speak up for myself. I was stronger, but this newfound sense of self was not without stipulations. Before sealing the deal on our relationship, my partner had to agree to two things:

1. Someday, I would don a strap-on and ask if I could fuck his ass. When that day arrived, he would have to say yes.
2. I would love him endlessly and completely, but I could not promise him monogamy.

He agreed to these terms and conditions the way a hypnotized chain smoker agrees to shun nicotine: endlessly and completely. I knew that we'd have a hard row to hoe, but we agreed to pluck the weeds from the ol' Garden of Love as they sprouted. I imagine there are quite a few couples who lay out the terms of their relationship up front (and set these terms in stone). While I'm sure this is convenient and practical for many, this sort of arbitrary delegation doesn't sit well with best friends who become lovers, especially when you throw terms like "sex work" and "open relationship" into the mix.

There are innumerable benefits to navigating the "rules" of a relationship as they apply. There are also drawbacks. Tomorrow, I'll delve into the drawbacks...

I quit my job (and a cinematic epiphany of sorts)

I made big strides today.

1. Through a series of poorly crafted lies and awkward gesticulations, I quit my job and collected my last paycheck, which also happened to be my first paycheck.

2. I decided to do something that I’ve been meaning to do for awhile. The idea came to me after watching Black Snake Moan (the movie where Christina Ricci can’t help but fuck anything that stands on two legs). I almost feel embarrassed saying it, but this movie was a major trigger for me. It’s not that I haven’t experienced trigger moments before (i.e., when anyone picks me up or immobilizes me in any way), but I didn’t expect my “big” trigger to come in the form of Samuel L. Jackson and a kick-ass soundtrack.

This film did two things to me:

First, it reminded me how much I crave the feeling of being used. I got that tingly feeling between my legs, followed by a wave of nausea, followed by the desire to be fucked from behind, followed by the need to cry.
Second, it invited me to trace my patterns of behavior back to a specific person (yes, I know it’s just a movie, but I’ve been needing to place some blame).

My inability to just say “No” has caused me a good deal of disappointment over the years. Every pity fuck and inebriated blow job is followed by a sort of empty complacency, which is soon replaced by the realization that, “Oops, I’ve done it again.”

I thought that I’d broken this pattern of behavior, but I was mistaken. I got myself a boyfriend, pulled my shit together, and for over a year no one requested anything that merited a “No.” Unfortunately, what I believed to be personal triumph was merely circumstantial good fortune.

I’ve fucked up, and I’ll likely continue fucking up, so what's the next step? Or rather, what’s the first step? Admitting my powerlessness? I’m going to skip that one and jump right to step #4. I am going to make a “searching and fearless moral inventory” of my life and myself. What does this mean? Over the next week, you can expect a detailed list of my sexual misgivings (not all of them, just the ones that made me feel like shit seem worth writing about).

Been busy with, you know...work

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