Cole McCade's Blog, page 3

I'm not your sassy fat friend.

I was the fat friend the pretty girls kept around to make them look better.

In college I always knew when a group of boys was looking at me, it meant they were deciding which one would take one for the team to get to my hotter friends.

They thought I was supposed to be grateful to hang around with them. They told me I was funny and sassy and so cheeky like I was lucky because otherwise I would just be fat. I got compliments on having the sense to wear clothing that hid my flaws. They said we were BFFs but hid me behind them looking over their shoulders in group pictures. I hated their pitying looks and condescending tones, but smiled and hit it behind laughter and Fat Amy jokes.

I missed a semester of school because I tried to starve myself with laxatives and almost killed myself. No one came to see me.

But they told me I looked so pretty when I was so thin my hip bones wouldn't hold up my jeans.

Speak: My Story.

Since this is my project, I suppose it's only right if I start things off.

And yet here I am, staring at the screen, not knowing how to begin.

I've hinted that I've experienced abuse. In the foreword to Sometimes it Storms in Winter Rain; in idle mentions, offhand comments in posts. In my diatribe that I went off on the day I snapped on Twitter. But I've never really talked about what happened to me. Not publicly. It hasn't seemed like there was a place for it, a reason for it. It's been my thing I keep inside, this shriveled little knot of awfulness that doesn't need to be inflicted on anyone else. The knot didn't used to be as big as it is. But it's kind of like a rubber band ball. Things keep happening. Keep layering.

Because it's less a story than the continuous footnotes of my life, and every time makes that ball just a bit bigger.

Parts of this may be triggering. I'm not sure yet. I won't know until I get there, and see how this comes out of me. But it's probably safe to assume there are triggers here for physical, emotional, sexual, and psychological abuse. Self-harm, too.

It started when I was maybe four or five. A cousin. Older. Taller. I won't get into details because I don't like talking about children in explicit sexual situations, least of all when that child was me. It went on for years. I tried to tell my mother. She tried to confront his mother, and was shamed into silence. She tried to protect me from him, but still at family reunions he often found a way.

It stopped when I turned twelve and shot up. Six feet. Shoulders like a linebacker. I'd been a delicate, pretty little boy before, but I turned into a rawboned pile of gangly limbs that beat him into the fucking ground. I'd never hurt anyone in my life, before that. I wasn't a violent person. I was a quiet boy, shrinking in a corner with a book, hoping no one would notice me, touch me. But when I found out I could fight back…

When I found out he was touching my younger cousins, too. Girls I loved like sisters.

I tore him to pieces.

And my family exploded.

Everything came to light. Everything. I remember an aunt dragging me down the field near my grandmother's house, her nails digging into my arms hard enough to cut, while she berated me and tried to force me to admit I was lying. They cowed my younger cousins. And even when he finally admitted he'd done it…

He was the victim. Everyone cooed over him and sheltered him because it was so stressful and upsetting to have all these accusations leveled at him.

While I was a violent liar, and my mother a horrible person for trying to bring this to light.

I spent the next few years struggling with myself. Because I had vivid memories of him making me feel good things in that confused preadolescent way, even though it wasn't my choice; it was just an uncontrollable response to physical stimulation, but between that and my family's shaming I felt like I'd done something wrong. I'd brought it on myself because I was dirty. It was my own fault for being pretty the way boys aren't supposed to be pretty. There was the stigma that boys didn't talk about abuse because it didn't happen to boys; not boys who became real men. There was the confusion, too, when I started noticing both boys and girls instead of just girls, and society told me that my interest in boys was only because I was damaged from what a male abuser had done to me, imprinting male-on-male sexuality on me during my developmental stages. I hated myself. I comfort-ate. I ballooned up, then starved myself back down thin, all while trying to keep up with junior high and high school sports.

I'd flinch back violently if anyone touched me. I'd start to stabilize a bit, even dated around a bit and was pretty sexually active, about what you'd expect from a randy high school boy, but it was out of desperation. Trying to convince myself I was okay. I wanted to be touched. I wasn't dirty. I wasn't too filthy for anyone. And I didn't need to hurt myself, with food and blades and anything else I could get my hands on, to make sure I was too undesirable for anyone to touch me and make me feel that horrible crawling feeling again.

And I had other complications. My mother. Absentee father. Being unwanted as a last child, an accident, being reminded repeatedly that my mother had wanted to abort me. My mother's undiagnosed bipolar disorder, which was just an amplifier for her own bitterness and resentment, not a crime in and of itself. Being hit rather often. Being psychologically and emotionally abused. Jerked around. Never knowing which way was up because one second I'd be told to do one thing and the next beaten until the belt left my arse raw for doing as I was told. Learning how to be invisible; learning how to be a small animal in the brush, hiding from the scary thing like in Among the Sleep. Being invisible anyway, sometimes. There were times when she wouldn't acknowledge my existence for days; wouldn't look at me, speak to me.

I have to stop this part of it. I know I'm supposed to be laying everything out here, but I can't get deeper into this if I'm going to get through the rest of this story. There's more with my mother, both in my young adult and adult life, but I can't do that. I can't tell that story. So I need to move on.

That was my life up to college. A life punctuated by still having to see him. I remember being eighteen or so and being curled up in a chair at my grandmother's with a book, him in the chair opposite me, me pointedly ignoring him.

He awkwardly struggled out, "Hey. I…I'm sorry for what I did to you, all those years ago."

I looked up.

He leered at me.

"But you lookin' mighty fine in them jeans."

I don't remember the seconds after that. I just remember adults rushing to pull us apart. I think I might've tried to punch him.

University. Dated a boy who hit me. Tried to control me, told me to "take it like a man." Followed me to another state when I changed majors and changed schools and changed lives. Ended up arrested outside my student apartment. I hadn't even had time for the bruises to fade from the last time I'd seen him over a week before.

More university. Telling myself I'm gay, not bi, because it's easier to quantify my sexuality. Easier to fall into certain circles of young fast gay men. Easier to tell myself I wanted it when I was too drunk to say yes; when I was too drunk to even know what was happening, or remember how I got there come morning. Easier not to call it rape if I only half-remembered in the morning if I'd gone along with it or if I'd fought back, said no. Easier to tell myself it was my fault for drinking; for the company I kept; for trying to drown myself in this attempt to be sexually normal and get past this aversion to touch.

I got really good at telling myself it was my fault.

I've always been good at things being my fault.

Somehow I made it through to the other side of university. Suddenly there was work, adult responsibilities…and suddenly I had things to do and worry about and ground myself other than trying to figure out what this horrible cloud of guilt-sex-hate-need limbo was inside me. I started…adjusting. I dated around. Lightly. Gently, if that's possible. I was gentle with myself. I asked people to be gentle with me. I explored not condemning myself for any part of my sexuality, acknowledging my attractions to men, women, people who classified as neither or both or other. I found my boundaries. My parameters. I understood better, as an adult, what was safe for me. I started seeing a therapist off and on.

I was okay.

And then I got married.

I got married to someone who seemed amazing at first, even if we were…so very opposite. Wild bohemian liberal Independent-voting POC desperate for freedom from the rut of life; straight-up corporate executive-ambitious conservative Republican-voting white seeking stability and material wealth. I don't even know…I think it was the differences that attracted us at first. The respect for each other's intelligence and willingness to see a middle-ground road in these lively, interesting debates we got into. The physical attraction of our differences; I think my ex had never dated someone like me, an androgynously pretty man of indeterminate ethnicity. I’d never dated the typical blonde-haired, blue-eyed etc. etc., as my track record had tended to be brown boys and girls from Kyouto, Beijing, San Felipe. We were fascinated with each other.

And then…I don't know. Things started falling apart.

I was supposed to be okay with my mother-in-law calling me a wetback; my brother-in-law calling me a spick. (Btw, not an ounce of Hispanic or Latin@ in me, but let's insult their cultures, ethnicities, and me by assuming all brown people are interchangeable…) I was "that freaky goth" for having naturally dark hair and long dark eyelashes.

I wasn't allowed to be hurt by my ex's sudden onset of racist jokes. I was too sensitive. Too serious. Why couldn't I see that it was funny?

I couldn't have an opinion on anything anymore, because clearly as a man of color I was missing the "real world" and didn't get "the game." The business game, the way things "really" were. My thoughts were invalid. Constant belittling, reminding me how worthless I was, how inferior to the white perspective.

The derision of my culture. Attacks for speaking in my native languages; I used to have a habit of interjecting little accent words. It was just how I naturally spoke. I don't do it anymore. Not after hearing so many times, "You can stop doing that. I don't find it sexy. It doesn't turn me on. It's stupid; why are you doing that?" when all I was doing was speaking the way I naturally speak.

Arguments. The gaslighting tactics employed. The manipulation. The derailment. Overriding me. Refusing to engage with me. Constantly shifting tracks to make sure I never got a foothold to defend myself. Actively changing events and telling me I didn't remember them correctly, or conflating two unrelated events and trying to convince me they were the same. Telling me I imagined words that came out of my own mouth. Telling me I didn't say what I said; I didn't hear what I heard. If I was bothered by anything, it was my own fault.

The isolation. My friends were never good enough.

The jealousy. The accusations of lies in my sexual history. The guilt trips because I was somehow making my ex feel inadequate by existing, and everything they hated about their body was my fault. Their inability to fix the things they hated about their body was my fault. If I supported them, it was my fault they dug their feet in to spite me. If I kept my mouth shut and minded my own business, it was my fault for not reminding them, pushing them, staying on top of them about it. If they wanted to be better for me, that was my fault. If they wanted to be better for themselves, my fault. Then there was the food pushed on me, the guilt trips if I didn't eat, too. If I tried to avoid gaining weight, etc. The accusations that I was going to leave them for someone thinner, hotter, better in bed. That if I stayed in shape, it was because I was trying to attract someone new.

The large, heavy objects thrown at me with no warning, leaving bruises. The eyerolling if I said "what the fuck, that hurt" and how I was supposed to catch it, whatever, god, stop hassling.

And then there was the sex.

There was the fact that I cannot be touched in certain ways, either in bed or out of bed. There were triggers that could set me off in the worst ways. My ex knew those triggers. My ex knew not to touch those trigger spots. Ever.

My ex thought it was funny to poke those trigger spots over and over again while I shoved and scrambled away, cornering me until I couldn't escape without serious physical violence, laughing and giggling and tittering while I begged stop. Stop, don't touch me, stop, I can't, please, stop. It would continue until I was screaming. I don't care if it's emasculating to admit it. More than once I was pushed to the point of curling up in a sobbing, shaking ball, regressed to the terror of a child who didn't know what was happening to him.

And every time, when I could unlock enough to shout, to be angry, to even find words, I would say I told you. I told you not to. I told you never. Never ever.

And always it was…why am I being such a dick about it? God, they just forgot, they said they'd try to remember but it hasn't been enough time, don't be so uptight, it was funny, they didn't realize I was serious when I was saying no no no no no no no no stop please no no NO, wasn't I just joking?

And then they wanted to know why I wasn't in the mood for sex.

Then they wanted to know why I grew increasingly introverted and emotionally unavailable, cold.

Five years of that. I'm divorced now, obviously. In a stable relationship with someone who respects my boundaries. Still struggling with the mental health issues, with triggers. I didn't have general anxiety disorder before that. At all. I had a pretty wicked case of PTSD, but it wasn't this bad. Nor was the depression. Nor was the self-loathing. The immediate tendency to assume everything is my fault has gotten much, much worse; a tendency that people like to prey on, to hone in on.

And I…I've grown at once more defiant of the things that weigh on me, and more vulnerable to them. I've grown more confident in no longer shaming myself for not fitting Western ideals of masculinity, and yet at the same time I'm sitting here looking at this and telling myself that as a man, I should be ashamed of this. Of this story. Of knowing this is generally a story women tell, but not men. Knowing there are people who will read this and say "what kind of man lets this happen to him?" Knowing that people are judging me as a man because I have been abused. Because I have been in the role of the victim more than once. Because me being androgynous, being pretty, has made me a target for people who want to fit me into a certain role, and I've been struggling so much my whole life with accepting myself that it was too easy to walk blindly into the arms of people who, at first, made me feel wanted as long as they had something they could use me for. Because I'd been taught from an early age that I was only good for what people wanted out of me; that if I said "you hurt me" I'm a worthless liar; that if I tried to run I would be stalked and harassed; that if I fought back I would be cornered and hurt; that if I had an opinion or belief it was wrong; that if I stood up for myself I would be reminded that I'm a second-class citizen with no value, to be derided for my genetics, my appearance, my culture, my existence.

And then people wonder how I empathize so much with women who are put in these positions every day.

Huh. I wonder.

Most people don't know what happens behind my ferocity. Behind the passion with which I speak. Behind the anger that sometimes picks me up enough to make me a force of nature. Most people see confidence in my own intelligence. A bit of social awkwardness that can mostly blend into an easy charm. Dry humor. Some flirtiness. Occasional silliness. Geekiness. Playful grouchiness that sometimes becomes honest introspective broodiness. The random whimsy of tumbling through the various influences of my various cultures, and how much I love them all.

And most people don't know that behind that, I'm having to constantly remind myself that I have permission to exist. I have permission to stand up for myself when people try to push me into the place they want me to occupy. My fingers and stomach don't have to tremble when I think of the total strangers who turn their eye on me, scrutinize me when they find out here's this guy, he wrote some books. I don't have to feel guilty for saying no, respect my boundaries. I don't have to feel like a horrible person for drawing a line in the sand and saying no more when people take too much from me.

But the thing is, I do. I feel like a horrible person every time I start to think I have any sort of worth, that I have any right to anything.

Because that's what abuse does.

It's only one of the many scars it leaves on you.

It's one of the many ways it silences you.

This is the first time I've ever sat down and told this story in its entirety.

Because if I'm going to ask other people to speak…then I will, too.

The Whisperer.

It took me a long time to realize that I experienced abuse from someone I loved. Even now I still find it easy to argue with myself. I think that’s why I’m sharing this. Not to feel validated, but because I think it’s easy for a lot of people to do that. Make excuses. Give it a new title so that's not what it is. If I don’t label something as “abuse” I can just say it was a bad experience and not deal with it. Push it aside because you still feel lucky that things were never that bad.

I have my fair share of stories from my past. Of incidents that make me wonder what kind of person I was to have such a past. I’m a woman who’s only been with other women. There have been those parties where a guy wants to be the one to “make me see the light.” I’ve been in a relationship where the woman I once loved held a knife to her wrist saying she would kill herself if I refused to love her anymore. I could share a lot of things with you, but instead I want to share just this one…

I’m your average woman. The gay-girl-next-door-type. No one would use the word sexy to describe me. That’s not pity. That’s just who I am. Glasses. Freckles. Always lacking where most women want cushion and overly cushioned where most women want none. Growing up gay was… interesting to me. I was that kid who was gay before I knew the meaning of the word. But I knew what I wanted. And my self-assurance led me to older women who also knew what they wanted, so I thought. I fell in love with a woman who I thought loved me.

She didn’t. But they say “love is blind” right? And god I loved her. It was that young love that puts you on top of the world. I wondered how I was able to be with someone so amazing. Until things got physical. And then things got confusing.

“You know, no one else would love these little tits, but I do.”

“You know, not many people would be with a fat girl, but I can’t get enough of you.”

She made me feel on cloud nine with her touch, but her words? Fucking gutted me. Made every possible insecurity about myself more real than it’d ever been. She never hit me. She never said yes when I said no. But her words did such damage to me that it’s followed me in the pit of my stomach since the first whisper. So many were whispers and the feeling of her breath tickling my ear as she cut me open is to this day something that bothers me. I feel ridiculous admitting that. Should I admit that at all? Whispers in my ear don’t do anything for me because they remind me of her. Wait… not her. They remind me of the things she said. Beyond that… they remind me of the way I felt after that things she said.

I’ve been put down by strangers before. I’ve been called plenty of things in my life. But how can someone claim their love for me and then cut me down with words in one breath? Each time like a knife across my skin that no one could see or feel but me.

“You should lose weight, but I don’t want you thinking you can do better than me.”

Most of the things I remember are so sexually explicit I don’t even want to say them. I still feel ashamed to say them. That’s the power they hold over me. The power that I lie to myself about. Saying the memory doesn’t hold anything over me. It was so long ago. How could it?

But it does. It’s lessened over time. I’m in a loving and happy relationship with the woman I plan to grow old with. But I can remember the first time we had sex. I can remember the first time I had sex with anyone. Whether that time was the only time or whether that time was the first of many. It always, always started with whispers in my head.

“Stomach and thighs, but no tits and ass.”

“…fat pussy no dick would want anyway. You’re lucky you want a woman.”

I berate myself over staying with The Whisperer for so long. Young and dumb, I suppose. It was easy for me to believe her. To tell myself she was right so the pain had to be worth it. That pain? That pain is never worth it. No pain should be worth anything to someone who genuinely cares about you. Because that? That’s abuse.

Just About Done: On Speaking Out vs. White Retaliation

I have just about hit my break point.

Y'all know I talk about POC and LGBTQIA issues. Constantly. Recently even more so because it's become important to me to be able to speak. To be myself. To not be silent. To not fear retaliation for the things that I think are important. The things that need to be shared, whether it's large-scale issues or my random thoughts as I turn over concepts of society and privilege, adding another voice to the strengthening multitudes of POC that are stepping forward to speak for ourselves. My twitter has been fuckin' lit.

The thing is, this has been a process. A journey. It started years ago. It's been slow going. There've been fits and starts and even backtracks. There've been frustrations as I tried to talk to my majority white friends about it. Some were already educated and informed, and happy to talk to me about these things I needed to discuss as I worked out my multiracial identity in a privileged world. Some weren't that informed, but wanted to learn and be supportive. Some thought they were and didn't take well to a wince and a "Well, actually, um…" and things just kind of had to work out for themselves.

There's been a fire inside me since Mike Brown died. And that fire burns. It's painful. It's black as poison, and it only cuts deeper every time there's another Mike Brown, Tamir Rice, Ferguson, Baltimore. It's made me aware of things I didn't quite see before, and it's left me at once hopeful and hopeless. But one thing it's taught me is not to be silent. That the only way to change a painful, hurtful, broken status quo is to speak and educate. That means when my friends don't realize they're saying things motivated and taught to them by institutionalized racism, that I should be able to tell them from a place of trust and mutual understanding. To trust that when I say "could you not do this, it hurts me as a person of color," they'll listen and understand and care that this hurts me as their friend, especially if they want to be allies to people of color in general.

Unfortunately, that's not always how it goes.

In the past few months, a situation has blown out of control. I've been the star of a soap opera I didn't even know I was cast in until pretty much the closing act. I had some trouble with a friend. Someone I'd thought was an ally; someone I thought was woke. Someone I thought I could trust. Over the course of several months, they'd say things that were ignorant but well-meaning. And I'd tell them, hey, I know this is coming from a place of ignorance and not malice, but…that's not cool, could you not? I'd try to explain the foundations behind why it was a problem, the general societal issues, hoping for understanding and getting defensiveness and snark. A couple of times I stopped, took a deep breath, turned to another friend and asked "am I overreacting?" and they said no. No, I wasn't, and they gave me the support I needed to say something even though it was scary; it was tiring, always being the bad guy for saying hey, can you stop hurting me; it was demoralizing having to stop and soothe them because it upset them to realize they might not be as educated as they thought they were.

That's the thing. Somehow, when we call out passive racism, when we say "we love you, but do better," it's always our fault. And we're always the ones having to fear retaliation. It's like someone stepping on your foot and getting angry with you for saying "um, ow, could you get off?" But it happens. All the time. It's on us both to bear the weight of what's said/done to us, and the weight of the guilt for not accepting it.

Things kept piling up. The words kept getting sharper each time it happened. Neither of us handled it as well as we could have. We had other tensions, too, things that had nothing to do with race; we'd both made some screwups with each other in the past, and both owned it. I wasn't blameless in contributing to the tension and discord. I made some fuckups in our history. So did they. Our own life events, health issues and such, got in the way and left us unable to deal with the fragments of our relationship. But we spoke to each other one last time. Gently. Kindly. I went out of my way to tell them look–I'm going to be talking about race-related stuff. I've got some stuff brewing and I need to get it out. It's not about you. I don't want to hurt you with this. I wanted to warn you, but I need to speak.

And then we just drifted off, and I thought that was the end of it. Friendships fade. I honestly wished them well. Hell…even though they didn't know it, I gave up hours of my time to keep their website running, because another friend asked.

And then people I'd thought were my friends stopped talking to me.

I'd moved on with my life. I had books to write. Work. A life. Friends. Uber. When I realized just who had stopped talking to me, I could guess why. And I just…rubbed my temples and kept moving on. And I thought, hey, you know, I should cool it on the racial stuff for a while because it's just going to antagonize. I silenced myself for these people. I bit back things I wanted to say that had nothing to do with them, bottled it up until it ate at me. I spoke sometimes about things I felt were important, things that I felt needed to be said; about situations I encountered in my life, because most people don't seem to understand that this shite never stops for POC. We're hit in the face with it constantly. What's normal life for a person in a position of privilege is like walking on hot coals for us. Maybe you're walking on those same hot coals, but you've got fireproof shoes and are wondering why we're hissing in pain when you kick the coals under our bare feet.

Let me get one thing straight. I'm not blogging about this to air a personal grievance. I'm blogging about this to talk about white retaliation, and what it does to people of color. Privileged retaliation, and what it does to marginalized people, period.

I had already silenced myself out of an ingrained fear of retaliation. And yet I found out that it was pointless, because retaliation happened anyway.

This person that I let go, this person I thought was my friend, turned to other friends and made themselves the victim. They talked about "what [they] had to deal with" because I had called them out. They sneered at my explanations as lectures. They shared curated bits of our conversations slanted to make themselves blameless. They used white tears to make me out into someone terrible. They pounced on every tweet I posted or RTed about racism and assumed it was about them (it wasn't), making comments about subtweeting and passive-aggressiveness, and used that to incite ugly, derogatory conversations about me behind my back. They even pounced on my friends for RTing the things I said, mocked them behind their backs because it's apparently criminal to agree with a person of color making a statement about racial issues. I was made out to be some manipulative, Machiavellian villain. Some pretty gross racially motivated things were said about me. Any time I spoke about race, that was cause for a supposed ally to mock me about it, and incite other people, people I had thought were my friends, to mock me about it because they weren't racist.

Let that sink in a bit.

They mocked a person of color for talking about his thoughts on racism and privilege, to prove they weren't racist and were such a good ally they were above criticism or questioning.

Not to mention they said I made up crazy accusations.

I want you to read that again.

A person of color asks a friend to understand that they're hurting him, and is mocked to others behind his back as crazy.

Do you understand the privilege inherent in doing that? Do you understand the harm you do by taking the legacy of systematic and institutionalized racism, and dismissing someone dealing with it and suffering from it as crazy? Do you understand that those tactics have been used to silence POC voices, absolve those in privileged positions of responsibility, and maintain the status quo for centuries? Do you understand that these are the kinds of mindsets that drive people to violence against POC, and push POC to the edge of despair?

Do you understand that this is how you break people just enough to keep the legacy of racism in place?

Because this person exercised their privilege, I was demonized for being hurt. Because this person exercised their privilege, I was mocked for daring to speak up about something so important to me. Because this person exercised their privilege, another friend was attacked just for being friends with me – not to mention her agency, choice, and intelligence devalued because of the constant implications that her problems with how they treated her in their own relationships were somehow tied back to me. Because this person exercised their privilege, I was criminalized for speaking of my experiences, exercising my voice and my right to exist. Because this person exercised their privilege, I lost friends. Because this person exercised their privilege, my books lost review outlets. Because this person exercised their privilege, my mental health suffered, because trust me, throwing in anxiety and depression doesn't make this any more fun. Because this person exercised their privilege, I restrained myself from being who I need to be.

Because this person exercised their privilege, when I stood up for myself I was slapped down with the full retaliatory force of what privilege can do.

This is the difference. Privilege hurts a person of color, and the person exercising that privilege is consoled for it. Is made out to be the blameless victim. While the person of color is silenced out of fear of retaliation; while the person of color is made out to be terrible; while the person of color is demonized for having anything to say about socialized and institutionalized racism. When the privileged person recognizes themselves in the things a person of color says about racism and privilege, it's construed as a personal attack instead of honest and real thoughts on the core problems driving these issues. And because privilege takes POC conversation as an attack, because privilege feels targeted when any of the problems discussed ring true…that incites retaliation.

And it's ugly.

There is no winning when that deck is stacked against you. When privilege already gives the other person the benefit of the doubt and a solid foundation to stand on, and they manipulate that to make sure the non-privileged have nothing to stand on at all, nowhere to turn, nothing but the sense of isolation that comes from knowing you've already been made the bad guy and very little can ever change that.

Here's the thing, though.

I've already lost so much that I have nothing to lose. I have nothing to fear from speaking out, because the damage is already done. The friends are already lost. My reputation has already been tarnished. And no, I'm not naming names. Because it's not about naming and shaming. It's about calling out the personal and very real effects of privilege through this example of something that's been hurting me, damaging me deeply. It's about putting a face and a voice to the effects of this, and making this real for you because it's real for me. It's about making you understand that this is what people of color deal with constantly, and it's grinding us down to the bone. It's about calling out allies who are only allies in name, and then sneer about the struggles of people of color behind their backs while still patting themselves on the back for being socially aware. It's about not being silent.

This is one story that's affected me recently. But what you need to understand is that stories like this are happening for POC everywhere, every fucking day. We run up against this blind, mulish wall of privilege and scratch at it and struggle and try to be heard, to be understood. To say "you're hurting me. Please care that you're hurting me."

And the response is, too painfully often, "Ugh, I'm so offended that you're hurt. It makes me feel bad that you called me out for hurting you. Please, I didn't hurt you. I don't see it. I don't experience it, so it's not there. You're just crazy/making things up/looking for something to be angry about/playing the race card."

What are we supposed to do against that? What are we supposed to do when we're constantly invalidated and trivialized that way? When we speak up for ourselves, and the only answer is dismissal and retaliation?

The only thing we can do.

Continue to speak, and damn the fucking consequences.

Dammit, Cole: The 'You Are Not Alone' Edition

Dammit, Cole:

Why I feel so broken inside? And I'm not saying that because I broke up with my boyfriend and I'm feeling depressed. Nope. It's just sometimes I'm feeling so alone, and I just think I'm not enough.

And maybe… I'm scared because every friend I had, somehow broke my heart. Why I feel so secure in the outside but inside I'm just a mess? I don't have anyone to trust… I have a lot of secrets, a lot of things I'm dealing on a daily basis and I don't have no one. No one. Also I'm feeling stupid every time I want to get close to someone, because I feel like I am a failure and I'm not good enough and shit -I'm even mad to think so low about me-, because I think I blame myself for every time a friend talked crap about me or just broke me… The thoughts of "what I did wrong?" Begin to sneak out in my mind já something stupid to do, I know. Sometimes I will start crying because I don't know how the heck I'm gonna to survive with myself, and it is just too much.

It sucks. And I think I just needed to say this… Because is always hanging heavy in my inside.

Thanks in advance,

Anonymous

Oh, sweetheart.

You are enough. If you take away nothing else from this post, take away this:

You are enough. You are amazing. You are wonderful, and even when you hurt, you're beautiful.

I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Most of humanity hate themselves, deep down inside. It might be just one thing they hate about themselves, it might be everything, but growing up in our constantly-critical world has told us that if we like ourselves, if we feel good about ourselves, we're doing something wrong. We can find happiness, find contentment, find confidence, but the nature of life makes it transitory. If anything goes wrong in any relationship, it's not just the complexity of human interactions and things not always going according to script; someone has to be at fault, and it's much easier to blame ourselves because blaming others involves conflict and often a lack of any satisfactory resolution or closure. So we tell ourselves it has to be our fault, that it must be somewhere we failed – especially if it happens over and over again because people and relationships are complex, and it's inevitable that not all of them will go our way.

It's something that can break us, and it's not easy to repair. It can rot us to pieces from the inside out. It can fill us up with ugly things that become somehow beautiful because they're our ugly things. And right now, in this moment, as you read this…there are millions of people distracting themselves with life and the little small details while deep down inside they're wondering:

What's wrong with me?

The answer is nothing. Nothing is wrong with you. It's just the problem of being a self-contained universe surrounded by billions of other self-contained universes, with so many common experiences that can touch but never really completely connect. And it makes human interaction a bit of a paradox, because it's the one thing we can understand the most deeply about each other, and the one thing that makes us feel as if no one would understand. Because all we see is the outside. All we see is the act everyone puts on to survive, because they feel like prey surrounded by predators, little realizing that everyone around them feels the same way.

It's a scary thought. But it can also be reassuring, too, because it means one key thing.

You are not alone.

You are surrounded by people who are just as vulnerable and hurt as you are. Just as afraid. And in their fear, yes…some of them will hurt you. Some of them will be cruel. Some of them will be defensive, to protect themselves. That's almost always why people break your trust; to protect themselves, because they're afraid no one else will do it. No one else will put their feelings first, and so they make sure they have the control in a situation that allows them to protect themselves from hurt. And when you aren't the kind of person who can be cruel and defensive in return, it can feel like you're the universe's punching bag.

But not everyone is cruel. Not everyone is defensive. And there are people out there who, just like you, want to reach out but are scared. And something happens when you bump up against each other: there's a click. And at first it's something you don't quite trust; at first it's something you almost want to hide from, in case you make yourself vulnerable and they just reach in to crush the softest parts of you before you can do it to them. But slowly you'll start to realize you can trust them; they'll start to realize they can trust you. And maybe no other person can ease the feeling of being isolated inside our own heads in the face of billions of people who can never really see the truth inside of us…but god, can it help to just walk side by side with someone, knowing that they're feeling the exact same way. Knowing that even if we can never fully understand another human being…we can understand that.

And it's our very loneliness that makes us not alone. That makes us a collective whole, each yearning apart, all yearning together.

It's painful. It's beautiful. It's saddening. It's uplifting.

But it's part of all of us, and it's nothing wrong with you. I promise you: there's nothing wrong with you at all.

You're just…human.

In all the wonder and terror that represents.

-C

Read older entries here.

Cole McCade is that one guy you heard about somewhere. The human Grumpy Cat who writes sweet contemporary romance about starry-eyed girls and dirty erotica about the people who slip between the cracks of Crow City – including A Second Chance at Paris, Zero Day Exploit, and The Lost. He sometimes gives out decent advice from the perspective of a guy who just happens to be a romance author and a fiercely unapologetic feminist; he also invites other authors to seduce him (and his readers) with just one line from their books. Written a romance or erotica? Want to seduce Cole's readers? Send in one line here. Have a question on love, dating, relationships, romance, life in general…or just want to say Dammit, Cole? Use the submission form here.

BEFORE YOU COMMENT

You're welcome to offer your own opinion, advice, or encouragement to those who write in; you're also welcome to share your personal stories. But remember: these are real people with real feelings, who had the courage to send their question in. Even if you don't agree with them, be kind and don't snark on them. Nasty comments abusing submitters or other commenters will be deleted.

SUBSCRIBE FOR WEEKLY UPDATES & HIGHLIGHTS FROM "DAMMIT, COLE" AND "SEDUCE ME"

Dammit Cole: The 'And the Horse You Rode In On' Edition

Dammit Cole,

i'm sick of you male authors. you think you know what women want? you don't. this is all just ego gratification for you. you write shit and tell us it's gold. fuck off

(this was signed "no thanks" in the name field)

Gaze upon the beautiful plume of the horse's tail. The lustrous arc of it. How it so kindly sways aside to display the giant mounded curves of the horse's arse.

Okay, so…this isn't really what this column is for, but this brings up a valid point that I'd like to address. Plus I've spent my goddamned day puking (yeah, that's fun with three-foot-long braids) and I feel like a wrung-out dishrag, so I am in no effin' mood to be anything other than blunt.

I don't write what I write for you.

I don't write what I write for some unnamed monolith labeled as "women."

Nor am I part of an unnamed monolith, a hive mind of male writers who all write for the same reasons. So I can only speak for myself when I say:

I write for me.

I'm writing what I want. What I want to read. I write heroes and heroines who fit my fantasies, whether it's the contemporary fantasy of the girl or guy I'd actually be attracted to in real life or the darker fantasies of erotica, which are a thrilling idea to think about but that I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole if they were real. I have four criteria when defining both my hero and heroine:

Are they someone I can empathize with?
Are they someone I can admire/respect?
Are they someone I would want to hang out with and be friends with?
Are they someone I would want to fuck?

 

Nowhere in those criteria will you find "Do they fit some biased idea of what I think women want?" Nowhere in my stories will you find me asking myself that question, whether it comes to characterization, story arcs, sex, or kinks. I write the kind of stories I enjoy, and the fun part of being a guy who likes both innies and outies is that when I'm doing that, I don't have to guess what someone else finds attractive in the same or opposite sex. Because I know what I find attractive, what makes me catch my breath in stories pertaining to any gender, and that's what motivates me. I know what I want to feel when reading a story.

The fact that other people love these stories isn't me giving people shite and telling them it's gold, and it has nothing to do with my ego.

It's me being lucky enough to connect to other readers who enjoy the same things I do, and have similar tastes. Don't patronize them by acting like I'm manipulating them somehow with my gender or some kind of authority that it confers. Trust me, it's about fifty / fifty as to whether people will avoid my books unread because of my gender vs. people being curious about my books because of the novelty of the male author. In the end my gender has nothing to do with it. It's up to the reader to decide if what I write has merit regardless of my attachments. If they feel there is merit, I'm grateful to them. And I trust that they're intelligent people who know quite well how to decide what they do or do not like without being unduly influenced by something so daft.

So do me a favor.

Don't insult my readers.

You know exactly what you can do with you and the horse you rode in on.

-C

Read older entries here.

Cole McCade is that one guy you heard about somewhere. The human Grumpy Cat who writes sweet contemporary romance about starry-eyed girls and dirty erotica about the people who slip between the cracks of Crow City – including A Second Chance at Paris, Zero Day Exploit, and The Lost. He sometimes gives out decent advice from the perspective of a guy who just happens to be a romance author and a fiercely unapologetic feminist; he also invites other authors to seduce him (and his readers) with just one line from their books. Written a romance or erotica? Want to seduce Cole's readers? Send in one line here. Have a question on love, dating, relationships, romance, life in general…or just want to say Dammit, Cole? Use the submission form here.

BEFORE YOU COMMENT

You're welcome to offer your own opinion, advice, or encouragement to those who write in; you're also welcome to share your personal stories. But remember: these are real people with real feelings, who had the courage to send their question in. Even if you don't agree with them, be kind and don't snark on them. Nasty comments abusing submitters or other commenters will be deleted.

SUBSCRIBE FOR WEEKLY UPDATES & HIGHLIGHTS FROM "DAMMIT, COLE" AND "SEDUCE ME"

Dammit, Cole: the 'My (Ex) Boyfriend's Back, and You're Gonna Be in Trouble' Edition

Dammit Cole,

First off, this is a two-in-one question and can I just say that I love reading your answers to the questions asked by others. Okay.

So I happened to stumble upon this email from my ex (I don't normally check my email so it was very random):

"How u doing am sure u doing great, how work, stumbled on our letters back home in [deleted] i and wondered where it all went wrong, had a few tear drops, it could have been a gorgeous and wonderful relationship ultimately leading to marriage, (am sure i would have married you by now) but all things do work together…like elton John sang "Nikita you'll never know"… Something u wonder if u have a time machine to reverse. But am still glad and grateful . have a great weekend ahead. Just random thots from someone who really cared for u"

A little background info: We broke up over 6 years ago. It wasn't mutual. I broke it up. We "dated" for about 7 months. Very long distance. He was crushed, and I felt bad, but it was what it was. I broke it up because I changed into someone completely different (ideals, values and perspectives) and didn't see how our lives could mesh together. Last I heard (2 years ago), he was engaged. I have no idea if he's single, still engaged, or married, And for the record, there is NO getting back together – at least from my end.

So…what do I do? Do I respond to the email or just ignore it?

Second question: How do I get over the "feeling" that I am a horrible person? He's the only boyfriend I've ever had. Didn't date or go out in college and I really have no experience with dating/relationships – save for my last (and only) one. On some level I'm scared that if I enter a relationship, the same thing will happen: we'll have a great run and then I'll "change" again, becoming incompatible, and leaving yet another broken heart. Once was more than enough for me. I'd like to be in a relationship (and eventually get married) because I want to, but frankly, I'm just scared and so nervous.

I'm sorry for the long post.

Thanks Cole for the opportunity,

Unsure

Easy answers:

Don't answer the email.
You are not a horrible person. At all.

Longer answers:

Look, your ex-boyfriend didn't sent that email for you. He sent it for himself. He's looking for something, and you're an emotional crutch to get it. He wants validation, reassurance.

That doesn't mean you have to give it to him.

I know that's not the romantic, sentimental answer most would expect. I'm sorry. I save sentiment for my books. And while this might be cute by RomCom Logic, by Real World Logic it's someone emotionally intruding on you when you've already pushed him out of your space and drawn your boundaries. Every line of this is calculated to guilt a response from you, to show you what he thinks you've missed out on, to make you feel like you've lost something great. If he really wanted to make you feel good with this email, he would've written you to say, Hey. I had some gooshy feels about you the other day after stumbling across our letters, and I just wanted to say thank you for giving me something wonderful. I hope you're doing well and wish you the best.

And that's it. A simple warm human expression of appreciation, letting you know that you're still a fond memory but without laying any emotional baggage on you and without creating the expectation of a response. Instead he:

Projects onto you by assuming how you must be doing, as if you've done something bad by (in his mind) presumably doing well after leaving him, because hey, it must've been so easy for you to move on, right?
Wonders where it all went wrong, implying you should give him an explanation.
Uses tears to remind you how much you hurt him.
Points out everything you could've had in a gorgeous and wonderful relationship where he swears he would've married you by now, really, it's your fault you're not married because he totally would have, and it would have been gorgeous and wonderful and wonderful and gorgeous.
Expresses a desire to change what happened (the time machine) and start over, as if he could have done something to override your desires and change your mind if you'd just ignored what you wanted and given him a chance.
Points out how much he really cared for you, which in the context of the rest comes across as an accusation and a comparison to how much you didn't care for him.
Was possibly engaged at the time he sent that email. Um. No. And if he's not…then what? Did the relationship end and he's looking for something to fill the gap, and heading back to what he hopes is a sure thing? You can't know what happened unless you pick some things up through the grapevine or directly ask him, but when there's an engagement involved, something is fishy in this email.

 

Okay, some of that might be reading into things a bit much. But when you look at the fact that English is structured as a language of blame, he's using that language to get exactly the response he wants from you:

Enough doubt that you need to email me asking for advice, because you can't get past the guilt he's awakened in you to walk away cleanly.

You don't need anyone else's permission to ignore that email. But if it helps you, if it gives you the support and encouragement you need to know you are doing the right thing by not answering, I'll say it:

Don't answer. There's nothing you need to say to that, and you're absolutely fine for not responding.

Now…onto this feeling that you're horrible. No. Nope. Nuh-uh. Non. Iie. I'll trot it out in ten langauges if I have to. Horrible is reserved for people who do truly bad things. Horrible people are self-absorbed, oblivious jackarses who want to look down from their ivory tower while their shitty bully-enabling app does the dirty work of isolating them from undesirables so they can look down their noses at people. Horrible people are people on an internet forum who encourage someone to take guns into a school and murder nearly a dozen people, then celebrate while it happens. That's horrible.

You? Are not horrible.

Look–I understand feeling like a bad person for dumping people, trust me. I've had to cut people out of my life because I've realized that we're just not as compatible as I thought we were, and being around them was damaging. I don't know if they changed or I changed or we just discovered each other more and ferreted out details that took things in a different direction; it may be that you didn't change so much as you got to know him better and realized you and he weren't really right for each other, or it may in fact be that you realized you wanted different things out of life and you just weren't compatible. I've had that realization before. To this day I look back on some of the relationships and friendships I walked away from, the people I hurt by leaving them behind, and ask myself if I'm an awful person. But I'm not.

And neither are you.

People drift. It's a fact of life. It's better to let things go quietly and calmly than to cling on to something that can hurt both of you because you feel obligated to make it work. You aren't. You don't owe anyone anything. You don't have to cater to anyone else's feelings. From a feminist perspective, women (and some non-heterosexual men) are socialized with the idea that you have to cater to other people's feelings above your own, especially a man's. But that's bullshite. Pure and utter bullshite. What you have to do is make sure that you are happy, healthy, and safe. That safety may involve extricating yourself from a relationship that would have become nothing but subsuming who you are to keep from hurting his feelings. That's totally okay. And it doesn't mean that it's a barometer for all your future relationships.

No two people fit together the same way as two other people. What you discovered about how you related to him isn't going to reflect on how you relate to other people, future boyfriends, future possibilities. It's possible you may have to let some other people go, but that's normal. It's not something to beat yourself up over. Connections form and break. People pass in and out of each others' lives, especially in long-distance relationships. Not every bond is meant to be forever. It's a natural part of our neurology, if you're familiar with the concept of the Monkeysphere and Dunbar's Number; we can only maintain X number of stable connections, and in order to form new ones, others have to atrophy and die off. It's how we're programmed, and it's nothing to feel guilty over.

Eventually you'll meet someone who, as you get to know them, will show that they have more to attract you to them than you initially thought, not less. That first blush of attraction will turn into something deeper. You won't always see eye to eye; you won't be perfectly compatible. But you'll find out if you can work through things together, communicate with each other to resolve problems, rely on each other enough to tough out the bad times and to grow and change in mutual directions, instead of apart. So that one guy wasn't the right person for that. So what? People aren't easy formulas where you just mix Element A with Catalyst B to get Result C, with a predictable outcome every time. You can't just shove two random people together whose sexual orientations and Mr. Potato Head parts happen to be compatible, and expect that if they just try hard enough they'll make a relationship happen. That's RomCom Logic yet again. Real Life Logic says different personalities have different needs.

And there's someone out there with a personality that will meet your needs. It just takes a little patience to find him.

And in the meantime? Live your life, and don't even worry about it.

You're more than who you marry, and you always will be.

-C

Read older entries here.

Cole McCade is that one guy you heard about somewhere. The human Grumpy Cat who writes sweet contemporary romance about starry-eyed girls and dirty erotica about the people who slip between the cracks of Crow City – including A Second Chance at Paris, Zero Day Exploit, and The Lost. He sometimes gives out decent advice from the perspective of a guy who just happens to be a romance author and a fiercely unapologetic feminist; he also invites other authors to seduce him (and his readers) with just one line from their books. Written a romance or erotica? Want to seduce Cole's readers? Send in one line here. Have a question on love, dating, relationships, romance, life in general…or just want to say Dammit, Cole? Use the submission form here.

BEFORE YOU COMMENT

You're welcome to offer your own opinion, advice, or encouragement to those who write in; you're also welcome to share your personal stories. But remember: these are real people with real feelings, who had the courage to send their question in. Even if you don't agree with them, be kind and don't snark on them. Nasty comments abusing submitters or other commenters will be deleted.

SUBSCRIBE FOR WEEKLY UPDATES & HIGHLIGHTS FROM "DAMMIT, COLE" AND "SEDUCE ME"

New Covers, Paperbacks, Bookish Things, and Liberal Use of the Word Fuck

So I’m having a day. A day of bookish things. A day of wonderful things, and honestly? It’s got me pretty nervous. My luck-o-meter tends to run somewhere along the range of “find a penny in the street, get hit in the face with a  sledgehammer,” so whenever I have a good day, I kind of expect to get the rug ripped out from under me in short order.

With how great today’s been, I’m kind of nervously eyeing my ceiling and hoping it doesn’t cave in.

See that picture? That’s pretty much everything I’ve done since November 2014. Okay, I also have a book that I turned in to my Entangled editor and some projects I’m almost done with, some of which will be releasing this year and some things I can’t talk about yet but that have the potential for serious epicness, but that right there is the tangible evidence of everything I’ve done in the past year. I can hold them in my hand. Turn the pages. Stroke the paper and feel its dry soft silkiness against my fingertips. I’m sitting on the couch right now, with that shelf right across from me. Over the top of my laptop, those books are always in my peripheral vision.

And it feels fucking good.

Even better? Knowing that I couldn’t have gotten to this point without the support of amazing people–friends, readers, editors, colleagues. Everyone. Nothing, for me, happens without you…and I’ll never forget that.

But if you squint up close at those covers, you’ll see that A Second Chance at Paris is shown twice. Why? Well, because…

A SECOND CHANCE AT PARIS AND ZERO DAY EXPLOIT ARE NOW AVAILABLE AS STANDALONES
…and Zero Day Exploit is perma-free.

Oh, yeah, and they got shiny new covers, too. And I fucking love them. I mean, I fucking ought to, I designed them, but I’m not doing that fucking self-deprecating shite today. I’ll be goddamned humble tomorrow after karma smacks me and the gods strike me down for my hubris, yadda yadda, etc. etc., known your place mortal, whatever. Look at the covers. LOOK AT THEM.

  …it’s entirely possible I’ve had too much caffeine today. Man, fuck grumpiness. Fuck it in the ear.

Okay, okay, I take it back.

So you can get A Second Chance at Paris on Amazon, Amazon UK, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, iBooks, and Smashwords; Zero Day Exploit is free on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iBooks, and Smashwords (Amazon UK should be set to free soon, and Kobo is kind of snubbing me lately and I don’t know why, but you can always get the files from Smashwords for any device). You can also now get ZDE as a standalone print book for just $5.99, with free shipping on Prime.

Moving on to other things…

THE LOST IS OUT IN PAPERBACK OCTOBER 8TH

Soon you’ll be able to hold all your fucked-up, Daddy-issue-worshipping, pain-craving, feminist-loving, sex-addicted, hot-Marine, holy-mother-of-heartbreak WTFery in the palm of your hand. But if you’d really like to help get the word out, sign up for the Thunderclap so you, too, can annoy your Twitter and Facebook followers with a simultaneous mass post:

Get it? Got it? Good.

I think that just about covers it. I think I’ve blogged more in this past month than I have practically in a year. And I’ve got a new Dammit, Cole lined up for tomorrow, too.

I’m really starting to fail at this antisocial thing.

LATEST NEWS



NEW CROW CITY COVERS

The Crow City Series now has a new cover set – dark, sleek, and just in time for the latest book in the series. See the full series covers here .

TWENTY NOTES TO THE ANXIOUS, MELANCHOLY WRITER

Judging yourself? Feeling down on your writing? Over-comparing until you work yourself into a hole and can’t get out? Here are a few reminders to help you breathe and refocus.

AUTUMN (CROW CITY #2.75)

The latest installment in the Crow City series is here – with series favorites Walford Gallifrey and Joseph Armitage returning in a poignant story of reconciliation and newfound love in the first contemporary M/M in the Crow City Series.

New Covers, Paperbacks, Bookish Things, Liberal Use of the Word Fuck, and the SPEAK Project

So I'm having a day. A day of bookish things. A day of wonderful things, and honestly? It's got me pretty nervous. My luck-o-meter tends to run somewhere along the range of "find a penny in the street, get hit in the face with a  sledgehammer," so whenever I have a good day, I kind of expect to get the rug ripped out from under me in short order.

With how great today's been, I'm kind of nervously eyeing my ceiling and hoping it doesn't cave in.

See that picture? That's pretty much everything I've done since November 2014. Okay, I also have a book that I turned in to my Entangled editor and some projects I'm almost done with, some of which will be releasing this year and some things I can't talk about yet but that have the potential for serious epicness, but that right there is the tangible evidence of everything I've done in the past year. I can hold them in my hand. Turn the pages. Stroke the paper and feel its dry soft silkiness against my fingertips. I'm sitting on the couch right now, with that shelf right across from me. Over the top of my laptop, those books are always in my peripheral vision.

And it feels fucking good.

Even better? Knowing that I couldn't have gotten to this point without the support of amazing people–friends, readers, editors, colleagues. Everyone. Nothing, for me, happens without you…and I'll never forget that.

But if you squint up close at those covers, you'll see that A Second Chance at Paris is shown twice. Why? Well, because…

A SECOND CHANCE AT PARIS AND ZERO DAY EXPLOIT ARE NOW AVAILABLE AS STANDALONES
…and Zero Day Exploit is perma-free.

Oh, yeah, and they got shiny new covers, too. And I fucking love them. I mean, I fucking ought to, I designed them, but I'm not doing that fucking self-deprecating shite today. I'll be goddamned humble tomorrow after karma smacks me and the gods strike me down for my hubris, yadda yadda, etc. etc., known your place mortal, whatever. Look at the covers. LOOK AT THEM.

 

…it's entirely possible I've had too much caffeine today. Man, fuck grumpiness. Fuck it in the ear.

Okay, okay, I take it back.

So you can get A Second Chance at Paris on Amazon, Amazon UK, Barnes & Noble, Kobo, iBooks, and Smashwords; Zero Day Exploit is free on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, iBooks, and Smashwords (Amazon UK should be set to free soon, and Kobo is kind of snubbing me lately and I don't know why, but you can always get the files from Smashwords for any device). You can also now get ZDE as a standalone print book for just $5.99, with free shipping on Prime.

Moving on to other things…

THE LOST IS OUT IN PAPERBACK OCTOBER 8TH

Soon you'll be able to hold all your fucked-up, Daddy-issue-worshipping, pain-craving, feminist-loving, sex-addicted, hot-Marine, holy-mother-of-heartbreak WTFery in the palm of your hand. But if you'd really like to help get the word out, sign up for the Thunderclap so you, too, can annoy your Twitter and Facebook followers with a simultaneous mass post:



Get it? Got it? Let's move on to the serious stuff.

The SPEAK Project

So y'all know I speak out about abuse. I talk about my own experiences with it; I write about others' experiences with it. I go on soliloquies urging people to support abuse survivors. But soon I'll be starting a project to encourage others to talk about it, as well–and to provide a safe space for people to share stories that should never be silenced.

I'm keeping hush on the details for a little bit longer, but watch this space. I really hope you'll join me in supporting and encouraging abuse survivors to speak–though we should also support, encourage, and care for those who don't feel comfortable sharing their stories.

I think that just about covers it. I think I've blogged more in this past month than I have practically in a year. And I've got a new Dammit, Cole lined up for tomorrow, too.

I'm really starting to fail at this antisocial thing.

Dammit, Cole: The 'Slow Your Roll' Edition

Dammit,Cole!

It turns out I'm a bit of a flirt. You're not surprised by this, right? I attribute it to general friendliness and years of bartending. It's all harmless and in good fun until someone thinks I'm serious. So Cole. How much is too much? And when should I dial it back?

Thanks!

A

Oh, lawd. We about to step into this minefield. I kind of wish I had an infographic for this, because to really answer this I'm going to have to drag you through a Choose Your Own Adventure hell of "If yes, then no" questions. Let's get the easy ones out of the way first.

Are you single? Is the person you're flirting with single?

If yes to both, then too much is where you decide it is, and you only have to dial back when you or the other person has had enough and it's not fun anymore. If it's harmless, then it's harmless. You get to draw the boundaries of how much is too much or too little, as long as you respect the other person's boundaries as well. Make sure the other person isn't giving back mixed signals that seem serious, and then do as you please. If you or they aren't single, though…

Are you in an open and/or polyamorous relationship? Are they?

If the answer to this is 'yes,' (unequivocally–both partners informed, not 's/he thinks we're committed but I'm open,' as that's cheating) then, well…we're done here. Make sure your partner is informed (or not, some people have a 'don't ask, don't tell' clause) according to the agreements you set out about your relationship, and flirt on your merry way. Reiterate what I said about your boundaries and theirs, and you're good to go. And if you're single but the person you're flirting with is in an open or polyamorous relationship, make sure you're comfortable with that, ask the questions you need to ask about people being informed, and then have fun with it.

If the answer is no, well…then this just got more sticky. So ask yourself…

Would you do this in front of your partner? How would they feel if you did? How would you feel if they did what you were doing?

People have this idea that monogamous relationships are founded solely on jealousy and principles of ownership. In some cases, that's true. But not in all cases. Two monogamous adults can be in a committed relationship in which neither is particularly interested in being with anyone other than their partner, because they're just wired for monogamy the way some people are wired for polyamory–and they're mature and secure enough in their relationship not to feel threatened by harmless flirting. It might even be entertaining to see someone flirting with their partner. If there's trust, they have no reason to have a problem with it as long as it doesn't cross agreed-upon boundaries about fidelity; you'll know how far is too far, because you and your partner have already discussed it. Are you in a relationship like that? Yes?

…no, seriously, are you?

Are you sure?

If so, then great. Flirt, and snuggle on your partner after while you tell them about it, share an indulgent smile, and enjoy the fact that you've still got it. See, we're going with some positive, mature, well-adjusted outcomes here. Fun, right?

Until we get to the 'no' answer.

If this is something you wouldn't do in front of your partner, something you feel the need to hide from them, then you already know you're doing something naff, and you already know exactly how much is too much and when you should be dialing it back. You don't need me to tell you that. It might make them feel hurt that you're turning to someone else for affection and attention, rather than them; they may feel shut out from any form of physical and emotional intimacy, while you're giving those things to someone else. If you know it would make them unhappy and you're doing it anyway, that's a mess you should not be creating. If you want them to be okay with you doing it but you wouldn't be okay with them doing it, that's doubly unfair. And you really need to think about…

Why are you doing it?

Again, let's get the most positive answer out of the way first: it's just a little idle fun, and you don't even really think anything of it. It's as entertaining as watching Comedy Central, and that's all the emotional investment you have in it. If that's the case, then there shouldn't be anything wrong with your partner knowing about it; if that's just the way you are, then they should know that about you already, and know that it's not a sign that you're unhappy with them. You're just being carefree and fun, and you know your own limits for what you're comfortable with. Trust yourself there, and you'll know when to stop.

Or let's just say it's an ingrained habit from flirting for tips after years of bartending, and…well…it is what it is. It's like a reflex. Muscle memory you never really forget.

But there are other alternatives as to why, and looking at those gets a bit weightier. Are you doing it to fill an emotional or physical void in your relationship? Then you need to either talk to your partner, or break up with them–because filling that void with someone else, especially behind your partner's back, is cruel and unfair. Communication is key to any relationship, and if someone really cares for you then they'll want to know if there's something unfulfilled in your relationship. It may be something they can give you; something they'd be happy to give you. Or it may be a fundamental incompatibility, and if so, then you need to stop dragging things out by compensating behind their back and accept that the relationship just isn't what you need. Or, well, let's scroll back up to the poly discussion. It may be that your needs can only be met by multiple partners, but if that's the case, your current partner needs to know that and needs to consent to it, and you need to have a long, informed discussion about how that would work and why. Though I don't want to misrepresent poly as basically playing Tetris with varying partners to fulfill diverse emotional needs while shrugging the others off like a mood until you want them again; that's really more using people, while healthy poly is more about simply having the capacity for multiple deep emotional bonds–but that's a discussion for another day, and another post. Just know that if you're thinking of being poly because your current partner isn't fulfilling your needs and you're getting something out of flirting, you're probably looking into it for the wrong reasons.

Speaking of reasons…let's look at another potential reason for flirting. Does it validate you? Is it something that makes you feel better about yourself, reinforcing your attractiveness to whatever sex you happen to be focusing your attentions on? That's not so bad, now and then. We all like those gratifying, flattering little reminders that we're hot, and not just to a person who loves us enough to see us through rose-colored glasses. But if it's constant, if you're always trying to fill this black hole of doubt and insecurity inside you with any attention you can get, if your only way of interacting with others is to flirt with them or draw sexual attention to yourself, then that's a problem. One that's hurting both you and your partner, and you need to ask yourself what's driving it. What's making you feel like you aren't enough, when you should be. You don't need someone else to remind you how amazing you are, and if the only way you can feel good about yourself is to pander for romantic and sexual attention from as many people as possible, you're going to end up hurting yourself and other people very badly. Learn to love yourself, instead of feeding on other people loving you. Because this is a path you don't want to go down. At all.

How does the other person or persons feel about it?

So far we've talked about the flirter and their partner, but there's always another person or persons in the equation: the flirtee. And yes, you do have to take their feelings into consideration about this, especially if it's more than a one-off thing with a stranger and this is someone you're dealing with on a regular basis.

If the flirtee knows it's casual, meaningless, harmless…good. You're avoiding one mess, but you may be creating another–because even if they know it's harmless, that doesn't mean it doesn't make them uncomfortable. Especially in a friendship or in the workplace; some people just don't want that in their communications with friends or coworkers, and if they make it clear they're uncomfortable, stop before you end up with a sexual harassment lawsuit. I know I've had situations with friends who constantly, aggressively, and lewdly flirted with me or pushed for sexual details about me; I felt obligated to flirt back and cater to them so as not to be the rude arsehole ruining the fun, but inwardly I was recoiling, wanting to be anywhere else but in that conversation, and wondering if telling them to stop was worth the risk of potentially losing a friend if they took it badly. It doesn't matter your gender or theirs; a constant stream of unwanted sexual attention, no matter how playful, can make someone feel outright gross, and will make them do anything they can to avoid you. Don't be that person. Respect others' boundaries. And respect workplace boundaries; even in a casual work environment, there's a level of what is or isn't appropriate regardless of what may or may not be welcomed. People are there to work. Sometimes a little light flirting can relieve the tension as long as everyone's okay with it and HR isn't standing there waiting to rap your knuckles with a ruler, but it shouldn't be the sole basis of your work interactions. And, when in doubt, save it for after-work cocktails or your lunch break, not the office.

On the flip side, there's also the problem of the flirtee not knowing it's casual and meaningless. And that's when it's not harmless, and very much not good. That's when you're setting yourself up for a clusterfuck of epic proportions. This person may think you're looking for an affair…and you might fall down the slippery slope into one, because you'll keep letting things go farther by inches (no pun intended) and next thing you know, you're excusing a level of intimacy you never would have allowed when this first started. You may find yourself doing things that would deeply hurt your partner; things you feel you have to hide from them. You can also end up hurting the person you're flirting with quite a bit, though they're just as culpable–assuming they know you're already involved. If they don't, and you keep pushing the boundaries of intimacy with them…no. Nope. I can't even. I think you know what I'll say there. And if they're involved and sneaking around as well? Get off my lawn. Both of you.

But you also may find yourself in a dangerous situation with someone who takes your flirtations as advances, and won't take no for an answer. Let me make one thing clear: if someone takes a coy giggle as consent, that is not your fault. Let's get the victim-blaming off the table right the fuck now, because if you end up in this situation it would be because some douchebag has no self-control and no understanding of boundaries, not because of anything you did. It doesn't matter if you blurred those boundaries, because the second things go too far you have every right to clear them right back up again and have that respected. But. Knowing the ideological rightness of that doesn't change that this situation could go south very, very fast, because people suck. The ideal is that you should be able to walk naked in front of someone and then say "sorry, I'm married" and they just shrug, smile, and keep their hands to themselves. The reality is that there are some sick fuckers out there, and while it should never be your responsibility to bear the burden of prevention, you can still trust your intuition. If you're flirting, having fun, and start to get a weird feeling from someone…back away. Likely you won't want to keep flirting with them anyway if they make you feel weird, so I doubt it'd be a problem; the only problem will be making sure they know, in no uncertain terms, that it's time to stop–and then extricating yourself from that situation.

So what's the verdict?

There isn't one. It really boils down to if your partner(s) happen to be okay with it, why you're doing it, where it's going, and what lines are drawn that make you and everyone else involved comfortable. Human interaction is a complex thing defined by a number of factors, and sex and sexual availability are only a small part of that. Where you fall in these scenarios and the outcomes depends on self-analysis, honesty in your relationships, and what's really going on each time you glance at someone from under your lashes and feel that little rush when they eye you up and down. Technically as people we should be mature enough to handle that without making a mess, and should be mature enough to know when it's not the time or place for it.

But most of us aren't, to be perfectly honest.

So step back. Slow your roll. Take a good hard look at yourself, and ask yourself why. Why you flirt. What you've told your partner and how they feel about it, if you have one. Why you're doubting yourself enough to write to me, and what's fueling those doubts.

I don't have real answers for you.

I just have a lot of questions that only you can answer for yourself.