Let's talk about sex... and tiramisu.

Warning: Mom and Dad, I know you read this. Don't try to hide that tidbit of information from me. We all know that you cyberstalk me and live vicariously through my oh-so-exciting life. And while I don't intend to disclose a whole lot of personal information in this entry, you probably don't want to read any further. I'm talking about sex. (Oh, and this warning goes for anyone else who would prefer to believe that I am approaching thirty and still chaste and virginal.)

My boyfriends have always had a penchant for comparing me to food. More specifically, they seem to enjoy comparing sex with me to food.

I remember The Psychologist likening one's sexual options to a buffet. He described an assortment of flavorful and luscious things. Caviar, steak, chocolate covered fruits from far away lands, exotic breads, rich and delightful confections. And hotdogs. One can be presented with a cornucopia of grandiose gustatory delights, designed to gratify even the most discriminating palate. But one may, instead, choose to eat hotdogs for the rest of one's life. One can be satisfied with hotdogs. Hotdogs are yummy.

Ignoring the obvious (that I was clearly the hotdog in this scenario), I asked him: "But wouldn't you get bored with hotdogs?" He looked at me as if I were insane. As if to say: Who on earth would ever be bored with hotdogs??

My next relationship after The Psychologist was with Best Friend Mike. Mike was recently divorced when we met and reasonably insane. He, too, prepared a list describing all sorts of tempting and titillating foods, likening them to sex. He concluded with: "But sometimes you just want a cheeseburger."

Ignoring the obvious (that I was clearly the cheeseburger in this scenario), I asked him: "But wouldn't you get bored with cheeseburgers?"

Mike's answer was far more honest than The Psychologist's look of disdain. "Of course I'd get bored with cheeseburgers. I want pizza, too. And steak and lobster. And falafel and tiramisu. But not those last two together." He then paused and thought for a moment. "Actually, if we're talking about sex, I wouldn't mind having falafel and tiramisu on the same plate."

That is how Mike and I entered into a polyamorous relationship. He didn't want boring monogamy. I wanted to be able to sow s'more oats with women. We cared deeply for each other, sure. But does caring for each other, maybe even loving one another, mean we should cut ourselves off from the excitement of novelty? Does a romantic relationship mean eating hotdogs or cheeseburgers forever? Surely not!

And with that, my role quickly shifted from cheeseburger to falafel, and we went on the prowl, searching for the perfect tiramisu.

However, finding the perfect tiramisu proved difficult. And why? Because even though I wanted to eat whatever I desired, I wanted Mike to stick with cheeseburgers. Or falafel. Or whatever the hell I was.

The vast majority of time in my relationship with Mike was spent sorting out the "rules." How could we overcome sexual jealously? It was clear that I would be his primary partner, but how to handle the rest? Secondary partners? Tertiary? An intimate network? We discussed having a "closed group" relationship, where certain people were "approved" for sexual activity. Any new entry into aforementioned group would, of course, have to be approved by the both of us. But what if he got attached to a new girl and I fell by the wayside? What if our secondary partners became our primary partners and we became two people who just used to know each other once? What then?

The lines of communication were open, but the time expended keeping them clear was exhausting. We knew each other well. Even now, he knows me better than anyone else in my life, if only because of the interminable hours spent discussing our ever-evolving relationship. We never did find anyone else to join our relationship. Instead, we'd find ourselves in strange, surreal and comical encounters with other people. It was exciting and fun, sure. We were partners in crime; we were unstoppable. The feelings of guilt generally associated with sex (and even more pertinent in activities sometimes considered taboo) were assuaged by the fact that we were in it together.

It was fun and wild. I got high off the feeling. Literally, high. I would walk around the week following some ridiculously sublime weekend completely buzzed. The feeling became addictive: the thrill-seeking, the acting on wholly hedonistic and quite possibly self-destructive whims. I lusted after that feeling.

In the end, our relationship didn't last; it couldn't last. Our entire foundation was unstable, and that instability is what made it so very fun. Mike is still my best friend and I adore him. But after what we had together, we can't go back. We can't have a "normal" romantic relationship. We've been thrust into the Friend Zone, that evil, dark place where platonic love lurks in every corner.

I've had boyfriends since Mike. With them, I've had a horrible track record regarding monogamy; I've cheated and have rarely felt badly about it. Now I find myself in unfamiliar territory. I'm in a romantic and sexual relationship with someone I am actually in love with. This is pretty cool. Chris is wonderful, wonderful, and even more wonderful. So it should come as no surprise that the only "fight" to speak of, the only real conflict we've had, has been about sex.

Don't get me wrong; our sex life is incredible. It has traveled well beyond the Land of Hotdogs and Cheeseburgers. But I want more. And by "more," I mean that I want to be with women. I have no issue sharing. I long to bring a women into our bordello-styled boudoir and unwrap her. Slowly. I miss the sensuality. And, of course, I miss the newness.

Chris and I spoke about this. He wants a threesome insomuch as he wants to sleep with two women at once. He's had one before, but of course, he had the sort I hate: one man and two straight women. Nothing in it for the women, really. I mean, other than penis worship. I have no interest in that, and I explained that to him. I want it for me, not for him.

I seem to be in love with someone who has values and morals, who isn't seduced by promises of threesomes and whatnot, and who knows that any sort of polyamorous relationship would end badly. And you know what? He's right. It would end badly. I know that it doesn't work. I know that it would never work for me; not with Chris, not with anyone else. The reason for that is, in large part, my own double standard:

I miss the fun. I miss the wild and the crazy. I'm still addicted to that feeling I had when Mike and I were out and partaking in various forms of debauchery. I want to go out and fulfill my wanton desires, but I don't want my partner to do the same. I crave emotional monogamy, but miss the uninhibited and savage, unbridled sexual hedonism.

I want to have my tiramisu and eat it, too.

But I know I can't.

Put yer body in motion!

I interned for the public defender's office back between my first and second years of law school. I had a grand old time spending the majority of the summer helping out with a very complex trial that had our guy exposed to something like 65 years. After he was acquitted of four of the five charges, I was tasked with writing a motion for a new trial based on a lack of sufficiency of the evidence. It was, as one would imagine, quite fact-specific. And so I spent my days hunched over transcripts of the trial and pre-trial hearings, as well as my own trial notes.

When I needed a break, I would try to think of songs and song lyrics with the word "motion" in 'em. Here are some of the things I came up with:

The Locomotion

What's love got to do with it? What's love, but a second hand emotion?

If you feel like giving me a lifetime of devotion, I second that emotion.

Not a very extensive list.

I'm open to further input.

Part II: Happy?

I got off the phone a little while ago with Best Friend Mike.

I explained to him that Chris is saving up to get me high thread count sheets.

"You're happy," he said to me. Accusingly.

"You know, my mom accused me of the same thing the other day," I told him.

"Well, yeah," he responded. "You've never been happy."

When I confirmed that I am, indeed, rather happy, he stated: "You're happy. In a relationship. Things are not right with the world."

Except that things seem to be a-ok with the world. And that's swell.

On the movie RENT.

I first saw the musical version of RENT in Broadway in December of 1996. The movie didn't come out until nearly a decade later.

What the movie did, however, that the musical did not, was give the story a specific time frame. The movie starts of Christmas Eve, 1989.

This is all fine and dandy until the song Today 4 U comes up and Angel, the transvestite street drummer mentions the movie Thelma and Louise. Thelma and Louise premiered in 1991; two years after 1989.

Someone messed up.

Do you believe in miracles?

I was never the sort who believed in miracles. But something happened today that made me change my mind.

I paid $2.78 a gallon for gasoline.

Happy?

Yesterday, my mother accused me of being happy.

"I'm sorry," I responded.

She thought I had misheard her, and repeated herself: "You sound very happy these days."

I repeated myself: "I'm sorry. Should I not be happy?"

I suppose my friends and family are not used to me being happy. It's not as if I was unhappy before; I was perfectly content. I like my job, I like the small circle of friends I have in the area, and I'm a new homeowner. What did I have not to be content about?

But I realized last night that I am, indeed, more than content. I had another poker night. Two friends from law school and Guy From Work came over. Chris cooked and we played poker (I lost everything this time). We talked law (eeeeew!), exchanged stories, and told horrible, tasteless jokes. It occurred to me that I've become a boring adult, what with inviting friends over for dinner and having game night. But this does not bother me. I am happy nonetheless.

In other news, Chris and I have been contemplating his moving in. He lives about an hour away and spends most weekends here; occasionally, he makes a mid-week trek out to see me. He's currently in school and is contemplating a move to this area in the winter, once he has an internship. I thought about it, and it just seems practical for him to live here. 'T'would make financial sense for the both of us. I'm currently using the extra upstairs bedroom as my den and office, and have an empty, smaller room on the first floor that he could make use is he so desires. Suffice it to say, there's enough room for privacy and for each of us to have our own space.

I know it's early in the relationship to even think about this. I know that I've never technically lived with anyone (though for all intents and purposes, an ex-boyfriend lived with me for close to a year when I first moved to this state). I know that I always professed that I had no desire to cohabitate with anyone short of marriage. I know that this goes against everything I've ever wanted or believed. But for some reason, this time, it just feels right.

That makes me happy, too.

Snitches get stitches.

A few weeks ago, I was returning to my office after a morning in court when I ran into an attorney I know. "Did you see the hood of that Mazda?" he asked me, indicating a small car parked some thirty feet past the front door of my office building.

"No," I said. "Why?"

He told me to go look. And this is what I saw.

Sigh of relief.

I had a trial scheduled for today. My guy is a bit of a bombastic sort with a horrible, horrible, horrible record. The other side's witnesses showed up and I had a little chat with them. As I expected, they were well-dressed, good-looking, well-spoken: a nightmare for me. One of them was a fourteen-year-old boy all dolled up for court: the nightmare continues. My defense? Straight up Chewbacca. My client is currently under sentence on an unrelated charge our of a different district. So we decided to try a plea. They wanted a lot of time consecutive, we wanted less time concurrent. The judge (the best judge for disposition), split the baby and gave him a little time consecutive with some probation thrown in just to spice it all up. Even though it was more than I asked for, it was a great deal given the facts and my client's record. The client took it, sparing him a post-trial disposition where he more than likely would have been sentenced to more time.

Trial prep time: a gazillion lost moments. New pantyhose: $2.69. A sweet deal without trial: priceless.

(Ed note, I'd forgotten to eat beef jerky this morning, so I was concerned things would end badly.)

With that out of the way, my summertime lag begins right now. For the next two weeks, I have nothing stressful going on at work. I have a ton of office days coming up where I get to catch up on paperwork, jail visits, and, you know, actually constructing defenses.

The Bordello is complete. My lawn needs to be mowed, but I'm in such great spirits, I don't care. I'm young and in love is life is oh-so-wonderful. I feel like I should be waiting for the proverbial other shoe to drop, but I'm in too fabulous a mood to even bother.

Life is good.

The Bordello is open.

Chris and I put the Bordello together on Saturday. After spending copious amount of cash, it's up and running.

Sadly, I can't find my cord for my digital camera. Thus, the photos I am posting were taken with the camera built into my new, super-duper MacBook. Which means I had to contort myself to get out of the image, and hold the computer at weird angles. Hence, they're not so good. But the room looks awesome.

What's the deal with this love thing?

rEver since I was a wee lass, people have been feeding me the same nonsense about love. "It's inexplicable," they say about the emotion. "Love is forever." When asked how one knows when one is in love, the answer is always the same: "You just know."

This has not been the case for me.

I am forever attempting to reconcile logic and emotion. I am told that emotions do not make sense; I don't believe that. Emotions come from somewhere and are rooted by something. You don't like someone? There's a reason for it. People may blame it on "gut instinct," but even at the most basic level, there's a damn reason why someone dislikes someone else. There is a smorgasbord of emotions: fear, frustration, anxiety, dislike... And there are reasons for all of them. So why is the love thing so different?

And if that weren't bad enough, people talk about falling in love as if it's all rainbows and unicorns. Folks throw logic out the window when speaking of love. They lament about falling in love with the wrong people, as if it's not a conscious choice. "Oh why, oh why do I always fall in love with the wrong people?" they scream to the heavens. And then, as an afterthought, they add, "It's not as if you can control who you fall in love with, you know."

This statement is a fallacy.

Of course you can control who you fall in love with. Certain people are off-limits. Married people. Co-workers. The guy with the nine-page felony record. It's a matter of filtering. You ascertain the unsavory (or forbidden) characteristics, and then decide not to love that person.

So what's the deal with this love thing? I don't get it. I've never "just known" I was in love with someone. I question it, and think through it. I compare the way I feel about someone with the facts and experiences that make up the relationship. I stew and I ponder. And I reach a conclusion. It may not be romantic, but it's pragmatic.

I've found, through long-time empirical studies, that there are several types of fallers-in-love:

Faller in Love Type #1
There are those who profess to fall in love in no time at all. They toss around "I love you" as if it's going out of style, as if there's a finite number of times they're allowed to say the phrase and they have to cram it all into a small window of time. They are obsessive in their need to say the words again and again, until the words have no meaning anymore.

Faller in Love Type #2
There are those who say "I love you" when they do not mean it. They say it because it's the proper response to someone else professing love. They say it because it's time. Sometimes they say it because there's a lull in conversation and they get so anxious about filling the silence, that they blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. Or perhaps they say it because they've gone looney in a bout of post-coital bliss. They give their partners a false sense of security; they allow people to think they are loved in return, when the are not.

Faller in Love Type #3
There are those who fall in love too often. The twenty-five-year-olds who claim to have been in love no fewer than five or ten or fifteen times in their lives. I don't know about anyone else, but I want to be special; I don't want to be another in a long list of individuals who my mate has been madly and head-over-heels in love with. Such a thing is akin to the Faller In Love Type #1; falling in love means little to me when you've fallen in love with everyone you've met.

As for me? I do not fall into any of these of these types. I wait. I wait until I'm sure. I wait until it means something. I am precise with my language, and refuse to say something I do not mean. And even when I do say it, I say it quickly and quietly. So quickly and quietly, in fact, that it is often missed altogether. I never "just know." The only thing I do know is that love is not easy. It is not all sugar and sunshine-dust. Like most things worth having or doing, love takes work.

Lest you think I'm a complete naysayer, I will concede one thing to the sappy romantic, the slobbering, love-crazy fool: Love does last forever. I don't believe in falling out of love. It's always there, in some deep, dark cavern. It may fade over time, sure, like the memory of a seemingly long-forgotten childhood trip to the circus. But it doesn't go away. And since it doesn't go away, since it's always with you, since no one ever really truly falls out of love, it makes sense to be sure of it before you go around saying stuff you can't take back.