Being Ashley

A true account of my life experiences in love, sex, affairs and everything else that comes with it

Objects in the Mirror...

Today I dressed in the exact same outfit I wore when you first kissed me. I was not aware I did this, I made no conscious decision, but as I sat down and tugged up the zipper on the back of my boot I looked up into the mirror and recognized what I had done. Then I remembered.

Your hands in my hair, on my breasts, your lips and your breath on my neck. I remembered the sensation, the smell, the taste of it all. Standing in front of my mirror.

I sat down. I looked at my phone. With a sigh I buried it deep in my purse.

I tugged down the zippers on my boots and put on shoes instead.

Then I walked out without looking back again.

Will You Wear a Collar Kitten?

“You are mine to use, and only me.”

“Is that what you want?” I ask him.

“I do.”

This one has never been long on words. I am not sure what keeps drawing me back here. Case number one in the great experiment. Foot guy.

“What do I want?” I ask, partly hoping that perhaps he has figured this out for me...

“To be treated like a cherished pet. Will you wear a collar kitten?”

Will I wear a collar? Will I give over to this man so determined to own me? Will he keep me safe? What is it about him that makes my synapses light up and crash against eachother in my head in a terrifying way?

“I won’t treat you badly, I know what you want and I will do my best.”

Is that the most I can ask for I wonder? Perhaps it is at least honest. He has never been anything but straightforward in expressing his want. What more can I ask? I know something will happen though, as it always does, and then he will turn sharp, it will all be my fault.

Will I wear that collar?

The Moments We Break

There are moments that we seem to accept collectively as milestones in western society. We remember what we were doing when they happened, we have had these conversations, “where were you, what were you doing when...”

In each of our lives we also have versions of these moments. Each of us will experience and be shaped by our own personal tragedy. We will remember where we were, what we were doing, the mundanity of the life experience overlaid by sudden tragedy.

For me it is the picture of a cat on the hospital wall I was looking at when at 15 years old my best friend’s brother told me about the cancer that had invaded her perfect dancers body, that would change us all forever. It is the tv program I was watching when eight years later that same brother called me to tell me it was time to come say goodbye. It’s the shape of the dart that was in my hand five years after that when my mother called to tell me my father would also fall victim to that same curse.

In every family we develop our roles. My role was the caretaker, and when the time came, it was the one who makes the hard decisions, who watches and bears witness to our worst moments. By 18 years old I was the one expected to be there when the family pets were put down, as an adult my sister called me to come put her own family dog down. I was the one meeting her at the airport to tell her our father had died while she was in the air, I was the one with him when he said goodbye. I became some sort of shepard to the other side, unwittingly, because someone had to. I often imagine that every family must have a version of me. The one who directs the doctors to give as much pain meds as legal, and possibly more, tells the vets to push the needle in. The one who gives the eulogies.

When my partner called to tell me what the doctor said I was driving my car. I remember the feel of the steering wheel, the song playing on my iphone, the dull grey of the late fall sky. I remember thinking about how to sound normal, how to downplay, asking what I could make for dinner and do to make his night better. I remember thinking this is my job, if he’s not ok, my job is to make it as ok as possible. Did I believe in an interventionist God I would think that this is what I was here to do.

I don’t believe in any God. I do believe in humanity. That will have to be enough this time.

And Then There Were None

“It was lovely to see you again.”

I move to the door quickly with my eyes averted, I murmur agreement as I bolt for my car. Inside my car I take three deep breaths and say to myself, never again. Then I grimace at my own delusion. I know what foot guy brings, total chaos. I cannot go down this road again. It is raining lightly as I start my car, hook up my Bluetooth, and call the Professor (P).

I told P I would call him at this time to walk through a difficult conversation he has to have later. He asks about my dinner last night, he jokes that he can’t even recall what I was doing as there are so many men. I feel slutty again, I wonder if men ever feel slutty. I don’t tell him about foot guy. It’s been almost a month since he decided we wouldn’t have a physical relationship, and thereby joined my angsty man stable by default.

I am distracted... “I love your feet... and your lips...” Foot guy always starts strong. He is enthusiastic in his pursuit but it never takes long for it to develop an edge that will give rise to my anxiety. I know this is my low point, if I let go of foot guy I will now be back to the start.

Maybe it’s time. Open the barn doors...

The Therapist is Out

Oh god he's crying. Shit. No. How do I make this stop? Normally with this one I use my tongue to stop him from talking. Now I can't use my tongue. Why does this keep happening to me? I immediately feel guilty.

Marketing guy, my main FWB I have been building a satisfying relationship with for several months, is telling me that his wife is sick again. This is why he has been withdrawn, this is why he is racked with guilt. He does not want to loose me. He has become attached. He wants us to keep talking while he works this out.

I am frozen. I stop hearing him as he circles around it several times. My emotions vascilate between pain, empathy, and irritation that I am here again. In this moment I find what's left of my strength, and I say no. I can't be here for you. This is not what this relationship was supposed to be. My dance card is already full of men who are troubled and want me to listen to them and offer them sage advice and consolation, with just a hint of sex to stroke their egos. I need someone who is going to take care of me this time.

This was my chance. This time I was going to find something different. Someone who did not expect or want me to do all the heavy lifting. It started so strong. I know this is not me, this is life. I am lucky that my partner lets me have this, not everyone gets that, he knows he can't be what I need. The irony is that all I have now are different versions of my relationship that will never meet my needs either.

I push away from his embrace. I tell him it's time for me to go. I won't let him see me cry too, what would be the point, it's really not even about him.

I drive a short while and I stop. I see his text. I highlight his contact and press delete. I will get better at this I tell myself.

Sorry. Chicken emergency!

It's 6:30am and from the edge of sleep I hear the gentle ding of my phone. I roll over and glance at the message, “sorry, have to cancel today. Chicken emergency!” I sigh, put down the phone and think, no more farmers.

I thought once I had permission finding someone to fuck me would be pretty easy, I had a fair amount of previous offers and didn't think my own rules and preferences would be too difficult... yet it seems none the less, it has proven to be no easy task.

It is on this note I find myself sitting in a classy lounge sharing cocktails and crepes with my former lover D, looking for advice and solace. In my normal classy way.

“WHY IS NO ONE FUCKING ME?”

My words hang in the air like an actual cartoon thought bubble as the other lounge customers shuffle about pretending not to hear me. Unsurprisingly D continues to eat his crepes unfazed though slightly amused. We are reviewing the candidates list. It's getting longer and more complicated. It takes several minutes to explain the problem with each one. We go through it twice.

D: “What's wrong with main guy?” Me: “He is too anxious. He makes me anxious. “ D: “Hmm yes you need calming, and toilet guy?” Me: “Really assertive. Difficult wife. Foot guy?” D: “No. Stop that. Bad one. What's wrong with professor?” Me: “He won't fuck me. Just likes to talk to me.” D: “You talk men out of having sex with you.” Me: “I make bad decisions.” D: “Ya. Which is weird because you have so much insight...” Me: “I guess I can have more than one as most of them want to watch anyway... maybe I would have more luck bundling them?” D: “Yuck. Let's find another woman I can fuck you with!”

And so goes the evening. Later as I lie in bed reviewing my list he texts me various names he would like to fuck me with.

Me: “Why can't you just fuck me? Maybe in front of a mirror so there are two of me?” D: “That would work, two redheads!” Me: “Can you just tell me it's not my fault and I'm highly fuckable “ D: “Its all your fault and you are very fuckable.” Me: “SIGH”. D: “I'm going to fantasize about doing you doggy now and maybe a little anal! Goodnight!

I pick up my phone and look for foot guy. Just once...

What I Need

His answer is wonderfully succinct. The simplicity of it takes my breath away. I have asked him what it is he wants, why he is texting me again.

You. He responds. All of you. The whole shabang. Conversation, ass, sweet pussy. All.

Text can sometimes be a beautiful thing. I want to hold this text forever, like a trophy. Like a balm for my agitated soul. I read it 10 times before I sigh and press delete. I eat some chocolate and go back to work.

When my partner and I first discussed giving me the option of an open marriage we both knew it was only partly about the sex. That it was just as much about the words that come with it that I missed in a way that I couldn't recover. His lack of sexual need coupled with an inability to express what exists in a meaningful way through words and touch was what was crippling me. I know that this gift is his own way of trying to shape to my need, as he has watched me do for him for so long.

That I continue to find men that don't meet this need is not terribly surprising. It was not like this one decision was going to change a lifetime of me collecting broken, lonely, and uncommunicative men like stray puppies. Clearly there is also some sort of need in me for this. In fact, I think my biggest lesson has been not to assume my own needs won't run counter to each other. It is unlikely we can ever get all our needs met in one place. It's a great fallacy of our time. Ultimately I know that part of the error is looking to others to meet our needs at all.

The man I did pick to help meet my needs does so much very well. I have actually said he is efficient in getting me off, which I appreciate, I'm a busy girl... but when I read that text I know why it is I can't seem to settle in this place. I know there is a language missing, that I don't just want, I desperately need, and that without it I will keep searching in places I should not be.

I pick up the phone again. I find his number. My texts are simple now too.

When?

What You Need

I can be what you need. It's the story of my life really. I have become so skilled in anticipating needs, and how to meet them, that I think they are my own. I am not even sure how I would know what I need. There are moments when I catch myself mid action and I have the thought, to what end? Why are you doing this thing? Who does it make happy?

The most fascinating detail is that almost never is the answer me. I will be what you need without a second thought, it's not your fault really, you did not even ask, you didn't even know that I was subtly realigning myself to the shape of your need. It's simply what I do. Tomorrow I will shift slightly to accommodate another's need of me.

And so. What happems when our needs are not the same? I will move over. I will accommodate your need. I will assume my need is wrong and should be shoved deep down to the parts of me that stay hidden. I will break in weird places to realign to you. I will be what you need.

how could I possibly be anything else?

Domination and Weakness

A few men break some of the rules, some break all of them. Depending where I am weak I see that I am alternately drawn back to these rule breakers, and particularly the ones who approach me with such certainty that it becomes too easy to relinquish, to hand over to them. To relax in their usually brooding confidence. Finally, I won't have to decide, or resolve, or make better. It is a position that I find equally soothing and terrifying.

These men are also sometimes in my angsty man stable (see previous post) but I have put them there. It appears I also don't release them. Often they poke me, nuzzle questioningly, But sometimes, when I'm really low, I poke them. I have pondered why I do this, I have tried deleting them and closing off to them when I'm in a good place, but there are days where everything feels not right. On those days, I want those men, the ones that will tell me how to make it right.

I know what I want when this happens. He also knows what I want. I want him to pull my hair and tell me he has missed my throaty voice and my sexy ass, I want him to tell me what he will do to me. I want that. I want to be drunk on his wanting and steadfastness. I am in awe of his certitude.

It seems the lower I am, the more I want that. The harder it is to follow my own rules. What is it I wonder that makes me want this thing? I know what will happen. It is the same every time. I will awake from this stupor when I have rebalanced or he has pushed a boundary I am not ready to let go, and I will have to coax him back down, back to the stable.

But. In this moment. There is his voice. And I don't have to hear my own. And I feel the bliss of letting go a little.

The Rules

When I joined Ashley Madison I think my friends thought I had lost my mind. In fact, I wondered myself. All I really knew was I was in a relationship I was not yet ready to leave but living in a sexual desert. I needed touch, and words. And to be seen.

There are so many men. At first it's exhilarating, then, Overwhelming, you learn quickly that the female to male ratio puts you firmly in control. Also you learn how much men really want you to look at their cock, seriously. I think it's evolutionary. Look! I have this thing! I can make babies! Come here!

I approached my experience like a mini science experiment. I created rules for physical and psychological safety. I got really good at editing out the rule breakers. I learned early not to wait too long to meet. There is nothing more depressing then when good chat dies after you show up at Starbucks. I got discouraged. There were so many we created nick names and algorithms. Unfortunately we lacked some creativity which led to things like foot guy (I bet you can guess) and car guy (that's where the cops make a brief appearance) and eventually names like chef 2.0 (vast improvement on first), marketing guy (also 1 and 2) and The professor. There was also toilet guy (not what you think), and farmer 1 and farmer 2 (I have learned farming is lonely). And probably a few I have forgotten.

Ultimately marketing guy 2 won the quest for my pussy but not without some casualties. I have learned many things during this experience but probably the key finding is that there is no algorithm for attraction. And ultimately it's very hard to not break rules that exist largely due to your own weaknesses.