I am an autistic weirdo, and so I like to mentally sort my relationships with people into different categories. They are kind of fuzzy, but they go roughly like this:
Acquaintance: someone I know and will say hi to at social events. I’m probably friendly with them and have them on social networks, but don’t have their number and wouldn’t invite them to something I was organising. I normally won’t interact with them on social media beyond liking/occasionally comment if there’s been an explicit call for responses.
Standard friend: I have their number and will comment on their social media stuff just to make a joke. I will invite them to group events and go out of my way to talk to them at social events, but if I don’t see them for a while I probably won’t go out of my way to see them.
Close friend: all of the above, but I will make a special effort to see them and normally try to spend some one on one time with them. This is quite important because being one on one with someone can be quite scary for me, so I need to feel relatively close to someone to actively seek them out for one on one socialising.
Romantic partner: the same as close friend, except I will make even more of an effort to spend time with them one on one. I consider myself committed to them and will go far out of my way in order to see them. If we have an argument or disagreement, rather than just letting it stew, I will attempt to go back and actively fix it. We have some kind of sexual or kinky relationship.
Any of the above can be combined with some variety of sexual/kinky activity, though it isn’t necessary at all. The only exception is the romantic partner category – I wouldn’t feel like it was a proper relationship without that.
These are often fairly aspirational. Sometimes I know that, for instance, another person doesn’t view me as a standard friend but I would like them to be in that category so I treat them as if they are unless I get “go away” vibes. One to one time is obviously quite meaningful for me, but occasionally – especially in Nottingham – they aren’t a close friend but I hang out with them one on one anyway simply because I don’t know many mutual friends.
Tansy Blue photographed by Suffering4Art
I have a crush on someone at the moment. (And no I won’t tell who, I’m busy being a fluttery 12 year old and writing my secrets in a diary with a voice-activated lock.) I mentioned this to my therapist because it was relevant to a bit of stress I was having at the time, and told her that I have crushes on people a lot. She asked if this comes with a lot of loss.
I gave her a confused look. No, no it doesn’t. And let me tell you why.
For me, a crush is something I have when I don’t actually know the person very well. It’s for when I’ve met them a few times and know I like them, but most of my interaction with them involves stalking their social media presence and thinking about them in aforementioned fluttery 12 year old manner. A crush is a thing I have when I know the person well enough to have an impression of them in my head, but not a true representation of them – the crush is never on them so much as on an idealisation of them that may or may not correlate to how they are in real life.
Crushes are fun, but they’re not real. They’re fundamentally based on ignorance. As such, when I get to know someone better, the crush fades. I can no longer idealise that person once I am intimately acquainted with their flaws and mistakes, and the crush turns into something less fluffy and more realistic. Normally, I discover that they aren’t as interesting as I thought they were and the crush fades into indifference. Other times, they are indeed intelligent and funny and interesting, and they turn into friends, maybe with benefits, maybe not. Almost all crushes take one of these two routes with time.
This is not a loss. It would be impossible and undesirable for every crush I’ve ever had to turn into a full on relationship. It is the way it has to be if I want to indulge in crushes. I guess I could refuse to have them, and as soon as I felt attracted to someone put distance between myself and them – stop talking to them in life, unfriend them on Facebook, but where’s the fun in that? I’d rather be happy and giggly over an idealisation that I know will fade, than spend my life trying to quash attraction.
The whole thing plays into my basic philosophy on relationships, which runs like this: if somebody is right for you now, go for it. Seek a loving, fulfilling, joyful relationship. But people change, circumstances change, and they may not be right for you forever. This is no tragedy – life is constant change, that’s what makes it exciting and exhilarating. Be happy that you found a relationship that was right for you at that moment in time, and try not to mourn its end too much: some things are temporary, but they are no less valuable for that.
There are two other options for crushes, of course. They turn out to be a dull person but excellent in bed, in which case we can become simple fuck buddies with no associated friendship. This is not my preferred option and I can only think of one, maybe two people who’ve fallen into this category. Or, of course, I could fall in love. This is not my preferred option either. Love takes a lot of energy and time. I already have two loves in my life, and I don’t think I have space for anymore. I consider myself polysaturated. If I fell in love with a third person, I don’t really know what I would do, but whatever it is it would be difficult, emotionally or logistically or both.
Tansy Blue photographed by Suffering4Art
I am going to do something very dangerous here and blog about the people I live with. Not necessarily flatteringly. It is fairly likely they will read this. I may be about to fuck up some of my most important interpersonal relationships. OKAY LET’S GO.
I’ve been living in my new flat since the start of August or so, and it is shockingly beautiful. Really light and airy, high ceilings in the main room, exposed brickwork, wooden beams running along the walls, massive windows. It’s in a gorgeous location in the centre of Nottingham, no more than 20 minutes walk from all the fun bits and 10 minutes to most of it (though a half hour bus ride to uni – we’ll just ignore that). It’s deeply affordable, probably because although marketed as “three bedroom” the third bedroom doesn’t have a door (you go straight up the stairs and that’s her room) and most people wouldn’t count it as a bedroom at all. Regardless, my flatmate Snuglomaniac inhabits it and loves it.
I am living with Snugs, as previously mentioned, and my friend KH. They are both kinky weirdos I met through the fetish scene and as such the first house rule we made was “no bare butts on the soft furnishings”, because everyone walks around naked the whole time. Which is great. I do not need to put clothes on to get food or to get up in the middle of the night to go to the toilet. When I’m back at my familial home in London, I seriously resent having to put clothes on to leave my room. It’s great.
That is, of course, the tip of the iceberg. We have no boundaries in this flat. Like. None. Snuglomaniac wanders around groping me the whole time; I leave sex toys out in the kitchen for days before I get round to washing them; KH fucks with the door open; and the whole flat is kind of like a BOGOF on sexual partners. If you’re coming to play with one flatmate and another flatmate fancies you as well, it’s probably going to turn into a threesome. Or else you can just switch bedrooms when the original flatmate gets tired of you.
KH wins the crown for this, fucking in my bedroom before I did – I hadn’t been celibate, of course, it was just all my fucking had involved Snugs and so was in her room. KH had of course fucked in her room, had been involved in an orgy up in Snugs’s, and then completed the trifecta by borrowing my room for a spontaneous gangbang when I was busy organising triple penetration of DN in her room at our flatwarming.
Kinky houses are the best.
But probably the greatest “we have no boundaries” moment was when I came out of the shower to see Snuglomaniac lying on her back with her legs spread, putting haemorrhoid cream on. I have never been particularly interested in Snuglomaniac’s butthole, but I could now draw you a reasonably accurate diagram. The best I could do in return was showing her all the earwax I’d sprayed out of my ear after buying a waxing kit and essentially giving myself an ear enema (I make lots of earwax as standard but this time needed particular intervention; I couldn’t hear out of my left ear for three days), but I think that’s relatively normal. I was really excited about being able to hear again and needed to show someone my GREAT TRIUMPH over the evil earwax – I think that’s a pretty standard reaction.
There have, of course, been kinks of the non-sexy kind. KH and Snugs have had a couple of big arguments. I’m pretty proud of myself though, because I was not involved in either of them. In fact I sorted them out, waiting until the dust had cleared in both cases and then sitting down and negotiating a compromise. Hurrah, Tansy the adult! I really thought I would have explosive arguments with everyone - I’m neurotic and prone to short-temperedness when I’m stressed/tired/hungry, plus I can’t cope with an untidy environment and both KH and Snugs leave more mess lying around than I’m completely comfortable with. I will note here that this is more because I am obsessive than because they’re particularly messy, but that doesn’t stop it being an argument flashpoint.
The female orgasm, ain’t she a bitch?
One of the most noticeable changes from hormone replacement therapy occurred around the beginning of this year (about two years in). I’m talking about sex. Yes there was most certainly a gradual change - the see men taking that last trip out from the ball docks as they recognised their was no future in the salt market. The slow but soft blow of wood gone bi, never to harden at the hands of the flute player again (or be it without backing from the pharmacy). However the last noticeable change was the experience of sex its self.
With male hormones running through my body, if I wanted to fuck myself I could do so no problem. It was easy to mess up - a real time passer. If I had somewhere to be in half an hour or so and was basically ready, why not tug one out? Get to the point of just before orgasm and play around for xx amount of minutes before it was time to go and splat, done, happy times. This is no longer the case…
If I am not horny, no matter how much I try and fuck myself I will gain little sensation from it. However when I am horny and masturbate it will take me between 10-60+ minutes to cum. None of this fire at Will business (even though Will is hot and deserves a creamy face… Who’s Will again? No one I know, I’m just making more jokes again… I do apologise). A-n-y-w-a-y, I may not even always cum. When I do though, the neighbours will hear about it. I do apologise and try not to broadcast my sex life outside of my friend base (or strangers on the internet)… But I cannot help it! I SCREAM, she screams, we all scream for Snuglomaniac’s cream (once again, I do apologise for my desperation to make jokes that lack accuracy. As stated, I no longer actually cream).
A-n-y-w-a-y, It’s good. It’s better then good, it is amazing! The female orgasm is definitely better then the male orgasm, a 100 times better in fact. However its times hard(soft)er which I think is fine. It’s a fair trade off and definitely worth it. One of the main things that I have noticed is that it is so much more psychological. The only chemicals in the male orgasm are released at the end. They basically say “Let’s hug, good night”. Up until then it’s just allllll about the genitals. As for the female experience… Omg, there are so many chemicals all the way through it. I will briefly refer to a threesome I had a couple of days ago (which I may write more about at a later date) in order to highlight this.
So my flatmate was being fucked on all fours by a mutual friend as she went down on me. I concluded from this experience that she’s better at sucking dick when she has another one inside of her. Nonetheless, the thrusting got too much for her and she could no longer focus on mine. Instead she got up her elbows when are arms pushing against my thighs. Every thrust he made into her pushed her forward. I felt her pressure on my thighs with every thrust he made. My genitals were not being touched. Regardless of this, I had never experienced a greater sexual satisfaction whilst under the influence of male hormones. I remember (trying) to think to myself at the time that it was bizarre how much I was getting off on this. In hind sight it was probably better then the oral sex. I noticed how much I was moaning in sink with his thrusting. My mind went so far elsewhere in sexual ecstasy and my genitals were not even being touched.
This one moment was greater then any sexual experience as a male.
Dear men, I regret to inform you but… What you believe to be sexual gratification is pathetic.
Next three blog posts (assuming I get time to write them this weekend around social obligations and cleaning my room, my car, and my snakes’ cages because I manage to make everything dirty):
This is a rant, and also to keep my assault tag updated. I’ve been irritated by one of DN’s friends, here referred to as S, and want to rant about it. Buckle up!
S attended a play party/orgy that DN and I co-hosted at the beginning of July and managed to irritate me three times over the course of the night and subsequent morning. That’s 3 times in about 18 hours. Some people don’t irritate me three times in 18 MONTHS. Those are good people.
Irritation the first: he woke me up. At 5am. URGH. He snuggled up to me while I was crashed out in the main bed and tried to persuade to come out and get breakfast with him and DN and then go back to hers for a threesome maybe. I may have responded rather aggressively, i.e. I said to him “I will punch you in the face”. And then repeated it: “no seriously I will punch you in the face”. He put a bit of distance between myself and him, unsurprisingly, and spent a few more minutes trying to persuade me out while I insisted I wanted to go back to sleep and needed to drive in the morning, couldn’t be sleepy for that. Eventually he just said “sucks to be you” and left me alone. I was happy he fucked off but I could’ve done without the attempt at shaming me.
No one wakes me up at 5am. Not unless the bed’s on fire or they’ve just captured a unicorn. These are the only two scenarios in which I want to be awake at 5am. Unless it’s with Aaron Paul, I do not give a shit about your crappy threesome. Fuck. Off. (I did apologise later for threatening to punch him. Possibly a tad far.)
Irritation the second: because we’d had a party in the room the night before, it was covered in condoms, gloves, antibac wipes, lube sachets (everyone does safer sex at my orgies at risk of being thrown out), empty bottles, empty packs of crisp. Before leaving I wanted to tidy all this up because we weren’t technically meant to be having the party and I thought it would be considerate to the hotel staff – there were only meant to be 2 people in the room and anyway it’s unfair to expect strangers to tidy up your used condoms, no matter the circumstances. So I started bagging up all the rubbish and putting all the recyclable bottles in one pile.
S was still crashed out on the bed but woke up as I moved around him, and attempted to persuade me to stop tidying three times over. Three times! Apparently I gave the hotel a lot of money so that I wouldn’t have to do this and other people were paid to do it and it wasn’t my job blah blah. Yeah, someone else is paid to do it, but they’re paid to do two people’s mess, not a dozen’s, and anyway, why do you have a problem with me wanting to make a life a bit easier for the minimum wage service worker? Why do you hate minimum wage service workers? Eventually I just had to say “this is the third conversation we’ve had about it. I want to do it and it’s not affecting you, so just back. off.”. Some people won’t listen to anything other than full out aggression.
I briefly mentioned this in my previous post and wanted to ramble about it a bit more. I mentally categorise people according to my relationship with them: partners, close friends, normal friends, play partners, people I’ve met a few times and would like to get to know better. Because I am an autistic weirdo, I write these down in lists on my phone, because it helps me keep track of and maintain my relationships – when I see someone I move them to the bottom of the list, so the person at the top of the list is the person I haven’t seen for ages and need to get back in touch with. They’re beautiful lists, coloured coded and everything (by group – people from school, people from the scene, etc). Love me a bit of colour coding. I know this is an odd thing to do but if I don’t do it I feel overwhelmed by all the people I know and really confused about how to do friendships.
There is a final list on my phone: the trashcan of garbage humans. This is a special place reserved for abusive people – people who’ve stalked, attacked, lied to, verbally abused, or sexually assaulted my friends. People who hit their partners. People who ignore safewords. People who hurt other people with impunity and without remorse, over and over again.
Being in the trashcan of garbage humans means – at heart – that I no longer make excuses for you. Most people I give the benefit of the doubt: I assume they are ultimately good people. If they do something bad, I’ll try and see a way that they could be doing it out of confusion or fear, rather than assuming they are doing it out of pure malice. I’ll give them a second chance, mark it down as a mistake and a blip in an otherwise good record, and I’ll move on from whatever it was they did that I thought was unacceptable.
If someone is in the trashcan of garbage humans and they fuck up, I do not give them the same courtesy. If you are in the trashcan of garbage humans and you hurt someone, I assume you are doing it just because you a terrible person. I won’t forget it because I consider it symptomatic of a wider pattern of behaviour, rather than an isolated incident. I will tell my friends to avoid you and I will tell anyone who wants to know precisely what you did to make me consider you a waste of skin.
Basically, don’t fuck other people over and I will always be nice to you. If you do decide to be an abusive fuckwit, I will never say a good word about you again.
(This would be way more intimidating if my opinion had any actual weight in anything, ever. Which it doesn’t. Although clearly it should because I should be queen of the world.)