Two weeks ago Chuck came into my life (yes, I have settled on Chuck for now). Maybe it was three weeks. We met on a moderately popular—but not the most popular—dating site. I am not quite sure how we came to talking, maybe we mutually liked each other in some sort of “fast match” search, or maybe I messaged him some late night when I was bored and sad enough to message people that I was only mildly interested in. You see, that’s just the thing, I wasn’t that interested in him. I found him to look a certain way in which I couldn’t quite determine whether or not I found him attractive. Some of his pictures seemed awful really, but his main picture (and yes I do realize that every one’s main picture on these sites is their best picture) seemed to pull me in. At this point I attribute that entirely to the lighting in the photo. I’m a sucker for great natural lighting. The biggest thing that turned me off about this Chuck character (or so I believed at the time) was that he claimed to be an aspiring artist of sorts. Whenever I sift through these sites I almost always skip anyone with such claims on their personal profile. I don’t even know why to be honest. I myself, at one point, had such a drive, had such a desire to paint, and write music, and even experiment with drugs (as is a popular hobby of many of these “artist” types). Furthermore, Chuck was also several years younger than me. He just barely made the cut off for existing at an age at which I would even consider spending time with him. Granted, he wasn’t that much younger than me, but, I had been in the mood to date only suitors who were older than I. Despite all of this confusion on my behalf regarding my interest in Chuck, we went out on, should I say? A date. Maybe it was the romantic air of the snow storm we walked through, the nostalgia I felt for a past version of myself while playing pool in a seedy bar, or maybe it was the five or six pints of Guinness I had drank, but I found myself kissing Chuck outside my apartment while feeling like I was fourteen and existing entirely in the lyrics of a Dashboard Confessional song. That was date one with Chuck.
SIDE BAR. At this point I should probably mention that North Dakota and Chuck are not the only suitors in this story. In fact there are at this time, at least two more. I am anxiously waiting for a response from one of these. The other will warrant a description at a later time for what could only be comedic relief involving a terrible date to a terrible, terrible movie. There are also 4 or 5 more individuals with whom I have first dates planned for the near future. Details to come.
Now. Back to Chuck. Confused about my own desires regarding this younger, more artistic than I would like fellow, I decided to go for it and ask him out again. Now, despite being uncertain of what I even wanted in this situation, I was very nervous and school girlish about the entire ordeal. I was delighted when we made plans—this time to spend the evening at his place watching what I had previously determined to be a potentially racist science fiction film. Now, these plans were to take place on a Saturday evening, and on that previous Friday I had another date (from an alternative, more casual, yet trendy dating site) with a fellow whom I have decided to call Alan. Alan Doyle. Days before either of these dates I was so excited to see Chuck again (lord knows why at this point) that I could hardly think about Alan. In fact, I actually considered blowing off the whole thing to sit home and anxiously await date two with Chuck. Nevertheless, I headed out in what I can only imagine was an intently sexy, yet girl next door outfit, to have drinks with Alan. And so we did, have drinks, and laughs, and listen to music which at the time I felt we sincerely bonded over. I even forgot about Chuck for a few hours and realized once again, that I have but many suitors to choose from. I thought the night went well. I am still waiting to hear from Alan.
Well, finally the night came and awkward as it was at first, and again with the aid of a few (or 8) glasses of stout, Chuck and I ended up making out in various areas of his apartment (I distinctly remember the slamming of cupboard doors?). We eventually made it to his bedroom and concluded that I was spending the night. Now all of this is fine and lovely other than that by this point I was finding this again, younger, more artistic, slightly awkward man to be incredibly sexy. I mean, sexy in a way that made me want him as I can hardly remember ever wanting anyone (although I do realize that this certainly could not be the case in actuality). Completely infatuated with Chuck (and still utterly surprised by this development) I returned home the next morning and promptly masturbated. I truly don’t know how this all occurred, I mean, I am demi sexual after all. Right? Who knows at this point. Again, the entire purpose of this story is for me to explain to you, and to myself, exactly who the fuck I am, and what the fuck I am doing with my life—my love life that is.
Well despite being disappointed in some vague way over the lack of response from Alan, I forged on. One again, I asked Chuck to spend an evening with me. This time, I felt I had a relatively believable excuse as to why I was asking him out so close to when we last saw each other—I was leaving soon to go to North Dakota. Whether or not Chuck knew why I was going to North Dakota, or whether or not he had any idea at all as to the fact that I was going there to spend time with yet another suitor, who I’m quite sure might, in fact, be in love with me—whether or not Chuck knew that this trip could potentially be described in the future as an international booty call, I did not know. All I knew is that Chuck agreed, very casually I might add, we could see each other again before I departed.
All sounds lovely and exciting doesn’t it? Not so much. At this point I would like to explain that while reading many of the hundreds of “match” questions Chuck had filled out on our dating site, I had noticed that he seemed the monogamous type, seemed the type to be deterred by dating more than one person at a time, or by women doing such a thing. So here I was, incredibly excited to spend yet another night, girlishly fawning over this man who was entirely not my type, and I was 100% concerned that he would find me intolerable due to my sluttish ways. The most unfortunate aspect of this scenario is that I in fact am not even that slutty. At every other single stage of my life, mine and Chuck’s philosophies about dating would have meshed perfectly. In fact, I had recently ended a three year monogamous relationship, which itself had followed two, or three, other long term monogamous relationships (intermittent with very brief periods of rebound sex, heavy drinking, and dating men that I wasn’t even sure I was interested in). This time however, I do not believe this is passing phase but rather the new version of myself that I have come to respect, and it is very important to me that I give this “peace and love” bit a solid go, and that I don’t immediately settle on seeing one particular person. Indeed, I want something for myself, in my life that may very well come into conflict with my future endeavours with this Chuck character, or rather his future endeavours with me.
You might get the impression that I’m one of those completely touchy feely, mystical magical, believe in the zodiac and psychics, herbalist, massage therapist, spiritualist type of girls, sometimes, if you listen to me talk (and I *do* talk a lot). But I’m not, really. I’ll admit I’m a dabbler,...
If you don’t know what the Vagina Monologues are, you should definitely, in my too often less than humble opinion, find out. Google it. Meet the author, Eve Ensler, and her orginal one-fucking-kickass-woman show brought to you by the whole female human race. Buy the dvd, buy the book, find your nearest local production at a college (in Febraury, for Valentine’s Day) and go see the show. Donate. Bring your tissues and your laughter and your courage and your conscience. It’s all about stopping violence against women and it’s one incredible ongoing piece of non-violent activism.
But to be a little less obtuse, the Vagina Monologues is a production piece, originally written and performed by one woman, Eve Ensler. She is a journalist, (a *writer* ~ *people*), who started interviewing women about their vaginas. Like me, she recognized how common place, how powerful, how undeniable the fact is that language about men’s bodies is an everyday part of all of our vernaculars. Like me, I imagine that she likes that power. I believe Eve recognizes that when we use these words, “cocksucker” and these phrases, “he’s got balls” our utterances are like incantations, calling forth the sensuous metaphoric power of men’s bodies through words. So there’s nothing wrong with this talk – or with the power that goes with it.
The problem lies, in the differential – the power differential. The real-life power differential, created when we fail to also bring the language of women’s bodies into our vernacular. Eve saw, I believe, with amazing wisdom and insight, the connection between failing to talk about women’s bodies and the unspoken assumed right to commit violence against them.
So she took the stories women told her about their bodies when she was interviewing them to ask specifically about their vaginas, and she wove them into a collective of real true stories. And the effect is captivating. Then she performed it and became an activist, donating proceeds to stop violence and creating a foundation. Then, and here’s the really amazing part, she began giving her gorgeous creation away. Each year, she invites women at colleges around the world to perform the piece as a bit of reader’s theatre, with local women doing the stories and donating the money to local women’s charities. It’s cool as hell.
The second year, I did a piece called THE VAGINA WORKSHOP which is very dear to me and will always be, in my mind, the centerpiece of the whole show. It’s got some humor and some serious moments, I did my best to play them both and ended up in real genuine tears (and snot) by the time I finished the piece at all three performances. Here’s what it taught me: as impossible as it would be to lose your clitoris, it’s that impossible to lose your identity, your soul, it’s all there, baby. All inside you.
The third year, I did the final piece in the show before the finale spotlight a monologue, about childbirth, called I WAS THERE IN THE ROOM. It is an almost too-easy complete show-stopper, tear jerker, but I got to say “blood and puss and shit”, too. So it was pretty damn keen. I had the chance to see the audience laugh and cry *with* me that year. And let me tell you, the experience made me…high as a kite.
So there’s a million obvious reasons to advocate and share my experiences about this show. Its successful good intentions are well-documented and clear to all. But that’s not all I wanted to write about here. I want to explain a more subtle, but I think, even more powerful, effect of this show….
