Monday, December 22, 2008
by Anton Psychopoulos, Ph.D.
Disclaimer #1: This story is set in a hypothetical parallel world within the pre-Crisis DC Universe, based on a story in Superman #349, and on "Target of the Magic Bullet" in Flash #125, but is not limited by those stories or any other.
Disclaimer #2: Some characters appearing in this story are based on copyrighted characters owned by DC Comics, Inc., Marevel Comics and others. Their use here is not intended to infringe or disparage those copyrights.
Disclaimer #3: This story is not recommended for persons under 18 or the easily offended.
In an easy chair in his laboratory, in an ordinary-looking house on the outskirts of Hub City, Sam Scudder the Mirror Master sat and admired the immense glass bottle that sat against the far wall, and the huddled figure within. Although safely concealed in his private lair, he still wore his orange and green costume, and even his green cowl.
Scudder raised his right hand and flicked the reflective surface of his finger ring. A ray of light reflected from it activated a smoke machine. Green mist issued from the bottle, and the figure within stirred. Clumsily it climbed forth to do his bidding.
Scudder had removed all of the Flash's costume except for part of the cowl, which still covered the upper part of her face. He had refrained from unmasking her, preferring to draw out and savor his triumph. A long, flowing blonde wig had been glued to the cowl; he preferred it to her own tight cap of close-cropped blonde hair. He had dressed her in diaphanous pink harem pants, so sheer they concealed nothing, a tiny red vest that would never have closed around her breasts, and red slippers.
"Your wish is my command, O Master," the mesmerized heroine said, obeying her programming.
The Mirror Master clapped his hands together, delighted.
"Ah, but what is my wish, my lovely genie? What shall I have you do?"
"Whatever you please, Master. I hear and I obey."
"Yes, yes, of course, now and for the rest of your life, but what shall I do with you first? Bend you over the nearest work table and fuck you? But I can do that any time, and I can only do it for the first time just once. No, first I'll exploit your powers. That's what you're really here for.
"But how . . . ."
Scudder snapped his fingers.
"I hear that Hugh Hefner has a collection of photos he wouldn't dare print in his magazine, photos of famous women who could sue him, some of them too smutty to print. Bring me some of them."
He'd been about to add, "Especially any of Daphne Dean," but the Flash was already gone, with a small swirl of air, and returned so quickly the Mirror Master thought she must have encountered some problem until he saw the sheaf of glossy papers in her hand.
Scudder took the photographs eagerly, flipping through them, growing more and more agitated.
"So that's what she looks like in the raw . . . mmm, that's a good one . . . hey, that's Carmen Miranda! But what's so -- Oh my God! She's not wearing . . . !
Scudder's eyes bulged. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He wiped at it for a moment, then glanced up at his slave.
"Bring me the First Lady's panties, still warm from her ass!"
Stopping at a newspaper office to learn where Mrs. Eisenhower would be, the Flash ran over the plains to Gateway City. She was standing on a podium set up between the pillars of the Open Gateway, on the banks of the Long River. With sad irony, the Flash remembered the last time she'd been in Gateway City, and had admired the soaring bronze pillars of the symbolic gateway to the West.
No time for sightseeing now, she thought grimly as she knelt behind the First Lady, lifted her skirt and undid the straps of her garter belt. The Mirror Master's programming allowed her little leeway.
The Flash did, however, apparently have time to redo Mrs. Eisenhower's garters. When she felt a slight breeze around her legs a few hundred milliseconds in the future, she'd be surprised and puzzled by the missing step-ins, but at least her stockings wouldn't fall down. The Flash understood at once the importance of the fact that her programming did contain some room for interpretation.
Dawn Allen was an intelligent woman who thought things through carefully, looking for opportunities in every situation. The powers of the Flash would not have kept her alive through the past three years if she hadn't kept her head, even while embedded in amber or transformed into a living balloon.
Literary agent Peirre-Jules Noire had been one of Hub City's noted eccentrics. He had filled his home with all sorts of strange objects which he claimed had come from parallel worlds. Some were things which could be easily faked, like envelopes with stamps from nonexistant countries or clothes cut to outlandish fashions. But others were harder to explain.
When Noire disappeared mysteriously, Dawn Allen was a rookie forensic scientist assigned to comb his house for clues. She had been intrigued by the device labelled "Cosmic Treadmill", and had violated police protocol by stepping onto it to try a few paces.
Two hours later, according to the treadmill's pedometer, she had run over a thousand miles, her speed still increasing, and twenty pounds had fallen off her formerly plump body. A week after that, her powers still growing, she had appeared in public for the first time as the Flash.
The Flash returned to her master's lab and handed him the drawers. He mopped his brow and looked her up and down.
"Do your titties get sore, running all over creation with no bra, slave?" Scudder asked in mock-sympathy.
He leaned over and cupped her breasts, teasing her nipples with his thumbs.
"No, Master," the Flash replied. "The same control over my body's molecules which allows me to turn corners at speeds faster than sound, and protects my feet from friction, protects my breasts from the effects of my super-speed."
The Mirror Master chuckled.
"That's not how you'd answer if you had control over your voice, is it?"
"Heh. Why not? For the next five minutes, slave, you have my permission to speak freely."
The Flash clasped her hands before her (apparently her unconscious considered gestures to be part of "speaking freely") and leaned close to Scudder.
"Thank you, Sam. I've wanted so much to tell you how much I've been enjoying this."
Scudder's jaw dropped.
"All my life I've dreamed of belonging to a strong, masterful man, a real man who knows what he wants and takes it. That's why I became the Flash in the first place, to tempt and tease powerful men like you into finding a way to master me. The Top, Abra Cadaver, the Elongated Man, none of them were able to do what you have. Only you were able to enslave me. Only you deserved to."
The Flash dropped to her knees, straining her programming (and her stomach) to the limit, looking up imploringly at Scudder.
"Please, Master, let me give myself to you completely. Use me, not as a performing puppet but as a willing, loving slave."
She reached out but had to stop short of touching him.
The Mirror Master looked down at the Flash, astonished but still slightly suspicious.
"You want me to give you freedom of action, do you?"
"Only to serve you more perfectly, Master."
"Very well, but you may not use your speed powers. You are free to give me pleasure, nothing else."
"Oh, thank you, Master," the Flash gushed, lowering her face to the floor and kissing the tips of his green boots.
She kissed her way up his orange tights, then shyly raised her hands to unlatch his belt. It took her a moment to figure out how it worked, but then his tights were worked down and his manhood sprang free. With her fingertips she brushed lightly up and down its length, lowering her head as though suddenly modest, hiding her disgusted expression.
The Flash took the Mirror Master's penis lovingly in one hand, cupping his scrotum with the other. She felt him tremble under her touch
"There is a trick I have learned to do with vibrations that I would love to show you," she said truthfully."
"Yes, yes, go ahead," Scudder moaned.
The Mirror Master had just enough time to see the Flash's hand blur visibly before he doubled over in agony, his testicles vibrating at precisely the frequency she had learned would cause the most exquisite pain to a man. He tried to gasp out a command but was unable to articulate, and a few seconds later he lost consciousness.
The Flash still could not use her speed powers except for vibrating the palms of her hands at the ball-busting frequency. She could move at normal speeds, but only to give him pleasure. Of course, Scudder would still be terribly sore when he awoke, so obviously calling for an ambulance consisted of giving him pleasure. And of course when one calls for an ambulance, it is necessary to give the address and the patient's full name, and title if any. Obviously.
Dawn Allen told herself all this over and over, straining against her programming all the while she was on the phone. It was a great relief to hang up the instrument and go stand at attention before her unconscious master. Now she could wait for the ambulance to arrive, and the police moments after.
It would be embarrassing to have to stand there in her "genie" costume, but she was on good terms with the HCPD, and she didn't think anyone would take advantage of the situation. They'd call in some reliable hypnotist or psychic healer to remove the Mirror Master's controls, and things would be back to normal.
From where she stood, she could see herself in a couple of the many mirrors in the lab. She had to admit she looked good in Scudder's "modified" Flash costume.
She'd keep it. Her boyfriend would get a kick out of it.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
by Anton Psychopoulos, Ph.D.
Disclaimer #1 This story is set in a hypothetical parallel world within the pre-Crisis DC Universe, based on a story in Superman #349, but not limited by that story or any other.
Disclaimer #2 Some characters appearing in this story are based on copyrighted characters owned by DC Comics, Inc., Marvel Comics and others. Their use here is not intended to infringe or disparage those copyrights.
Disclaimer #3 This story is not recommended for persons under 18 or the easily offended.
The guy in the Gotham Knights T-shirt stepped over his unconscious buddy with hardly a hesitation. He hefted his billy club and grinned at Robin.
"I'll let you in on a little secret, kid. I'm the one who did Batbitch. And I'm gonna do to Batbitch Boy what I did to her, and I don't mean just the part where I broke her knees."
The Boy Wonder grinned back, showing considerably more teeth.
"Oh, you're gonna do what you did when you met Batwoman, are you? I hope you're wearing rubber pants this time."
The guy's grin just got wider, and he tightened his grip on his club. He took a step forward, there was a flash of yellow, and he was clutching at his stinging, empty hand. He looked up in time to see the boy coming at him, a swirl of bright colors in midair, and then he was on the floor, his body immobilized by pain, the boy's booted feet pressing the last air from his lungs.
Robin reached up and snatched the spinning club from the air. He leaned down and prodded the thug between the buttocks with his own weapon.
"Wanna tell me again what you were going to do to me?"
"Aw, man, aw, maaan!"
Robin bound the man's wrists and ankles with green zip ties, tucked the club down the back of his pants, retrieved his throwing disk from a corner and left the building, making sure to trip the alarm on his way out.
As he stepped into the alley, he froze, then smiled and opened his mouth to speak as he recognized the silhouette looming above him.
A black-gloved hand shot out a warning finger, then pointed upward. Robin nodded and watched the cloaked figure of Batwoman climb the building's fire escape. He followed, wincing as he noted that her ascent was nearly silent, and his was not.
He reached the roof in time to see Batwoman crossing to an adjoining building. He caught up with her two blocks away, on the roof of the tallest building in the neighborhood. She was waiting in silence while he crossed the tar beach quietly, but puffing with exertion.
"Mask," she hissed, the first word he'd heard from her.
Robin obeyed, untying the thong which held his green domino in place.
"My name is Dick --"
"Gordon, I know. Son of Police Commissioner Gordon, brother of Barbara Gordon alias Batgirl."
After a moment's pause, Batwoman pushed her long-eared cowl up and off her face.
Dick took in the woman's tight mouth and watchful blue eyes. With her face set with such grim intensity, her hair matted and sweaty, without makeup or earrings, it was difficult to recognize her as --
"Roberta Wayne? You were my number two choice for Batwoman, after Kathleen Kane."
Something happened to the thin line of Batwoman's mouth.
"Second out of how many?"
"Five. Barbara had seven candidates. You were her first."
The something turned into a smile for a fraction of a second.
"Listen, Batwoman -- Ms. Wayne -- I'm so glad to meet you, so glad to know that you're . . . ."
"Or crippled, or captive. I hope you're going to let everyone know you're back. A lot of people in Gotham really admire you."
"Yes, I know. I've been watching developments over the last year. It's been very flattering to see just how many people have been pinch hitting for me: you, your sister, Anarky, Nightwing, the Creeper."
Dick winced inwardly at being classed with the other vigilantes. He considered some of them to be little better than criminals themselves. He said nothing, deferring to Batwoman's judgment.
"But now that you're back," he forced himself to begin.
"You're afraid I'll tell you to cut it out."
This time Dick winced visibly, but Batwoman shook her head.
"Not exactly. What I want you to do is stop acting on your own."
She pulled a sliver of blackness from a pouch in her utility belt. It unfolded silently into a scalloped bat-shape. She tossed it with a seemingly negligent throw. It circled around them and she snatched it from the air without looking.
"I have equipment you could never afford on lunch money or whatever you're using for a budget. I have experience and training you don't. I want you to accept me as your teacher, your sponsor and your commanding officer."
Dick's jaw dropped.
"That . . . that would be . . . everything I could have hoped for. I . . . .
"Are you making this same offer to all the others?"
Wayne shook her head.
"No, just you. And Barbara, since she's so close to you. You're something special, Dick. I've been watching. You've got talent, intelligence, courage and good morals. I admired the way you handled yourself with Crazy-Quilt. You could have killed her easily, but you didn't."
Dick shrugged, embarrassed.
"I didn't have to."
"There's another reason you're a special case, though. One you deserve to know.
"One night, some seventeen years ago . . . ."
Thomas Wayne had taken a train to Star City for a meeting that morning. Martha Wayne had spent seven hours in surgery. They were both more than ready for bed by the time the movie let out. Their daughter, on the other hand, was still full of energy, among other things, zigzagging up and down the block, covering three times as much ground as her parents on the way home. The movie had been exciting, to say nothing of the cartoons, but what had really revved her motor had been the first chapter of a new serial, Zorro's Black Whip. Swinging in a tight circle around a lamppost, she gushed at the tired couple.
"Did you see her? A girl being Zorro! That is so swell! And did you see how she --"
Roberta's orbit of the lamppost halted abruptly as she took in the man who stood in the middle of the sidewalk before the Waynes, a pistol aimed directly at Roberta.
"In the alley," he snarled, gesturing with the gun.
Roberta Wayne was to remember that move many times in the years to come. Using a gun as a pointer was a sloppy, amateurish act. It was probably what inspired Thomas Wayne to try to disarm the man.
Wayne calmly ushered his wife and daughter before him into the alley, and as he passed the hoodlum, made a sudden grab for the gun. They struggled over it for a moment, and it fired.
Thomas Wayne stepped back, eyes wide, mouth open, his hands moving only gradually to cover the bleeding hole at the crotch of his pants.
Wayne fell against a wall, mouth working as though he were trying to force out a scream, though he made no sound.
"Brought it on yourself, asshole," the thug said, amused. He put the muzzle of his gun to Thomas Wayne's forehead and fired again.
The man turned towards Martha Wayne, and his malicious smile turned to a look of utter disgust. Dr. Wayne was lying in the alley, her slackening hands falling away from her chest, obviously dead.
"Shit, I was lookin' forward to having some fun with that one."
He looked at the last of the Waynes and shrugged.
"A little young, but I guess you'll do."
With no more word than that, he approached Roberta Wayne. She had already backed into a doorway as far as she could go, and merely stood, frozen, as the killer pushed up her pleated plaid skirt and pulled her white cotton briefs down to her saddle shoes.
She said nothing. In fact, it was three days before she spoke to anyone.
Dick Gordon looked out over the rooftops, shaking his head.
"Oh, God. I knew it had to have been something . . . major that led you to become Batwoman, but I never, well . . . ."
"They found me in the alley an hour later, sitting beside the bodies. Our butler was there almost at once, fortunately for me. He took charge of me, moved me from the downtown penthouse to our old place outside the city. I was beginning to recover when we realized I was pregnant."
Dick turned back to her, gaping.
"Then you must have . . . ."
"No, we didn't. The following March, a month after my fourteenth birthday, I gave birth to a healthy boy. With my butler's help, I arranged for him to be adopted by friends of my parents who already had a child."
"In March, seventeen -- no, sixteen -- years ago?"
"On the Ninth."
Dick's mouth slowly formed the word, "Mother?"
"No. Ellen's your mother. And Jim's your father, not . . . that man."
"Yes, of course, but . . . ."
"I gave birth to you, yes. I've watched you grow up, taken as much pride as I thought I deserved in your accomplishments. And when I figured out that you and Barbara were Batgirl and Robin, it was the happiest day of my life."
She stared into the night, shook herself and spoke again.
"There's more, though.
"A year ago, I became engaged to Harvey Dent."
Dick remembered that. They had seemed an odd couple, the all-business District Attorney and the madcap millionairess. Now he saw just how much they'd had in common.
"Harvey was trying to convince me to give up being Batwoman after we were married. He had me about half convinced to do it. Also about half-convinced to break it off with him.
"Then I was captured by the Joker and placed in a deathtrap. Must have been the sixth or seventh time. But that time was different. Once he had me stripped naked and tied to the frame, he raped me.
"I escaped, of course. The deathtrap, anyway.
"Afterwards, I told Harvey the truth about what had happened. I told myself it wouldn't be right to hide it from him, but maybe I was testing him, or trying to drive him away.
"He was a very old-fashioned man in some respects. We had been planning to wait until our wedding night to have sex, but now he said he wanted to consummate our relationship then and there. Maybe he wanted to stake his claim on me. Maybe he wanted to confuse the possible issue of paternity.
"It was the third time in my life. The first time with a man I loved, or even one I didn't hate.
"Well, you know what happened to Harvey about two weeks after that.
"I don't know when I'll feel up to telling my daughter she can take her pick of daddies: the Joker or Two-Face."
Dick lifted his head. Roberta frowned at the tears flowing freely down his face.
"Born a month ago, during my six-month 'round the world cruise'. Next week I'll formally adopt her, the child of an anonymous birth mother.
"That's another reason I want a close relationship with you as my pupil. At fourteen I wasn't capable of being a mother to you; I don't want to give Delia up, or let her grow up while I'm busy. I need someone I can trust to share Batwoman's burden while I'm raising her."
She drew something else from her utility belt.
"Here, put this on." Dick unrolled the tiny black object into a domino mask that felt slightly sticky on one side. Smoothed against his skin, it stayed in place until Roberta showed him how to pinch it up at one corner.
"Something one of my scientists at Tyler Chemical came up with. Consider it the first installment of your new equipment." Roberta pulled her cowl back over her face, unlimbered her grapnel and scanned the neighboring buildings, considering where to direct it.
"Think it over, talk about it with Barbara. Call me at the Wayne Foundation, leave a message about 'the project we discussed on Friday'."
"Well, okay, but I'm pretty sure Babs' answer will be the same as mine. I can't tell you how good it feels to have your support, your approval, to know that what we've been doing is the right thing."
Batwoman fired her grapnel at a distant cornice. She looked over her shoulder at Robin.
"I wish I knew that."
Dick watched her swing away into the night.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Commentor Anthony McCarthy makes an analogous argument, comparing it to suggesting that radio programming could be explained by study of the electromagnetic spectrum. At first glance, this was an amusing and telling argument, but . . . .
Continuing the analogy, though, it is in fact possible to explain the differences between AM and FM radio (talk and news vs. music) by studying the differences between the two forms of transmission: the quality of signal that can be carried, the cost of setting up and running a transmitter, the dates on which AM and FM stations went on the air, &c.
So you can in fact make a case for explaining *part* of the nature of radio programming on the basis of the nature of electromagnetism, and on the nature and history of the technologies which we have developed to make use of it.
What we CANNOT do is justify a law which would REQUIRE all AM stations to stop carrying music because "That's FM work".
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
People went out of my life this year, and for much of it I thought my wife was going to be one of them. I am grateful to her for offering me another chance.
I was in a great deal of pain over the past year, of which the hole the doctors cut in my head last Thanksgiving was only the most obvious, and far from being the most painful. Some of that pain I took out on my wife in ways that now make me cringe with shame. Very little of what I put her through was deserved.
Mainly, though, I look back thankfully on the good times she and I have had. There were a lot more good times than bad, after all. And I look forward to good times yet to come, and give thanks for unknown blessings already on their way.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
If I could rewrite my life so that it did not include the pain I caused to my wife, and to R, and to N, and to others . . . .
But in that case, I would not have had so many good, rewarding experiences, ranging from the birth of R-boy to the simple good times I had with each of my lovers.
So I am in the position of feeling terribly guilty over actions by which I benefitted immensely, some of which I simply could not wish undone.
So what does that make me?
Maybe just...an American.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Monday, September 22, 2008
Life is full of surprises. Two years ago I thought I was a happily married man in an open relationship who would remain married to my wife for the rest of our lives. Now I'm in the process of divorce and courting the mother of my child.
I was all set to move in with R this month, and then....
My wife asked me to give her another chance: three months to show me that we could live together better and happier than we had ever been before. I told R that I was deeply tempted by the offer, and thought that maybe I owed it to her to let her try again. R reluctantly agreed to allow me the three-month trial.
I'm not sure if I said or did something wrong, or gave R some kind of wrong impression, or if maybe it was simply that when I took my wife up on her offer, but R took it very badly. She showered me with blistering abuse for several days, in response to which I tried to be polite and respectful.
Although she had previously given me many assurances that she would always allow me to spend time with our child, R revoked that offer and swore that I would never see him again.
I don't know whether R will feel differently in the future. Hell, I don't even know whether my wife and I will be able to work things out, although she has frankly surprised me so far. If I do wind up staying with my wife, I know that R and I will probably never be entirely comfortable with one another, but I hope that I will be able to offer R and her child whatever help and friendship I am able.
And although neither my wife nor R want to hear it right now, I will say once more, for the record, that I love R and always will.
Now, Always and Forever.
Monday, September 15, 2008
I have no idea.
Friday, August 22, 2008
I am reminded of a documentary I saw once in which a man who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness talked about how he enjoyed the feeling of freedom he now felt, one benefit at least of his condition. By the end of the film, he was in remission, and he wondered whether he could ever get back that wonderful sense of freedom, since he thought it would actually be more use to him now that he had the prospect of a normal life span. That is kind of the way I feel about my newfound ability to talk with K, now that she apparently is not going to be my wife any more: that if we could resume our relationship now, with this new ability to talk freely, we could have a good life together.
But I doubt that is going to happen, and anyway I am proceeding toward a new life with R at this point.
And yes, looking forward to it.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
"the pain of consummation soon melted away. Muhammad was so gentle. I hardly felt the scorpion's sting. To be in his arms, skin to skin, was the bliss I had longed for all my life."
You also should not read the rest of the manuscript, which is why Random House is withholding publication.
Now say thank you.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Alas, there is no video of Phil Ochs' "Days of Decision" on YouTube, but at least it was relatively easy to find the lyrics online:
Do you know of any other songs you like on the subject of "It's time to decide"?
Friday, July 25, 2008
I wonder whether supporters of Senator Fratricidal Toilet are really wise to go there.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Some of the changes have been in me: when I started this, I said firmly that nothing could ever break me up with my wife. Since then, two women came into my life who made me rethink that, and one of them is still in it.
Some of the changes have been in the people around me: my lover R wanted a child, and I helped her conceive one. At the time, I was comfortable with the idea of that child's being out there in the world with his single mother, but now I have the prospect of being an actual father to him, and I find it...not unpleasant.
Some of the changes have supposedly not been changes at all: when I started this blog, partly in order to search for a sex partner, I was under the impression that my wife's sex drive had vanished during a long illness and had never returned. Now my wife tells me that her sex drive did indeed return, and that she tried to interest me in sex to no avail. I have a hard time accepting that -- "Mrs. Psycho" was the best lover I'd ever had, and I love her very much, yet supposedly we slept side by side for over a year without her being able to get my attention? But that's what she says happened.
Now it's time for more change, and I'm not at all sure I'm ready for it. But I have little choice. The world moves on, with me or without me.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Problem is, my wife has objected to things I have posted here, especially since some of our friends have also been reading it.
I have a lot of things to say about the subject at hand, but I've been writing them elsewhere, mostly.
Maybe I should just post more LOLCunts.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Making a decision like this requires a very special and ruthless kind of selfishness, like that of an infant or a hunted animal. I hadn't ever expected to be forced to make that kind of decision.
And if you're sitting there reading this, feeling impatient about my endlessly saying "I have to decide, I really truly have to decide, and nobody can decide it for me, it's all up to me," I understand exactly. I'm tired of it, too.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Each of them is torn by uncertainty and ambivalence. R has passed up job opportunities in order to remain in the Willamette Valley area so that I would not have to decide yet, and also so that I would be available to my wife so that as my ex-wife, she would not be deprived of my assistance when she needed it.
Big joke: when my wife finally heard about this, she told me bluntly that once I left she would not want to see me any longer.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Sunday, May 4, 2008
One of the cruelest tragedies of the sex industry is that it attracts girls like me who already have skewed ideas about sex and self-worth and then completely reinforces all our secret fears. The men you meet, the whole lifestyle, whispers to you that you were right all along, that all that really matters is being desired.I still struggle every day to change my thinking. It makes me almost sick to my stomach to meet new people whether in a personal or professional capacity, because I worry they will not think I am pretty. Most of my friends are men with whom I have had former dalliances because I just do not feel comfortable around people who I don’t know with certainty find me sexually attractive. In my head, my worth is completely tied up in my appearance and sex. As a result of being abused at a young age, my thinking is fucked. There is something wrong with my brain. No matter how logically I know that who I am is more important than how sexy I look, I have internalized the lesson that it is my sexuality that makes me lovable.Of course, this is a trap that will keep me perpetually insecure because not everyone is always going to be attracted to me. When you feel that perfectly normal fact as a deep blow to your self-esteem, it’s impossible to ever really feel confident.
I wonder what my therapist will say when I show her this and say that Friend Call Girl speaks to my condition? My wife and I joked once about my working as a gigolo. Fuck.
Well, I had already decided that, whether with my wife or with R or with N or on my own, I was going to change some things.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Still, my wife regarded it as a threat to our reconciliation, and she asked me to end it, and I didn't do it. I kept on talking with N, even though I knew my wife didn't approve. I shouldn't have done that. Oh, well, I've done a lot of things I shouldn't, in the last couple of years.
I didn't want to stop talking with N. She was a good friend, before and after our becoming lovers. Talking with her late at night was a high point of my day. And N was having a very hard year, including a very frightening illness, a medical treatment that changed her body in ways that she found very distressing and made her feel unattractive, and other problems that left her feeling a powerful need for a friend, and for someone to tell her that she was indeed loved and lovable, desirable and desired.
But finally, early this morning I told N that we shouldn't talk any longer, not at all. No phone calls, no text messages, no e-mails. And N, I'd appreciate it if you didn't post a comment on this post, either.
Our feelings have not changed. But we are not in a position to act upon them, so we will say nothing more about that.
This is one step towards my reconciliation with my wife. I want very much to be reconciled with her, and to continue our marriage. I hope that this will help move us in that direction. We'll see.
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Not the way he would have wanted to be remembered -- for one thing, I'm sure he wasn't keen on the dying-at-an-early-age part.
But he was, even though the Department of Defense would rather you didn't hear about him.
Know what, DoD? Tough shit.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
not bring other people into our arguments
not “survey” because it has that effect
not unilaterally bring in a third party even if the
third party is the subject of discussion
What to do about being unhappy and wanting to
talk about one’s troubles with someone?
b) check out 12-step programs available locally
One party says “I’m declaring an emergency.”
The situation is immediately interrupted, and the
argument is tabled until the next meeting.
The next meeting is scheduled as soon as possible,
but not within a three hour cooling off period.
The meeting is held on the single subject only.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
"Let there be no mention of recent events by speech or by writing, to one another or to other persons or to public postings, with the sole exception of discussion with our respective personal therapists.
"We will leave the past be for now, and return to past issues that still require consideration only when we are both satisfied that enough time has passed and we are ready to discuss it."
Why do I find it so hard to choose between a woman with whom I have raised four children, all of them now grown, and the mother of the only biological child I have ever fathered, a beautiful little boy not yet a year old?
Why do I find it so hard to choose between a woman who has shown me a love I would never have thought myself worthy of, over a woman who has shown me a love I would never have thought myself worthy of?
Why is it that having three amazing, intelligent, talented women so profoundly in love with me makes me feel so miserable?
Why is it that with two clear and obvious courses for the rest of my life ahead of me, both good lives full of happiness and bright challenges to be embraced with joy, I feel as though I would rather just fucking die and get it over with?
I remember the MRAs who were harassing me on my old blog, and how they snickered and sneered, anticipating the unhappy future I was so obviously creating for myself. But they supposed that I would wind up with three women hating me, and living in poverty while I paid child support to an ungrateful bitch. Pretty much the opposite of what actually happened, but the life I have now is making me feel so much worse than their scenario would have.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
What the fuck do I do now?
Saturday, March 22, 2008
I went out with my wife, riding around with her while she makes her deliveries for work. It's an enjoyable way to spend time, peeking in at out-of-the-way locations, enjoying the sunshine (when the sun is shining), appreciating the interesting architectural details (there are almost always some, although sometimes they're kind of small ones), and talking.
Talking with my wife isn't quite as enjoyable as it used to be, because each of us is a bit gunshy after all the times one of us has hurt the other. Right now we're trying hard not to, but things happen.
After a ride like this afternoon's, I feel as though we could indeed be reconciled. How things will be tomorrow, though, I will try not to wonder about. There's just no way of knowing.
Once in awhile, I wondered if I were missing something, or whether I could safely disregard the company of men since I was not gay and wasn't particularly interested in team sports or cars with powerful engines.
I still don't know. But I'm thinking I need to rethink some things, given the insights I've recently had into my relationships with women (see the immediately previous post).
Often they aren't so much insights as new perspectives on insights I'd had a long time ago.
Old Insight #1: I once said to someone or other that I found eight or nine women out of ten to be attractive, and I felt sorry for men who are only attracted to one woman out of twenty. Why would I want to live in a world that was so devoid of beauty?
Old Insight #2: I noticed years ago that almost all of my friends were women, that I had very little interest in men, generally speaking. I had a vague awareness that this had grown out my adolescent interest in almost every woman I knew (see above), and my desperate desire to have sex with a woman -- almost any woman.
Old Insight #3: I have always been a committed feminist, have always identified closely with women, have always been acutely aware of the daily injustices faced by every woman, and felt them as though they were offenses against myself.
Old Insight #4: A disproportionate number of my former lovers have been self-identified as lesbian or bisexual. More than one has told me something to the effect that I was the only man she had felt attracted to in a long time. One woman who had previously been submissive with women and dominant with men, came around reluctantly to the realization that she did, in fact, want me to dominate her.
New Insight: I see now that the items cited above are related, and that they are not entirely harmless.
It's not terribly sophisticated or "adult" to think of every woman I like as a potential lover, or a "symbolic" lover. It's not really the same thing as declining to exclude a female friend from the category of "possible future lover". It's not even necessarily the same thing as regarding women as friends, or anyway I shouldn't presume that because I find a woman attractive and interesting, I should consider her a "friend", or presume that I am entitled to call myself her "friend".
I've never liked myself as well as other people have liked me. This isn't an endearing characteristic, and I've been aware of it as something I need to work on. It's interesting that as my therapy progresses and I learn new things about myself that are mostly discreditable, I am still liking myself better than I used to.
I guess that means that as I see myself more clearly, I am also better able to forgive myself for not being perfect.
Friday, March 21, 2008
"No. These two gold rings are the ones which my wife and her first husband bought together. They're identical plain half-inch bands, rather unusual in a woman's wedding ring. When they had a quarrel, she took off her ring, and never put it back on. When they broke up, he gave her his. Years later, she brought the rings out and we put them on together.
"Not long after, we were at the Fall Festival and saw plain half-inch silver rings that matched ours perfectly, so we bought a pair of them for our right hands.
"And this one in the middle? One of our kids made this for my wife in art class, as a lost-wax project. See how it says 'MOM'?
"When my wife's arthritis reached the point where she couldn't wear her rings on her fingers any longer, she wore them for years on this cord around her neck. At some point, she just put it away.
"A couple of months ago, she walked up to me and snapped, 'Take off those rings and hand them over!' Horrified, whimpering, I began taking them off. It barely even occurred to me at the time that neither law nor custom obliged me to give them to her. I just did it, while she barked, 'Hurry it up, quit your whining!'
"If she'd just come to me some other way, if she'd said something like, 'If we're going to break up, you shouldn't still be wearing those rings,' quite possibly I'd have given them to her and said nothing more about it. I still don't really know why she chose such an in-your-face approach.
"Only days later did I finally go to her and say that her behavior had offended me, and that I thought she should have handled it with more sensitivity, to say the least. I pointed out that she had repeatedly accused me of showing disrespect to her, and suggested that she might try showing a little respect to me, especially in the context of our marriage and its possible continuation.
"An hour later, she tossed the cord, with all five rings on it, on the table in front of me and walked away without speaking.
"So I took the cord and put it around my own neck, and I've been wearing it ever since. Note that I haven't put the rings back on my fingers, out of respect for her feelings, but I'm carrying them next to my skin, out of respect for my own.
"What will become of the rings next? Well, if my wife and I do in fact break up, I'll give them to her, and if we definitively get back together, I'll put on a pair of the rings -- I don't now know which were hers and which were mine, but I'll put on the ones that fit me best -- and give her the others on the cord to wear or put away as she pleases.
"Either way, I'll put the cord in her hand, because wedding rings are important and should always be handled respectfully.
"Of course, so should marriages...."
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Just a thought.
[One day these links won't work, so I'll add explanatory footnotes:
* The downfall of Elliot Spitzer.
** Scientific findings indicating that people are more satisfied by something if they think it's expensive -- including not only wine and food, but medications as well.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Yes, I understand that right-wing politicians are always chasing phantom enemies because it makes them feel important and powerful.
I just wish he would stick to the wholly imaginary, and not stick targets on real live people.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
This evening, we tried meditating together -- something she hadn't done in years, something I had never done seriously, something we had talked about doing together lately.
Later still, I read a e-mail she sent me and replied in an egregiously insulting fashion -- seemingly just because the opportunity presented itself.
Why the Hell did I do that?
Saturday, March 8, 2008
I'll start for myself:
Tiger My early self would be played by a child of about twelve (around the time my wife and I were married, one of our friends described me as "mentally about twelve years old", and I don't know that I would dispute the description), who would lose his virginity, lose his girlfriend, go to college, flunk out, join the Navy, be bounced out on a COG discharge, date some more women, go back to college, meet and marry an older woman, and still be about twelve.
The Doctor At first, the Doctor only appears when Tiger sits down at a computer keyboard, a slick-haired stereotypical "ladies' man" of the 1930s in a white lab coat, with a satchel full of menacing-looking semi-medical devices which are actually instruments of pain and pleasure. Once in awhile he will appear for just a moment while Tiger is talking with one of his lovers, or while he is watching television or reading and something sets off his fetishes (spanking, male dominance, humiliation). Eventually, the Doctor takes over Tiger's sex life, with the grinning mischievous child only appearing in the aftermath of orgasm.
Dad Played by the same actor who appears as Tiger's father in early scenes only with a beard, Dad is a hard-workin' man who feeds his children and supports his wife. Unfortunately, he spends a lot of his time asleep, and in several scenes Tiger is shown trying to prod snoring Dad awake at a critical moment. Tiger and the Doctor both start writing short stories, but it's always Dad who finishes them and sends them off to a publisher, if anyone does.
Mom Played by the same actress who appears as Tiger's mother, only with a beard, Mom is a loving, nurturing soul who plays with her children and teaches them, and is constantly spouting political opinions, often rather odd ones.
There, I think that covers my major facets fairly well. So, how about you?
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Right now, I think I'm going to be reconciled with my wife. And I'm in a state of mind that has been all too familiar over the course of my life: Just Barely Hanging On.
One thing that is different: I'm noticing that my wife is also just barely hanging on, and that in the past she has been a lot closer to the edge (physically and emotionally) than I have ever been.
I knew that because of how I would have answered a quiz like this one:
When I hear "Singin' in the Rain", I think of
A. Gene Kelly in Singin' in the Rain.
B. Gene Kelly on The Muppet Show.
C. Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange.
When I hear "Over the Rainbow", I think of
A. Judy Garland singing it in The Wizard of Oz.
B. A wistful gay man listening to it on his stereo.
C. Judy Garland's suicide.
And like that.
Soul Flower Mononoke Summit doing a rendition of The Internationale that could make J. Edgar Hoover smile.
*Yes, I am acutely depressed lately -- taking antidepressants to keep suicidal thoughts at bay.**
** Why yes, as it happens, much of what has gone wrong for me lately is indeed my own fault. Thanks for reminding me, or I might have forgotten that.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
It seems that Beethoven loved a woman he could not marry. The musician said it was a married woman -- turns out not to be so, but in any event, circumstances prevented them from marrying, and so he dedicated his next composition to her, transmuting his frustration and longing into something beautiful.
Call me dense, but I swear that it never occurred to me until that moment that other people had been where I was, and survived it.