MY PLEASURE – I Dated a Homeless Guy

When I was living homeless for my article in the March/April issue of Edmonton Woman Magazine, I didn’t think I would make any friends, and I especially didn’t think I would make any lovers. Both assumptions were quickly disproved when I found that hanging out in homeless shelters can put a gurl in survival mode. I quickly became part of a close knit group of young people, and I must have picked the biggest alpha male in the city to make me his woman: A 6 foot 5 long-haired temp worker who had worked on the rigs, been to jail and who’s dad had apparently rode with the Hells Angels. We’ll call him Blondie. I wanted him so bad.

Maybe it was because I have a thing for guys who look like they just crawled out of a month-long forest retreat. Maybe it was his bright blue eyes. Maybe it was the way he winked at me while his friend put out all the stops to try to pick me up. Maybe it was how sweet he was under his street exterior. All I knew was that I wanted to get him alone – but where do you go to get to know someone intimately when you’re homeless? It turns out, the movie theatre.

Unfortunately, his friend was a little possessive of me. When he left in a huff part-way-through Mama because he could tell we were flirting, Blondie made his move and asked to kiss me. When we stopped to enjoy the movie and he put his arm around me, that’s when his friend came back in. And pulled him out of the seat by his shirt. And told him to follow him outside. And punched him in the ear. It took 5 security guards to hold his friend down outside the movie theatre. But Blondie could have easily taken him.

Needless to say, after the visit to the hospital I couldn’t wait to jump his bones. My newly-half-deaf lover and I booked a romantic night at one of the city’s most vintage hotels – the detached bathroom even had a tub! Our relationship took off as we dined on free food at the shelters during the week and took turns paying for weekend getaways that involved mismatched sheets and over-sized box springs. It was one of the most memorable experiences I’ll ever have. I legitimately really liked him. I even brought him to my parents’ for dinner, despite my mother’s convictions.

But as I returned home from the streets, exhausted and ready to have my own room again, I also started dating someone new – someone who had a place of residence, a full time job and a car. Although Blondie and I had agreed on an open relationship, the relationship I was newly in was exclusive. I felt really bad about breaking up with him, but I had to be realistic. I’m running a business. He hangs out at the mall all day. It just wasn’t going to work.

Since my lover’s phone was broken, I had a difficult time getting in contact with him; we always met up at the shelter or the mall in the morning, and I was living in another city. I tried a few times to tell him I couldn’t see him anymore, but after we got our lines crossed via payphone and I accidentally stood him up at A&W because I took the wrong bus, I did a really shitty thing and blocked him on Facebook. I’m still not sure why.

Maybe it was because I didn’t want him to see that I was dating someone else. Maybe it was because I didn’t want to hurt him and cause him to spiral downwards. Telling a homeless person, who is already in one of the lowest mindsets to begin with, that you don’t want to be with them is one of the most difficult positions to be in – especially when you’ve been intimate together and care about them.

About a month later I saw him at the mall and apologized. He mentioned that he really missed me and had started smoking meth. I honestly feel really bad. Sometimes I see him when I’m downtown, and I wish him well. He really is a good guy; he’s just stuck in a bad situation.

You can read MY PLEASURE every Wednesday at MLTS Mag.

MY PLEASURE – Would You Kick Someone in the Balls if They Asked?

This weekend I starred in my very own episode of Girls. Not actually, but my experience felt very similar to something that would happen to Hannah. I’ve been pretty lucky when it comes to strange men in my city. Sure, I live in the murder capital of Canada, but I’ve only ever had a couple cars follow me and a multitude of men cat call me in the summer. Other than that, I usually forget there are strange people lurking in the shadows – and even when I meet them, I try to rationalize that they’re good people. And I always want to fucking help them for some reason. It must be my desire to have something interesting to write about.

I was about to catch the LRT downtown to my friend’s party, when a stranger approached me. He was a young, white man around my age who was apparently walking home from a show at a nearby venue. When he spoke to me, I didn’t realize he was intoxicated. He seemed pretty collected and friendly. Like a fucking serial killer.

“Can I ask you a question?”

I was literally right in front of the doors to the building, and I was in a rush – but I said sure. I figured it was going to be something generic like, “do you have any change” or “are you single.” Something interesting always comes from men approaching me on the street, but it’s usually not worth writing about. It turns out what this man was about to ask me was totally worth writing about. And just in time for my weekly column.

“Would you kick me in the balls?”

I kid you not.

Instead of drastically turning and jumping on the LRT, I actually stayed to talk to him. Like, I actually fucking considered kicking him in the balls because that’s how much I crave experiences to write about. Call me curious. But you know what? Curiosity killed the cat. And at that moment, I was the cat considering to leap from the apartment window to find out why the bird wanted her to kick him in the balls.

Because I didn’t just stay and talk to him. I actually fucking left with him.

“Why do you want me to do that?”

He said it was a sexual kink – that much I had assumed. But I was intrigued at what was going through his head. I get that some people are into masochism. In a way I could kind of relate to him; I like being slapped in the face and having a hand on my neck and fingernails being dragged down my back. It’s hard to find people who are into your kinks. I felt bad for him – but I’ve learned to be more selfish when it comes to helping people. So I asked him for 5 bucks.

“You want money?”

Was that prostitution? I wasn’t sure why he was so taken aback. He asked a complete stranger to take time out of her night to give someone sexual pleasure with no return. I’m not a sadist. I don’t enjoy inflicting pain on people, even with my anger issues.

“What about buying me a drink?” I asked. He said there was whiskey at his place, and I started to get annoyed. Eventually I figured getting a story out of it would be enough. “Where do you want to do this?” I asked. “I have to get going.”

We started walking. In the opposite direction. Each time I pointed to a corner along the sidewalk he shook his head and pointed further down the street. What was the prime location for getting your balls kicked? I asked him if many women volunteered in the past. “A few,” he said. Apparently finding a regular partner to do this kind of thing is hard to attain – which I find difficult to believe considering Craigslist should be crawling with pissed off women who really just want to kick some guy in the nuts.

We were about to cross the street when I told him I really had to be going. He mumbled something like “you stay over there” and pointed to the other side of the street. It seemed like he was talking to someone else. The whole thing started to seem a little sketchy –as if some random guy asking me to kick him in the balls hadn’t seemed fucking sketchy enough.

When I repeated that I had to go meet my friends, he said, “no you don’t” in this coaxing way, and tried to bribe me again with a bottle of whiskey. That was the last straw. There was no money, no free beverage and he wanted me to fucking follow him in the opposite direction I was going. This was either an incredibly poor rape attempt or he was just a drunk idiot. Either way, my desire to help him was gone, despite the fact he begged me not to leave.

I left him there at the lights with blue balls. But not as blue as he hoped for.

You can read MY PLEASURE every Wednesday at MLTS Mag.

MY PLEASURE – I Cockblocked a Guy to Pick Up a Straight Gurl

I am so. fucking. horny. It’s been 5 days since I’ve gotten laid, and I know what you’re thinking –shutthefuckup – but hear me out: 1) After sleeping around for 2 months, I finally found someone I like enough to be exclusive again. 2) After sleeping around for 2 months, I realized I have a sex addiction. So you can imagine this is really fucking hard for me. No pun intended.

I feel like if you’re going to expect someone to fuck only your dick, then you’d better be prepared to fuck them regularly with that dick. I don’t think I’m being unreasonable.

I had a boyfriend who wanted to come over after work every night (and he worked night shifts) for almost a month, and the sex was fantastic. The sex with the guy I’m currently seeing is even better. It’s like he knows exactly what I want without having to tell him. But he doesn’t want a relationship – which would be fine if we were having sex regularly. He wants to “cuddle when he’s lonely” and “maybe hook up once in a while,” and that’s just not going to fly. Not if I’m only fucking him. It’s really hard to find someone who gives me what I want in bed, but I’m starting to wonder: What would be better, amazing sex occasionally or good sex often?

Is there something wrong with me? Am I expecting too much to want the person I’m exclusive with to have regular sex with me? We just stated dating – that’s prime sexy time. Even if we only have sex once a week, hearing from him that he’s thinking about me would make waiting easier. I understand people have conflicting schedules and busy lives, but that’s no excuse not to send dirty texts and suggestive photos – or even just tell someone you miss them. My addiction comes from lacking intimacy, not the act of sex. I just want to feel wanted.

So this Tuesday I did what every young woman does when she’s horny and doesn’t want to cheat: I got really drunk and tried to pick up a gurl.

I’ve been realizing for some time now that I may be bisexual. The guy I’m seeing is completely fine with me seeing gurls. But I still need that liquid courage to try to get a probably-straight gurl at a non-gay bar. As we bought each other shots and danced all night, she complimented how soft my skin was and told me how much fun she was having with me. I beamed like a fucking lesbian, and as I looked over at the guy who was trying to pick her up, I got the vibe that he didn’t like me very much.

At the end of the night, the gurl asked for my number and invited me back to her place – with the guy who was trying to pick her up. As I sat on the couch with her roommate, horny and awkward as hell, the 2 of them hooked up in her room. When her roommate suggested I go in there to break them up, I jumped at the opportunity. It turns out instead of trying to have a 3-some (not that I would have), some guys see making out with the shirtless gurl they’re about to have sex with as a cockblock. He definitely didn’t like me. But she did. Or at least I took her tongue action and asking me to stay, despite his protests, as liking me.

“You’re better at picking up chicks than I am,” said one of my guy friends as I sent him a photo of the gurl in my “lesbian hat” kissing me on the neck. But alas, I felt bad for the guy and left the 2 of them in her room and went home. As a woman who also enjoys dick, I thought someone, if not me, should be getting it. Besides, I had someone else who I wanted to make out with even more. Even though I was feeling deprived, I thought he’d be worth the wait. Only time will tell if we can turn the occasional amazing sex into regular amazing sex.

Here’s hoping.

MY PLEASURE – After Being a Big Ol’ ‘Slut’ I’m Exclusive Again, You Guys!

I started seeing someone. Not like shacking-up-in-hotel-rooms-seeing, but seeing, seeing. Like dates and stuff. Like eating pizza and watching movies and making out in the back seat of a car. Man, I hadn’t made out in the back seat of a car since high school. And that’s what it feels like: High school – except a lot wiser. Like there’s no pressure, but it’s stable. Like an adult relationship…but not so adult it’s scary. I guess that’s what happens when you find someone seemingly compatible who’s your age. We’re also both Libra’s, if that means anything.

So I like this person – but I like him in the way that I was thinking about not writing about him to not potentially jinx the relationship. But then I asked myself when writing about someone has ever stopped men from dating me. And I’m not going to answer that question in the hopes of not jinxing the relationship – but you know what, dammit, it’s never happened. And if it does, it’s not going to be because of my writing. It’s going to be because I’m fucking crazy.

I have Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder (PMDD), and this means I’m incredibly sensitive to everything when I’m pmsing. When I was dating around (more like shacking-up-in-hotel-rooms-seeing) I didn’t have to give a shit what someone else was thinking. I mean, I cared, but I didn’t spend much time worrying about what they were feeling because I was thinking about other prospects and distracting my mind from my fear of rejection. I would be with one person and text another; I would be coming from one person’s place and leave to go to another’s. After a couple routine therapy sessions I realized I was developing a sex addiction, and that my drive for intimacy was due to my avoidance of wanting to be truly intimate.

I realized I was fucking terrified of getting too close to people and actually feeling something, so I just decided to concentrate on what I thought was the best part of the relationship: Sex. When I started seeing this new person exclusively, I realized that sex felt more comfortable than going on a date – you know, where you have to talk and stuff. And that’s when I decided maybe I need to work on some issues rather than run away and attempt to move onto someone else, like I often do. Even though the sex was the best I’ve ever had (even better than the last time I said that), I found myself getting that itch as I started to grow feelings for him. So I decided to clean up my act.

I told him I was getting tested. He decided to come with me (I’ve never had so much fun in an STI clinic). Then I told him I think I like gurls. He said he was cool with that (Hugo Schwyzer and I have coined the term, Manogamous). Then I told him I have a sex addiction. He was surprisingly understanding – even though he’s been cheated on. Each time he was unreactive and calm – something I’m completely not used to. He was open about his past struggles (he’s bipolar, which is very similar to PMDD), and he reassured me that I could be honest with him, and should be honest with him, in order to have the relationship reach its potential. And aside from snoring and talking in my sleep the night before his first shift at a new job, I haven’t done anything (to my knowledge) to screw it up.

But now I’m PMSing. And now that I’m exclusive and worried about rejection from the one person I like, I’m going a little nuts. Let me explain: PMDD is 100 times worse than PMS. It magnifies the most innocent comment into a cruel insult. It morphs my doubts into a reality so that I have to constantly battle what’s real and what’s not. He hasn’t texted me back yet? He must not want to date me. He didn’t text me congrats on my magazine app? He must not want to date me. He texted he was free on Friday? He must not want to date me. I do this all the time with close friends, business partners and family members, thinking that they don’t really want to hang out, they don’t really want to work with me or they don’t really love me. I need to remind myself that love comes from inside…and that texting is a sucky form of communication.

Despite the bipolar episodes of being angry and sad and happy over various text messages, I feel really good about this relationship right now. Every time I start to freak out inside, I remind myself of how unreactive he is, and that he said he’s “in this for the long-haul until things end or go bad” – which, I think, is the perfect way to go about dating.

You can read MY PLEASURE every Wednesday at MLTS Mag. And be sure to check out Amanda’s baby, Flurt!

MY PLEASURE – Condoms Suck, But So Do STIs

When I was 17, I was the most paranoid sexually-active person ever. Even with condoms and birth control, I took constant pregnancy tests because I was so utterly terrified of being the mother of a small, stinky, crying-machine. After 6 years of taking birth control religiously, I can proudly say that I’m still winning. There were a few scares and a few times I threw back Plan B, but at age 23 I have learned to be less anxious and enjoy myself more. However, I may have tipped the scale a bit too far. While pregnancy has always been a primary worry for me, STIs (the term ‘STDs’ is out-dated) have been more towards the back of my mind.

It started when I was dating The Writer. He was exciting and brilliant and we dated exclusively for a year. We played “just the tip” for a while, scrapping the idea of condoms altogether after my realization of how much they actually suck. He said he was clean, and I tried to believe him while he dismissed the idea of getting tested together. And while he did turn out to be free of STI’s, he also turned out to dislike showers. I’m not sure if it was him, a swimming pool or something else, but I ended up getting an awesome thing called Mollescum. While I was having a heart attack thinking I had somehow gotten herpes, and he was pissed because he thought I cheated on him, it turned out to just be a skin virus. I spent a month having the warts frozen off at the STI clinic.

A few months after breaking up with The Writer, I started going out with The Skater. He was a friend of The Hipster, who after getting tested with me beforehand learned he had gonorrhoea. The Skater also didn’t like showers, and somehow I ended up with a rash on my hand. While I honestly can’t remember if we used condoms or not, I do remember getting tested after sleeping with him and learning that the rash on my hand was actually scabies, which is a mite spread through skin-to-skin contact. I went home that night with a bottle of scabicide, turned up my music and screamed as I slathered the death potion all over my body. If you ever have to do this, for the love of god, don’t read the label. Thinking about how it “may cause seizures and death” really made this process that much more fun.

I’ve definitely had a few close calls when it comes to STIs. You would think that after 6 years of having sex I would have learned to be more careful, but this isn’t the case. And I’m not the only one. Most of the guys I’ve slept with don’t seem to care about getting an STI. I find it humorous that only after putting themselves inside me they ask if I’m on the pill. And I get it, because it’s difficult to ask important questions like that before ensuring you’re going to fuck someone. I stopped asking “when was the last time you’ve been tested?” because people can just lie. One time after waking up next to a guy, hung-over and sleep deprived, I asked him if he had been tested recently and he went on a mad rant about how he didn’t have AIDS. So the best thing to do – if you’re not going to be in a relationship with someone – is to use condoms or dental dam. However, I totally understand this is wayyy easier said than done.

I’m not going to pretend that I use condoms every time. But I will say that it’s important in protecting your health and that I’m going to make more of a conscience effort to do so when sleeping with someone who isn’t an ongoing partner. It’s scary to think about getting an STI or even HIV, so we often push the worry in the back of our minds. But it’s a very legitimate worry, and we have a responsibility not only to ourselves but our future partners to make sure that we’re clean. I would feel terrible if I gave someone something. Going without condoms can be great, as long as you’re on some form of birth control and have been tested with your partner. Being tested together is important because it’s a way to support each other and know that the other is clean. I’ve been tested a few times with partners and without. If you’re thinking about going, Google your local STI clinic to book an appointment. Trust me: Denial doesn’t do anyone any good.

You can read MY PLEASURE every Wednesday at MLTS MAG.

MY PLEASURE – I Have a Sex Addiction

I’ve been feeling really lonely lately. This is the longest time in my life that I’ve gone without a partner – and for the first time, it’s on purpose. I need to learn to take care of myself, by myself. If I were in a relationship I would fall back into my old habits of relying on another person to be there for me when I’m anxious or depressed. Rather than escaping into the arms of someone else to console me, I’m teaching myself how to be consoling when I’m having a panic attack or suicidal ideation.

However, as many young women do, I still crave intimacy and turn to sex as a way of getting it. You might even call it an addiction. My friend said earlier this week that I have more sex than anyone she knows – which surprised me. I still don’t believe her. Maybe I’m just more vocal about my experiences. If I were in a relationship, it wouldn’t matter how much sex I were having. If I were a man, I would be considered a “player.” I would feel confident; I would feel like someone society looks up to. But since I’m a single woman, I find myself feeling ashamed due to religious and societal views I’ve grown up with.

Since I was a little gurl I’ve used sexual pleasure as a way of comfort. It wasn’t until I made my sexual debut at 17 that I realized there was a negative outlook on this. I learned that people judge you by how many people you sleep with, so I went exclusively to exes when it didn’t work out with my current partners. Now that I’m single and don’t want to be tied down, I’m realizing my high sex drive is actually more than just craving intimacy – it’s literally filling a void.

There are many different kinds of addictions – some are based on substances like alcohol and drugs, while others are based on “normal” activities that are often overlooked, such as eating or exercising. It’s more difficult to know if you’re addicted to things like these because it’s so easy to say they’re just a part of life. Sex falls into this category. Even though it’s around us every day in the media, we’re afraid to talk about it and acknowledge that it’s a vice just like anything else.

But how do you know if you’re addicted or if you just really like doing it?

Enter the ending of my 2-year relationship. I saw a couple guys to take the edge off, but ultimately decided I needed to be alone for a while. I needed to work on feeling better, becoming healthier and generally “finding myself.” I spent 2 months doing just that, without having sex once or hardly turning on my vibrator. I went out with friends more, worked a lot, wrote constantly and took on a freelance position at a magazine. But like every addict, I finally gave into my cravings and fell further than I ever have before.

It started when my friend and I went out for drinks. He had a partner, but he’d been confiding in me about how she recently cheated. After a few rounds, he tried to kiss me – but I fought the urge to give in. The second time wasn’t so easy; an hour later we ended up in their bed. Instead of a sense of relief that people often get from having an orgasm, I became intoxicated with these intense cravings of wanting more and more. Guilt and desire overcame me, and the next night I ended up in the bathroom with a 21-year old man I met on POF and a woman we met at the bar.

I saw the 21-year-old for a couple weeks, being adamant that it was simply a fuck buddy relationship. I was devastated when I fell for him and he wasn’t over his ex – so I slept with another friend. By that point my self-control was non-existent and I found myself in a hotel room with a 31-year-old I met the night before. When I started to grow feelings for him, I wound up in a storage room with a 24-year-old who had his tongue and another fascinating location pierced.

Can you spot my pattern? Addictions aren’t started just to get high off pleasure – they’re used to run away. By the time they become an issue, the person feels out of control – fighting to overcome the wave of temptation. Sex is how I let myself be vulnerable. When I start to feel too vulnerable, I look for a different source to get my fix.

But how can you recover from a sex addiction? I’m no therapist, but I am seeing one. I’m learning how to give myself the love I didn’t receive growing up in order to have healthy relationships in the future. It’s a long road, but acknowledging why I crave intimacy is a big step towards making changes. If you’re struggling like me, know that you’re not alone.

MY PLEASURE –This Isn’t a Porno

I have a very sensitive gag reflex. Doctors hate me because my mouth won’t let them put that dry as fuck popsicle stick down its throat. No matter how many times I say “aaaah,” it simply won’t happen. Consequently, men hate me because I won’t swallow. Having that sticky white stuff anywhere near my throat makes me want to throw up. I may be kinky, but that, my friends, is where I draw the line. And cumming on my face is not a compromise.

A few weeks ago, this apparently was a compromise. When I refused to let the guy cum in my mouth, he tried to switch to my face, even after hearing me refuse many times before. Needless to say he was shocked when I got up and told him to fuck off. “No one’s ever told me no before,” he said.

Seriously? Am I the only woman who doesn’t enjoy having a guy cum on her face, or am I just the only one who refuses?

I’m not sure why I hate this idea so much. I like being dominated by my sex partner. I like when they slap me in the face, choke me lightly and hold my arms back – but potentially cumming in my eye is nearing more humiliation than control. I’m not into being embarrassed when I’m having sex. Maybe if I’m getting off at the same time I’ll be too turned on to get pissed when they attempt to blow their load on my complexion. Honestly, I don’t give a fuck what’s going on when I’m having an orgasm. But I’d like to see them try to do these 2 things at once. And if they succeed, they’d better hand me a goddamn towel afterwards.

But this leaves me wondering why men always want to cum on my face. The answer doesn’t take too long to answer: Because, porn.

Porn shows men what women are ‘supposed’ to be doing in bed: Going down on their dick like it doesn’t taste and smell like – well, penis – until the man gives out and the woman takes a face bath in his cum like it’s liquid money. Since porn is aimed towards men, it doesn’t give the sense that women need to feel respected and be pleasured too; it shows men that they’re the most important factor in the film and that women are just there for their enjoyment. I know this because the majority of my sex partners watch porn and their fantasies come from – you guessed it – porn.

You’d think because I hate sloppy kisses men would understand that having fluid all over my face would be a no go. It’s the biggest turn off ever to have to wipe spit off my lip while I’m making out with someone. Yet “can I cum on your face?” is constantly the question at large.

I don’t try to stick my finger up a guy’s ass after they tell me they’re not into that. The problem with a sub/dom partnership in bed, though, is that the person who is dominating gets confused when you tell them no. There should definitely be a code word for stop, but it’s hard to speak when someone’s shoving their dick in your mouth and choking you with it. That’s why they need to listen the first, second and third time you refuse. Of course, it’s not just up to the guy. The woman has the right to get up and leave, helping them to understand their point.

Being submissive is a turn on for me because I need to feel in control in real life, but that doesn’t mean being a sub is an agreement to everything. Men should respect the word “no,” even when all they can think about is their pleasure. What about my pleasure? Maybe one day I’ll love it when guys cum down my throat and on my face, but for now, it’s where I draw the line. I shouldn’t feel like there’s something wrong with me for saying no to something I’m not comfortable with, even if they’ve “never been told no before.” This isn’t a porno – this is my sexuality.

You can read MY PLEASURE every Wednesday at MLTS Mag.

MY PLEASURE – Abandoning the Labels in Relationships

Can you have a relationship with your fuck buddy? Can you have sex with your friend? Can things stay the same or does changing boundaries change everything? Lately I’ve been thinking about how certain partners fit into certain categories, wondering if they should stay in those boxes or if their roles can be more fluid like sexuality.

I tried the whole celibacy thing for a couple of months, and as soon as I got laid people started asking me why I seemed happier. I figure this is reason enough to start having sex again – but I don’t necessarily want to settle down any time soon. Dating around opens up many possibilities I haven’t previously discovered while being a serial monogamous. Not only does it provide more people to connect with, but it brings more life experience – and that’s what dating is all about: Learning who you are and what you want.

But I don’t exactly get the whole dating thing. I’ve only either had flings or relationships, so my recollection of dating is very little to draw from. I’ve gone on “dates” with people I had already been in relationships with or was already in a relationship with – but I’ve only gone on a few real dates where I didn’t already know the person beforehand. Most of the time we just hung out as if we were together until we decided to admit we were actually together. Eventually the line between fuck buddy and partner became blurred and we gave into the pressure of a label.

But what if I don’t want to give into the pressure of a label? What if I don’t want to just be with one person? As I grow and meet people, I’m realizing that there are many different types of relationships a person can have with many different kinds of people. Just like being fluid sexually and having experiences with partners despite their gender, relationships don’t have to be black and white. People who are my friends sometimes become my lovers, and my lovers sometimes become my friends. This is because I’m learning how to have deeper connections with people who are in my life.

Typically I surround myself with artists. Most of my friends are artists, and I tend to be attracted to a lot of them because we share the same interests and passions. However, sometimes when 2 people have sex the dynamic changes and distorts that connection. You develop different desires and expectations than you originally felt. You want things you didn’t want before. Jealousy comes out of nowhere, even if you don’t want a relationship with that person. You find yourself getting mad that they went on a date with someone even though you weren’t exclusive.

No matter how hard I try not to grow feelings for someone, I often do – especially the more talented they are and the more of a connection we have in bed. Even if we are just fuck buddies, I end up wanting more than just sex. It’s an issue for me because I want to keep the original relationship I had with them. They’re an important part of my life whether they inspire me, collaborate with me, compete with me or just help me relax. Creativity and passion go hand in hand, and often it can be hard to regulate the outcome of these 2 things coming together from 2 people.

Lately I’m becoming more comfortable with the idea of letting go. I often need to be in control, knowing what’s going on in situations and relationships. The little details drive me crazy; I don’t like feeling vulnerable and like someone has the upper hand. But I can’t control everything, and life is about enjoying all the craziness that comes with it. Like cuddling and watching Alice in Wonderland, surrounded by paint. Or reading someone’s unpublished novel while sexting in bed.

It’s hard for me not to want to be physically stimulated by people who already mentally stimulate me, but it doesn’t mean anything has to change in the relationship. It also doesn’t mean it’s bad if things do change. Whether they’re my date, my friend, my fuck buddy or my lover these people impact my life and my future for the better. Whatever I learn in my experiences with them teaches me who I am and who I want to be.

MY PLEASURE – Plenty of Cess: Pickup Lines from Plenty of Fish

I’ve recently re-joined Plenty of Fish. I thought it was time to let go of the past and give the dating site another shot – the past being the ex-Jehovah’s Witness hipster who never paid me back for the 500 dollars I loaned him. To be fair, I was naïve to think someone who brought me to Money Mart and yelled racial slurs towards the clerk after getting turned away would pay me back. I should have stolen his weed.

I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone, but in the fun chance I did find someone worth meeting I put the numerous guys who contacted me through an intense screening process. What’s the fun in going shopping for a partner if you can’t be picky? The first thing I looked at was their photos. The determining factors were whether they were under 6 feet, non-religious, were unsure about children and had light eyes. If everything panned out, I’d meet them if they were artistic.

Listen. I need to be attracted to a guy. If a guy is over 6 feet he’s often not going to pair up well with my short frame. I’m an atheist. While most people around my age aren’t looking to have children any time soon, I like to know if they’re set on them because I’m getting really tired of hearing “you’ll change your mind.” I’m a sucker for light eyes; I don’t think I’ve ever dated anyone with brown eyes – it’s a preference like some people prefer certain star signs. And they need to be artistic like me.

My desire to return to Plenty of Fish was probably the desire any young woman has: To feel wanted. Maybe look at some hot bodies. Ok, definitely look at some hot bodies. And while the female seeking male side is a cesspool of creepy comments and can be quite shallow, you’ll still get loads of compliments. All you have to do is make an account. You don’t have to message guys. You don’t have to write much – they usually just look at your photos anyway. It really is the cheapest way to raise your self-esteem.

However, some comments border on hilarity and vulgarity and should be published in a book called Plenty of Cess (That’s the best title I could come up with – if you think of a better one, post it in the comments below). But for your pleasure, I’m going to publish these hilarious slash vulgar comments right here for you to read – because I’m generous when it comes to mine and my friends’ dating lives. I believe in sharing experiences, even if it’s just to laugh at the ridiculous pickup lines guys use on gurls. You’re welcome.

There was the guy who asked me for drugs: “Can you get any shrooms? Regular or chocolate.”
First of all, I didn’t even know they came in chocolate. Second of all, just because I describe myself as a tree-hugging-hippie does not mean I do drugs.

One guy asked me hard questions like, “if there were a room full of girls who looked identical to you how would I know which one you are?” It was wayyy too much thinking than I cared for upon first talking.

Of course there were the long, detailed messages that were clearly copied and pasted to every gurl on the site. You can tell because they ask general questions that you already answered in your profile.

Johnny the pimp sent my friend a photo of him and a topless gurl asking for a threesome.

A guy told me he’d wear his black sweatpants if I could find some pink ones. I asked him why they’d have to be pink and he told me because it’s his favourite colour for gurls. You can imagine the feminist in me was immediately charmed.

There was the guy who asked me if I ever dressed up as an Oompa Loompa for Halloween. And then there were the many guys who kept getting hard-ons over the fact that I’m 4’ll.

Joel321 told me straight up that he loves eating pussy and wanted to eat mine. It was tempting, but I passed.

One guy asked me why I was so grumpy, which just confused me.

There was the guy who asked me if I wanted to go to McDonalds sometime. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with being spendthrift, but this also just confused me.

It’s hard to say no to usernames like HungHangdown and Hardrockforu2013.

One guy tried to get my friend to pimp herself out for pierogies. He sent her step-by-step photos of him making them because he asked if she’d ever sleep with a Ukrainian and she said if he made her pierogies. When she said she was kidding he got mad and called her a stripper.

Have any POF pickup lines guys/gurls used on you that you’d like to share? Post in the comments below!

Dr. J’s Travelogue: Life on the Reserve – Moving North

I’m going to take you with me on my travels, starting with moving to an isolated reserve in northern Canada in 1976  — I was 23 at the time — and ending with my 60th birthday party at Victoria Falls in Zambia in 2013. In between there were — and will continue to be — a number of adventures.

Stanley Mission, part of the Lac La Ronge Indian Band, was a fly-in reserve on the Churchill River in northern Saskatchewan. Yes, yes I know that “native American” is politically correct, but the people who live on the reserves in Canada want to be called Indians. That is what it says on the Treaty with Queen Elizabeth I — also known as “the great white mother” — and that is what gives them their status. So Indians it is. Under the mantra of “local control of Indian education” the band — which would more likely be called a tribe in America —had just taken over running their own education system. And it seemed like an exciting place to be, so I applied for a job as a teacher and was hired.

When I moved to Stanley Mission in 1976, there was no road, no telephone, no radio and no television. We flew into the settlement in single-engine bush planes that landed on the river with pontoons in the summer and on the airstrip with skis in the winter.

The two-way radio operated out of the Band Office and you could call the outside world from 9 a.m. until 17:00, Monday to Friday. It was a “dry” reserve — meaning alcohol was not allowed — and you weren’t allowed to mention liquor on the public radio system. Swearing wasn’t allowed either. So to get around that you would ask the pilot to bring in a bottle of horse liniment on the next plane. Situations were reported in code, My standard response to “fubar” which translated as ‘fucked up beyond all recognition.”

I didn’t miss television, but radio would have been nice. Mail came in twice a week and Wednesday was milk day. After school we would rush to one of the two local small stores that would barely rate as a corner grocery in a city. The formula was to head for the fridge at the back of the shop. The milk may have been sitting on the dock for a few hours before it was flown in, so it was standard practice to check before buying. If the fridge was littered with opened cartons it was a sure sign they were sour from the heat of the summer. During the winter the cartons rattled with half-frozen milk. UTH milk was hailed as a revolutionary discovery right up there with the wheel.

I’d been weaned into the Indian way of life on the Onion Lake reserve and in Ile a la Cross, where I’d taught short-term adult education classes so sliding further into isolation wasn’t a problem.  Living on the reserve further cemented my sense of living as ‘other’ that I had developed by the time I finished high school.

When I arrived on the reserve there were still traditional elements of the Cree culture. Many people have nicknames and the locals called me Okamao-iskwio, which rough translates as ‘little boss woman’.

Local families would pack up their supplies in the autumn before the river froze over and fly out to their remote trap-lines with their ski-doos strapped onto the pontoons of the float plane. Equipped only with a battery operated two-way radio, ‘moccasin telegraph’ was very effective; everyone knew what everyone else was doing even though the trap-lines were often quite a distance from each other. From time to time — usually during the winter because it was easier to travel by ski-doo than boat — I’d visit people out in the bush. Lunch would inevitably consist of tea, boiled beaver and bannock (a type of flat bread) spread with lard. It made the bush meat of West Africa and the smoked dog I was later to eat in China look appetising. But we will get to those taste treats later in the series.

Meanwhile, stay tuned for the next episode of me getting adopted by the McLeod family. Until then, this is your contributing travel editor signing off from Cape Town, South Africa.