I missed your 100th birthday, my bad

First, two picture, one is of us together, you’re doing your trademark thing and hiding as much of your face as possible in the picture. I’m maybe a year old? The other is the cover of the Betty comic you bought me one of the times I was staying at your apartment and I waited there while you went to the grocery store to buy things to please me. I didn’t know what Betty was, but it seemed okay so I acted like I knew it and acted excited when she said “I got you a Betty.” She got my brother Mad Magazine so we were both happy. 

Well, just like last year on November21st, I was going to write this huge long sentimental blogabout my Grandma, since that’s her birthday. But you know what I failed miserably at that in 2017 and 2018 so I’m going to do it todayto make up for it.

I saw a meme the other day, one of those long ass ones that tells a story, about how when someone dies, they go into spectator mode, like in a video game. So your deceased relatives can watch whatever they want, either POV or from above. At the end of the meme, it showed a Pilgrim-esque looking guy standing behind the meme’s main character with the thought bubble “Holy shit he figured it out.”

IF I could find this meme, I’d fucking show you rather than describing it. But it’s one of those ones I thought I saved, but instead, I didn’t, and it has no relevant keywords. So here we are.

BUT, the spirit of this meme is what interest me. Because. What is that IS true? That’s how it in The Lovely Bones, the dead immediately go into full omniscience.

If that is true….

uh…..

Well, you know what, if the dead do watch us, Lord knows my Grandma has truly been enjoying herself judging me all this time. That’s what she liked to do anyway. I grew up thinking talking shit/criticizing was a completely normal mode of expression.

But also, yeah, I could see why she would choose to watch me and not her daughter, or her grandson. Maybe she spends a lot of time with my cousin’s out west. Both of them married and had children and are normal, successful people with Ph.Ds and houses and etc. etc. They lost their mom young, really unexpectedly, to cancer. I’m related to their dad (Grandma’s other son whose still living, there was a third one, another Uncle, and his death when I was 12 marked the exact end to any semblance of security, stability or happiness in my life. I had 6 more years to get through and my fuck they weren’t easy) and it came as a shock to us all when the drinker/smoker of many decades outlived his wife. He was the only person at my wedding who was related to me who wasn’t my W, my mom or my brother. At our 300 person wedding, FOUR of the guests were my relatives. But I digress.

So, if you’re watching this, well, first of all, things are different now, Grandma. You were born in 1918, you’re not going to understand the world of 2018. And if you don’t want to see a foursome don’t watch a foursome. It’s better than observing mom though, isn’t it? I guess the dead can’t do anything to harm the living…because….if they could, I’d frankly be really angry with my Grandma for not car-accidenting that guy out of our lives.

Well. That’s it. It’s Thanksgiving, and I’m pretty preoccupied by the notion that my dead Grandma can see me and is judging me. I mean I don’t care, I’m just saying if SHE could do that, that’s how she would use that ability. But that’s just how she was. I’ve said before how I find it a little hard to criticize even the times she was being horrible, because like, should I find fault with the only reason I’m even a little bit normal? Like whatever part of me wants to fit in and for people to like me…that didn’t come out of nothing. LOOK at my brother. HE’S what happens if someone is over-exposed to W and has no other adult influence. But I spent a ton of time with my mom and Grandma, and my Grandma alone. My brother was taught that W the great I Am and that to even think of listening to someone else, doubting W in the slightest, was a sin on par with damnation.

OH YOU THINK I’M JOKING?

Okay I need to fast forward to the Easter when I was mmmmmm 16. This was when, now that we were teenagers it was 0 hassle to get us up and into church (my mother did this job solo ages 0-15, you know, when there’s work involved in doing so) and suddenly it was life and death importance that we attend his church as well. 1) He started attending a church in a city nearby because his trashy skank coworkers he definitely wanted to fuck and might have at some point (I mean he cosigned on a car with one of them….what does THAT tell you, friends???)

Well I went to a Lutheran high school, so naturally I had Good Friday off from school. W insisted my brother and I go a Good Friday service at his church. His penecostal church. Do you REALIZE what those people are like on Good Friday? AGH, such uncomfortable weirdness.

But of course, when I protested, when I said I didn’t want to go to his church because it made no sense to me that suddenly at 16, despite being a regular attendant of my own church, going to a Lutheran high school, and being an active member of my youth group, I just HAD to start going to HIS church too. Of course his religious bent just works into his narcissism too perfectly, and it was one of the many things he used to put down my mom and I (to a lesser extent). He loved talking shit about that church and how it was (remember this term? I know I’ve told you before) a dead church.

So this GF when I’m 16, he outright asks me, “What’s telling you that you don’t like going to that church?”

As in.

He thinks I was being told, spiritually, by a demon, that I didn’t like that church, because this demon that was allegedly inside me was frightened by the true spiritual power of his superior Pentecostal church. YES. REALLY. That was W’s favorite go-to when you didn’t want to have anything to do with his church.

To him, to his tiny, narrow, tiny, NARROW mind, there could be NO other reason for my not wanting to suddenly be dragged to ANOTHER church. Especially one where I know NO ONE and my dad’s dragging my brother and I along to put on a show for coworkers he’s having shit with or wants to have shit with? LIKE SERIOUSLY. This was my life at 16. Being accused of demon possession because I didn’t want to help my dad nail some skank. Like Jesus fuck. IS IT SURPRISING I have such issues with religion? I mean it feels like I’m going against everything I was ever taught but…JEEZ. Sometimes it feels like you need to? Other times you’re like well there’s no accounting for human error/flaws, and you KNOW W didn’t just come into being one day, that someone whose THAT fucked obviously went through deep trauma himself. Not that that’s enough to like, ever speak to him again, but I’m capable of thinking the thought, at least.

My mom would always hide as much as she could during these exchanges while W had me cornered somewhere, typically my room or the corner of the room he was in if he was awake and not on the toilet, rocking in front of a TV super fucked up and chewing tobacco. Yep. That’s my mental image of my dad. That and him yelling. ANYWAY. My mom would also always just tell me to go along with what W wanted because it made her life easier.

Yep.

And you may be thinking, wow, Cassie, way to go, you turned this tribute post about your Grandma into talking mad shit about W on a different national holiday. Well let me tell you that’s precisely the sort of thing Grandma and I would be talking about if she WERE here, so *tongue sticking out emoji*
I’m going to write and smoke weed all day. At some point we’ll make like bacon and eggs to tide us over. Who the fuck knows when my husband will get up, he went to bed at 5am reeking like vodka. He shaved his pubes in the bathroom sink. I didn’t see him do it, but I can assure you it happened. Oh well. That’s really not that bad it’s just like…okay THIS is why the house can never be up to my personal standards of clean, set by none other than, you guessed it, my Grandma.

I guess my memory palace is mostly just her apartment, then the playground at my grade school in the spring. Then my room when it was filled wall to wall with stuffed animals and Barbies and my Lite Brite and my enormous Fischer Price dollhouse. And I think about her apartment the most. It was like…eerily spotless. The carpet was always perfect. The bathroom was always perfect. I guess I run through the whole place A LOT.

That salmon pink candy dish on the glass and wood end table with the seasonally alternating candies. Root beer barrels. Anise squares. Chocolate peanut clusters. Those squishy pastel after dinner mints. Spice drops. Tiny Reese’s peanut butter cups. Individual Andes mints. It’s strange, for being NOT fat (she was about 5’7” and 140#, so like not a tiny old woman by any means, but she talked about herself like she was 340#, it drove everyone crazy) herself, my Grandma was surely talented at making other people emotionally connect with food. But I also never eat candy. Because it’s bad for your teeth. My teeth need all the help they can get, I can’t control myself from grinding them. I mean I do, but I fucking catch myself doing it all the time. So I can’t be so good then. But, it definitely wore off on my mom. To be certain. When I was a kid, she described overeating after dinner as a “release” I would, years later, realize just how fucked that was of a thing to say. Like. EGH my parents were way too like “Let’s be friends and confidants” with me, and that KIND of fucks up your perception of propriety and boundaries and makes you really grating to some of the other adults in your life, because to them you seem like a petulant, spoiled, arrogant little shit who thinks they can say and do whatever they want as their doormat mother and absent father do nothing. That was a little true, but I don’t think anyone would stop to wonder why my mother and I had that sort of relationship. Plus I was a good kid. I wasn’t fool enough to try and get away with anything under W’s watch, in that tiny house. Besides, I knew I was getting out soon.

It’s it hilarious that I didn’t even like start getting fucked up until I was 21? Like I’d been drunk on rare occasion before then, and I started smoking when I was 19 (weed and cigarettes) but I didn’t start drinking on the reg until I met my husband.
I’m not blaming him, at all.

Because I don’t blame anyone for my actions. Because, that’s stupid. I’m just pointing out these things coincided.

It wasn’t until I started getting fucked up that I realized I could get away from them.

What the sweet fuck does that even mean though?

Like does growing up in a fucked situation make your brain want that feeling, even though it knows it’s bad? Because I fucking promise you, I’m the last person to cause drama. Like. That’s just NOT an activity I participate in. I do everything I can to avoid it, BUT, I’m not great at backing down if I get challenged. I feel a little bit like a proverbial bulldog with something in its jaw in those moments. But anyway.

I think I might just be trying to blame my drinking on my childhood. What shocking, new behavior, for an addict.

Can’t figure out if I’m a sex addict. Probably not? I feel like I’d be getting laid more if I were, right? Pfft.

Just like I tried blaming the fact that I was married and had my side relationship with R happening right at the same time as my final break with my parents. Like I wanted a distraction from thinking about shit, and boy spending three nights a week at his dad’s house was definitely that. And to me the whole time my husband said it was okay, to him the whole time he was begging me to stay and I was doing what I wanted anyway.

Well whatever.

Wow this does not have a Thanksgiving theme to it at all. Sorry, anyone in the festive spirit who reads this. I honestly don’t like this holiday. It’s about “giving thanks” but also overeating and consumerism? Bleh. We’re going to my sister-in-laws. I am not pumped about the email I’ll probably get from my mom on Monday. But that’s awhile from now so whatever.

I was shopping online for Christmas gifts and kind of drunkenly bought myself three pairs of black boots……………whoops. I kind of remembered it this morning and was like…wow Cassie, maybe a bit excessive. But also, they were on hella sale because Black Friday started like a week ago, sale wise. So whatever. I went on innocently enough to get a scarf to match my new coat with rewards I’d earned from buying the coat. But, alcohol. So three pairs of boots, a hat/glove set, a velour/sherpa scarf and moisturizer later….i was done. But I also finished my best friend’s birthday and Christmas shopping too, so, actual gift buying also happening.

Jeez, I sound like I have a shopping problem. Well going shopping and eating were the two joys in life, so my Grandma taught me. So maybe I’m more like her than I realize. Plus I don’t do this often. Of course I earned another reward..so….we’ll see….I WISH I had a fucking reason to need sexy lingerie. Younger Cassie would be distraught over how far my undie situation has fallen. I mean for one, I weigh a great deal more than I did when I was 21, so the all Victoria’s Secret collection I had going pretty much all had to go, a loooong time ago. I used to always be wearing matching underwear/bra. Now, the only time that happens is when they’re both black, which is likely, because black is practical when you’re me and pretty much only wear black clothing. The underwear I brought out of special hiding to wear that one Saturday back in October worked their way into the normal rotation but now when I wear them I’m like….well some luck you were. Not that I really believe in having “lucky” objects, I’m really not superstitious. I own a book entitled The Encyclopedia of Superstition, but never mind all that. That was a Barnes and Noble find when I was a child, that had a spooky dust jacket that I threw out because it scared me more than once at night. I’m actually proud I kept it all this time. My copy of Homeless Bird, my SIGNED copy, was water damaged from my transporting it to and from work for Halloween. That made me sad.

Okay. This has been a WEIRD blog post. Enjoy your holidays, and your families, if you are so inclined. Just because I seem to sneer at “normal” people doesn’t mean I don’t get why it’s fun to be normal. I just…hate football, and the Pilgrims were murderers, and turkey tastes like napkins. That last part is a Brooklyn 99 quote, before I get sued.

Well, enjoy your long weekends. Fuck knows I am. Yesterday I got the hashtags of death with my book. I corrupted the file of it I had on my laptop beyond repair. BUT, I had it on a flash drive, so all was not lost. I need to buy Microsoft Word. Yeah I get I know I bought all the boots, but that was with a store charge (duh). I need cold hard cash for Word. I refuse to use “real” credit cards. Store charges make it worth your while, and honestly buying small increments of make up and work clothing isn’t SO bad, now is it? Anyway.

I need to get back to my real writing, that I now back up A LOT more frequently. I spent 1pm-4pm yesterday BARELY holding my shit together. Like just barely. But it’s all good now. Yet again, my worst freak out recently has been over nothing. Which is funny, because I DON’T freak out over the shit I should. Soooo funny how that works….ahhhhhh.

When this new insurance from my husband’s new job kicks in, we’re both looking into therapy, don’t worry.

Peace.

~Cassie

If you knew me even a little you’d be well aware I don’t understand the concept of “moderation”

OKAY this is getting weird. I literally am awake and drunk and can’t concentrate on CF enough to work on editing draft #2. I want to talk about myself too much. It’s an astounding problem I have. I get I’m self absorbed. I promise that I have to be. I still feel incredible amounts of compassion for others, I’m just certain that I’m terrible at showing it. Like. I fucking wish I was a sociopath like W. Do you realize how convenient it must be to not feel feelings? OMF they’re what’s been holding me back all this time. But, then, if it’s the last part of yourself that still feels human (that is, unviolated) should you really fight it so? The same goes for how jealous I am of atheists. Must be nice to be sure of yourself. I hope for your sake that you’re right, but I don’t really think so. Like. Think about how vast and profound and infinite and pointless and small and all-encompassing and affirming and destroying and EVERY other combination of contradictions you can muster, think of the true awe-inducing beauty we have access to, even in our everyday lives. You’re telling me we’ve evolved as we have all on our own? I feel like life is WAY too complex for all of that.

And I mean. I get it. I get the notion that, like, okay if there is a God, where were they when [X]? Yeah. I don’t know. I fucking wonder myself. But. I don’t know how to say it other than this: there’s an answer, and I don’t know it, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I’ve been really confused on the specifics of religion for a long time, myself.

TO digress onto a weird ass topic. I was raised Lutheran. I went a Lutheran grade school and high school, ages 3-18. I was confirmed in a Lutheran church and was active in my church youth group for the first two years of high school. BUT, in keeping with W’s typical narcissistic egomania, he was REALLY into “born-again” Pentecostal Christianity. The people who “speak in tongues” and generally act a fool in church. He watched (and probably still does) televangelists. I mean, of course, right? Why wouldn’t he have this weird, horrible, weird, embarrassing habit/trait? Why wouldn’t he somehow manage to ruin religion for his family? He didn’t give a fuck about going to church with his kids until they were teenagers, then all of a sudden it was a matter of life and death that they attended his church as well as my still being very active in the Lutheran church I went to with my mother. But you know what W’s constant comment about that church was? “Well that’s a dead church.” He had this BELOVED analogy about church’s being like meals, spiritual sustenance (just talking about this is giving me a tension headache, btw) He was OBSESSED with calling it that, every chance he got.

And you know what?
You know that car accident that ruined my brother’s life? Like moreso than W did?

It happened because my brother was driving to a nearby city separately from W to attend W’s church with him. The teenager who caused the accident was speeding on the highway in the rain because it was Sunday, the first day of summer camp where she and her two friends who were in the car with her were going to be counselors. They were all fine. My brother who was the only one who was hurt. Then you know, the Vicodin problem that naturally progressed into a heroin problem. He’s on methadone to this day, if you want perspective here. And the getting $100,000 in an insurance settlement and pissing it all away in like…two years. And having nothing to show for it. W pushed/worked/connived for my brother to get that money because he’s a greedy worthless lazy fuck and he knew he’d be able to get his hands on some of it. According to what my brother at one point told me, he gave W about $10,000. My brother claims he never would have agreed to this much if he hadn’t been high on Vicodin when W asked.

Yep.

That’s my family all right.

But no, be weird and judgmental that I have nothing to do with them, everyone I tell about the situation. It’s fine.

Like whatever. I honestly and literally do not care what people think. But sometimes I’m like…HA if only people knew the real truth.

That’s what CF is. It’s someone writing an expose on what REALLY happened with all these rich/powerful/famous people in these two small countries. The rest is just fucking backdrop, my dears. Not that it isn’t excellently and fearfully made. Jeeeeez I’m drunk. I’m not used to alcohol. I’m really not.

So things I’m excited about:
I’m sure I’ll see best friend for holiday season.
Three day work week next week

New glasses are dope and fit well (I have a VERY shallow bridge to my nose, not that I’m complaining, but it makes glasses hard).

Writing process is going well, getting chipped away at every day.

New coat is also dope, makes me feel mildly like a drug dealer/pimp, which is an aesthetic I’m into so it’s tight

If CF seems good enough to N, then maybe it’ll be good enough for Professor I. And just having even a slight chance of seeing him again fills me with a euphoria ecstasy cannot match. Or acid. Or shrooms. What can I say, I’m pretty cool, I’ve done some drugs. Not like my brother though. He got the opiod gene, I got the booze gene, these are just fucking goddamn facts. Opiates me sick. I got a Vicodin prescription for my wisdom teeth, just like 20 or so, I think I took three, and they made me feel worse than the surgery. I took too Vicodin for fun the day I went to an Eminem concert in Detroit (the one with Jay Z) and I puked all over the parking lot at Comerica. Someone walking by shouted, “Bring it up, girl!” I waved at him but kept puking. Fucking Vicodin. That night ended up getting ruined by my husband’s near psychotic behavior whilst wasted on expensive ballpark beer, but I digress.

So these are the things I look forward to, or at least am curious about. With CF it’s not so much blind hopefulness, as I’m thinking all of my hard work will pay off one day. It’s not about money, in the slightest, it’s about people reading it and liking it. It’s about being a good fucking writer. Which is all I’ve ever wanted or cared about. It’s always what’s mattered most. It’s always been the biggest part of my identity, since I fucking learned to read. I’ve always felt like a writer, since I was a child, it’s not something I grew into or chose to become. It’s just been there. I guess I knew I needed an outlet, and naturally I would have to find a silent one that I could keep hidden.

Holy shit, is that what we all have in common? It’s something. It’s got to be something. Again, I know there’s an answer but I can’t help you with specifics.

I don’t like Thanksgiving, family holidays make me sad. But we only have to drive to my husband’s sister’s about 40 minutes away, so that’s nice. And they’re doing Thanksgiving at actual dinner time, so we don’t have to leave our place until like 4 or 5pm that day. Then I’m off the following day. It’s a rare long weekend for me, so naturally I have huge writing goals. And I need to put out Christmas decorations, because I like decorating. And crafting. I’m a little like my mother, what can I say. So the long weekend is a thing to look forward too at any rate. Also of course any and all progression on writing one’s first novel is also exciting.

Other than that, not much is happening. I’m back in the swing of things (ha) at pole. One of these days I’m going to take the time to get done up at home and record some new pole videos. Maybe I’ll wait until I’m in slightly better shape. But don’t I always say that? Anyway, I guess I’ll be off.

Write it when? Fucking First.

For who? For fucking you.

~Cassie

This is what happens when I drink vodka.

I love you, and I miss you. And I don’t even know who you are.

I’ve felt this way before. Sort the clutter, man the chaos, recognize the longing that’s been there since you were old enough to recognize emptiness (all around you).

Persevere. Be strong. That’s all you’ve ever needed.

Most days you aren’t hopeful, but you at least wonder what’s to come.

Cassie’s been a bad bad girl

So I know I told y’all I bought glasses. Well guess what, they look great. Dude if you need glasses, go to Zenni. Two pairs with clip on sunglasses (I KNOW how lame those are but dammit they’re practical) and priority shipping for $78. They took exactly one week to get to me. So amazing. So enjoy I guess.

Have a good weekend.

OH news. So I finished transcribing, which means I finished the second draft. In keeping with doing new things, I am editing this new draft on my laptop. Holy fuck is it going by faster than transcribing. I’m already on page 26, and I started this week. I’ll probably be done by the end of the month, then I’ll probably get that draft to N. Then I’ll work on editing that one so I have an even more advanced one to give my best friend. Yes hopefully this timing is going to pan out.

Then, my husband gave me this idea, if I get the right feedback from husband and n and best friend then I’m going to ask professor I to read, just for personal opinion/enjoyability of the read. I have every intention of hiring an editor. BUT, can you imagine if he did it? Ahhhhhhhhh. I literally cannot explain how that makes me feel, it’s such an unprecedented level of excitement. Even if he said no, it miiiiight open up avenues of communication between us.

You know the adrenaline of checking to see if someone electronically contacted you? It’s a new one, a special fucking gift for my generation, but it’s so god damn real. Remember all of these?:

The AIM ding of someone contacting you

Xanga comments

MySpace messages

Facebook messenger

Twitter DMs

All of these different guys have used to elate me and break my heart, respectively. It must be my fault for letting them that close in the first place.

So keep on with the keeping on, so on and so forth

~Cassie

Jealousy [insert lyric]

So driving to work today two songs came up on the ole iTunes, first was The Killers Mr Brightside, another a little later was El Tango de Roxanne.

Besides being from my effed up eclectic music taste, both of those songs are about one thing: jealousy.

So what a perfect fucking time to discuss exactly that, I don’t have my laptop, so it’s time for you, second string writing goals (which is what this anonablog is, sorry, you’re not third though?)

So, a skeptical observer might find fault with “open” relationships in the sense that, well, how can you be married to or with someone for a long time and NOT get jealous when they started wanting or even liking someone else?

Yeah, I’ve got news for you, you DO get jealous. These are not magic people who lack this emotion. But what they do lack is possessiveness, and the “open” quality, that your SO isn’t sneaking around or lying at all, that you’re both giving each other space to explore certain feelings in a healthy way, really goes a long way. There’s no waking up during the night to find them gone and wondering what lie they’ll feed you this time about there they went.

That being said, that annoying bitch from his college/volunteering that I wrote a whole blog about once, I will never like her. But this doesn’t mean my husband isn’t totally free to fuck her (on his end, she clearly likes playing head games, and not the fun ones, teehee sex joke). I mean I was perfectly civil when she was over but like….I don’t like her….

My husband didn’t like R. All they had in common was the alcoholism. And even with that, with my husband it didn’t consume his identity. Well, it was, but only for a time.

BUT even though he didn’t like him, and it made him jealous that I was so into him, my husband still gave me this space.

AND a weird phenomenon that happens with “open” situations, you’re jealous BOTH ways. For example, that one Saturday where I thought things were definitely going to happen with N, my husband was jealous of both of us.

He was jealous of me because he wished someone he went to school with wanted to fuck him. It’s a fun situation. Or it would’ve been.

He was jealous of N because like, idk, there’s something magical about getting ready for the first time you think you’re going to fuck someone (I can’t be alone in this) and my husband saw me getting ready, specifically when I was sitting on my couch completely ready but without pants on because I was putting lotion of my legs. My husband was watching me from across the room, as I lotioned from ankle to thigh in undies I normally don’t trot out, and I could tell just from the way he was looking at me.

Which I SUPPOSE a different sort of person would have felt bad, and I mean I in no way wanted to hurt him in the slightest, but at the same time I feel like a neglected toy sometimes, like oh, you’re suddenly overwhelmed by the need to have this thing you have ZERO interest in most of the time just because you see someone else has it/wants it. Well gee that makes me feel fucking special. Also whenever we swang he would always have to fuck me like right after the other guy. I didn’t mind per say but I felt like a tree he needed to piss on.

So. In case you were wondering, being open/swingers/poly does involve jealousy, but in the spirit of being open, we’re open about that feeling too, and you work through it like any other. I guess our big thing is being honest about feelings.

Like I want to fuck this person from grad school. Or I want to fuck this chick from political volunteering. I feel that’s better than those thoughts happening without acknowledgement. But I could also be super fucked. Both?

Well this was fun. Stay warm.

~Cassie

He’s got to be out there somewhere

Do you ever stop to think about how many times you’ve actually had good sex in your life?

Because I did.

It’s not the best record.

I guess I was thinking about it because lately, my husband and I are back into this pattern where we never have sex. It’s just the usual we’re never both in the mood and awake at the same time. His libido is the same, he just jerks off instead. Which worries me. Because one time, that’s how it started, and we all know how it ended. But that isn’t what this is about.

This is about me considering my sexual history, and how any of it was barely even worth it.

Don’t worry, I’m not wasting time on this, I’ve written 10,000 words this weekend. CF is up to 170,000. Yeah. Woo. It’s also almost done. So that’s exciting.

But anyway.

So sex with my first boyfriend Nick was good. That was about the only good thing about that relationship. He was such a jackass. We dated four months.

Then the second guy, Chris, as hot as this guy was, it just wasn’t possible to have good sex with a guy with that small of a dick. It was maybe three times with him max.

Then third was Dan, another like “official” boyfriend. He wasn’t terrible, but like, lazy and selfish kind of sums that guy up in every way, sexually included. We dated eight months.

Fourth was Doug (as you all know him) – that was good sex. Like at one point we had sex standing. A guy that’s strong enough to do that with me is rare enough. I’ve never had anyone else even attempt it. But it was so like messed up in other ways, like I was obviously REALLY into this guy and we had sex a few time, and it was usually really good, but then he was all “I’m not over my ex” with me. His ex from high school. But anyway.

Fifth was Matt. That was once. He was hot enough but the sex was subpar. I was pretty drunk too. Again, once with this guy.

Sixth was my husband, and like, that’s always been all right. It’s never been bad, and he’s more generous than a lot of guys I’ve been with, but again, it’s just not…eh…idk…..it’s just lacking in some way

Seventh was R. I think we know well enough about all that.

Eighth was the first guy from the couple we “swang” with, the ones we went bowling with. We had sex for all of like three minutes. It really sucked. I barely want to count this guy.
Ninth, again, I don’t really count this one, because we never had vaginal sex. He’s actually the only person who’s dick I sucked who I didn’t also fuck.

Huh, what does that say about a person where if she does anything with someone, she does it all? Except anal. I’m not doing that. As much as I write about it, because I have so many fucking gay characters, it’s from watching porn, not personal experience. But anyway.

So yeah, like 8 guys, maybe nine. I don’t know why I thought it was ten. Maybe some day soon…

That’s why I subjected this blog as I did.

Since it didn’t work with R. For reasons of his raging alcoholism. And I was spending too much time with him. I know better now. I’m hugely confident I would do better with that sort of situation now, with someone else. This is not me being into R and wanting him specifically back. I don’t miss him. I miss what we had. We spent so much time together. BUT, at the same time, while the sex was good, he was really selfish and inattentive at the same time. He felt no need to make sure you were taken care of, this I can assure you. But again, I did have sex with this guy like…a ton.

So it didn’t work with R, though it might have. And then there was that brief foray into possibly getting down with N. But alas that didn’t happen either.

So now. I wonder.

He’s got to be out there somewhere. There’s GOT to be some guy who wants this role in my life, who is someone I can have what I want with, who’s smart enough to talk to. It’s not such a tall order. It really isn’t. The guy could have his own life, like be single or not, have a wife or a girlfriend or whatever, it’s not really my business. I am not interested in changing my situation. This is about the…something else, that I’ve felt the need for, for a long, long time.

It’s painful the last good sex I had was R, and even then he was so unideal in other sexual ways it’s hard to even long for him. And with Doug, it’s like, how could he be so stupid not to be into me? And with Nick, he just sucked so much as a person.

So I don’t even want the guys who were good in bed, for various reasons.

So there’s got to be a guy out there. There really does. But I can tell you I’m 30, I’m sick of waiting for him.

When I imagine him, he’s a younger, taller version of Professor I. He lives by himself in a boho apartment. He wears turtlenecks and blazers. He can talk to me, and he wants me, and he wants to do both, and I know that when he looks at me.

It’s not so much to ask.

I’m certain of it.

So I guess until then I’ll be writing CF and relatively content with my husband.

So that’s fine, I guess. Things are like, fine, and stuff.

~Cassie