The other day, Dev over at Devastating Yet Inconsequential talked about some stuff that had come up in recent scenes with her boyfriend.  She expresses her own thoughts better than I could express them, so I’ll quote her:

Writing this post is very fraught for me.  I’m in territory that actually feels too personal for a blog post, but this is still the best medium I know of for really working out my thoughts, and the context I include so that other people can understand me often turns out to help me understand myself later.  I worry that this post will make me and/or Joscelin look bad, or really stupid, or completely misguided, even though, from my perspective, we have always had more or less sound reasons for our actions.  So I am going to try to write it.

And she did.

I wish I were as brave as many bloggers whose work I read.  I have, it seems, finally gotten over my challenges in producing smut.  If any smut were happening in my life, I’d be happy to tell of it (schedule permitting, of course.  One by-product of a long distance relationship is that when you do get smutty, you pretty much want to concentrate on it, and jam it in, as it were.)

As for putting pen to the personal, I’ve been able to produce a good amount of personal junk.  I am good at whining about my state of misery.  Or at least, my whines are prolific, if not original and full of flair.

Writing about things with Robbie is harder–increasingly so.  There is so very much to say, and so little I feel I can say online.  He regularly and repeatedly denies it, but I regularly and repeatedly have the impression when I write something here about him, he gets woefully upset.  There have been specific times when something I’ve written here has sparked a problem between us, and other times when I think it has just increased our pre-existing level of frustrating, miscommunication, and disappointment.  And it has always been the case that while writing helps me work out my own thoughts, Robbie gets lost in my verbiage.  (I wrote “gets lost in his own verbiage”–a Freudian slip, since his long missives often confuse me, too.)

The main point here, if I’ve not reiterated it to the nails-on-blackboard point, is that I understand the urge to protect yourself and your partner in writing.  The thing is, the same impulse is a high-priced ticket to a fan-fucking-tastic case of writer’s block.

So today I’m going to venture into the world of things that make me look bad, stupid, and completely misguided, and admit that there is a blogger out there–a really popular and well-loved one–whom I hate.  I mean, hate with a red-hot, cinnamon-stick passion.  I mean, hate so much I would consider e-stalking the person, if it weren’t so immoral, vile, and pathetic.  I mean, hate so much that I have to exert my utmost self-control not to write evil comments on this person’s blog.  I mean, hate in a way that makes you wonder whether you’re really a nice person after all, because, dammit, nice people don’t have feelings like this.

I have only a hazy idea of why I hate this woman–for it would be difficult to hide the fact that her femininity is part of why I dislike her.  I know I am jealous of her sexual and writerly powers, while, at the same time, feeling certain that I am sexually and authorially superior to her.  Whatever insight, soul, gentleness, passion she has–I am convinced I have more.  Whatever wit, deviance, education she possesses, I know I am cleverer, more twisted, more brilliant.

She has a better body than I do, undoubtedly.  She has more readers, demonstrably.  She has more people commenting on her work, evidently.  If you are reading this, you are almost definitely not she.

For a long time, I thought I hated her because I hated her kink, and that her turn-ons represented something that I could never embrace.  Then, for an equally lengthy period, I thought that I hated her because I craved her kink, and because I couldn’t bring myself to embrace what I most deeply wanted.

Having ventured, sexually, into some of the deeper waters that this woman has explored, I feel confidant in saying that it’s not whipping or punishment or spanking or control or orgies or waterplay or rope or bondage or 50s-style marriage or breast torture or infidelity that I fear.

But something about her just irritates the fuck out of  me.  If I wrote more about this person, she might be more identifiable, and so I’ll try to bring my rant of distaste to a close.


The problem is that my story has no moral, and stories without endings leave me nervous.  I certainly have not learned to love this person.  I have not reconciled myself to her, nor become indifferent.  I still stop just shy of stalking her, internetically, and still wonder, every time I feel the upsurge of anger when reading her words, exactly what my problem is.

I think I have to admit, though, that if I can fall in love with a stranger over the medium of the internet, as I did with Robbie, then I can fall in hate with one.  And that is a very unsettling thought.

Images by Manuel Vason, stumbled upon thanks to ponyXpress.