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I am in love with my planner.

Two years ago, a friend of mine mentioned how much she adored her custom daily planner. The only millennial I’d ever met who still uses a physical appointment book is Danielle, so I was surprised to find that my tech babe friend deliberately took herself offline every day to plan and record it. I was intrigued enough to try it so I ordered a semi-customizable planner for myself. Fifty-two weeks of doodles to fill in, stickers to place, half hours to schedule, habits to track, and notes to make arrived a few weeks into 2023.

As with most new projects, I was religious about filling it in at first.

Unlike most new projects, I kept filling it in. Then I filled in some more.

Before I knew it, the year was nearly over and I had filled in every day. I tracked how many glasses of water I drank, how many hours I worked, I wrote down what I had for dinner and even filled in evenings with large blocks labeled “Hyrule” or “nature shows” and even, sometimes, “dick all the way around.” At the end of the year, I went back and thumbed through it. It was revelatory.

You see, I struggle with feelings of inadequacy. I should work more, do more admin and marketing, exercise more, read more, socialize more, be… more… somehow. And without a good sense of what I was doing, all I could think about was how much I wasn’t. Learning French (faster). Learning to draw. Learning to play an instrument. Joining a choir. Volunteering. Building. Exercising.

Being able to look back and see how much I actually did, how often I worked on a project or got some middling task finished, how often I achieved the simple tasks of existence, and, crucially, how much farther along on larger goals I was than I had been months back, was a huge, freeing experience.

Every evening, I sit down and check off the tasks I completed. Then I fill in my mood and habit trackers. I look forward to the days ahead and try to plan how to use my time. Finally I add a line to my self-care journal, and if I’m feeling fancy I add stickers to celebrate or laugh at anything special or unusual. The planner came with several sheets and why not go through them? They’re fun!

I’m a few weeks into my third now, and, though I’m not quite as religious about it as I was, I still go in and fill the spaces with my daily minutia. It’s done the work of helping me feel less inadequate, so I’m not as religious about planning my days and checking things off, but I am happy to have the data, because one of my favorite things at the back is the year in review.

There is room at the end of the planner for a variety of optional pages. Daily gratitude journal, mood and habit tracker, workout tracker, doodles, sudoku, class schedule, maps, places to make lists of books, movies, or TV to watch, all kinds of things, including two pages full of prompts to review the past year and set intentions for the new one. As an acknowledgment that the future is impossible to predict, I only ever use pencil in my planner… except on these two pages.

Before I fill in the page, I write a long entry in my journal. I try to be as honest as possible, even when it’s not flattering. I roll the prompts around in my head and let the words spill onto the page. Sometimes where I land is far from where I started. I like it as an exercise, and by the time I’m done, I have good, comfortable, short answers to pen in.

Then I get to make plans. Something I want to do, things I want to learn, things I want to spend more, or less time or money on… things like that. I still journal about them, but it’s a more hopeful sort of journaling. Lots of plans and hopes, fewer mistakes. I don’t often spend as much time on it, because I’l be revisiting as the year churns by.

So far I’ve only had one opportunity to compare the coming year forecast to the past year retrospective. I didn’t opt for those pages in my first planner, so 2023 only got a reflection, not a prediction. But 2024 I got to start with Growth, Ease, and Power as my three words to describe my expectations and then end with Comfortable, Tough Talks, and Obstacle Course Racing! As my three words (generously defined) to describe the previous year. To see how my expectations were met in unexpected ways was one of many pleasures.

I think my favorite example of reassessing my strategies was my intention to bust my yarn stash. I know how to knit, and have completed some really cool projects. A huge, gorgeous fluffy blanket scarf, a variety of hats, some of which are still regularly worn, gloves (difficult, badly fitting, but lovely), half of a pillowcase for a sofa cushion… And I’ve always wanted to knit myself a cardigan. There’s a yarn store in my neighborhood and some of the fibers are irresistible. Simply stunning. Why buy a cashmere sweater when I can make one!?!

Well, because it’s hard, it takes forever, and it makes your hands hurt. Halfway through last year I realized that I simply wasn’t going to bust my stash in the traditional way. So I decided to shift tactics and bust it by gifting it to a friend who actually does fiber craft. Not often, not quickly, but consistently. I saved a few skeins back to maybe someday finish that pillowcase, but I gave up the part of my identity that said “knitter” and softened it to “knows how to knit.”

And that’s ok. Someday I’ll table the label “hiker” too, probably, in favor of “has really good boots.” It’ll make room for a different interest, which in turn will probably also make room for the next.

But that’s what the year end reflection is about! It’s to see how far I landed from where I thought I’d be, a reminder to redouble my efforts in some areas, a chance to abandon my plans in others. An opportunity to set lofty goals, knowing that sometimes close is close enough, and sometimes I’ll reach them through unconventional means.

So what did I write for 2025? Achievement, settling in, and experimentation. I’m excited. Optimistic, like I’m close enough to understanding myself to hack life. I want to hike the Wonderland Trail and do some end-of-life financial planning. I’ll be challenged to safely complete the Trail, and all the other hikes I’ve got planned before and after. I’ll also be challenged supporting my best friend as her partner struggles with a chronic, and worsening, illness.  I want to learn to draw, to use a map and compass, to hammock camp, and to play the guitar. I look forward to lingering on my hikes, drinking in the views, and to Dragon Con in September. I want to spend more time meditating, drawing, practicing doing things with my left hand more, and reading. I want to spend both less and more money saving. I want to begin surrogate partner training, and I want to stop being tied to my phone so closely.

These are the results of hours of thought, and will be the subject of more as the year goes by. It’s only been nine weeks so far and I’m already making small progress. Added a few bits to a costume. Got an ultralight stove to camp with. Helped with a big move. And had not one but three “perfect weeks” where I did at least one each of a run, a weight lifting session, yoga, a hike, and a pull-ups drill.

I had a big weekend last week and got to fill in my days with “birthday dinner” and “cat sitting” and “naps”. This week it’ll be “Pilates” and “hike” and “work (DUO!)” and “Grocery Shopping”. And in six months I’ll wonder how I stayed busy when work was so slow, and I’ll flip back to see that I spent time with my friends, my books, my colleagues, and my self, all of which move me towards my goals.

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Three out of five spicy

When I began in this world, over ten years ago now, I really dove in. Not deeply, necessarily, but with broad interest that covered anything remotely sexual. Most of what I thought of when I imagined kink didn’t appeal to me. Giving up control, being struck with objects or hands, being tied… But I did find it fascinating. And I met people who did like it. I learned about what they liked and wanted and found pleasure or safety in. I watched, with excited fascination, a lot of people doing a lot of things to a lot of other people that I didn’t at all want done to me.

Over time, I gathered knowledge. Bits and bobs here and there, accumulating in the corners of my mind at the same time toys accumulated in drawers, whims and requests and gifts relegated to storage. I didn’t use them much. One or two favorites saw the light of day, but the rest sat, organized and gathering dust.

Until now.

I have been asked before, more than once, whether I would offer sensual domination. I’ve always demurred. Between the genuine risk of injury, my own lack of training, and my aversion to pain or discomfort, I’ve never been sure I could do a good job. But I’ve been feeling stagnant of late, looking to add to my repertoire, so this time, when a trusted friend made a gentle inquiry, I said what the hell and went for it.

Turns out I’m kind of into it.

I spent my early FBSM years learning it. First in official, actual massage school to learn how to do it properly, then in constant practice to get good at it. My style evolved as I mastered first one skill set, then another, and another. Now I get to master another still!

I’m opting out of the formal education route this time. Several years ago, I spoke seriously to a bondassage instructor to have them fly to Seattle and spend a weekend instructing myself and a friend. Ultimately, the price tag put me off it, but it wasn’t just that. Bondassage is a trademarked protocol and, while it comes with certification and certainty, it’s also confining. It’s someone else’s way of doing things, which is fine and lovely and not really for me.

Instead, I am experimenting. I cut a hole in my old massage table and played around with it. I LOVE having a milking table, but I didn’t find them ready made to order from anywhere I trusted, and my hack job, while functional, doesn’t meet my standards. I hope to get something custom designed in the future, but for now, it will make the occasional appearance.

Other long forgotten toys have come out of the closet. A series of insertables, some vibrating friends, things that prickle and tickle and sting… For someone who finds sensations of interest, a collection of items that deliver such a variety of them is of interest indeed.

Since that first “fuck it, why not” I have entertained a small cadre of familiar gentleman callers. Some were expected, others a surprise. I’ve learned from everyone, and some have learned a thing or two from me.

Because I come from a sensual massage background instead of a BDSM background, my personal style is still very sensation oriented versus domination oriented. I don’t ask for special titles, and I am not inclined to humiliate my darlings. I don’t dress any differently than I usually do; no spiked heels or latex for me. I default to my hands and my teeth as my primary tools, and we will almost certainly reach my limits before we reach yours. For now.

For those seeking a little spice in their massages, I will be a good fit. For those who wish to do a little experimenting, you are welcome here. And for the adventurous folks who can’t get enough, I have a few friends who would be very happy to join us. They’d like to remain anonymous to the general public so for the purposes of this post they are known as the sprite, with an impish spirit and a boisterous laugh, the goddess, firm but kind, and the demon, harmless to the flesh but evil to the mind. Each of my special friends brings their own flavor to the session: like trying a different dish from the same restaurant. The curious are welcome to reach out with questions.

If you’ve been curious, but shy to take part, I encourage you to try me. I’m not going to spit on you, or degrade you, I won’t call you names or leave mysterious bruises anywhere. For that there are many more capable and willing than I. All we will do is explore a little, see what works and what doesn’t, and maybe open some doors you didn’t know you had.

Or maybe some of mine 😉

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Tomorrow is my birthday!

I turn 36 tomorrow. Valentine’s day. I rarely go out on my actual birthday. I don’t like fixed menus, people who don’t usually go out, trying to impress their girlfriends, crowds… so you can almost always find me enjoying my lovely birthday evening a day or two before or after.

Tomorrow will be much like any other day, for me. I’ll be up around seven, get myself some coffee, check my emails, maybe stare out the window a while. Be bleary-eyed and greet the morning slowly.

I’ll go for a walk, maybe a hike, talk to a friend or family member, play some puzzle games, look at too much internet, entertain a guest at work…

And yet it’s not like every other day.

I’m not young anymore. And that’s not me saying I’m old. I’m not old yet by any stretch.

But some of my wide eyed innocence and optimism has cooled. I’m still painfully optimistic in many ways, but my expectations have been tempered. Realism seeps through, the way the damp seeps through the walls of my tent. I’m still glad I’m camping, but I know it’ll be brisk once I leave my sleeping bag and I’ll have to move around a bit before I can get comfortable.

In someways it’s a bummer. I don’t get fired up the way I used to. The wonder of discovery comes to me less often now; I have to seek it out where before it fell at my feet. My standards for words and food and people are higher, so I enjoy fewer of them than I once did. I’ve seen so many iterations of my own faulty behavioral patterns that they irritate me when I don’t stop them in time.

And yet…

I’m able to discover things more obscure than before. The joy of understanding comes to me more often. The words and people and food that I do enjoy, I spend more time with. I am slowly growing closer and closer to being the kind of person I want to be.

I’m not as slender as I was in my twenties, but my strength and stamina are far greater. The looming specter of old age has made me determined to stay moving and functional as much and as long as possible.

I’m not as passionate as I was in my twenties, but I’m more composed now.

I’m not as firm and pert as I was in my twenties, but the sex I have now is so much more satisfying.

I don’t think younger me could have imagined the life I lead. A younger me had more paths available. More energy. But I do think younger me would be very happy with me now, and I’m looking forward to finding out what’s next.

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This is for you.

If you’re wondering if you are the you I I mean, the answer is yes.

You are the shy one. The nerd. The writer. The florist. You are the book pimp. the games designer. The immigrant. The hobby farmer. The movie buff. You are living the health journey. The dating game. This newly discovered world of hired companions. You just turned thirty. Forty. Fifty. You hike. You search. You run. You sail. You raft. You write.

You have found, in my presence, joy. Pleasure. Meaning. Confidence. Inspiration. Collaboration. An invitation.

I have found, in yours, also joy. Also pleasure. Different meaning. More confidence. Inspiration. Awe. Fear. Confusion. Helplessness. Irritation. Astonishment. Disappointment. Love. Gratitude.

And, inevitably, repeatedly: the reignition of joy.

Every year, today, I give thanks. And every year, I feel it more. As I learn and grow, adapt and change, I return over and over to the truth, the inevitable conclusion, that I am lucky as God damned fuck.

Somehow, at the end of twisting Corridor of un-unmakeable choices, you are here, with me, and, somehow, by some unfathomable fate, it is good. Still. Somehow.

And for that I give thanks on a day that, for many, is not a day of gratitude. I thank you for your part in making it good for me.

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The Worst Admin I’ll Ever do

On July 18 of this year, I had to send an email I had hoped I’d never need to.

I get tested for STIs regularly, though sometimes I let more time go by than I should. Historically, my results have always been negative, which makes sense, given my practices and activities. For ten years, every few months I would get pricked and swabbed and sampled, and every time my results came back “negative – within normal limits” for everything.

Well my streak came to an abrupt and unpleasant halt this summer.

Everything south of the border was good to go, but my love of licking finally got to me, and my throat swab came back positive for Ghonorhea.

The usual symptoms are sore throat, burning, swollen glands, etc, but I hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. I wouldn’t have even known if I hadn’t been (over, to be honest) due for testing. Which, by the way, is exactly why we do it regularly instead of waiting for something to happen.

The physical impact, for me, was basically nothing. I popped over to my local planned parenthood, they gave me a single intramuscular dose of antibiotics, and sent me on my way. I went back to my doctor two weeks later for a follow up and I was 100% good to go.

The emotional impact, however, was so, so much worse, and that’s why I’m writing about this publicly.

Because I was overdue on my testing, I had to go back FIVE MONTHS in my calendar and tell every single person I’d met within that time frame that they had possibly been exposed. And because It’s hard for me to resist that specific kind of a good time during even my FBSM appointments, I had to tell everyone everyone.

I can tell you, that’s the hardest email I’ve ever sent. I was embarrassed I’d fallen so badly behind on my testing. I was afraid that people would be angry with me for exposing them. I was chagrined at the fact that others would have to spend time and money (and in some cases miss out on work or appointments with other providers) on a problem I could have maybe prevented. I was committed to doing better. And I was fucking proud of myself for hitting send on that email, snaky hands and all.

To those of my readers who got that email, I cannot stress enough how fucking proud I am of you. The overwhelming response was “Thank you for telling me. I’ve scheduled an appointment to get tested. I’ll let you know what the results are.” Some of you were scared, too. And helpful. And kind. One or two of you were defensive or insecure. All of you did a great job being responsible.

To my first replier, the one who said “I know you don’t need to hear this but you’re doing the right thing”: I really, really did need to hear that. Thank you.

I drew on my close friends for support (shoutout to Tiny Phryne who sat with me via text as I was drafting the email) and felt so much love and reassurance, but it could easily have gone very badly for me. It only takes one pissed off individual to ruin a career in this industry and it would have been entirely understandable to be upset at this kind of news.

But every single person handled themselves well, and everyone who followed up with their results was negative. Every new result reported made me feel better. I was worried I would have been the cause of someone else’s discomfort or embarrassment and I’m so glad that everyone came out unscathed. I was also reassured that, even if someone had popped hot, at least they knew and could stop it in its tracks.

As for where it came from… If anyone turned up positive, they chose not to share that with me. Which is fine. I’m curious, but it wouldn’t have changed anything for me that I wasn’t already changing anyway. I decided to first: be more diligent about sticking to a once per three months testing schedule and second: to up my throat swab schedule to once a month.

Since July, I’ve done exactly that. I have been pleased to get the regular notification from my health care team telling me I’m good to go for another month, and instead of waiting until it’s time and then trying to remember to schedule my next test, I stop by the front desk on my way out and schedule a rematch as close to four weeks out as I can. It works so much better, and helps me hold myself to a professional standard that I more often aspire to than reach.

I’m writing this post, partly because writing is how I process, but partly to normalize testing and sharing your results when you need to. And honestly, partly as marketing. Good marketing is as much about who you don’t appeal to as who you do, and I’d like to invite anyone who is turned off by this post to cherish that. Discomfort is a sign from your body that you’re not ready, and listening to those signs is exceedingly wise.

Thank you my friends for being such incredible people. For taking it in stride, for seeking knowledge, for being kind, and for trusting me. I am honored to be worthy of that trust and I look forward to many more years of good health.

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When is it enough?

I meet a lot of people in my line of work. Mostly men, mostly liberal, mostly well-off financially, mostly educated, mostly heterosexual…

And every one of them successful.

What I find baffling, and yet also deeply understand, is how many of these successful people don’t see themselves that way.

I grew up with entrepreneurial parents. They owned a small business, had a few employees, and worked pretty much every day. They were able to take major holidays off, and we went on some road trips, but I was 27 the first time I went abroad. We never suffered a lack of the basics, and we had pets, bicycles, and gas in the car whenever we needed it.

While I don’t ever remember getting a formal sitting down financial education, being frugal was built into my upbringing. My brother wanted a guitar. A fancy, expensive one. But he didn’t know how to play. So my parents bought him a small one and said that if he practiced, he could get a better one. A year later, he got an Xbox for Christmas. We went to the library once a week to borrow books and movies, despite the fact that we had oodles of space to own them if we wanted. We made two annual trips to Costco to buy items in bulk, saving money in the long run. Little things like that. We weren’t poor by any stretch, but I don’t think we ever bought a car new off the lot.

So when I started out on my own, some of these attitudes about money really stuck, even when I had more than I needed. Don’t spend more than you have. Live below your means. Work as if your employer’s business was your business. Be careful with credit. Avoid debt whenever possible. Use items until they wear out, don’t replace them just because you can.

And yet there was something more. Something unspoken about money and success that I wasn’t able to name for many years. Something that wasn’t rooted in common sense spending habits or logic.

Fear.

At first, when I started making my own money, I lived cheap and paid off debt. I was working both a square job and at the DreamGirls down by the sports stadiums, with a monthly budget based solely off my regular paycheck. I still remember the first time I had “real” money. I had paid off my student loans, paid all the bills for the month, and I had 1,000 left over. It was real money, too. A stack of hundreds and twenties on my night stand, cash in hand from generous gentlemen at the club. I could touch it and admire it. I felt giddy, foolish even. I felt an easing of tension, relief from fear I didn’t know I had.

Because money isn’t just money. Money represents safety. My conservative upbringing meant I had no idea what social safety nets were available, and even if I had known, I’d have been ashamed to apply. Without money, I would have to rely on the kindness of others. My parents, mostly, but my roommate. I had already availed myself of my Aunt’s aid, and my Uncle’s. If I had to, I could have asked again, and to this day I know I’ll have a refuge of last resort in many family homes. But I don’t like relying on other people, and I fear the shame and disapproval of my family should I fail and have to run for cover.

And there it is again. Fear.

For me, having money assuages that fear. I do like watching the numbers go up when I play a game. The rising total of some silly in-game currency always makes me happy. Not like Scrooge McDuck, with the swimming pool full of gold; it doesn’t make me happy in and of itself. What makes me happy is that it represents a truth: I am winning.

And so life imitates art: as the numbers go up in my real life bank account I don’t see money. I see safety. I see rent paid for years, if necessary. I see winter-proofing the lake house. I see a future in which I make it to old age in relative comfort.

My bank recently approved me for what feels like an absurd amount of credit. I could order a medium sized yurt kit online and pay for it entirely with one swipe. I’ll never do it (avoid debt when possible, and credit card debt especially) but it is comforting as fuck to know I *could* if I had to. Once again I get that feeling of giddiness, of having arrived, the fear of “failure” lifting.

I fear a future in which I am old, alone, and too broke to pay for the kind of medical care that allows me to stay independent. I fear not having a safe and comfortable place to live. I fear catastrophic medical expenses that make an old, lonely, broke existence more likely. I fear that my prime income generating years are behind me and I have an old, lonely, broke existence in my future.

That fear has driven a lot of my decisions over the years. After TRB went down in 2016, that fear had me at my computer signing up for every advertising location I could find. That fear drives me to do things I hate, like the never ending cleaning so my bathroom sparkles for you, and making the bed with fresh sheets every. Single. Time. That fear factors into every major life decision I make.

And it’s a fear that, except under extremely rare circumstances, can’t be assuaged by just giving me more money. Isn’t that wild? Because a one-time gift doesn’t indicate a trend, and it would have to be a catastrophic amount in order for it to chip away at that fearful vision of an old, lonely, broke future. We’re talking a quarter of a million catastrophic, because that’s enough to fix up the lake house. And I *still* wouldn’t stop working. Because enough to fix the lake house isn’t enough to live off for the rest of my life, and a winter-tight home is all well and good until you don’t have enough to pay the property taxes.

Enough. What is enough to assuage that fear? I hear a lot of numbers thrown around. A million bucks and you can retire, I’m told. Assuming you’ve got Social Security to count on, or a pension, or hot damn, both! I can count on neither. What will the number be in twenty years when I’m finally nearing retirement age? What is enough to assuage my fear?

I write all this with the benefit of self-reflection. I’ve known about this fear for a few years now and I do a pretty good job of managing it. The numbers go up every month, I try to trust that I’m doing now what needs doing to secure my future, and I am usually able to harness my fear, rather than panic at it.

And so I wonder, when I meet people who seem to me to have secure futures, why they still fear? What fear is keeping you in a job you hate? What fear prevents you from changing lanes, from stepping back, from  prioritizing yourself? By virtue of my rates, most of the people I meet aren’t in danger of losing their homes. They have nice clothes, nice toys, nice cars. And yet I am surprised at how many people who to an outside observer are successful, haven’t made peace with their fear. Don’t consider themselves successful. Don’t have enough.

This is not a judgement. Heaven knows I’ve no room to tell others what to feel or fear where futures are concerned. I don’t have children, so the only future I have to fear for is my own. My parents are well-enough set that it will be some time before their future becomes my problem. I am as guilty as the next person of making decisions out of fear of the unknown.

But I’m aware of it now. As recently as this month, that fear has shown itself. But I am ready for it now. I let it motivate me instead of cow me. I manage my anxiety rather than flailing. And I remind myself that, though I don’t have enough yet to be done, I do have enough for now.

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Film Review: The Sessions

I finally watched The Sessions the other day. For those who don’t know, it’s a movie based on the true story of a man living in an iron lung. Or, part of his story, anyway.

In 1990, Mark was 41, and published an essay detailing his experiences some years before with seeing a sex surrogate. He was a poet, clever, self-deprecating, but unable to move his arms, legs, or torso, and only alive with the assistance of an iron lung. Using only his mouth and the help of others he wrote, and advocated for the rights of disabled folks to live independently everywhere.

His story is beautiful. The essay is unglamorous, sharing not only the physical experience of seeing a surrogate in order to get over the hurdle of his first time, but the emotional experience of facing shame around his sexuality, and his unhappiness with his own body. While he doesn’t describe the experience as life changing, and he didn’t immediately find true love, the fact that he realized that sex wasn’t impossible, that his body was capable of it and it wasn’t really that scary tells me that it did something. And though he hadn’t found love by 41, he did soon after.

I wish Mark had written another essay. Something later, after he met Susan, his love and life partner, telling us more about his continued friendship with the surrogate, Cheryl, and about how her presence in his life, even such a brief presence, changed his approach to women.

Jessica Yu made a short documentary about his life, called Breathing Lessons, which I have not managed to find in my brief searching. But I did find, and watch, The Sessions, a more recent film, somewhat of a biopic, costarring Helen Hunt as Cheryl, the surrogate.

I hated it.

I watched it because when it was released a few years ago, it was hailed as this cute, sex-work positive film and it was supposed to help change opinions about sex work, sex surrogacy in particular. I actually really like Helen Hunt, and honestly she did a great job. All the actors were fantastic, which sucks, because the script they were given was a hot pile of garbage. William H. Macy plays his catholic priest, a down-to-earth, funny man, earnestly religious, and supportive of Mark’s person and his journey. Mark’s assistants are played by a variety of talented actors who bring humor, love, and honesty to their roles. And John Hawkes did excellent work bringing Mark’s particular ways of speaking and moving to life, with the charm and wit he was known for.

But the stories never really hooked me. The director didn’t give us time to invest in any of the characters’ relationships before they just, ended. In the film, he falls in love with one of his assistants and she doesn’t reciprocate, but they have a tearful goodbye where she tells him she loves him, too, just not that way. The film hasn’t given us enough time to fall in love with either of them by then, so it just feels forced. Another assistant has a forced not-romance with the front desk agent at a hotel they use for his sessions. It adds nothing to the film and wastes time that would have been better used elsewhere.

But the relationships I hate the most are Cheryl’s. Mark starts to fall for Cheryl, a pretty normal thing for a client when seeing his first sex worker. But then she falls for him, too, something that didn’t happen, and doesn’t happen in the span of four sessions. It certainly doesn’t happen to experienced providers. Her falling for him is particularly unbelievable because of how just painfully awkward their sessions are. He writes that they were awkward, and his physical limitations mean that makes sense to me, but she’s just so…. Abrupt. I was extremely turned off by her brusque manner in the first few sessions, and she chides him for being afraid and anxious. She doesn’t kiss him until their last session, even though kissing is pretty standard first base stuff, and she also doesn’t offer him simple affection, only sex.

I know they’re trying to paint her as a professional, but she a professional sex-having person. She’s not there to paint his bicycle, she’s there to help him feel normal about himself, and experience sex and pleasure. If I were him, and my sex surrogate came in and undressed herself that fast, then roughly undressed me, I’d be… not happy. Worse: he has nothing to compare it to so he has no idea that she sucks!

So her falling for him after eight hours of clinical, awkward sex just isn’t believable for me.

But what’s even more upsetting is how her husband is portrayed. He doesn’t work, and she portrays that as something awkward and undesirable. He wants her to convert to Judaism, which is fine, but it’s written as if it’s shallow and disrespectful to her. Mark mails her a love poem, which was unwise of him, but otherwise harmless, except that her husband finds the people and picks a fight with her over it. A fight which we never see them actually discuss, she just gives him the silent treatment, then says “you were right, I shouldn’t have gotten angry that you opened, read, and then threw away my mail.” And that’s the end of it.

I don’t know what the screenwriters were doing with that. I think they were trying to give us a reason for why Cheryl might be unhappy in love, open to falling for Mark. Except it was neither compelling, nor did they follow through on it. The conflict between her and her husband was shoehorned in to try to give interest to the viewer, but it just felt fucked up. Like, pick one, guys. Either her husband sucks and she learns from Mark not to put up with shitty treatment and leaves, or her husband doesn’t suck and is able to manage his jealousy like an adult and the two of them work through their feelings together, or he’s supportive and they are able to take the love poem for what it is: a beautiful expression from a client who appreciates and adores her for a job well done.

She doesn’t even tell Mark how inappropriate it was! Like, if that’s the conclusion we’re coming to in the story, then do something with it! It’s like the filmmakers wanted to have it both ways: romantic conflict, and also everything is completely fine.

Finally, Cheryl is shown making notes about Mark’s emotional and mental state. That is outside the scope of practice for a sex surrogate. Surrogates work *with* therapists, not *as* therapists. She might have had some training, and she would have shared her thoughts with his therapist, but they used her note taking as a way to *tell* the viewer about Mark, instead of *showing*. I believe they were trying to show us her falling in love with him? Perhaps? But as with many of the love stories, there wasn’t enough to make it feel real.

The Sessions didn’t seem to get a lot of views when it came out. It had a lot of potential to talk about Mark, his life, his work advocating for the disabled, the work of sex surrogates, and the role of religion in people’s lives, but it wasted screen time on weak, contrived love stories instead. Cheryl should have been a lot gentler from the get-go, kept her opinions within her field, and had a better way of handling conflict with her husband than the silent treatment.

Overall, I thought the acting was pretty darn good, but the script was awful and the film suffered for it. Uninspiring, busy, unsatisfying, I wish I could have seen the biopic this should have been instead of the stilted mess they gave us.

So if you saw The Sessions hoping to find the courage to take your own first steps toward seeing a sex surrogate, and it turned you off? Take heart: it turned me off, too. I may not have the same mental health training, and unless you ask, I won’t be talking with your therapist about our time together, but I have experience helping people move through the awkward, scary, early phases of their sexuality. I have watched more than one person leave a world of insecurity and fear behind them and put themselves out there. It’s not entirely my doing. These people have put a lot of effort into overcoming their demons, a lot of time in therapy, at the gym, dating, second guessing themselves… but part of that can be done with me, and I promise, I’m a lot less brusque than she was. 

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So that’s why they’re called Pearls.

I went hiking yesterday. No surprises there. I’ve been trying to go once a week, so the odds of going hiking yesterday are pretty high.

One thing I really love about hikes is that they force me to think. I don’t listen to music or podcasts while I’m on the trail, I can’t play games or read a book, and each hike lasts for hours. I’m stuck inside my head while my body carries me through exquisite scenery, and as I walk, I ruminate.

I chew on old scenes, moments of conflict, problems with friends and family. I chew on irritating comments, people who don’t leash their dogs, and like an oyster with a grain of sand, I wrap each irritating idea in layers and layers of thoughts.

Once, while walking down the sidewalk in front of an old office space, I saw a woman walk away from where her little dog had relieved itself. I made eye contact and asked if she wasn’t going to pick that up. “SHE PEED!” Came the indignant reply.

I can still see in my mind’s eye the woman’s curly blonde hair, her tone, and the coolness of the day under the trees. I remember the little dog’s fur that matched her owner’s hair, and the slender lead with which she tugged it away. I wonder: should I have looked harder before calling her out? Should I have apologized? Should I have saved my own indignance for someone with a bigger dog? A worse infraction? This is only one unhappy social misstep that I chew on as I walk, despite it’s insignificance, and the fact that it happened nine years ago.

So when I found myself, yesterday, turning an idea over and over in my head, looking at it from different angles, refining and imaging the scenario, I was pleasantly surprised to realize it was an idea for a photo shoot.

You see, for the past several years, between pandemic, politics, family drama, and a variety of demanding interpersonal conflicts, much of what I had been ruminating on was an upsetting past. I spent hours and hours and hours of time carefully crafting replies to questions and accusations levied months ago, outlining elegant arguments that will never be heard. As the pearl grows, memories surface, new arguments are drawn up, and another layer goes over the sand, protecting me from it’s scratch.

I can’t tell you what a pleasure it was to realize that I had spent an hour, fully inside my head, thinking about creating. Dwelling on beauty and how to frame it, capture it, share it with people who will see it and want to steal sweet moments with me. Thinking not of what I could have done back then to prevent or ameliorate pain, but of what I will do in the future to create beauty, pleasure, and joy.

It doesn’t hurt that at the peak, as I rested in the sun and took in an expansive view, five bald eagles slipped smoothly out of the sky to circle the clearing. Three adults and two juveniles took turns perching on high, bare branches, riding the thermals to scout for prey, and playing together. They would slowly swoop down, chattering and chirping at each other, and make mock dives at slow speeds just to see which would give way. The breeze kept me from lingering, even the high early afternoon sun wasn’t quite enough buffer, or I’d have stayed longer, reveling in their reveling, taking my own pleasure from watching them play.

I have read that an interaction with a bird can improve your mood for something like 20 minutes afterward. Maybe it was the eagles, maybe it was the sugar rush from my granola bar, maybe it was the relief of going back down after getting overexerted on the way up, I’m sure it didn’t hurt that I had just spent a fabulous night with a delightful new suitor, maybe it was the pleasure of a warm but not hot day with no one else to share the trail, but I had one of those rare moments where I was just happy. Not excited, not simply content, but gently, peacefully happy. It felt good to be where I was, when I was, feeling the way I was.

I’m still marveling at it 24 hours later, in case that wasn’t obvious. Taking still more pleasure in the act of examining the memory. Feeling echos of it reverberate through me. As I look out my window at a stunning sunny day and make plans for more hikes, more activities, more opportunities for simple happiness, I can see where the echos ripple into the future. I can see where new experiences will complement the old, magnifying them.

I feel so incredibly blessed. To have the time and flexibility to take myself away for hours and hours at a time in the middle of the week. To find a trail, lonely and peaceful, and the ability to make use of it. To have the freedom, education, and inspiration to write about it. To have an audience, however small, to share with and to hear how impactful it has been. Blessed to find these pearls of wisdom, of happiness, come from unexpected places. The world isn’t such a bad place sometimes.

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I don’t like your truck

I had to rent a pickup truck last month. I needed to haul some lumber and while I can fit a surprising number of pressure-treated 2×12’s into my Prius, its not a surprising enough number to finish my project. I grew up rural. I know trucks well enough to know what to expect. I expected four wheels, a nice roomy bed in the back, and an engine to get them around.

In the back of my mind, I knew that’s not really how they do trucks anymore, but it wasn’t until I reached the rental car lot that I realized how irritatingly off base my expectations were. It was a small lot on the edges of town and they had three pickup trucks to choose from. They all had essentially the same features: a massive double cab with too many seats, air conditioning, bluetooth enabled radios, other modern frills and fripperies… and a six foot bed.

The lumber I had ordered was eight.

I didn’t need a bluetooth enabled radio. I didn’t need room for five people. I didn’t need air conditioning (it had windows, after all). I didn’t need seat heaters or an electric key fob or a backup camera or any of the crap in the cab. I needed eight feet of truck bed.

“How?” I wondered to myself. “How can a vehicle be simultaneously too big AND too small!?!”

Sighing with irritation but without a better option, I took it. Clambering into the driver’s seat, I flashed back to my first time driving a pickup.

I was twelve and a horse girl, like you do when you grow up rural. Horses eat hay so once a year or so we had to go get it. Hay is cheaper when you go get the bales in the field instead of having them brought to you so that’s what we did. As the youngest (and the shortest and the weakest), my job was to keep the truck moving, slow and steady, as everyone else shifted bales up to the tailgate, then mom tetrised them up, four hight and five deep into the bed. I couldn’t reach the pedals without tying 2×4’s to my feet, and that’s with sitting on the very front edge of the seat. Once we had as many bales as we could wedge in back there, I clambered over the front seats to share the two tiny seats with my brother, several beat up tool bags, and a layer of gloves, hats, candy wrappers, receipts, shop rags, and other detritus I find inseparable from a working vehicle.

That truck features vividly in my memories of childhood. It hauled fence posts, heavy machinery, ran the plow in the winter, and brought home at least a dozen Christmas trees before it went to the big racetrack in the sky. It was white and had a hydraulic lift on it. It was scratched, dented, filthy, and beautiful. It was made to haul stuff, not people, and it did it’s job exceptionally well.

I felt the same sense of smallness in this chonky, shiny rental, but without the accompanying comfort. It should have smelled like degreaser and sweat. It should have had room in the bed for everything I needed. It should have been easier to get into. I only ever drove that truck a few times, but riding in it over and over made it comfortable. This one, so much bigger than it needed to be, and yet not big enough for what I needed, didn’t feel right.

Another truck that looms large in my childhood memories was older, but came along a few years later. With a cab even more spartan than the work truck, it got cold in the winter and hot in the summer. The shifter must have been a solid foot or so long and emerged from bare steel to sit directly between my knees whenever we had a second passenger. My short legs meant I always wound up (still do) in the smallest seat, the shortest one, the one with the least room in any dimension, and in that big old Clifford-red ford, that meant the center of the bench seat with one foot in the driver’s side footwell and the other in the passenger side.

The red ford became my brother’s primary ride, and part of the deal was giving me one to school every day. It was how we got to friend’s homes, and how we got them to the creek on hot summer days. This truck was all bed, no cab. Whoever he had a crush on got to sit in the front and the rest of us rode in the back, hot wind whipping past us, each bump in the road jostling us, giggling, back and forth.

Neither of these trucks had a backup camera. You had to learn where your ass was and try to keep it where it belonged, or get a friend to stand in your rear view and wave you back and forth as you wiggled your way back into wherever you needed to be.

Which is good, because that backup camera I mentioned earlier, the one on my fancy new rental? Yeah…. It’s mounted on the tailgate. Which is great! Unless the bed is too short to hold your lumber, and the tailgate is pointed at the ground.

The one and only time I needed to back up that stupid truck, the singular moment when a camera might have been a handy gadget, it was useless. It would have been better if it hadn’t been there are all, considering how distracting it was to have the screen tugging at the edges of my vision while, as I learned to do 23 years ago, someone stood in my rear view and waved me in.

Before this, I already had some strong opinions on people who drive pristine pickups. I feel like I’ve been seeing them everywhere: glistening late model 4x4s with lift packages and exhaust pipes in improbable places. My uncle joined the club some years go with a precious baby that runs on batteries as much as fuel, comes with a push start and an app, has every possible climate control and comfort option in the massive cab…. And hauls a boat twice a year. The driver’s hatred for millennials is probably the heaviest cargo it’ll every carry and god forbid it get a scratch.

These people, folks who value the appearance of physical labor, but don’t actually perform any, fall into the same category as people I call “cowboys with no cows.” Posers who adopt the trappings of people who actually work for a living, claiming the music, the style, the stuff, but none of the hardships, annoy me. There’s a reason cowboy boots have a heel. There’s a reason to drive what is essentially a big-ass wheelbarrow. There’s a reason to have a massive and powerful engine. Those reasons outweigh environmental damage, the space they take up, and some discomfort, but without them, these sorts of things are just a big old fuck you to everyone else. And to try to shoehorn a monster truck into a city lifestyle is just plain stupid.

I like hybrid vehicles, they’re better than the alternative. I like climate control, though opening a window is still the OG AC. I like having the means to build and move and shape, which means I like that trucks exist. And honestly, I probably like your truck, because if you’ve met me and you have a truck, you’re probably the kind of person who has it for a reason.

But I’ve been keeping an eye out, since my rental, and fuck me if I don’t see an awful lot of special snowflake pick trucks whose only serious cargo is the driver’s ego. If that one is yours, my friend I can tell you this: I don’t like your truck.

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Book Review: A Little Life, by Hanya Yanagihara

Wow. This book is…. Well it’s a lot.

I don’t remember how I came across this book. Probably a recommendation from someone, or off a list somewhere. I borrowed it from the library (if you aren’t borrowing ebooks from the library, you should start) and I’m halfway through.

Halfway, I think, is about as far as I’m going to get.

First: it’s relatively long. I’m used to long books. I generally like them because once I get into the story, if it’s good, I can stay with it for a long time. In this case, however, the length portends not hours of joyful immersion, but sorrow instead.

Second: I’m not quitting because it’s not a good story. To the contrary: the story is timeless, poignant, and beautifully written. That’s actually the problem.

The novel tells the story of four friends. We begin around the time they meet in college, and the first section of the book follows one, then another, giving us a sense of their personalities and how they blend into friendship together. We learn of their weaknesses and desires, the simple pleasure they take in each other’s company, and their lives as they grow together into successful young professionals. That element reminds me of Mayflies, a novel my book club chose a few cycles back that tells the story of five young men, romping through a weekend of concerts in Manchester in the eighties. Mayflies ends in bittersweet tragedy as one of the five chooses death with dignity over suffering from cancer and the other four must rally to celebrate his life and support his decision.

A Little Life, however, is bittersweet throughout. One of our four friends, Jude St Francis, had a childhood riddled with trauma until he turned 16 and went off to college. Abandonment, belittlement, beatings and sexual abuse by a multitude of adults and fellow orphans, human trafficking, medical trauma, incidents that get worse and worse as he grows up until finally he is crushed by a car driven deliberately and purposefully by yet another violent abuser. This story is told through a series of flashbacks, each one worse than the last.

That’s the bitter.

When we meet him, he has been befriended by three young men who learn to care deeply for him, even as he refuses, year over year, to divulge any of his history. Without knowing that he was beaten and raped repeatedly throughout his childhood, they tolerate his flinching and cageyness with nothing more than raised eyebrows. They offer their love and companionship, they become protective, while simultaneously respecting his refusal to share. His abuse has given him a limp and lifelong pain, sometimes so severe he can’t move, or even breathe well. Instead of infantilizing him, his friends simply let him be with them, accommodating both his resistance to using a wheelchair, and the wheelchair itself with equal acceptance mostly, most of the time.

And there is the sweet.

The sweet is beautiful. Yanagihara’s prose is dripping with imagery, vivid, both passionate and devoid of judgement. She observes her characters loving each other. She frequently refers to the pleasure these men take in each other’s company. They aren’t lovers together, at least not for the most part. They build lives independently of each other. But they never lose their bonds.

Representations of men’s platonic yet loving relationships are sparse. Many of my clients, and some of my guy friends, have shared how difficult it is to share with and trust other men. Few of the adult men I know have even one other man in their lives with whom they feel comfortable being vulnerable. There’s no one to talk to about their sexuality, their loneliness, their insecurities… though Jude takes many many years before he begins to open up, he is surrounded by others who are secure in their place, who open up and share the secrets of their lives with their close friends, both male and female.

I kept expecting everyone to be gay and start hooking up. Kept expecting this big romantic love story to emerge, but, at least outside of the flashbacks, the emphasis was on men loving men, without needing to have sex with them in order to justify it.

And at every turn the words on the page made me feel. Happy, mostly, eager to see, to visualize, the next moment. I felt joy, pleasure, rueful, invested in the relationships and found myself caring for all of them, even when they each screwed up, had to ask forgiveness, received it, or sometimes didn’t.

Which is why I had to stop. Jude’s background is awful. With every page his back story gets more and more horrific. It’s not like Lolita where abuses happen off-screen (or so I’m told. I  have thus far refused to read it), in A Little Life each time Jude-the-child ends up somewhere that Jude-the-adult knows does’t end well, you-the-reader are there, watching in exquisite detail. As much as I would love to keep reading, to soak in the sense of loving, being loved, and belonging that Jude-the-adult has, I can’t.

I might be able to, if it had a happy ending, but it doesn’t. I know that sometimes life works like that, and I understand that Yanagahira is writing an inescapable truth: that trauma is forever. She tells us with every scene that what we learn as children will always be part of us, and that functional isn’t enough when it comes to treating it as an adult.

Perhaps I’m taking away the wrong message. Perhaps if I finished it, I would draw different themes from the pages. I wish I could. If you enjoy difficult books with difficult scenes, if you are someone able to observe a story without seeing it in your dreams and feeling it in the pit of your stomach, or if you can find pleasure in the juxtaposition of hope and the crushing of it, then this book is for you. I plan to try something else she’s written, to try and experience her prose without disappointment and sorrow at the end.

But I wanted to write about this one, first. I said before that we so rarely see representations of men being emotionally intimate with each other. Though the relationships depicted are flawed, some last longer than others, the people in them make mistakes and some of them don’t make it better, though they end in sorrow, they exist. Yanagahira is as relentless reminding us of the pleasure they take in each other’s company as she is in showing us where they came from.

Though I’m not finishing this book, and the fact pains me a bit, I did enjoy what I got through, and I look forward to seeing where her gorgeous prose takes her when it’s not barreling toward despair.

Update on 6/4/24: I finished it after all. Sure enough, I took away a slightly different message, one leaning more toward compassion and dignity than hopelessness. Turns out I had already made it past the worst of his past, though his later days were in some ways worse. Still, it was worth it.