You should know by now that I am not afraid of conflict, and I would much rather know too much than too little. Whether through guilt or relief, they always reply back. Most recently, I dated Catch 2. I liked him. Our first date involved plotting to take over the world. Witch Store and I were never meant to be together. He wanted to be Swiss Family Robinson — lots of kids, a nomadic artist lifestyle… I was attracted to what he is now: a passionate professional with his shit together. He correctly observed that my anxiety around minimalism had to do with feeling like that person would have no room for me.
I fell in limerance with him right away — we had the most incredible first date walking around midtown writing a treatment for a TV show we knew would make us rich though as anti-capitalists, that was never the goal.
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I quickly learned that he throws away more brilliant ideas in a btsk we chatted a while back than I will have in my life. It was easy to trust him not to hurt me in exactly the same way Eleven or Harold did — Witch Store is teetotal and is driven by desires beyond the sexual.
Athletic, well-read, artistic, busy… he threw himself into projects and seemed to have perfect time management skills. He, like me, relished pushing himself to the limit and learning hard lessons. He never told me anything about himself. His quietness during sex was unnerving at first, but once I learned to interpret his breathing, the silence became beautiful.
That theme — me projecting beauty and depth onto his dark canvas — blossomed into love. Aside from discussing the latest development in some of his projects, he never really divulged any details about his hopes or dreams. He was the first person to touch my feet without inspiring a body-conscious panic attack. I came close to ending it a handful of times. He confessed early on that he has resented his past partners for taking him away from his art oh boy, my friends had fun with that.
He would offer grand gestures in moments of passion and rescind them just as quickly. He invited me to him on a leg of a grand six-week European tour he was taking, and took the opportunity I gave him to retract it a day later I was going to say yes.
He offered more than once to add me as a dependent at the university where he works so I could do some academic upgrading, or help subsidize braces. I always gave him an out there as well, and he always seemed grateful to take it. He outlasted eight other flings in those six months.
Smart, fun, troubled people who were better for me in some ways but none of the ones I was looking for. It was always Witch Store. I was bound and compelled. He winked and advised I not eat them all on the way home. He facilitated a DJ gig for me at an after-party for a conference he organized, and he out-cycled me when we rode out to a small town beyond even the suburbs.
He constantly surprised me sexually and kept track of my stories and friends. I knew he liked Radiohead my least-favourite band and he enjoyed Grimes when I played her in my DJ set. It was annoying, but part of his charm. He was the perfect mix of obnoxious and loving and beautiful, and he brought out amazing things in me. I was excited for other reasons: he was going to show me something he liked! I kept dragging him to my things and was now going to reciprocate!
We arrived at throng of people and I realized that we were at a sold-out charity show where my favourite band was headlining. He surprised me with my favourite band! He let me hold his hand as I buzzed with delight. He introduced me to some friends of his and they asked if we were ing them for the after-party. This had, of course, all been planned.
We danced and chatted and were temporarily interrupted by the bassist of my favourite band. The bassist and I danced and discussed the new album, but I was surprised — I was antsy to return to WS. I was head over heels in love, though. Everything felt like progress.
I called it off with all my other flings.
When I asked him to be with me — no ambiguity, no other people not that he was seeing anyone else — I expected some negotiation. Like, for real. A Real Thing. I confessed that I love him. He kissed me and told me he still wants to be that for me, but we both knew I needed more. We each cried, though we tried to hide it.
We spent five hours breaking up. We kissed and tried negotiating and I knew: for him, it would never be me. It might never be anyone. My stupid toxic type-A personality is unhealthy in a lot of ways, but the one weighing most heavily on me is that I feel like I should be emotionally ready to want to date again. Having gone on three btsk we chatted a while back Tinder dates this week, I can say for certain that I am not ready.
Three very different people, all the same outcome: I just wanted to bolt. One was a perfectly nice former pro soccer player-turned SQL dev who came out to the east end because I asked him to. One was a beautiful English woman who spent our date inviting me out to kink events and roller derby practice. I was antsy. I feel like I should be doing something, so I do it.
I start feeling pressure to do it again, so I get antsy until I do it. Over and over. I used to have the energy for four dates in a week. These three left me exhausted. For me, getting Tinder dates is easy.
Going to a sex club and getting propositioned is the easiest thing in the world. My type, u nder- or unemployed skinny sarcastic jerks who call me out and come from money, is the worst type. I think a lot of my hesitation comes from knowing how awful those people are for me, but still being laser-focused on ONLY being attracted to them.
The next five, ten, fifteen people who excite me will be some variation on it, but I would have to be excited by someone first. I had a patient on Thursday who knocked me off my feet. I just found him so compelling. Will we finally successfully use Tinder Social? For the first time in my adult life, I am actively not dating.
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I have too much rebuilding to do. That last one is going to be complicated.
Being constantly told that all your suspicions are rooted in being broken is such classic gaslighting behaviour. I am still very angry at him for that. Two weeks or so after the breakup, I was doxxed on 4Chan.
I had attended his baby shower, his wedding and had even posed scantily-clad for some of his body-positivity projects. When we dug deeper, we learned that six of my friends at least had also been doxxed over the years. I felt sick. Btsk we chatted a while back he initially denied it, his fall btsk we chatted a while back fast and fiery. It was well-publicized, so you probably heard about it if you follow Canadian news.
I am SO TIRED of providing social capital to mediocre, narcissistic predators who think they have a right to femme bodies, time and energy. Oddly, or perhaps fittingly, the men who hurt me and my friends have shiny progressive exteriors.
Eleven won me over initially through referrals by other feminists, most of whom still stand by him.