A friend recently told me that he thinks one of my books will be the Road to Noah.  It makes me smile.  Yes.  I would love to write that book.  It’s going to involve a lot of pop culture references.  It will be silly and fun and sweet.  Kind of like our relationship.

The song du jour is Teenage Dream. And it’s pretty darn true.  Noah grew up in a small hick town in Texas.  When we dress up to go to a fun party he wants me to find a blend between the white trash whore and looking expensive.  It’s… interesting.  Noah really appreciates the part of me that feels like a whore.  He specifically finds my experience and my unusually strong desire for sex appealing.  He actually wanted that unicorn.  I have met other guys who were partnered with women like me.  It’s not completely unusual, but it’s rare.

Once you hit a certain number of sexual partners, somewhere around 25, you just phase out of being a romantic possibility for a large segment of the population.  People will feel free to tell you casually, “Even though you are very attractive I couldn’t possibly sleep with someone who has had sex with as many people as you have.”  Uhh.  I wasn’t soliciting you for sex.  But thank you for reminding me that I should assume I am required to be interested in sex with every single man I ever talk to.  I’m going to go home and stop talking now.

Back to Noah.  In contrast.  Noah thinks I am hotter than the sun.  He loves hearing all the whispered stories from my illicit sex.  He wants to hear all about flashing my genital piercings in the back alley in Ireland.  He likes that I wear my sexuality on my sleeve.  He likes the part of me that chases taboo sex. That’s complicated.  Life is really complicated.

Something that I’ve been thinking about a lot for the last few days is how dangerous it is.  Potentially.  I think I’m more than qualified to say that people shouldn’t expect to avoid sexual assault.  How does one narrow the odds?  Is it possible?  Only sometimes.  What happens when a limit is crossed?  What limits do I have?  How will I communicate them?  How will I keep myself safe?  This is going to be flying by the seat of my pants.

Part of how I am trying to ensure that I can do this is by thinking about my right to dictate how this fits into my life.  I do get to place boundaries on my hunting.  I don’t have to bend to the fact that other people want a relationship.  I can’t learn a new person right now.  My heart is full.  I’m having these sensations in other parts of my anatomy.  I realize I’m not supposed to talk about that.

But talking about that is part of the road to Noah.  I want to talk about these things and he told me that it doesn’t matter that I’m not supposed to talk about them.  I can do it any way.  I get to decide that my inner moral compass is more important than anyone else’s discomfort.  That’s a tricky line to walk.  Because I do and I don’t.  But I can define the line and have it be in a different place than other people.  If I am within my legal rights, fair fucking game.  Why not?  Because it makes other people uncomfortable.

I didn’t drag your ass here to read my words.  I’m defensive with no one and every one.  I’m sitting here arguing with ghosts.  I haven’t gotten a negative comment.  I have been flamed once on the internet in many years of posting intense personal information, and that was a prank.  All of these shoulds I am yelling against are just phantoms in my head.  They are what I was told.  I need to stop this bitching in my head.  This litany of shame.

I’m really not doing anything wrong.  And neither is Noah.  And he’s going to go on a date soon.  And I need to smile and kiss him good bye and be nice when he comes home.  I get to have boundaries, sure.  I don’t get to be nasty.  That’s not a right.

Ok.  I’ll accept this step as inevitable.  Shit.  And I’ll be nice… well unless I’m being pissy about something else.  Then all bets are off and I’ll apologize and grovel.  I’m really sorry that will happen.  I’m trying to work on it.  It is better.

I’m trying to be worthy of you, too.