Vikings and Pumpkin Bread (NSFW)

The bruise on my ass has already passed the pretty purple phase and is turning greenish yellow. The look of abject horror on his face when he saw it, literally gasping as he covered his mouth in shock, spoke volumes about the truth behind the stories he tells himself. Aggressive, alpha male, big, tough, soldier man… but he still holds onto the Madonna/Whore complex. I should have known when he talked about “good girls” and how he’d take a slut over one any day. But he’d fucked me like a “good girl,” slow, deliberate, looking into my eyes and calling me “Baby.” And when I reminded him that I was open to seeing his aggression, he took aim and swatted my ass. Barely a sting. He seemed surprised when I didn’t flinch or cry out, but probably made a sound that implied, “I bet you can do better than that!”

When he asked if there was anywhere else I liked to be slapped, I thought that maybe he had it in him after all. I corrected his aim when he caught my ear on the first swing and told him that he’d hit the max impact for my face. A couple more swats at my cheeks and then he said he wanted me on my back. Even with proper barriers in place, he pulled out when he came. Sitting back on his knees, shaking and sweating I could actually see the condom filling with each shudder. We’d lost the condom twice during out first encounter and despite my negative STI panel and infertility, it was reflexive for him to never come inside a woman. Maybe that will change after his vasectomy. Maybe not. I’m not sure I’ll be around to experience it.

I can go from zero to boyfriend in 3.5 dates, but this was date number six and he felt further away than the previous week in bed when he’d cuddled up and told me that physical closeness was an emotional trigger for him. Things had escalated so quickly from OkCupid to Vikings and pumpkin bread- our version of “Netflix and Chill” but I’m already thinking about him in the past tense. I try not to. But I know that as quickly as I attach, I just as quickly feel like I’m not getting enough attention and I start to catastrophize things. Realistically, he could just be having a bad week (PTSD, TBI and co-parenting a teenager with an ex tend to bring those on) or he just isn’t normally the type to initiate the messaging as often once things feel established. But in my mind I’m imagining that my new, shiny has worn off and the Madonna/Whore complex has made it too hard for him to reconcile a woman that he can talk to for hours about culture, religion, the origins of the pyramids, ghost stories and alien sightings, who also likes getting fucked hard and slapped around.

My husband tells me it’s his loss and that eventually we’ll find people that will accept us for everything we are. And we are pretty fucking awesome. It was my husband that took a photo of the bruise because he thought it was as hot as I did. This was after we went to the spare bedroom where another man had sweated all over his wife and he asked for every detail before putting on a condom from the same box for the novelty of it.

“I’m either being really brave or really stupid!”

That was my battle cry before taking action in the past. I’m either being really brave, or really stupid but here goes! And off I went. Into action.

What dawned on me today is that just by taking action and going after what I wanted in life I was being brave. No matter the end result, the only thing that would have been stupid was letting my fears stop me from doing or saying something important and taking a chance. I took that chance coming half way across the country with My Mr. after only a few months together, and I can only imagine how stupid I would have been to stay in Texas in my little apartment, my little job and my little, lonely life. I pushed all my fears aside and just jumped.

Along the line I lost that fearlessness.

When we decided to take the path of non-monogamy I jumped in head first and let the feels happen. It scared me to death to face the fact that not only was I having sex with another man with my husband, but we were spending time together and I started to have feelings for him. I would think about him when we weren’t together and look forward to our next date. And then he disappeared on us. And I was stupid.

The last time we saw The Mad Scientist, I’d been brave and talked about the logistics of him seeing another woman and how much I enjoyed the time I had with him. Or at least that’s how I remember it. And in exchange for my bravery, I got silence. At first it was just delayed responses, then monosyllabic messages and before I even realized what was happening he was gone and I was hurt. And I didn’t know what happened. 

Did I come on too strong over breakfast? Was he just not that into me/us? Did it all mean so little to him that he moved on without even saying goodbye? 

And the spinning brain just never stopped… For a long time! When we would go up to the city, part of me would be on the look-out for his spiked hair and bright shirts. And then there’s the fucking Journey song! One of those songs that’s played on every radio station at least 10 times a day. The opening chords would cause me to reflexively change the station lest I get fully into my head about that awesome night we spent singing along to that song at the piano bar. There weren’t that many nights, but they were all great…

I was stupid then. Rather than reaching out and saying, “What the fuck, dude? I’m having the feels over here and I miss you!” I just shut down. And wallowed. And closed myself off lest someone else give me a case of the feels like that. 

For the last 2 years I’ve struggled to open up again and be brave enough to let someone new in. My Mr. and I shifted things a little so that my dating solo is an option, though the ultimate goal is still the triad. Nobody that came across my OkCupid page, or anywhere else for that matter, was really interesting enough to get my attention. There didn’t seem to be anything out there worth taking down my walls for, and in here with My Mr. I feel safe so why bother? I know better, but still that feeling persists.

Last week I was brave when I saw The Mad Scientist had visited my OkCupid profile. Rather than reflexively scrolling past his photo or trying to sour grape things in my mind I clicked on it. Then I sent a message. “How’s life been treating you? Hope all is well!” Nothing too deep or heavy.

He replied with a long message about life stuff and ended it with “We should do dinner!” So a couple nights ago, we did.

I sat mostly silent while he and My Mr. talked about work stuff, his travels and the renovations he’s doing on his new condo. I fluctuated between feeling like a deer in headlights, and being genuinely disinterested in the conversations they were having. But I didn’t want the night to end too quickly so I ordered dessert and picked at it while they chatted. It was the end of the night that made the spinning start again. We hugged then made eye contact as he walked away. I thought I saw something there, but as usual with him I second guessed my impressions. I sent a text message that would go unanswered until I messaged on OkCupid saying, “Not sure if you got my text but it was great seeing you again!”

My attempts at flirting via text message that afternoon were met by seemingly neutral responses, but again I’m questioning things… And I’m being stupid by letting my brain keep spinning rather than just sending him a message:

“Hey! So I really liked what we were doing before and I’d like to do it again… but this time with just the two of us sometimes. And my offer to bring you lasagna was my way of saying that I’d like to come up to your place and watch a bad movie on your couch with your arm around me. I’m not sure if you’d like that, but I figure best to just ask and risk rejection than to sit around and hope you reply sometime.”

It really is better to risk rejection and be direct than to let it eat at me like this. But I’m still not sure I’m brave enough yet… 

Banana Bread

That was my win for yesterday... otherwise, it was total emotional cluster fuck. As My Mr. put it, “A perfect storm” for my anxiety. 

My usual pre-discussion stage fright turned into full blown anxiety on the drive down. Traffic was awful due to random thunder storms and I knew I was going to be late to my own event. 

In the throes of it all, My Mr. mentioned that he’d spent all day chatting with the Boston Girl that messaged him on OkC the day before. Initially when he told me about her, I felt a touch of compersion, excitement even that he was making a friend. I encouraged him to reply to her. But then he handed me his phone, telling me that he couldn’t remember her name and to look for the first message. As soon as I saw her picture my claws came out. I immediately wanted to punch her in the throat because she’s... cute, and younger than me, and thin... Totally my own insecurities flaring up, but in the moment I was unable to talk myself down and instead swallowed it all and tried not to ruin my eye make-up.

The saving grace in that moment was that Jersey and I were texting for most of the drive. Even that is bittersweet given the way I’ve gotten my hopes up about seeing him only to have them dashed over and over again. I get it and know where his intent is, but it’s frustrating to finally meet someone with a brain in his head that’s good looking. Even more, he seems to be actually interested in my brain first and any potential for more is just an afterthought. At this point, he’s in the running with McT for the longest time “saying” we’ll get a drink but never actually having said drink.

We arrived at discussion 10 minutes past the start time and the entire group (all friends and people we know well) were cuddled up on the couch. I got a few hugs and My Mr. went to get food. Of course I soon realized that he had the memory stick in his pocket with the videos I needed. He turned around and brought it back to me, but of course it wasn’t compatible with The Host’s TV. So I frantically worked with him to get the videos to play... 

The last people to show walked in while we did a test video. And that’s when my nightmare really started. The last time this couple came, she just rubbed me the wrong way. I tried to blame it on the accent and the beret, but this time she was even more pretentious (and wearing a different, color coordinated beret) and brought along a European friend who was equally pretentious. Their comments made me feel totally invalidated for even choosing the topic, and then they proceeded to take things into a far more academic direction than my discussions go in. Add a side of therapy time where she made one friend cry (in a totally positive way, but still) and it was my worst nightmare. I know that everyone else walked away having enjoyed the night, but by the time we were done I was ready to fall over.

I closed the formal portion of the night and fled to the kitchen to devour the food My Mr. had brought. There was more laughter and conversation around me, but I just wanted to climb into my salad and disappear. I got lots of praise for the banana bread I brought, several warm goodbye hugs but stayed wound in a knot the entire time. It wasn’t until it was just me and The Host in the kitchen that I lost it. He asked if I was okay. (Worst thing ever when I’m trying to act okay but I’m not.) And he called me out on faking it. That’s when the tears welled up. They didn’t stop for the rest of the night and even while writing this I’m getting another lump in my throat.

The worst part of it all is knowing that all of the insecurities and negative thoughts are completely invalid. I know that I’m a valued member of the community (another topic we talked about at length last night) and that My Mr. loves me exactly the way I am. I know that I have cheerleaders and supporters that want to see me continue on my path as a coach and that people truly appreciate the safe space I create when I host events. I know I am enough. But in these moments I don’t know how to feel better. 

Tomorrow night is the Truth or Dare party, so I need to get on the mend and get it together. I know the happy shiny is still in me. It always is. I just need to dig it out so I can have fun and not ruin anyone else’s good time tomorrow. 

I am surrounded by Swinging Poly Kinksters, and I have no sex drive.

I am surrounded by Swinging Poly Kinksters, and I have no sex drive.

Now, that’s not an entirely true statement. Emily Nagoski helped me understand and disprove the concept of sex being something you have an actual “Drive” for… “Drive” is about things that are necessary for survival. Nobody has ever died from lack of genital stimulation. Emily Nagoski also helped me understand the concept of responsive desire. This means that I don’t go around thinking about pizza, but if someone puts a pizza in front of me I’ll savor all the cheesy goodness with pleasure. But none of that helps with the feeling of being defective in some way because I WANT to want sex. I want to have the urge to go downstairs at the parties where people are literally a few feet away from me having screaming orgasms. I want screaming orgasms, too! I’m envious of those feelings and of the interest in sex that I’m surrounded by.

Me? I’d rather be upstairs having a conversation than go downstairs to be licked, and poked by any number of my friends of both genders that would happily oblige. I have no moral objections to NSA sex, no concerns about accidental pregnancy and am comfortable with the proper use of barriers to prevent STI’s. I have a group of sex positive friends who are (mostly) intelligent and caring people that also have sex outside of their primary relationships and primarily within this close social network. I have an amazing husband that loves every zaftig inch of me and is turned on by the idea of me having sex outside of our marriage. He doesn’t view it as a bargaining chip that he could use to have sex with other women or any other secondary motive. My biggest complaint about our sex life is that no matter how much lube we use, my vagina seems to have a maximum thrusts per day before it becomes painful. And hell, I’m the kind of masochist that LIKES a certain kind of pain. So, what the hell?

In trying to find other ways to explain how this feels I thought about being an alcoholic at a bar. But that implies a negativity to the subject and a distinct refusal to partake. So… dieting at desert? No. Clinically depressed at Disney Land. Well, that struck a nerve! Firstly because we did a trip to Disney World last summer and it was top 5 in the ‘Worst Experiences in the World’ for me. But also because of the clinical depression factor. 

I know I have depression. I’ve dealt with it my entire life and made a conscious choice to not take psyche meds for it after several years on Prozac and a really rough time coming off it. I’ve researched all the foods and lifestyle changes that can help with depression but the best holistic treatment is exercise, but I’ve had chronic pain and issues with my hips for nearly 15 years. Exercise causes pain which causes the depression and anxiety to spiral until all I can do is lay in bed and cry.

The last time I went to my doctor for a physical, she noted my chart with “OBESE” and gave me a referral for physical therapy for my hip pain. The therapist said that my tendons are hyper flexible and tried to work with me on strength training so my muscles would hold things in place better. The pain was so bad that after 2 sessions she said that I needed to get into pain management before she would see me again. Pain management means drugs and I’ve learned the hard way that having prescription pain medication in my home is a bad thing so of course I never followed up. Instead, I’ve tried to push myself to exercise, eat better and drink less. That usually lasts a couple days before we have steak and wine night followed by lazy hangover day and greasy food remedies. And the cycle starts over again.

Beyond the physical issues there’s even more. I know that I was a product of our culture. In my 20’s I knew all about being sexy but not much at all about my own sexuality. Most of the sex I had until my early 30’s had nothing to do with the act of sex, but everything to do with the twisted concepts about sex I had learned along the way. Sex was about power. Sex was about control. Sex was about becoming an object of desire and about chasing the “naughty” with all of the roller coaster thrills that come with it. Sex was seldom about me or my body. And even when it was, I was simply on display and being commanded by another. “No, you’re not done, Baby. You’re going to come again for me.”

I studied the physiology behind sex so I could give a better blow job. I stayed thin and bought new boobs so I would look good naked. I slept with married men and bosses because I could. I had FMF threesomes because two chicks together is considered the ultimate sexy. And once I realized that I didn’t want to be that person anymore I lost all sense of self. I was tired of being objectified and gained weight. I was over being anyone’s secret so I vowed to stop being the other woman. I needed honesty and transparency and I found it with My Mr. in ways I’d never imagined possible. But I never really figured out my own sexuality.

Here's what I do know: I know that I’m not sexually attracted to women at all and to pretend otherwise is dishonest and icky. I know that I need to feel valued as a person before I’m comfortable fooling around with anyone. (See: sapiosexual and possibly demisexual) I took certain sex acts I tolerated but seldom enjoyed and set a hard boundary around them. I discovered an interest in BDSM and that energy exchange is the ultimate fuel for my fire. But my responsiveness is so hit or miss that it frustrates me and My Mr. And all of this while swimming the sea of non-monogamy where we not only go to parties where group sex is happening one floor below, but we host discussions about sex and sexuality and have become a part of a community that is based on sexual freedom and acceptance of ones’ self. Sometimes I feel like a total hypocrite or phony for it. I teach others how to be open and accepting of themselves but here I sit unable to untangle all of the crap that is strangling me.

I feel like a vegetarian at a barbecue. It smells so good but I can’t make myself want it. And I’m envious of everyone around me enjoying their steak. That envy just makes it all the harder to enjoy the rest of the backyard and feel at home.

We are going to a Truth or Dare night this weekend and I’m trying not to make a big deal about it. In the past the host had not specifically emphasized the play aspect of these parties, but the flirty fun with a side note about the basement activities. My Mr. actually created the new digital version of the game and is co-hosting so when I saw the way the party was written up I had to just swallow my usual anxiety and push through. Otherwise I wouldn’t even agree to go. I hate play parties with all of the expectation and the single-mindedness that others bring to them. I want to want to be part of that scene. And I want My Mr. to have his own stories and experiences. But I don’t know if I know how I really feel about it all and I’m dreading the long drive home if I’m not able to keep it all in check.

I need a massage. And to put on my sneakers and enjoy some sunshine. And next month when I go back to the doctor I need the courage to talk about all of this and look into ways to make it better. 

Things my Mother Said

The saddest thing my mother ever said to me was 11 years ago. I had just moved back to Colorado after living in Germany for 2 years. My then-husband was deployed to Iraq and I had just come from a failed job interview. We were sharing a house on the West side of Colorado Springs. It was an older home with a full apartment downstairs and a small concrete porch in the back where I was laying. Tears of disappointment and frustration were flowing down my face when I asked her, “Mom, when I was a little girl what did I want to be when I grew up?” She was on the other side of the screen door cooking a pan of greens. Without much thought she replied, “Well… you never really expressed any hopes or dreams. You read.”

That statement sums up so much about my life. I never really had any hopes or dreams. I read. And I wrote. A lot.

There is an old military footlocker in the corner of my dining room that holds all of my journals from age 11 (6^th grade) until I went mostly digital sometime around age 26. Even then I continued writing on paper in notebooks and other scraps of paper as the mood struck me. My paper writing is the stuff that is too real to admit to, too dark and twisty to risk sharing. Too ugly. But it’s all there. And in the darkest, twistiest moments I wrote about my lack of hopes or dreams and what that really means. At age 12 I had no visions of myself at age 16. At 16 I couldn't imagine 18 or 21. And at 21, the idea of making it to 30 seemed impossible. There was always this sense that I wasn't supposed to be here and that someday I would finally give in to the dark, ugly thoughts I referred to as my “self-destruct” button.

In my darkest moment I shared my journal with a doctor because I was down to the last reason not to kill myself: my precious Husky, Max. In return I got a 3 day stay in the looney bin where they fed me various psychotropic medications that made me hallucinate that my hands were giant Mickey Mouse hands. This was during the cricket seasons where crickets were swarming inside and out so I was unsure if they allowed me a broom to help with bug control, or as a means to deal with different hallucinations. To this day I can’t be sure.  One day a chaplain came for his weekly visit and found me with the one book I’d brought in to pass the time, a book on Italian Witchcraft. We ended up spending three full hours discussing religion while the tech on duty watched and listened to the entire thing. He even skipped a planned group activity because he was so interested in the conversation. It was the same tech that saw how people were drawn to me and told me, “Just because you've been here doesn't mean you can’t work here.” They also had really excellent chocolate cake.

On the third day I was sent home with a referral for counseling and psychiatry. I had given my house key to a friend’s husband so he could feed Max for me so I had to break into my own home by climbing in through an unlocked window. That was 10 years ago.

Today the self-destruct button is still there, but it blinks less and less frequently. When it does it’s usually spurred by some memory about my past that invades my thoughts and interferes with my life today. All of those thoughts, all of those memories are in the footlocker in the corner. Part of me wants to resurrect it all and make it digital as a way of working through it. Another part of me wants to go out to a lake somewhere and give the box a proper Viking funeral as a means to try and let go of it all.

I've lived so much of my life grateful for all the struggles that made me who I am. But the older I get the more I know that the pain from all of those life lessons weighs me down and makes it all too easy to slice me open again. The memories run too deep and have left too many scars that just won’t heal. I don’t have the answer, but the longer I let myself live like this the less time I’m going to have to really experience the good. And my life now is so good! I have an awesome marriage, a comfortable home and I no longer have a day job eating up all of my time.  I have the freedom to pursue my passions and do what I want with my day. Yet, all I want to do is lounge around in yoga pants and binge watch bad TV. How do you learn how to want after a lifetime of focusing on all of the “need?”

Today my mother said something else to me that made me cry. She said, “In my mind, as your proud Mommio, I view you as having pioneered a huge movement which has saved many lives.”

Part of me reacts with thoughts like, “That’s my crazy mother!”

But then I think about all the times people have said things to me like, “I’d never thought of it that way!” or “I really learned something today!” I think of the times that people have sought me out for advice after only meeting me once. And as frustrating as it is when the person coming to me for advice is someone I was interested in dating (true story) it still feels good to have him say, “Thank you. I feel better for having talked to you about this.” So I know my purpose. I know I’m doing good things. I just wish I knew how to get motivated to do it more and not be so afraid of my own success. 

Piratz Tavern

Piratz Tavern is closing next weekend…

We weren’t regulars. We weren’t costumed artists. We didn’t spend hours bonding with the staff or with other patrons.  In 2013, we were a seemingly normal couple who had just moved to Maryland. We saw the Bar Rescue episode and thought, “That place looks like fun! I wonder if they are still open.” And they were!

We read about the “Pleasure and Pain” Valentine’s theme and decided to play dress up. We hadn’t yet really discovered the world of Kink. We had not yet set foot in a dungeon, nor purchased a flogger. We hadn’t heard of FetLife and had just put up our joint OkCupid profile seeking an additional male partner. But the event sounded like fun, so we went shopping. And on Valentine’s Day 2013, we walked into the tavern for the first time. I was in a corset and mini-skirt with a spiked collar. My Mr. was in a vest and jeans… We purchased those clothes at Hot Topic with the help of a sales associate who talked about being a ‘switch’ as though we were familiar with the terminology at the time. It seemed that we were either too early for the party, or there was no party at all. Other than one server who had a little more leather in her costume than others, nobody was dressed for the theme. We sat at a small table in the bar and had a really good meal while people watching. By the end of the night, a Mr. Grey wannbe walked in toting a girl in a rope harness behind him. Even then, the scene made my roll my eyes.

We would go back several times thinking we might find “our people.” But only one server consistently greeted me as though he’d seen me before. Jack Bones would come over and play with my hair, flirting, then scurrying off, acting afraid of My Mr. We would speculate how much of the act was genuine, and how much he’d actually had to drink on any given night. He played the part well, even on his Facebook page where he would post events, send invites, and even briefly chat with me once or twice. Another server/bartender, Saber Thompson would smile and nod when she saw me after the night we exchanged chit chat in the ladies room. I would later run into her at the flea market of sorts where we purchased my newest corset and flogger. I’ve been following her on Tumblr, and even ran into her at the shop where she works now.

And then there’s “The Hot Pirate.” I’m sure I’ve seen his name, but I prefer THP. I’d seen him at the tavern several times, but he didn’t appear to work there. I have a type when it comes to men, and he fits it pretty well. Like a silly schoolgirl with a crush, I’d had hopes that the perceived eye contact as I’d walked past on occasion could turn into conversation and maybe more. One day My Mr. and I were at the bar, chatting with the bartender, Poppet. We mentioned having moved here from Texas to which she said, “Oh! My husband is from Texas!” And she shouted… “Husband! Come meet these people. They are from Texas, too!” Of course “Husband” was THP. I only hope the look on my face was more composed than I felt in that moment… To this day, when I’m having a bad day at work My Mr. will send me a picture of THP he found online because he knows that it invokes an involuntary smile.

Sitting at the communal table at Piratz, we met some interesting people and made some very cool memories. One night my husband and our then- boyfriend went to Piratz after a burlesque show. I was in one of my pin-up girl outfits complete with ankle breakers that required one on each arm to walk in. A group of frat boys happened to be there as well who were making remarks about me in an attempt to be flirty. My Mr. was in a less-than sober state, and got upset over their advances. Bear in mind, I had been sitting with our boyfriend all night, holding his hand. But at the tavern, these random frat boys brought out a possessive side of My Mr. that I had never seen. Can we say ironic?

On St. Patrick’s Day 2014 we met another couple for dinner and drinks at Piratz. I had on my Guinness Girl shirt and glittery green make-up complete with a matching fascinator. The male of the couple was a photographer who I had done a shoot with. This was the first time we really met his partner, and the conversation that ensued comes up whenever I talk about how much I loved being a “Domestic Goddess” without a paycheck. She would make the statement that night that a woman who stays home to raise children was not only not contributing, but was a detriment to society. My Mr. sensed my anger rising and diverted the conversation just in time for my urge to lunge across the table and stab her with my fork to subside. That night ranks pretty high on a very small list of times I truly believed I was going to end up in jail.

I am also part of Headbone Jack’s “Beautiful Women in my Hat” album. I personally don’t think it’s the most flattering photo, but it’s still one of my favorites.

I feel like a bit of a Fangirl talking about Piratz like this. We weren’t part of the scene, but were people that walked in and out and built memories of our own thanks to the staff of the tavern. And thanks to social media I’ve been able to get glimpses of the people behind the costumes and accents that were part of their daily lives and jobs. I’ve read their perspective on the Bar Rescue episodes, the feelings of losing a part of their home, family and history, and all the fun times in between. Piratz is not my story to tell, but the backdrop of some of my fondest memories. Thank you all for letting us pass through a place you called your home.

I Watched '50 Shades of Grey' (So you don't have to)

No matter where you are in America, the "50 Shades" discussion has become unavoidable. Just yesterday, a co-worker asked (across the office) who was going to see "50 Shades of Grey" over the weekend. When the topic comes up, I tend to inwardly snicker because kink is something I've become personally interested in. In addition to my interests, I've been seeking out educational events on the topic where others can learn more about BDSM and the local kink community. Last fall we hosted an educational series with our MeetUp group that we called “50 Shades of BS.” I broke down and read the first book before going to a lecture-style meeting in a hotel conference room, then a hands-on event at a local play space. (Yes, some people still refer to places where people publicly practice BDSM as ‘dungeons’ but “play space” is certainly a less-scary and more correct term.) From there we attended other events at other play spaces in order to compare how each venue presented the topic. The fact is that I discovered BDSM before the "50 Shades" phenomenon and am among those who hated the book, but are happy to see the conversation happening in a more main stream setting. Education is powerful, and education about sexuality is greatly lacking in our puritanical culture.

After reading the book and very clearly seeing the “Twilight Fan Fiction” of it all, I was ashamed to have spent money on the purchase. The idea of spending even more money on such an awful movie was appalling. Fortunately, my daughter just happens to work at a local movie theater so all we paid for was the popcorn. She called her boss to tell him we would be coming, but made sure to explain that we were going so we could discuss it with our MeetUp group and not because we were actually interested in the movie. (And on a total ‘proud Momma’ note, My Kiddo has been coming home talking about how awful 50 Shades is. She’s been telling her co-workers that it’s abusive and dangerous, citing stories she’s read about increased ‘handcuff related’ injures since the release of the book. Did I mention how proud of her I am?)

We went to the Friday February 13th showing at 6:40 pm, the earliest we could make right after work. The crowd was about what we expected- almost exclusively couples that looked anywhere from their mid-20’s to late 50’s. We arrived around 6:20 pm and had no problem finding decent seats. The pre-previews were already going when we sat down. One of the first commercials was for Trojan brand lubricants. Then they cut to a clip of the ’50 Shades’ Trojan commercial. I immediately knew they were targeting a specific audience. The actual previews were more sappy romances including another film that was adapted from a Nicholas Sparks movie. (*Gag*)

By the time the movie started, I was already questioning just how many times I could roll my eyes before they would simply roll down the aisle. In addition to the usual theater discomfort, we had a couple of asshats in front of us that ignored the M&M’s request to turn off your phones. I was not amused.

The movie opened with images from the trailer and followed the book in a lot of respects- the perfect blondes in Mr. Grey’s office, the ridiculously awkward Anna Steele who trips as she enters his office then proceeds to exude an unprecedented level of low self-esteem, “holy cow!” and all the other bad lines from the book…“I don’t make love. I fuck. Hard.” And my personal favorite, “I’m 50 shades of fucked up!” The movie itself had a few positive things of note: condom usage, images of female pleasure, conversation about specific sex acts, safe words and limits. But the entire plot revolves around head games and other over used tropes about “romance.”

After the initial meeting in Seattle, Christian pulls stalker move #1- he shows up at the hardware store in Portland where she works. He has her help him find cable ties, tape and rope to which she remarks that he is now the perfect serial killer. He tells her, “Not today.” From there he agrees to do a photo shoot to go with the article her roommate is writing on him. They go for coffee afterwards where he places a muffin in front of her and says, “Eat.” This is where she tries to call him out on being bossy but he quickly ends the date. Outside, she is almost hit by a speeding bike messenger and he “rescues” her, holding her in his arms. She goes all doe-eyed in his embrace, but he does not kiss her and instead tells her he made a mistake and it was nice meeting her.

Anna is shown all mopey about his rejection for a day or more but then a package shows up for her. Christian has sent her 1st edition books by her favorite author. So…. He’s already said he’s not the man for her, but is giving her expensive gifts? That night, Anna and her roommate go out to a club where she proceeds to get stupid drunk. In a typical bar moment, Ana drunk dials Christian while waiting to use the bathroom. Instead of reacting like a sober adult and hanging up on her, he uses the call to track her location and shows up at the club. (Don't get me started on the lack of realism throughout the movie!) A friend of Anna’s is acting all rapey outside, trying to kiss her when Christian shows up. He pushes the guy away yelling, “She said NO!” (As though he actually understands the concept of consent!) At which point Anna vomits all over the parking lot. Sexy. The next morning Anna wakes up in Christian’s bed unsure as to how she got there. He assures her that necrophilia is not his thing and then tells her that if she were his she wouldn't be able to sit for a week. (Dun, dun, DUN!)

The theme of "no, not meaning no" repeats throughout the film. Christian repeatedly says “I don’t do romance.” Then does something romantic. Anna tells him to go away, then he shows up- in her apartment then out of state when she goes to visit her mother. And every time he shows up, she welcomes him with open arms (and open legs.) In the book, there was a lot more violent sex and a lot less actual BDSM. She cried a lot and struggled in most of the sex scenes in the book, other than her first time with him. She was a virgin until meeting him, and upon discovering this he states they are going to remedy the situation. In the movie, there were at least 2 scenes where Christian tied Anna up and used various items for sensory play including a peacock feather and a flogger, and she is shown to be in utter ecstasy each time. As a matter of fact, she is shown to welcome and enjoy every encounter in “the red room of pain” except the very last.

Some of the most cringe worthy moments were when Christian flogged Anna. Not because of the flogging, but because he repeatedly flogged her across the abdomen. That is one of the worst places to flog, whip or paddle someone for a variety of reasons. One: it hurts in a bad way, not the good way that flogging can feel on the back, thighs or even breasts. Two: internal organs! It’s such a no-no in general that the Buzzfeed video we shared with our group specifically brings it up. Why would they do it that way on screen? Because boobs! If she’d been tied up on her stomach it simply would not have been as “sexy” in Hollywood terms.

The movie also glossed over a very important issue that the book addressed- STI testing and birth control. In the book there is a detailed scene where Anna is seen by a gynecologist and is tested for STI’s then prescribed birth control pills. Prior to that, Christian uses a condom and is even shown opening the packages before intercourse. In the movie, there is a very brief moment where Anna jokes that the doctor told her she has to abstain from sexual activity for 4 weeks. Christian looks shocked, then she laughs about it and they are shown having sex again, but without the condom unwrapping. This, of course, is wrong because oral contraceptives do take at least 4 weeks before they are effective in preventing pregnancy. But hey, let’s keep it sexy and avoid anything more biologically correct than Drunk Anna telling her friends she has to “pee really bad.” Which is, of course, why the infamous tampon scene was omitted from the movie.

Another noteworthy scene was the contract negotiation. Anna insists on meeting him in his office for a formal meeting, and goes over items on the list including anal and vaginal fisting that are off the table. By this point he has given her a new laptop so she could research BDSM, but clearly she didn't do all her homework. She bashfully asks what a butt plug is just as a couple of his ‘Perfect Blondes’ walk in with wine and sushi. She exhibits some semblance of agency when he starts talking about how much he wants to bend her over the table right there but rather than giving in, she walks out of the meeting without so much as a kiss. I think this was the only part of the movie where I liked her. Even in the end when, after a particularly aggressive spanking, she pushes him away and tells him not to touch her, I was annoyed. He had talked about her safe words, but rather than calling out "RED!" as he whipped her with the belt, she cried and counted along with him. It is only in the last 5 minutes of the movie that she learns the word “No!” and uses it as she’s getting on the elevator to leave him for good. (Or so we hoped.)

Overall, the movie was not as bad as I’d imagined. Or maybe I’m so used to movies being based on similarly abusive behaviors being romanticized that it didn't stand out as being any worse than others like “Twilight” and “Beauty and the Beast,” as discussed in a great Huffington Post article I just read.  Whatever the case, the movie was like any other bad romance that makes money at the box office, but this one added the element of kink. It gives the impression that BDSM is only for screwed up individuals, like other films and TV have done in the past. Christian Grey had an abusive crack whore for a mother and was introduced to kink as a teenager by a friend of his mother. In “Secretary” the submissive is a self-harmer fresh out of the psyche ward. And on CSI, clients or employees of Lady Heather’s “Dungeon” have almost always been implicated in a murder. This is the biggest misconception about BDSM out there, and the reason that despite all the conversations about the topic spawned by 50 Shades I would recommend you save the money you might spend on the movie and instead do some research and find some real education on the topic. For less than 2 tickets and popcorn, you are likely to find a play space in your area that is doing a 101 night where you can really learn about kink and decide if it’s something you want in your bedroom.

As for the co-worker that asked who was going to see the movie this weekend, she made the remark that it’s probably a lot more fun in real life anyway. Without hesitation I chimed in, “Yep! It really is!”

Links to references:

Trojan Commercial: http://youtu.be/h-BFLlqY598 

Buzzfeed video:  http://youtu.be/kXOJb0TlK-w

Tampon Scene: http://youtu.be/iZn__5dT7qw

Huffington Post Article: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/megan-maas/love-hurts-what-we-learn-from-beauty-and-the-beast-twilight-and-fifty-shades-of-grey_b_6672742.html?ncid=fcbklnkushpmg00000046

Dear Dudes: Dick Pics

Dear Dudes,

I want to help you be more successful in your social and romantic endeavors. It seems like the old ‘Mars/Venus’ issue about how we are trained to communicate based on our gendered socialization may hold some merit. Let’s try meeting here on planet Earth. I’m going to be frank and straightforward about something that we may have learned about communication that just doesn't work. Ready?

DON’T SEND DICK PICS! 

Never, never, never, ever send dick pics.

A lot of people start this argument by stating that the penis is simply not visually aesthetic; that they just don’t like looking at them. That’s not my stance here. I rather enjoy the penis. As a matter of fact, if I were to choose the best kind of porn, it would be the kind with lots of dicks and little or no pussy. I love Dick.

But here’s the thing- unless I already have a relationship with you and your penis, I don’t want to see Dick. I don’t want Dick messaged, e-mailed, texted, or in any other way, introduced by screen. That goes for whatever you enjoy doing with Your Dick, his dimensions, his virility, his dependence on little blue pills to join the party, any Dick talk should not be going on before we've been face to face, kissed good night and made plans to do the things that involve Your Dick. Dick is welcome by invite ONLY. Stop letting Dick crash the party! Because if Dick shows up before he’s been invited, there will be no party. Period.

I've been trying to understand what it is in male socialization that compels them to send dick pics. The last time this happened, the guy that sent the picture was aware enough to immediately ask if he’s ruined our conversation. “YES!”

He apologized again and I asked, “Why did you go there? I’m genuinely interested in why that just happened.” 

He went on, still apologizing and saying that it maybe it had to do with the male ego; that he learned to do that on some dating site. He brought up the locker room issue of wanting to be “bigger, better than the other person.” But he later said, “If we all looked like the guys in porn we would still want to be bigger, better.”

It’s like a form of body dysmorphia that people simply don’t talk about. And we need to talk about it! Not only is it damaging to the men that constantly feel inferior, but the typical responses like sending dick pics only fuel the sense of objectification that women are constantly faced with. We need to demystify sex in a way that removes all the puritanical shame and allows pleasure for both parties.

The idea of male “performance” needs to be abolished. Sex should not be a performance, an act, or mimicry of pornography! Sex should be a mutually enjoyed experience where both partners actively participate in activities that have been clearly discussed as pleasurable.

It’s a long conversation that may start with a screen to screen introduction. But in the early parts of that conversation, please remember that Dick needs to stay away from the camera and save the details until we've worked our way down from the big head. I promise that’s the sexiest thing a man can do!