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Time:09:01 am
By way of an introduction:
I have started to sleep around. I sleep with men I am not dating. I sleep with men and refuse to date them, actually. I come to their houses, fuck them, say thank you for a nice time, and don't let the door hit me on the ass on the way out.

You might think this is a pretty good deal, but it is not.

Because I fuck and tell.
Because I'm pissed.

Because when you set the bar so low it scrapes the ground (basic human decency + an orgasm will do, thank you very much), and men still manage to squeeze under it rather than just stumble over it, a woman must wonder what sort of parallel universe of dating jackassery she's entered.

I am in my late 30s. I'm well-educated, employed, and independent. I have a pretty good body and a pretty great life.

I am no longer willing to accept behavior in men I date that I would not accept from anyone else, for any other reason. None of you have magical dicks. None of you. And even if you did have a dick that was magical, I would not tolerate what passes for normal behavior from you. I don't care if it vibrates me into multiple orgasms. I don't care if it makes my calves cramp, or the little hairs on the back of my neck stand at rapt attention. I don't care if it cooks dinner and does the fucking dishes. It's just not worth it.

This is my manifesta.

I have taken down my profile, I am buying a vibrator, and I'm going to start spilling secrets.

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Subject:postcard from Austin, TX
Time:12:25 pm

"Well helo wow, and u are"

I write you from Austin, my new virtual home. Forty messages in, I think it's time to get the lay of the land here in Texas.

As usual, there are a few of the "heyyy" messages, but they are generally short and boring and I delete them as quickly as they come in. OKC should create a filter for any message with an extra "y" in "hey" or any extra "x"s anywhere. Men, those extra letters make you sound like a third rate porn star from the 70s.

A number of men hope to meet up with me, for:
1. loving, relationship-sex (I'm sure you won't believe me but I've never been into one nite stands. I'm more about building a relationship, for me sex gets better with time)

2. really good, slow sex (Well having sex is good but making love takes patience slow don't get in a hurry touch feel the warms between each other. Kiss hold don't let go. Had it but was taken away hurts trying to get it back but .. don't know)

I got one request for deflowerment: Would you be my first? It can be completely casual or whatever you want

"Please do yourself a favor and wait until you find someone you know and care about. Trust me when I say it's so much better" -- Jane

Happily, I only got one nasty message: Need to borrow some money for a trip to the shrink? Can you say wheels off? Maybe your opinion of men is because you are so fucked in the head, you attract fucked up dudes! Freak

And then, the best for last, I got some really nice and thoughtful messages from the sorts of men I wish I could meet as my true self, but sadly, nice me never hears from these guys or, if I do, they turn out not to be as nice as they seem initially. (Actual) nice guys! Write some of those nice messages to real women on OKC! One of them might be me and, trust me, even if she's not me, you might be pleasantly surprised by what women have to offer if you treat them with a little respect!

Angry Jane Doe,

I read, rapt, the entirety of your profile. I am in a bad place emotionally today, and your writing nailed some of the irritation of this site and dating in general. Combine this with my general malaise and it was a perfect storm of disappointment, disillusionment, shame for being a man, enough self-awareness to realize I was probably also guilty of the behavior you discussed at one time or another, or many. I have rarely felt so low. And so alive.

Yet I was also lifted up and pierced in the soul to hear about that feeling before your first time, your heartbeat in your chest, the anticipation. Maybe, just maybe, that's what I need and want in my life. I can't figure out how to express that in a OKC profile. And now I can't without plagiarizing, ha ha.

I am going to continue to read on Tumblr later tonight.

Thank you. I might be a step closer to finding what I'm missing.


I'm going to save your profile and every once in a while reread it to help me stay a decent person. :)

No in-box is complete without a few cut and pastes:

would you like to spend time with an affectionate, smart, interesting guy? I'm an intelligent, fun guy to hang around with and go out with. I'll definitely keep you laughing and smiling. Isn't the weather great. What kind of fun are you having today? I'm Patric btw

Hi, I really love your smile. Very nice. You sound like a positive woman ready to meet a great guy. I'm interested to know more.

I'm afraid this last fellow has confused my tits for my eyes. Common error, I'm afraid. Gentlemen: if you aren't going to read the profile, at least look at all the pictures!

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Subject:"I said yes I said yes I will Yes"
Time:12:10 pm
I went to college in the era of Take Back the Night marches, back when "no means no" was still a new and controversial concept. Back then, I had a hard time saying no and I also had a hard time saying yes. This was particularly uncomfortable because I was an anti-rape activist, but it takes awhile for ideas to settle deeply into the mind and heart. Fortunately for me, I avoided the sorts of places where a woman who was not yet comfortable with her sexuality could fall prey to men who take advantage of sexual ambivalence. I wish I could have said the same thing about many of my female friends, but their experiences helped confirm the fact that there are men who will decide that a slip in vigilance is just wide enough for him to shove his dick in.

Two decades later, it seems we have, once again, discovered rape. It's maddening, really, to hear lectures from politicians and pundits who decide that they need to mansplain what women of my generation already know. Did you know that RAPE?? they say. Rape is happening! You have to protect yourselves!! Of course, as soon as the chattering class discovers rape, we have to hear about how rape hurts men, too. It's enough to make a slut want to lock her front door and finally get around to scrapbooking all those unsolicited dick pics she's collected.

Even this newest precocious baby of a solution, the one where we segue from "no means no" to "yes means yes" has a crotchety old grandmother who's been telling you all along to look both ways before hopping into bed. I told you so, she mutters to herself before returning to her cross stitch of a dick pic from way back when.

I remember all the hand wringing and pointy jokes and anti-feminist backlash Antioch College faced in '91 when they tried to make consent more explicit. Sex will be awkward! Sex won't be sexy! Men will get accused of rape! There is plenty of satire, but the irony seems lost on these people: rape is awkward; rape is not sexy; rape is the opposite of all that, particularly for the victim. That's the thing about being a victim. No matter what men's rights jackasses say, being a victim is not empowering. Being a victim means someone did something to you against your will. No one chooses to be a victim. The only one who makes the choice is the one who chooses to victimize another.

We also get to hear, again, a variation on this old theme: most boys and men do not rape; it's only a small handful of perverts lurking in the bushes or in the corners of a frat party that are ruining things for the rest of us nice guys. That argument does not do much to explain the Glen Ridge case or, decades later, the Steubenville case, or my own post-college experience with a nice guy who was just "confused." Indeed, the whole nice guy deserves the girl through his adorable persistence argument Arthur Chu made recently underscores the fact that thinking you are a "nice guy" can make you even more dangerous than that creepster I grew up thinking lurked behind every bush. I never once met that creepster, but I sure have met a lot of "nice guys" who felt entitled to my attentions and I have a large collection of nasty messages from those "nice guys" who show their true colors when I turn them down.

I remember learning that one of the best ways to get a nice guy to stop raping you is to say, "stop, you're raping me." That or pee on him, but who wants to pee on a "nice guy" who is just a little "confused" about what you meant when you pulled away and asked him to stop, particularly when this guy is part of your social circle? I'll save my pee for that stranger lurking in the bushes, thank you. All this attention to consent is really for those "nice guys," the ones who want to get their dick sucked by hook or by crook and still be a nice guy. We just have to get those guys to understand that consent is not an obstacle or an awkward inconvenience.

Allow a slut to weigh in on this matter: Consent is hot, and that's not just a marketing scheme. I've slept with enough men to know that it's the only kind of sex I want to have. I get the sense my trysts appreciate consent too because who doesn't want to hear that they are hot and make me hot and I want to press my body as deeply around them as I possibly can? Who doesn't want to hear, Yes I said yes I will Yes?

I'm not sure a law is the best way to tackle rape culture, but at least it's a start. The language is unsexy -- as laws tend to be -- but enacting the spirit of those words can be the best part of fucking. If you can't figure out how to make consent hot, then you really have no business handling my best china and I have no interest in going up to see your etchings. Even an increasingly crotchety slut must have standards, after all.

Look: James Joyce figured it out. You can too: I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. Go Molly!

Yes is not something you get to. It is not something you take. It is a gift. If we could all receive it with a little more grace, I think the world would be a better place for sluts and nice girls and even nice (if confused) guys.
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Subject:not-kissing -> kissing.
Time:07:35 pm
You know what I think about a lot? I think about how people go from not-kissing to kissing.

At any given moment, somewhere in the world, there are people who are not-kissing and then, following some imperceptible communication, some shifting of perception, they are kissing. It's amazing. Not-kissing; kissing. Apart; together. The rest comes pretty easily, I find, once you've gone from not-kissing to kissing.

Awhile back, I found myself mired in that space between not-kissing and kissing. I went out more than a few times with a nice, interesting, good-looking man, but no matter where we ended the evening: in my car, on the subway, on the sidewalk, at a doorstep, in a garden -- no matter where, we slipped from not-kissing to not-kissing and I took my unsmooched lips home for another night alone.

So yes, I started thinking about that transition, and I tried to remember times in the past when I went from not-kissing to kissing.

There was the first man I kissed, sitting together on the sidewalk of a small village in Europe where I was spending a year. We were drunk, and we were joking around the way you do when you know you need an excuse to go from not-kissing to kissing. And then we were kissing and our teeth clicked and he said, "easy there" and I made a mental note: don't bare your teeth when you kiss. I was sixteen. Yes, I was sweet sixteen and never been kissed.

There was the woman I briefly dated in college. We had walked around our college town for what seemed like hours, talking about this and that and kind of circling each other, not sure what to do next. Until she asked, "so, do you take off your glasses when you kiss?" and I laughed and said, "good line," and then we were kissing.

There was the man who sat in my living room, afraid to kiss me because he might like me too much. Then we were kissing, and he did like me too much, and that led to a world of trouble.

There was my college sweetheart and we were sitting together in his idling car and he had professed to being madly obsessed with me, which I had failed to notice in my own mad obsession with his self-absorbed friend. Then it was all very clear that this beautiful man was the one I should have seen all along, and so I stroked the back of his neck and our first kisses felt like butterflies.

There was the man I dated for many years, and we were also in his car, and he kissed me but refused to come in. He liked me enough that there was no need to rush.

There was the man who was my kryptonite, holding his face over mine, breathing gently into my own breath in that suspended moment between not-kissing and kissing.

There was the woman I dated while in graduate school, watching me with a bemused expression after we both got out of her car at my apartment. I fiddled with my keys and said, "I guess this is the part where I look sweet and hope you'll kiss me," and then we were kissing.

How do we manage it, really? How do we move around in the world, self-contained and unique and then there's someone and you both exude this pheromone or this sparkle of what-if? and then you feel the gentle pull of tunnel vision and then there's kissing.

When I think about the lengths people go to find someone to love, the elaborate tricks we're supposed to play, the manufactured emotions, the repressed feelings, the games and subterfuge, the booming industry of people who will tell us how to do it, I remember that moment between not-kissing and kissing. Surely all that advice, the desperate belief that if we do it right, it'll work, all those rules -- surely they are not how we get from not-kissing to kissing. Surely they only sully a moment that should be as fantastical as they were for me, on that sidewalk, in my living room, in a car, wherever, because those sorts of details only fade away when you go from not-kissing to kissing.
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Time:10:32 am
In the summer after I graduated college, I was date raped.  I had moved to a new city where I knew no one, but within a week, I had secured invitations to various parties.  At one of those parties, I met a man and, later that night, I found myself upstairs in his house, on my back, on his bed.

I felt something cold and smooth and solid on my skin.  When he shoved it into my vagina, I realized it was ice.  "Wait!" I said.  "Wait."  I pushed back and up to escape the painful cold, and felt something sticky dribbling between the lips of my vagina.  He started to lick me. "Wait" I said again.  I felt cold, sticky panic wash over me.  I touched my hands to my face.  Honey.  I pulled myself up and away from him and went into the bathroom.  "Do you want to take a shower?" he asked.  "Yes," I say.  I go into the shower.  The walls of the bathroom were white.  There was a mirror over the sink.  The shower had small almost-round tiles.  There was a red light above the shower stall.  I felt the water on my skin and then he was there, in the shower with me, and then he was fucking me and I was leaning against the wall, stunned.  "Wait. Wait," I whisper.  "Wait."

Out of the shower, wrapped in a towel, my legs shaky, I lean down onto the bed and he pulls back the bedsheets.  "I didn't want to fuck you," I say, as surprised as he appears to hear those words come out of my mouth.  "You."  "Raped." "Me."  I say, discovering each word as I utter it.

"No, I didn't," he says.  "You said yes before."

It's true: I had gone up to his bedroom, and I had kissed him and let him take off my clothing.  And I had waited in his bed when he went downstairs to get what I thought was a beer.

I drop the issue.  It doesn't matter.

I can't go home, I realize.  It's late, and I don't know the city, and he lives in a bad neighborhood.  I have no money for a cab, and I don't know where to find a cab, anyway.  I don't want to make a scene.

So I lie down in his bed, feeling my damp hair slowly spread in a wet crown around my head.  Soon, he's breathing evenly and I lie there, looking up at the ceiling, mottled with shadows.  A few hours later, the shadows turn more pink and I get up slowly and quietly and let myself out of the house to find my way home.

The question I've asked myself in the ensuing years is not why did he rape me? but rather why did I let him rape me? I was a badass anti-rape activist in college.  There were men who were afraid to speak to me, presumably because they were afraid of my magical powers.  Where were my magical powers that night?  Why didn't I say "stop, you're raping me," as I had instructed other women to do?  Why didn't I punch him in the gut?  Why did I, instead, give up?  Why did I say "wait" instead of "stop"?  Why did I leave myself there, undefended, stunned?

I'm not sure where I learned to be a victim and, until then, I hadn't realized how well I'd learned that lesson.

Last evening, I watched Nine and a Half Weeks for the first time since college, and I discovered where he learned his lessons.  There, on the screen, Micky Rourke's character, John, seduces the protagonist, Elizabeth, with ice.  He blindfolds her, despite her protestations, and teases her flesh with an ice cube -- across the landscape of her profile, over her hard nipples, melting into the tight slit of her belly button.  John takes the ice cube in his mouth, sucks on it, and then leans towards her body, and when I saw that scene, I felt the ice cube slipping into my vagina, uninvited and achingly cold.

In an ensuing scene, John instructs Elizabeth to close her eyes while he feeds her food.  At the end of the scene, he dribbles honey onto her tongue and then across her thighs.

Later, he's fucking her in an alleyway, under a shower of water.

The blueprint of my rape, right there.  In a movie classified as an "erotic drama."  And it worked for Micky Rourke, so why not for this man with me?

My rape was scripted.  I can rent it.  It's an erotic drama.

Later in the movie, John actually does rape Elizabeth -- if you consider grabbing a woman who is trying to leave your apartment and throwing her down on your table, ripping off her underwear and fucking her as she fights you "rape."

I do.

Like me, she stays with him, waking up in his bed.  Unlike me, she stays.

I leave.  I walk home that cold gray morning in a city I do not yet know, alone and weak.  I crawl into my bed and wrap myself in blankets.  I try to sleep, but I am lost and I know it.  I trust no one because I have betrayed myself.  I am not safe.

For a long time, I am afraid.
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Subject:The Talking Vegan Doll
Time:07:18 pm
That's what I pictured every time he announced his vegan principles. I imagined a doll with a string in its back. Anytime the opportunity came up, it was like someone had pulled the string and, over and over, in the exact same way, he made his statement:

"I'm a vegan. I believe that human beings do not have the right to let non-human animals suffer so that humans can lead more comfortable lives or eat meat or use any animal products."

If anyone tried to offer a different ethics of food, or human-animal relationships, or whatever, he would reply that they were wrong and he was right. If necessary, he re-pulled the string in his back so that he could repeat his Statement of Principle.

And he walked the walk. I respected that. He ate nothing produced by an animal, even honey. He wore nothing made from animals, even silk. He supported vegan restaurants and listened to vegan podcasts. And he repeated that mantra over and over and over and over.

He lived in a world of moral purity, which sure is a tempting place to stay since, in that world, you never have to experience the anxiety of cognitive dissonance.

Until one night, I was driving him back to his place. In the fading light of evening, we both saw the small cat thrashing on the side of the road in the same instant. I stopped the car and got out.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm going to bring this cat to the animal ER to be euthanized."

He slowly trailed me as I made my way over to the animal. Behind my back, I heard him say, "can you drop me off at home, first?"

The ER was in one direction. His house was in the other direction. Driving him home would mean that the fatally injured cat would have to suffer in my car for an additional twenty minutes

I didn't have to reply to this request, however, because as I approached the cat, she stopped breathing and lay still.

I know my instincts are not the normal ones in cases like these. Many people (including the owner of the car that hit her) drove by this injured cat. I, by contrast, have brought many dying animals to the ER to be euthanized because I believe that there can be a good death and a bad death and that animals deserve good deaths.

In the world of my dreams, where my fantastical images are actually real, I would pull that string in his back as we walked back to the car.

He would say, "I'm a vegan. I believe that human beings do not have the right to let non-human animals suffer so that humans can lead more comfortable lives or eat meat or use any animal products."

And if I had it all to do again, I would have driven away, leaving him sharing the shoulder of the road with the newly dead, still warm animal he was willing to let suffer so he could go home, where he could cook himself a vegan dinner and listen to a vegan podcast and enjoy the frisson of knowing you're better than everyone else.
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Subject:one man's reaction
Time:03:40 pm
[6:40:00 pm] random guy: how are you this evening

[6:40:16 pm] random guy: do you feel like talking to me

[6:40:55 pm] random guy: was reading your profile and then the phone rang

[6:41:52 pm] random guy: if you ever find or fuck someone you are in love with it is much better

[6:42:24 pm] random guy: i guess i mean makeing love is better than fucking

[6:42:37 pm] random guy: much much better

[6:43:09 pm] random guy: never give up on anything

[6:43:38 pm] random guy: i have before but then changed my mind

[6:47:25 pm] random guy: i have always wanted to haveme a wife to love but for some reason i dont know why , i guess i will just not marry anybody unless i am absolutely posative that it will be forever and thatds not very long for most people these days

[6:48:50 pm] random guy: so dont feel alone and dont do things to yourself out of anger

[6:50:06 pm] random guy: women have always been my best freinds in life starting with my mother and my sister

[6:51:00 pm] random guy: :all men are not bad and neither are women

[6:56:19 pm] random guy: have a good night.

[7:21:51 pm] random guy: iam not trying to fuck anybody on here. most of the women on here are stuck up with their heads up there ass and would not know a good man if he bit them on the ass

[7:22:23 pm] random guy: but it would be nice to chat with somefucking boody

[7:23:14 pm] random guy: i guess i am not tom cruise or whats his dam name

[7:23:33 pm] random guy:that other asshole lol

[7:24:21 pm] random guy: i have a joke for you

[7:24:40 pm] random guy: would you like to fucking hear it

[7:25:00 pm] random guy: it is a yes or no answer

[7:25:30 pm] random guy: a yes

[7:25:52 pm] random guy: b fuck off and leave me alone

[7:26:26 pm] random guy: hello

[7:26:59 pm] random guy: this is cpt james t kirk of the uss enterprise

[7:27:22 pm] random guy: is there any intellagent life out there

[7:27:53 pm] random guy: i am going to tell it to you anyway

[7:28:12 pm] random guy: ill take that as a yes then lol

[7:28:55 pm] random guy: it would be nice if you could take those pretty boobs of yours off the screen

[7:29:17 pm] random guy: anyway back to the joke

[7:29:48 pm] random guy:do you know how to make a long story short ???

[7:30:09 pm] random guy: dont tell it lol

[7:30:27 pm] random guy: you are probably not laughing

[7:30:50 pm] random guy: say something even if its wrong

[7:31:08 pm] random guy: are you still pissed

[7:31:32 pm] random guy: shurely you are not pissed at me

[7:31:48 pm] random guy: did i spell that wright

[7:32:03 pm] angryjanedoe: surely

[7:32:23 pm] random guy: some women are looking for a spelling champion i think

[7:32:32 pm] random guy: thank you

[7:33:10 pm] random guy: am i boreing you to death

[7:33:41 pm] random guy: i type with one finger like a chicken pecking lol

[7:34:05 pm] random guy: so if i am i guess i could give it a rest

[7:34:26 pm] random guy: do you hate all men ??

[7:35:05 pm] random guy: i love women even though i guess i have chosen the wrong ones for me try not to be angry inside it only hurts you not the other people

[7:36:24 pm] random guy: you dont want to fill yourself up with that

[7:36:51 pm] random guy: i dont like to see anyone unhappy

[7:37:21 pm] random guy: just make it your choice

[7:38:00 pm] random guy: you are to well lets just say you have a lot going for you

[7:38:40 pm] random guy: did i spell anything else wrong ??? lol

[7:39:16 pm] random guy: i never gave a shit about english or school

[7:39:45 pm] random guy: no dam adverb was going to make me any money

[7:40:35 pm] random guy: i learned alot more on the job working

[7:41:36 pm] random guy: quit fucking all those assholes and find you a good man like god wanted you to have

[7:44:04 pm] random guy: goodnight again

the next morning:

random guy: trick er treat lol

random guy: good morning princess

random guy: at least i am laughing

random guy: i need a spelling lesson

random guy: can you spell leave me the fuck alone for me

random guy: will you be my neighbor

random guy: its hard not to notice you with those beutifull things all over the screen

random guy: and then your long fuck story lol

random guy: i have a joke for u

random guy: would you like to hear it

random guy: or read it rather

random guy: you are not being very nice again maryjane

random guy: if you dont answer me i am going to sing kiss an angel good morning

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Subject:The Ice Cream Man
Time:11:09 am

I fucked a man my friends called the Ice Cream Man for a few months.  It was supposed to be a one night stand, but sex was amazing and our bodies fit together well, and so we met up about once a week, always at his house, for recreational sex.

The first night, I was greeted by a house festooned with flickering candles, pretty music playing, and the table laid out for dinner (grilled salmon, fresh salad, homemade pie, a bottle of expensive wine).  While I appreciate a man who knows that he should appreciate me, I was really there for sex, so I took him by the hand, led him up the stairs, and we fucked gloriously.  When we were done, I agreed to dinner, after which I straddled him where he sat at the table and gave him a lap dance while finishing off my wine.  Then I said thank you for a nice time and went home.

Although he had assured me that first night that he just liked candles, and liked that music, and always ate nice dinners, things changed pretty quickly, and I never again saw a candle, or heard music, or ate any food.  By the time I went over there for my third fuck, we just went right upstairs, pulled off each other's clothing, and got right to it.  When we were done, I woud lie there for a few minutes, say thank you for a nice time, and hustle myself out of there.

Partly, I kept my entry and exit niceties quick so we could have as much time fucking as possible.  I was pretty busy with the rest of my social life, and often shoehorned him into a spare hour between getting home from work and going out for the evening.  This is how he got his nickname, actually.  I rushed into a dinner party late, with my hair dishevelled, my clothes misbuttoned, and my my cheeks flushed, and my friends asked, "Oh, did the Ice Cream Man give you another treat this evening?"  "You know, you really shouldn't have dessert before dinner," another joked, and I assured them that this particular ice cream sundae had only made me hungrier.  "It had rainbow sprinkles on top!" I'd tell them.  "Delicious."

The other reason I made a quick exit after fucking was that he was one of the biggest jerks I'd ever met.  I didn't want him to talk a whole lot because everything he said was so arrogant, so presumptious, so cynical.  He would tell me about stupid little interpersonal power struggles he had with people at work, and about how he had showed them and I thought, "your poor coworkers."  I would stop his mouth with a kiss and try to focus on the fucking, and not his rhapsodies about veal, his bragging about photographing models (who were all hot, but stupid), his boring obsession with some college football team, etc.

That was the paradox of this man: being a jerk made him my perfect fuck buddy.  He was as flat and uninteresting as pale beige paint; he had no idea that I had any interior life because he didn't see people as more than surfaces; he was arrogant and self-important and he never thought to ask me why I insisted on fucking men without romance, or what I thought or felt about anything, or how my day had been, or any of the other things you might do with a person.  He was completely not perplexed by me, which set him apart from all the other men I fucked.  And because of all these distasteful things, I felt safer with him than I had with anyone else for a very long time.  I could keep my private little interior world to myself, which was how I needed things to be at that point in my life.  Not needing to patrol my boundaries made me safe in a way I craved.

The thing with Ice Cream Men is this:  they dispense these great, unexpected treats when they show up in your part of town, but they are often creepy jerks who are nasty to their customers, and when they drive away, they leave behind the echo of an annoying, inane, dissonant tune repeating itself over and over and over in an endless loop.  And when I've finished my ice cream and can still hear that damned music tinkling around my neighborhood, all I can think is shut up shut up shut up because no ice cream cone -- even one with rainbow sprinkles -- is worth such annoyance.

Except for this: I felt safe with him, and sometimes, I even miss him.

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Time:09:40 am
I don't let men go down on me. I expect them to offer, of course, but I will turn them down. In part, I turn them down because letting a man greet my pussy so directly is too intimate for casual sex, but I also turn them down because, odds are, they won't know what they are doing and then I'll have to find a way to stop them. Better never to let them begin.

Even if you think you know what you are doing, do yourself and women everywhere a favor and listen to me.

I have spent delightful time with my mouth and tongue pressed into a woman's pussy. I have felt her open up to me, felt moisture seep out to greet my tongue, felt her arch her back to press into my mouth, and felt her come around my fingers. I have also felt my tongue go numb, my jaw cramp, my whole face start to ache with the effort.

When my first girlfriend went down on me, I thought I am blooming I am blooming. I felt myself open up to her and it was glorious.

So maybe that's why I die a little death (and not in the Shakesperean sense) when a man proclaims that he loves the taste of pussy, because a man like that can get so wrapped up with smearing his face in my pussy that he forgets some basic anatomical truths.  I worry about this kind of man, because he's so in love with his love of the pussy that he forgets that it's attached to me.  I get bored and start reviewing my shopping list and he doesn't even notice.  He looks up from between my legs like some dumb happy puppy and I think maybe I should get a cat.

You stalk the clit with your tongue; you dance around her edges; you tantalize her; you press on that which presses against her. Then, when I am quivering with desire, desperate, THEN you can go ahead and move in on her and give her the attention she deserves. When we scoot backwards, or adjust your head with our hands, or wince, or push our legs together, it's TOO EARLY.

Then there's the man who gingerly sticks out the tip of his tongue -- you know, the part that has no tastebuds (or so he ardently hopes) -- and sort of touches my pussy, as if that's all it takes and he's taking one for the team doing it. My pussy is not a flagpole on a cold winter day. You don't get a trophy at the end of the season for touching it with your tongue.

The worst, however, is when a man slips off the edge of the bed, hikes up my thighs, and does what feels like a gynecological exam with his tongue.  While he's apparently trying to crawl into my womb, I'm wondering when oral sex started to resemble reverse birthing.  No matter how high I arch my back, or slip my ass off the edge of the bed, I can't get his tongue near my clit. This man is the worst because he's made a terribly transparant assumption: that penetration with his tongue is what is going to get a woman off, that penetration alone is anywhere near as delightful as undivided respectful attention to the clit.

"It's all about angles," a female friend told me imploringly. "Tell them it's all about angles, and their angles are wrong."

So I'm here to give you that message: your angles are wrong.

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Subject:Yes, I am Jane Doe
Time:11:53 am
(In partial response to this endless thread about Jane on OKC).

Someone recognized me once on OKC. His email was titled, "So it is you."  Seeing an email in Jane's inbox addressed to me felt like slipping on a patch of ice and landing on my back.  For a moment there, it hurt to breathe.

We had gone out a few months earlier, just as I was starting to sleep around. I had really hoped for some romantic chemistry with him -- we shared the same obscure interests; he wrote well; he did work I respected -- but there just wasn't.  It was probably for the best, since he told me on our date that he was planning to move 2000 miles away for a new job.  I considered propositioning him: he was interesting and handsome and, although I had hoped he would be something more than casual sex, I figured casual sex would do.

We decided to go out again, and I figured I would proposition him then.  He said he would call me when he finished up a job, and we would figure out an exact time and location then.

He never called.

I sent him an email asking why he even bothered making plans if he was just going to blow them off.  Didn't it seem like a lot of extra effort, I wondered, when he could just not make plans in the first place?

He wrote back, apologizing profusely, and admitting that he had completely forgotten because he was overwhelmed with work and moving plans.  I told him that no woman wants to hear she's forgettable, but I understood and accepted his apology.  And that was that.  

So it knocked the air out of my chest to see this email addressed to me in Jane's inbox.  He thought my entry about the coward was about him; he apologized again; he said he hoped I found what I was looking for.  I wrote back ("Yes; I am Jane Doe") to say that nothing in my manifesta was about him.  He never wrote back.

No one has ever recognized me in Jane again.  (Or, at least, no one has ever told me they recognized me in Jane).  I guess people wonder about me -- if I'm Jane; if Jane is a sock puppet; if she's a creative writing exercise; if she's really me; if I'm really her.

The thing is, I'm just another woman.  I'm forgettable.  People have met me and shrugged their shoulders.  The one man who knows I am Jane didn't want to know any more -- about me or Jane.

It doesn't matter who I am.  It doesn't matter if I'm Jane (I'm not, exactly; I'm me).  It doesn't matter if Jane is a sock puppet (she is, but only if you believe that a sock puppet needs someone's hand to make it move).  It doesn't matter if Jane is a creative writing exercise (I'm not writing fiction here; this is as true as any manifesto has ever been).  It doesn't matter if she's really me or if I'm really her (I am her but, as is true for every women, I'm both more interesting and less interesting than someone who only exists in the cyberfantasy world of the internet).

Jane was my solution to what felt like an impossible problem.  She is the disguise I need to say my piece about heterosexual dating in your late thirties/early forties.  She permits me to say things I could never say simply as myself, an actual woman in the real world, with actual friends and lovers and an actual career.  Without Jane, I would have to shut up.

And this is why being discovered felt like slipping on the ice and landing on my back.  I am not done talking, and I don't want the wind knocked out of me.  For a moment, in that OKC thread, I worried that someone would figure out who I am, and I considered taking everything down and shutting up.  But it was a false alarm.

Besides, I'm pretty certain that no one really wants to find out who Jane is, because then you would have to know that I'm just another woman.  Why not, instead, operate on the assumption that everyone you meet has things to say -- that every woman is both more interesting and more boring than Jane?

After all, Jane can only be interesting because, when she's not speaking, she's just another sock in my drawer, completely forgettable next to that pair of vintage seamed thigh high stockings I bring out for other occasions.

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