tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20374570135041002622024-03-14T04:41:14.180-07:00HER Veracity1 BLOG. 2 WOMEN. TOTAL HONESTY.Paws For Reactionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15071230442240543519noreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037457013504100262.post-49697264442863597512021-03-13T08:49:00.005-08:002021-03-13T08:56:14.599-08:00My date from Hell and how it cost me my best friend<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>You think you know how this story ends, but you don't…</i></b></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvV9bsabU351FZfALhSrdpR-ZXK5Itt3LpA9b3mVRkwxS9_raDYpe8WeQVbchScHeX0PLs9tw1Szz7YV98zqC2OYTE6ntYFvhMZtZJiL_7W-4x27fXHb06DOe0Q6tghk_o9XUqYXRmVe7s/s1410/Betrayal.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="HER Veracity" border="0" data-original-height="1182" data-original-width="1410" height="536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvV9bsabU351FZfALhSrdpR-ZXK5Itt3LpA9b3mVRkwxS9_raDYpe8WeQVbchScHeX0PLs9tw1Szz7YV98zqC2OYTE6ntYFvhMZtZJiL_7W-4x27fXHb06DOe0Q6tghk_o9XUqYXRmVe7s/w640-h536/Betrayal.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I met a guy through my best friend. Stories that start that way never end well. He was in a band she’d recently joined and she was elated about it. I lived in the country and she lived in the city. I visited her one weekend and we dressed like thirst-traps and had a hilarious drunken night on the town.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">We planned a beach day the next morning but we were off to a slow start. We laid in bed watching last night's <i>Snapchats</i>, laughing so loud the walls vibrated. As we relived our shenanigans, her bandmate kept texting her. He insisted on coming to the beach, likely watching the same sexy <i>Snaps</i> we were. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">He met us at the beach. I wasn’t very social; I was nauseous and hangry. That didn’t matter to him because I was in a bikini. He wanted us to come to his place that night but we decided on dinner at my friend's house. At dinner, he drilled me with personal questions. I suspected he was interested in me and was clear I just went through a break-up and wasn't ready to sleep with anyone yet.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Regardless, he texted my friend after he left and asked for my number. He asked me out immediately. My friend and I were a little giddy about it. It's nice to be desired. He said he'd come to me for our date. I agreed but warned him it couldn’t be a late night because I worked the next morning. I explicitly told him he was not spending the night. I told him repeatedly I needed to take things slow. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">He flew a few red flags right away. For example, he kept insisting on seeing me the next day, even though I was with my mother. When Thursday arrived, he said he was going to work at his cabin before our date and wanted to shower at my house. This made me very uncomfortable. I told him no, he has two choices: be sweaty or don’t go to your cabin. I waited until the last minute to give him my address so he couldn’t show up early. When I opened the door, he grabbed me and kissed me, full tongue. We'd only met in person twice, and while we'd been talking, we weren’t dating.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">We had a glass of wine, then walked to a pub for open-mic night. I figured he would like that since he's a musician. We had a lot of fun. He had two beers and I had one. Things turned dark when we returned to my place. On the walk home, he was acting drunk. When we arrived, I gave him some water and told him I’d brew coffee so he could sober up.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I’m spending the night,” he said. I was shocked and asked him why he would drink so much if he knew he had to drive home?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“I obviously wasn’t going to come all the way here to go on a date with you and not sleepover,” he said. I’ll never forget the fear it sparked in me. He'd planned all along to spend the night. I told him no and he kept saying yes, he was staying. I said he had to sleep on the futon. He grabbed me and kissed me. I kissed back at first then pulled away.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Why don’t you like me?” He wined like a four-year-old who was refused an action figure at the supermarket. “Why won’t you kiss me?” I told him I needed to go to bed because I work early. He grabbed me and kissed me again, picked me up, and laid me on the couch. I felt his hands go quickly up my shirt and under my bra, fondling my naked breasts and I tried to pull away. He began to unbutton my jeans and my heart raced frantically. I said "No, we're not doing that," and pushed my knees up, kicking him off me. He angrily yelled, “Why do you act like sleeping with you is worth a million bucks?”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Because it is!” I yelled back. He grumbled that I tasted like garlic, and I spat back that I ate garlic dip with my pizza because I wasn’t planning on making out with him. I went upstairs and made up the futon while downstairs he insisted on sleeping with me. He refused to come upstairs until I agreed, promising he wouldn’t touch me. I told him he could sleep on the couch, so he relented and took the futon but he begged me to lay down with him. I told him no and he insisted he wouldn’t do anything, just cuddle. I told him no, I’m going to bed but he grabbed my arm and pulled me on the futon. My elbow smashed into the metal frame and I scrambled up quickly. He grumbled angrily "Why won't you cuddle me?" </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqbm2qHhbtKZHuK-pWGk4UG9RzsGN5G4HH1mGvYlYoolu-ENxPl7G0r6MoI-AHuhYZbTqrkXW1xU-me7Quy7ZyvgdfcUaBf1KzzEKC0LTMn6YhyphenhyphenmuEZXkfaJ622ftacDQT-_QzZZMytR89/s940/Betrayal+%25281%2529.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Betrayal" border="0" data-original-height="788" data-original-width="940" height="536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqbm2qHhbtKZHuK-pWGk4UG9RzsGN5G4HH1mGvYlYoolu-ENxPl7G0r6MoI-AHuhYZbTqrkXW1xU-me7Quy7ZyvgdfcUaBf1KzzEKC0LTMn6YhyphenhyphenmuEZXkfaJ622ftacDQT-_QzZZMytR89/w640-h536/Betrayal+%25281%2529.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">"Because I don't want to," I told him. I went to my bedroom and locked the door. I’d never felt so unsafe in my own home. He took away my control; he'd planned all along, despite what I consented to, to sleepover. I suspect he often manipulates drunk girls into bed. But I wasn’t drunk and while I was in an impossible situation due to his connection to my friend, I wasn’t going to submit.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I called my friend from bed and described the events of the night. I felt guilty; I didn’t want to do anything that could harm her affiliation with the band. Shocked by his behaviour, she agreed it was unacceptable. I told her I was locked in my room and was afraid he’d come to my door. She asked if I wanted her to talk to him. I said no and she was relieved. I wanted to put the awful night behind me. While he assaulted me, it could have been much worse.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">He texted me incessantly at sunrise but I ignored him. When I woke up, I read:</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">“Hey, great eve, thx for letting me crash, tough sleep on that futon and well you being so close… I’m taking off.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Later that day he texted again. After I texted an unenthusiastic reply, he asked if I'd had a good time. I told him I had fun at the bar but after was “a bit much for me though, I’m not going to lie.” I didn’t want to make things awkward for my friend. At the same time, I didn’t want to say "You’re not my type." I wanted him to know I didn’t want to see him again because of his behaviour. He told me he was drunk but he remembered everything. How could a man who remembered everything think I’d see him again?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Over the following year, he became a running joke in my dating story backlog. ‘The rapey date guy’ I called him, although I tried not to insult him in front of my friend. He Snapchatted me flirty messages occasionally but I tried not to engage. The following summer he and my friend went on a trip. She visited me after and told me she has sex with him on the trip. My stomach bubbled with nausea. As she described how amazing it was my disgust could no longer be contained. I told her I never wanted to hear about him again. She was shocked by my disgust and I was shocked she found it shocking. I had tolerated an uncomfortable, unsafe situation so she could continue to be comfortable in her band and a year later it was like she forgot what he did to me.<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Soon after he texted me a long message that included “I’m sorry for offending you and hurting your feelings.” He said he was drunk and didn’t remember. He said my friend talked to him about what happened. He didn’t apologize for his actions- he apologized for how his actions made me <i>feel</i>. It was the half-assed, forced #MeToo apology I’d hoped I’d never receive.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I was furious with my friend. She talked to him without consulting me first and encouraged him to contact me. We argued over text and she agreed it was wrong to talk to him about me without my consent. She insisted the situation had bothered her for a long time and she felt compelled to talk to him. I rebutted with the fact that if she felt so strongly about what he did to me, how could she sleep with him? She said she developed feelings for him. Feelings that clearly trumped her loyalty to me. She didn't do it to stick up for me, she did it to relieve her guilty conscience. She texted “I was hoping to help resolve the situation.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I was enraged and couldn’t respond. Resolve the situation? If he'd been some random I met at a bar or a <i>Tinder</i> date and acted the way rapey date guy acted, she'd never recommended resolution. She wanted to resolve things because she was sleeping with him. Denying that was insulting to my intelligence.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I was willing to forgive her if she was willing to fix what she’d broke and rebuild our trust. Sadly, she ghosted me. That’s right, she never contacted me again, except for a happy birthday text a year later. She hurt me, betrayed my trust, and disappeared from my life. It's the most difficult breakup I’ve endured. I struggled for a long time, wondering why our friendship meant so little to her. One thing I know for sure; I will never tolerate that type of treatment again for someone else's sake. As women, we tolerate uncomfortable situations because we don't want to make others uncomfortable. We need to <b>STOP</b> this behaviour. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I was finally able to let go but it took time and acceptance. I reminded myself it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault what he did to me. It wasn’t my fault what she did to me. I let go of my need for justice. I don’t know what she says about our friendship ending. She could lie; bend the truth in her direction. Play the victim. That used to bother me, but I know what happened and that’s enough for me. My values are obvious to anyone who knows me. Eventually, I stopped waiting for her. By reminding myself that I would never do to her what she did to me, I was able to focus on the values I have and not the values she lacks.<br /><br /></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6CZG_h2JPN1a60X5_n8wUY-S8lleeRmzTDW2CVskP-kzBLLBBzg3S8AJjm_P-2GRkhbAyezR14Bu5dNjUbm9DE6stFbRzCGUBS_P28N-lzNqYvlBO1ek1sSKIdfsgw2Ptf8IjjEiVySjS/s2773/Xanny.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="HER Veracity" border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2773" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6CZG_h2JPN1a60X5_n8wUY-S8lleeRmzTDW2CVskP-kzBLLBBzg3S8AJjm_P-2GRkhbAyezR14Bu5dNjUbm9DE6stFbRzCGUBS_P28N-lzNqYvlBO1ek1sSKIdfsgw2Ptf8IjjEiVySjS/w400-h164/Xanny.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Paws For Reactionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15071230442240543519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037457013504100262.post-78947391070428867962021-03-06T07:36:00.000-08:002021-03-06T07:36:12.258-08:00Stop looking for love, it will find you! (Or will it?)<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Things are always in the last place you look</i></b></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEislqYCwbi-gv2QdcrnMYbpAcjUG0YvNCxpcX-u6oVwtzxBG2XbZxVY5wPSsUWOqD2djzu1fqFBWD3-mZi5_fmqjtAoxLYnLhxwLAe2hPR3O_vc4TyUr-NotmY80rQAb0e_-bWdpUZT7W-d/s1410/3.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Stop looking for love, it will find you! (Or will it?)" border="0" data-original-height="1182" data-original-width="1410" height="536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEislqYCwbi-gv2QdcrnMYbpAcjUG0YvNCxpcX-u6oVwtzxBG2XbZxVY5wPSsUWOqD2djzu1fqFBWD3-mZi5_fmqjtAoxLYnLhxwLAe2hPR3O_vc4TyUr-NotmY80rQAb0e_-bWdpUZT7W-d/w640-h536/3.png" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Before I went to bed last night I vented to a friend. I messaged her about the disappointment I felt regarding my love life, and how it was weighing on me. I woke up this morning and checked the notifications on my phone to read a message that my friend had sent me. “Stop looking for love, it’ll find you,” she wrote. I know she was well-intentioned, but this line leaves me feeling hopeless and frustrated. This is a line often said to us when we are feeling down about our love lives. Where is this love!? Will a beautiful woman who has everything I’m looking for be teleporting to my living room with a box of chocolates and a bottle of my favourite white wine?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">When people say this, what they really mean is to be open to love but not have any expectations, because when we don’t have expectations, it’s hard to get hurt. But how is this done? How can I not have expectations when I know exactly what I want? This is something I often think about. We have to physically look for a romantic partner or else how will we find them? At the same time, we have to be mentally prepared to be alone and be okay with being single to attract the right person into our lives.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Also, one can’t forget the challenges that this pandemic has brought upon us, and how it’s almost impossible to meet someone without feeling anxious about catching the big bad ‘rona!’ So online dating and pointless conversations over <i>Tinder</i> and <i>Bumble</i> that usually end nowhere it is! Months and months of half-assed, small talk that leads me to nothing but continuous disappointment one match after the other. But alas that is what we all have been subjected to for the past year and the foreseeable future.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Sometimes I wish I just didn’t know what I want. It definitely would leave me with less hurt if I just walked around aimlessness with no need to fill this void I crave to fill and a whole hell of a lot of time not wasting hours, weeks, and months on shallow small talk. Not knowing what I want means I have no expectations and not having any expectations will mean I’m not looking for love and it will just magically and unexpectedly find me. But this is not me, I’m a confident, thirty-something-year-old woman who knows exactly what she wants. I know my worth and I know what I deserve, so I will keep looking because one day I will find a like-minded woman whose wants will align with mine. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Until then, I will enjoy a box of chocolates and a bottle of my favourite wine on my own because even though I do want to settle down, I don’t want to settle. I will be my own companion until the Universe leads me to my special person.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhEngr5JSzucn_QOE_ghUZGLcVi-Ee4yoB0S6MsaVVNMfWhzngB9fcaa2gV6Bf7t1gfcDIo_VTfpR3Pk1x_YfewUI4iSk9Qq1_a3swWGgaVOjyg4-Fv_DFIzWqzSF3Zq6QYbTC4FmBD5bI/s2449/Xena.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="980" data-original-width="2449" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhEngr5JSzucn_QOE_ghUZGLcVi-Ee4yoB0S6MsaVVNMfWhzngB9fcaa2gV6Bf7t1gfcDIo_VTfpR3Pk1x_YfewUI4iSk9Qq1_a3swWGgaVOjyg4-Fv_DFIzWqzSF3Zq6QYbTC4FmBD5bI/w400-h160/Xena.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span><p></p>Paws For Reactionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15071230442240543519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037457013504100262.post-36430121187736380292021-03-02T05:19:00.000-08:002021-03-02T05:19:03.910-08:00I haven't had sex in a year (pandemic problems)<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Covid-19 is spreading everything but my legs</i></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1QhDbmElg38wuS7h6Bl_gV39ob1z46zDqjGCUFKW-7KmmPi34uKR9MuaJ2Fo5f1eFj-a0K2jLifAVvgQh97oGFppTuAnATQ-KTjDj-4mCf4-98u9JqOI6_1yeG9OEB2M0cMZtvdcSWcKu/s1410/Untitled+design.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="I haven't had sex in over a year (pandemic problems)" border="0" data-original-height="1182" data-original-width="1410" height="536" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1QhDbmElg38wuS7h6Bl_gV39ob1z46zDqjGCUFKW-7KmmPi34uKR9MuaJ2Fo5f1eFj-a0K2jLifAVvgQh97oGFppTuAnATQ-KTjDj-4mCf4-98u9JqOI6_1yeG9OEB2M0cMZtvdcSWcKu/w640-h536/Untitled+design.png" width="640" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Despite all this talk about droplets, my sex life has been remarkably dry. Pre-Covid- yes, that's how I define the world now; pre and post-Covid- I was in the process of moving to the city. Single and excited for the prospect of a booming social life and a chance to meet someone new, I decided to stop dating until after I moved. I was blissfully ignorant of the encroaching pandemic. I went six months without sex and I was okay. I was empowered in my choice. I was saving myself for brighter horizons. Six months was a long time for me, but it was fine because it was only temporary.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Pre-Covid me was so optimistic. Post-Covid me is extremely jaded. This pandemic has held my sex life hostage. In fact, my vagina is on more of a lockdown than the rest of my body. At least I can get a latte (take-out) while downstairs has not been allowed to come upstairs for a long time. How long? A year and a half- it will be two years in September. Fuck me! Literally! As businesses start to open up, my shop remains closed. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I realize people in relationships have had their sex lives altered too. The sexy spontaneity that may have been a driver before no longer exists. Couple that with being stuck together all the time and you will find even couples aren't doing the deed like they used to pre-Covid. But single people have suffered more. Remember the good old days when your biggest worry was getting ghosted and HPV? Not anymore! Now you can also get a life-threatening respiratory disease you can spread to the public faster than chlamydia spreads through a frat house. Not to mention you don't even need to have sex to become Covid positive. "Does kissing make a baby, Mommy?" "No honey, but it can kill you."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Women like me who are excited about meeting people organically, out in the abandoned world, have been forced online. Online dating in the Covid age comes with its benefits in that you can set up multiple virtual dates in one evening. I once went on four video dates in one night, and while Zooming through four first dates feels like a time-saving opportunity, it was a little exhausting. I felt fortunate to have not wasted my time or money on an in-person date with someone I wasn't compatible with. The downfall is that dating apps can be discouraging, defeating, dangerous, and addicting. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Sadly, even when I'm out in the real world for brief moments, I can only see half of someone's face. The same goes for mine. A flirty smile and warm "Hello" is my bread and butter. Now the body language and facial cues that signal that I'm open to conversation are masked- literally- by three-ply fabric. Zoom takes that away from us too. When was the last time you said "I'd like to go on a date with her, from the neck up?" Hand gestures, light touches, the taking of a hand to jump a puddle. This is intimacy. This is how we get comfortable. This is what develops feelings, what awakens butterflies from their cocoons, and inspires them to flutter around in our stomachs. Plus, someone told me the camera adds ten pounds. It must be the camera, right? It's not Covid weight or me eating my feelings.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">A lack of sex during Covid has forced me to focus on self-care. Yes, I mean <i>that</i> type of self-care. I've purchased three new vibrators during the Covid-19 pandemic. While it's a lot of fun, it's not the same. It's almost a joke to some, telling me to get a vibrator (like I don't already have 5!) and that's because there has been a lack of empathy toward the ails of the single during the pandemic. Sex is a need. Intimacy and touch are important to my mental health. My vibrator can do a lot, but it can't hold me at night after a difficult day. I've tried. It's just weird. Single people are learning all too well about the frigid and isolating loneliness that is viral right now.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Another thing Covid has done is force us to prove our monogamy, even in blossoming relationships. It's not because we are all suddenly insecure. It's because we need to prove we are being safe in all aspects of our lives. This means that if we're swapping spit with other people, it's a major dick move to not tell the person we are dating. A mortal dick move. This puts monogamy under a microscope, and can also force non-monogamous people to step back inside the box for safety's sake. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Apparently, there is a silver lining to even the worst situations, and luckily this is true about Covid and sex. Pressure to physically distance for longer means that more of an emphasis is being placed on forming bonds and nurturing connections. Real connections. You can date in-person for years and never find a real, genuine connection. People are taking their time. They are communicating more. And they are being really sure of someone before meeting them for the first time. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">That being said, I still haven't made a Covid connection. Everyone keeps telling me I need to stick it out, but the truth is I'd rather stick it in. I just want to spread my legs, not the virus. I have to ask: Is anyone having sex right now? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJyNav3TlRWR_rW8NuYevil-w1bgwmFmDAw1Qd6yEYuPtRVJMXW5O493untu_dMV8Q7HmJOZ3YdF0iIjhQVfw39dMG5zfpdbqjRkO9ywdpcWgPMLCCc7x9zYzbmkH-KNLmC5KmVmhuxGHA/s2773/Add+a+subheading+%25281%2529.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2773" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJyNav3TlRWR_rW8NuYevil-w1bgwmFmDAw1Qd6yEYuPtRVJMXW5O493untu_dMV8Q7HmJOZ3YdF0iIjhQVfw39dMG5zfpdbqjRkO9ywdpcWgPMLCCc7x9zYzbmkH-KNLmC5KmVmhuxGHA/w400-h164/Add+a+subheading+%25281%2529.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p>Paws For Reactionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15071230442240543519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037457013504100262.post-43702788489220182522021-02-26T18:42:00.008-08:002021-03-01T17:09:57.846-08:00How a date with a millionaire boosted my confidence (not in the way you think)<p><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>What is the cost of settling? </i></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmXGcc_20rE8hQph7-G9MExlIM7QFHlh0DIgxNiME2I4KAVO-ttGTb-LYWk_x_VIIePVEi63EMpn3IcWvGdJGjW3SPKNaRZFwZ4ELrAkOxOJB8At6t7hXuQxakrCWu_sH2RhpVMcPYRCPx/s2048/4968958767_609a6dff63_o.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1226" data-original-width="2048" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmXGcc_20rE8hQph7-G9MExlIM7QFHlh0DIgxNiME2I4KAVO-ttGTb-LYWk_x_VIIePVEi63EMpn3IcWvGdJGjW3SPKNaRZFwZ4ELrAkOxOJB8At6t7hXuQxakrCWu_sH2RhpVMcPYRCPx/w640-h384/4968958767_609a6dff63_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">After subjecting myself to a string of men who didn't appreciate me, I was asked on a date by a millionaire. The good kind of millionaire; the millionaire philanthropist. Not the millionaire capitalist. He was nominated for a do-gooder award and flying in for one night. Although we didn't know each other personally, we worked in similar industries and a series of unexpected circumstances lead to him asking me to join him at the award gala.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I'll never forget my trip to meet him in the 5-star hotel where he was staying, a hotel with the highest ceilings I'd ever seen and marble floors that reflected back to me the face of a country girl dipping her toes into the big city. He liked that about me. I had the appearance of being wholesome. On my way, I looked up at the sky and there was a rainbow. No lie. Light refracting excitement into the sky, a spectrum of colour. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I wore a sequin dress from Nordstrom Rack- nude. The colour of foreshadowing. Half price and so far from his Armani suit that we weren't just shopping in different stores, we were existing in different worlds. It was comforting to discover the back of his suit jacket has a tiny hole in it. It was small, but it was an imperfection nonetheless. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It was a dazzling date I'll never forget. Being wined and fine dined, sitting at the head table with this gorgeous man and CEOs, the chairman of the board, and award-winning journalists. Politicians and policymakers. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">He introduced me around freely and proudly. Showed me off. Took care of me. Was proud to be with me- ME! Me, who was normal, wholesome, ordinary, no one in his world. He was nominated for (and won!) an award but I was the most important thing on his agenda that evening. Yes, it was one night. But after that date, I was finished with those unappreciative men. I felt a surge of confidence, finally getting the attention I was craving. The part of me that needed someone who wanted me had been neglected for too long. It didn't matter that he had money. It mattered that I mattered to him, even if it was just for one night.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Ask yourself this: Who in my life isn't appreciating me? Who isn't listening? When was the last time I was shown off? </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Be confident enough to demand more.</span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;">That guy who just wants to sleep with you, to Netflix and chill into oblivion, to him you're a growing hole in an Armani suit. You're left on read, you don't go out, you don't meet his family, you aren't 'official.' What is it going to take for you to stop settling for a man who isn't proud to be with you? Because a date with a millionaire builds confidence, but it's as rare as a rainbow.<br /></span><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7O6iUFEMCyyhuNIIQFQqnqy6eNfLMAPumnSNbM-so1OfPpc3dIQjz1D_fyoNk_UmhiyvdnDWF7PkVoU0RQaOTGRS9s89FsMyyeVpHo598n2H4_mtfi_VHxUDzVWeSrWmo2SR7F7Lzqlf/s2773/Add+a+subheading+%25281%2529.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2773" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh7O6iUFEMCyyhuNIIQFQqnqy6eNfLMAPumnSNbM-so1OfPpc3dIQjz1D_fyoNk_UmhiyvdnDWF7PkVoU0RQaOTGRS9s89FsMyyeVpHo598n2H4_mtfi_VHxUDzVWeSrWmo2SR7F7Lzqlf/w400-h164/Add+a+subheading+%25281%2529.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p></p>Paws For Reactionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15071230442240543519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037457013504100262.post-41934934034001893922018-10-02T12:55:00.004-07:002021-03-01T17:10:14.752-08:00Electricity (a poem)<span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><b><i>Electricity</i></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: arial;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px; text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</span><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx0XkdLVWaZzeEzYkSfhbTnRzwJcevyD70TKvqXNFQO_PB_PpxbU8Vp2i4dzwrTSfwnPn4L28h5OGFBuPeHhHnXBOl1VTqqgTSUnJHFesPA2t8rnnBV8sWKUo_iAJHmgWKd2V-ofUFtF4M/s1600/LaVladina.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="507" data-original-width="800" height="403" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx0XkdLVWaZzeEzYkSfhbTnRzwJcevyD70TKvqXNFQO_PB_PpxbU8Vp2i4dzwrTSfwnPn4L28h5OGFBuPeHhHnXBOl1VTqqgTSUnJHFesPA2t8rnnBV8sWKUo_iAJHmgWKd2V-ofUFtF4M/s640/LaVladina.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">LaVladina</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span><div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">So afraid I’ll never find someone who makes me feel the
electricity that he did. His fingers on my skin, his hands around my neck. Never
have I ever experienced pleasure like the pleasure he gave. I wanted him so bad.
I still want him. Even now that I know the truth about him. I want him to want
me. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">He gets under my skin. I wish I could let him go. But a
part of me, deep down, wants to feel the pain he caused over and over. Feeling
the pain is the only way to keep feeling the electricity. I miss his lips, his
hands, his cock. I fear part of me will never let him go. How could he toss me
aside so easily? Repeatedly. I wanted to hurt him like he hurt me. Over and over. I came
close. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">He haunts all of my daydreams, but he never enters my mind
when I sleep. I wonder why that is? Only my conscious mind can’t let him go. My
subconscious mind is intuitive enough to have already written him off. Awake, I
still long to feel the weight of his warm body on top of mine. I want that
weight, even though I know the only way to feel that weight again is to
experience something heavy. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;">I wanted you to be the one. I always knew you weren’t. I
was willing to buy into the lie. You’re a beautiful liar. A con-man of the
heart. We were electrified. I stoked the fire. You snuffed it out. Imagine the
power of the electricity if you had let it burn. I trusted you more with your
hands around my neck, than I ever trusted you with my heart. </span></div><div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin: 0px 0px 10.66px; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjNpyXMBm_VubQf60SOQ55j8salN8jfeLlPTpYD4x-7e3Q49OgTAQv4mwh5qzMB2oyVKX-K-76eNsD-qqWkXa2ehjq33d4eosEuUYV3y9bcAw3yNbs4av7sSjEsW45d9ETcu5QNJ8oOqa/s2773/Add+a+subheading+%25281%2529.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2773" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdjNpyXMBm_VubQf60SOQ55j8salN8jfeLlPTpYD4x-7e3Q49OgTAQv4mwh5qzMB2oyVKX-K-76eNsD-qqWkXa2ehjq33d4eosEuUYV3y9bcAw3yNbs4av7sSjEsW45d9ETcu5QNJ8oOqa/w400-h164/Add+a+subheading+%25281%2529.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
Paws For Reactionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15071230442240543519noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037457013504100262.post-75581601840490736602018-03-13T11:28:00.011-07:002021-03-01T17:10:30.656-08:00Would you break up with a man because he has a small penis? (Or would you make a minor sacrifice?)<span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span><div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Would you give him the shaft?</i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSe5vLhmMdHy0hB4G7YLxDj9s-Gh0ah3oU3Vw7paZOzku-PmAmi0EehX_8l9ptNeKCBMIyoW6p8iBp8LCvn0CVYyGk6IIZKZY38OLBmOgEYCHoJdsTdsJTFc2xnrylpkWfLhEOV2xqt_La/s1600/sk.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="1024" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSe5vLhmMdHy0hB4G7YLxDj9s-Gh0ah3oU3Vw7paZOzku-PmAmi0EehX_8l9ptNeKCBMIyoW6p8iBp8LCvn0CVYyGk6IIZKZY38OLBmOgEYCHoJdsTdsJTFc2xnrylpkWfLhEOV2xqt_La/s640/sk.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: xx-small;">sk</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: 12pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">I met an amazing guy. He was super sweet, honest, and kind. He was great
looking, an amazing kisser, with a butt you could bounce a quarter off of. Our
values were aligned; we wanted the same things in life. He had his shit together- had a
great job and his own home. He was really, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> into me. He just had one teeny, tiny problem.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">Being the sweet man he is, we went on five dates before we ever made it to
the bedroom. He was the perfect gentleman. When we did finally get horizontal, it
didn’t take me long (no pun intended) to </span><span face="Arial, sans-serif">discover that he was deficient in the dick department.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;"><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">Now, I’m not overly picky about a man's downstairs. I’ve been with men who are average- or even
below average- when it comes to penis size. I’d hate to exclude a man from my life over
something he can’t control. <br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">I’d never encountered a situation like this. I’d always told myself that
if I did encounter a man with a tiny penis, I would give him a chance.
Maybe he has learned other bedroom talents to make up for what he’s lacking. Maybe he's good at oral. Maybe I'm being too judgmental.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">Unfortunately, things didn’t work out that way for me. What I
experienced was the worst sex of my life. Not only could I basically not feel a
thing, but he didn’t possess some fantastic sexual ability to counteract the
small package size.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">For the first time I was faced with the difficult decision: Do I break
up with a man because he has a mini member? After he left, and the dust settled
I was forced to ask myself that question. Apparently, it's completely inappropriate
to ask a man upfront if he has a tiny penis. It seems kind of unfair
considering a man can tell how big my boobs are without asking. <br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span>Nothing about my experience made me believe that the sex
could get any better. The biggest reason for that is- despite his </span>minuscule<span> manhood- the sex for me was terrible, but for him it was incredible. He was so
into it! For him, it was the hottest sex he’d ever had. For me, I couldn’t wait
for him to leave.</span></span><br /><br /><span face="Arial, sans-serif"><span><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-CA;">I made the decision to break it off with him after that. Obviously, I didn’t
end it by telling him it was because of his small penis. I made a cliché “it’s
not you, it’s me” type of excuse that hopefully didn’t kill his confidence.
Although I’m sure it was strange to him that we slept together and then I broke up with him right after. Typically,
women aren’t known for doing that. <br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span>Sometimes I wonder if I did the right thing. He is a sweet man, after
all, and really seemed to care about me. We were compatible in every other way. But when it comes down to it, sex is
important to me. I require a certain amount of physical intimacy, and I need to be
satisfied in a certain way. Being honest with myself about that is </span>important</span><span><span style="font-size: large;">. Besides, being in a relationship where the sex is bad is just bollocks!</span><o:p style="font-size: 12pt;"></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_22JT89P0QTCt9DgCd9I_80gQPINGHEFptYJmUsP3ZmToD7Zx_4HsHAcA6RwabxrVMt5x24VNT9Ji7fU44n3Oukq6NYuXQiHkSweOvyXaYbQIJNcGa2fztvuFN0r3NkWl66-uLJRVBUBN/s2773/Add+a+subheading+%25281%2529.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2773" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_22JT89P0QTCt9DgCd9I_80gQPINGHEFptYJmUsP3ZmToD7Zx_4HsHAcA6RwabxrVMt5x24VNT9Ji7fU44n3Oukq6NYuXQiHkSweOvyXaYbQIJNcGa2fztvuFN0r3NkWl66-uLJRVBUBN/w400-h164/Add+a+subheading+%25281%2529.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Paws For Reactionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15071230442240543519noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2037457013504100262.post-54081425361003729882018-03-09T17:32:00.008-08:002021-03-01T17:10:45.937-08:00I Killed my Boyfriend (wait for it…)<span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: 12pt;"><b><i>I killed my boyfriend. It’s true. Over and over… </i></b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLf0ByQBLPheeBegf3Tw8rMTxWHDphTEAVweMmHezi0ZTLOoY8PEXvSvon_wp9dmlCwYUr74wUSgdS9Ppl8KqO0fIoqK1sk4nOZl7uJvx9RmTdyAV0uRhzOs7HhyiV7551NBkRe0-YNVmv/s1600/Florent+Chretien.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1048" data-original-width="1600" height="417" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLf0ByQBLPheeBegf3Tw8rMTxWHDphTEAVweMmHezi0ZTLOoY8PEXvSvon_wp9dmlCwYUr74wUSgdS9Ppl8KqO0fIoqK1sk4nOZl7uJvx9RmTdyAV0uRhzOs7HhyiV7551NBkRe0-YNVmv/s640/Florent+Chretien.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: xx-small;">Florent Chretien</span></b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: black;">Every night I killed my boyfriend in my sleep</span><span style="color: black;">. </span><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: black;">I know- insert expressive eyebrows
here. But I think a lot of women do it, and don’t want to admit it. Let me
explain. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I loved my boyfriend, for a time. We were together for seven years
before our inevitable end. For a long time, I truly believed he was the one I
would spend the rest of my life with. He was my forever. So why did I kill
him every night?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large;">I'm going to talk about something women don't talk about too often-
fantasy. Scary! Firstly, I didn’t fantasize about <i>murdering </i>my
boyfriend. That’s too messy. But I did fantasize about being with other men- at
night lying in bed waiting to fall asleep, or while he was snoring away on the
couch while I contemplated our sexless relationship. Deep down I wasn’t happy,
I wanted something different- someone different. But I have too much damn integrity
to cheat on my partner, even in my wildest dreams. I loved him! We had a home
together! A family! So instead, I buried him…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large;">In my mind, my boyfriend would have some sort of accident or be murdered.
A natural disaster one night. Car accident the next. His workplace was shot up.
House fire. Infectious disease. Usually, he died in a way that would ensure I received
a large sum of insurance money. I’d allow myself an “appropriate” time to
grieve his death, fast forward, and move on. Night after night, instead of
dreaming about cheating on my boyfriend, I’d have these “practical” and
“respectful” fantasies- where I was a widow before a wanton. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large;">Once he was dead and my conscience was clear, I could fantasize that I
was in a fulfilling relationship. One where I was loved and touched. But when I
was wide awake in my relationship, everything was falling apart. It took years
before I was pushed to my breaking point. Oddly enough, a recurring fantasy of
my boyfriend taking the deep sleep so I could be with Chris Hemsworth, Usher,
Jonathan Taylor Thomas; anyone but my significant other, wasn’t enough to
convince me that my relationship was one bad dream away from being over.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large;">While you don’t see too many women openly admitting to doing- or
dreaming- things like this, I have spoken to a few women in relationships with
men they wish they could leave. This fantasy is much more common than I expected. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large;">The truth is breakups are hard and messy. When I finally did leave my relationship,
the financial impacts alone were a nightmare. Divorce, separation, call it what
you want. Sometimes it would be easier to have a quick and uncomplicated
finale to a bad show.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: arial;"><span face=""arial" , sans-serif" style="color: black; font-size: large;">So, for years while in an unhappy relationship I killed my boyfriend.
Repeatedly. And moved on. Until, finally I was brave enough to do it in real
life and suffer the consequences, while I was wide awake.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIJt7fkFX-9kaBP90g3XAtvDFX9T85N5gdZERB0RmvBV0kC2w1Cn67OQQYHU087APs9nRCQxGry6DFQK-BskeG44vGq3l_DMdZCOljvukbXmgJ1xGEnR7HhV8ECus6cUslb3RhjjK8nrOd/s2773/Add+a+subheading+%25281%2529.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1134" data-original-width="2773" height="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIJt7fkFX-9kaBP90g3XAtvDFX9T85N5gdZERB0RmvBV0kC2w1Cn67OQQYHU087APs9nRCQxGry6DFQK-BskeG44vGq3l_DMdZCOljvukbXmgJ1xGEnR7HhV8ECus6cUslb3RhjjK8nrOd/w400-h164/Add+a+subheading+%25281%2529.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Paws For Reactionhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15071230442240543519noreply@blogger.com0