Okay, some stuff that doesn't really fit in the profile, but of which it might be useful to take note.

Thing One: I am apparently into power exchange! A lot! Who knew?

That noted, my bizarrely spectacular introduction has ruined me for playing with anyone who isn't similarly bizarrely spectacular. That goes for either dynamic direction, although the boys I tend to want to top tend themselves not to be aware how bizarrely spectacular they are--quirky, maladjusted folks frequently aren't.

In particular, I sub only for mindful, playful, and really fucking smart. I honestly don't expect to find this very often at all, which is okey dokey by me.

Thing Two: Hello, I am now single! For certain oddball definitions of single which include being slightly married. Which is to say, I am still non-monogamous and a slut, and I still have unusual and nebulous boundaries between friends and sex partners, and also, prompting the actual profile change, my five-year spouse and I are splitting up. No angst--it was a long time coming. Ridiculously so; we've been much more best friends than lovers for like over a year, be-spoused only in name, but we're just so fucking fond of each other that we didn't really want to admit it was time to split up or move apart. It really, really was, though. So lots of feeling rather stupid and apologies on either side, but yeah, nobody is listening to Sarah McLachlan on repeat and sobbing into their Haagen-Dazs.

our fearful trip is done.

Here is the thing: I have, contrary to all reasonable expectation, made real and actual friends via OKCupid. Also, because of the matching system, it also totally satisfies the urge for five minute stranger crushes that, because of my idiosyncratically picky crush screen (which includes such things as "will this person understand the joke about the neutron walking into a bar well enough to hit me for it?"), doesn't really get fulfilled by common homo sapiens browsing behaviour like coworker fantasies or watching nice asses.

Here is the other thing: I totally forget it exists. Like, for months. So I write to these cute people on whom I am having an intense, gleeful five minute stranger crush, and they go "hey thanks," and sometimes they even flirt with me a little--which yay!--and, in any event, I then proceed to unintentionally snub them by not logging in for ninety-six days.

Dear cute people: you are cute! For real! I just suck.

Discipline. Like physical discipline. I have not explored this even slightly. I prefer the coping method of a semi-annual glance at it out of the corner of my eye, followed by a psychological sidle away.

Because I just thought the internet should know, I guess.

-Androgynous men
-Alternatively, masculine-looking but rather gentle-mannered men
-Being instructed, praised, or both in low, velvety tones
-Aggressive or just plain self-possessed women
-Endearingly dorky grins
-Eloquent writing
-Ethical ambiguity as a character trait
-Being indulged by intellectual men, especially older intellectual men (this one is totally psychologically iffy to me, especially considering that in theory it sort of pisses me off whereas in practice I purr like a kitten; the good news, however, is that it is DEFINITELY not a dad thing since my dad is a finishing carpenter)
-Women in men's dress clothing
-Bisexual men (sort of a theme here on fluidity of gender and sexuality, I guess)
-Lex Luthor in several of his post-Crisis iterations (shut up)
-Hands
-Cutting senses of humour
-Sybaritic bedchambers
-Longer hair, especially curly; especially curly bed-head
-I'm getting bored with this section, so:

Un-likes

-The smell of almost all beers, unfortunately
-Non-readers
-Baseball caps
-The vast majority of facial hair
-Execrable grammar and/or spelling
-Traditional views on gender and sexuality
-Spelling the word "come" with a u; this is flagitious abuse of both English and sex itself
-Guys who hassle other guys about their masculinity
-Ridiculous sexual slang, especially being used while fucking; most other terms for the phallus besides "cock" tend to make me cringe. Just go with cock, clit, blowjob, go down on, fuck, et cetera. Please for fuck's sake, and I know this is pedantic and silly, don't refer to your rod, my boobs, or ask if you can eat me out, which sounds like you're intending to engage in ritual cannibalism. If you can't bear to be blunt and dirty about your sex talk, stick with "oh Christ yes" or "that feels fucking incredible" or "if you do that again/don't do that again I'm going to lose it and not in the good way."
-Just discovered I have all the ingredients for some strawberry thumbprint cookies, so done with this part too.

They say I was born shipboard. You won’t have heard it, of course, but it’s a very popular yarn up and down the Eistron Coast. Here, I’ll tell it: listen you.

The story goes: On a trade crossing from Gibarta to Greater Pelagia, there rolled down a fearful autumn storm. One of those hurricanos, it was, storm of a lifetime, as the saying goes. It was all hands for a day and a night; the little galleon’s crew were half-crazed with fear and want of sleep, their limbs leaded and guts cold with the sick certainty of foundering in one of the mountainous waves.

Some time after midnight, folk began to hear the sound of a woman in pain. First low moans and prayers, rising and falling like the tide, weaving with the rush and thrash of the storm and sea; all women of the crew were accounted for, and so hands they could not truly spare were dispatched to find the source of the sound, but it echoed all through the bones of the ship, from main deck to keel, quarter deck to foc’sle, and they could not triangulate it nor find the lady.

An hour passed, and more; the unseen woman began trading between silences and brief high keens; sailors were ashen and tight-faced as they wrestled the shrouds, strained against wet canvas, or joined ragged and panting voices to pray to Yemaya and Kanda. Some of the superstition-prone were saying the sound came from the sea itself; they prayed to the Ona Benega, and there were nearly blows over it.

At whatever time the yarn-spinner feels most fitting, often placed in the eerie green first light of pre-dawn, it is said that just as the ship slid into the trough of a behemoth wave, there fell a sudden, unnatural silence; the wind dropped to a whisper and they could hear the juddering and groaning of the timbers for an endless moment. Then, an ululation poured from every corner of her, rising until it shivered the planks of the deck. Some sailors stumbled or fell to their knees; several let go their lines and were washed over when the ship listed into the crest and began to climb it.

The ship’s cook came from the stores, or the bilge, or the bow, cradling a babe dressed in sea-weed. Or:

The First Mate heard a wail from the crow’s nest and she climbed me down the rain-lashed rigging tied into her tunic. Or:

The baby was found in a coil of rope on the deck in the clear white morning, sucking salt from his chubby fingers.

In no variation is there ever, of course, a woman found, nor any evidence of birth or of an unknown passenger.

In another popular tale, I was found naked amongst the seals on one of those Gibartic flat-bottomed sealing pangas. I think they say this because I am dark and quick and I have eyes like theirs.

In another, I am an emperor’s daughter, run away to sea; in this story I made a deal with the dolphin-goddess Kanda, who had fallen in love with me, to make me a man and a Captain in exchange for sailing on her seas until the end of my days. This one tickles me. The drunker or bawdier storyteller will add that she made my cock from a belaying pin; as a bit of a fabulist myself I can’t disapprove of a creative detail, and such a dimensionally flattering one, if a bit squiffy on the actual configuration.

I enjoy the stories. I like to take on new crew and listen at the galley door to what will be said regarding my origins. I heard one involving an octopus. It was very odd.

When I am asked about most of these tales, as happens on occasion when some young rigging-monkey’s lost a dare or when I am applying myself to becoming ginnified in a muggy port’s tavern (no impugnation intended of our current salubrious
surroundings), I don’t say anything, but just roll my eyes or laugh. When I am asked of that first one – of the babe born to a storm – I smile. This story suits me fine.

In my sporadic time at OKCupid I have been asked many things more than once. Herein I will fritter away my time publicly answering some of them.

I have been asked on several occasions using different combinations of words if I would like to fuck. (Usually; in fact, one might be inclined to say relentlessly, overwhelmingly, prolifically, although almost never with the people doing the asking, and with no current intention of fulfilling the goal using OKCupid.)

I have been asked once for a picture of myself doing the Vulcan hand sign. (Really sorry, haven't followed through on this; maybe should go do that right now instead of rather insignificant rambling? In fact, probably should, and shall, once I've come to whatever maundering conclusion I'm likely to reach.)

I've been asked thrice for a body shot (probably should do this just to stop the question; possibly also after am finished with useless post. Feel horribly weird and vain doing it, so may follow it quickly with something sillier to bump it off the profile. Anyway, suffice it for now to say I'm endomorphic, a terrible dresser, and rather chubby, a fault which is being improved but will alas never be conquered.)

I've been asked for more remedies for yeast infections. (Drink a tall glass of cranberry juice every day to regulate your inner pH; check your sexual partner(s) aren't harboring an asymptomatic candida overabundance which they could be repeatedly sharing with you; don't wash your lady pastry with most soaps; watch your sugar and starch intake because it WILL show up in your homebrew and the little bastards love that. I also hear yoghurt works but I hate the fucking stuff so no personal confirmation on that point.)

I've been asked if I was really in love with Roland Deschain. (Yes, intensely, still. And also some with Malcolm Reynolds. Chalk it up to dear, laughably solemn, youthful romanticism, and try to forgive it. Also just a bit with Jack Shaftoe, although I'd prefer it if no one analysed this one very closely, including myself.)

I've been asked in numerous permutations of wording if I'd like to while away the time in idle conversation. (Yes, probably.)

I've been asked if I like to dance. (Yes; sincerely, often, and with no skill whatsoever.)

I've been asked what my political leanings are. (I'm too young and not knowledgeable enough yet to know for sure; it's looking to drift rather socialist, to be frank, which seems unpopular, but I'm open. Also, and this you may be sure on, feminist, anti-racist and gender-radical.)

I've been asked how I lean in bed. (Not sure and haven't yet been interested enough to ask anybody who'd know, but on quick assessment it's flexible. I do seem to frequently come over a bit, uh, take-charge. Never played deliberate D/s games and not particularly interested. Enjoyed, however, several naturally occurring dominance war dynamics enough to look quite fondly upon the prospect of encountering them again.)

I've also been asked if I'll talk dirty with you. The answer is almost invariably no. Trust me, I'll let you know if that's ever what's on my mind.

There; any more questions?

Here is something I'm actually embarrassed and defensive about. I am not well-educated. I am, in fact, a high school dropout, having maintained a dismal record since quite early on in grammar school and then failed spectacularly for the first semester of the tenth grade before absconding three months shy of my 16th birthday. The fact that I easily received a CHSPE some time afterward after having received effectively less than one fourth of a high school education is nothing more than a darkly amusing testament to either the shoddy nature of the test itself, or the dismal level of learning expected of a high school graduate.

The lion's share of my knowledge and intelligence, such as it is, has long since been provided by the written word, which has received wretched reward for its generosity in my heinous abuse of it - my missives are simplistic and vulgar, then stilted and self-important by turns (take a good guess which stick I'm currently waving). Due to this unusual path of schooling, rather lack thereof, my map of knowledge is exceedingly erratic; intricately detailed and shaded in certain small areas of interest, surrounded by enormous barren stretches where HC SVNT DRACONES. When brushing against education, its resident creatures, its venerable architecture of tradition, its priests, cathedrals and accomplished disciples, I am suffused with the feeling of a small child in a dirty dress. Mortification and rebelliousness flood my brain, full of the memory of endless hours of invisibility peppered with short, intense bursts of opprobrium or degradation, and finally my relieved and shamefaced escape. If no one has yet noticed my feelings, it is because I deeply wish to maintain the dignity of not showing them.

Anyhow, there you have it. I hope to fuck I manage to write something actually likeable next time.

I can't help but notice that women don't show up on my stalked-by anymore. Do I give off "straight vibes", whatever those are? Is it the horribility of my most recent photograph, dominated as it is by the ominous ears of Lepus, Him Who Ate the World, and not dominated by, as it were, any particular attractiveness on my part? Is it just that I'm "seeing someone" and men are simply more inclined to pursue pen-palling or other platonic contact, whereas - no, hahahaha, sorry, ahaha, can't finish this one with a straight face. But honestly, what am I doing wrooooong?

I've received a request for a picture of myself making the Vulcan live-long-and-prosper hand sign. Despite the possibility that by doing so I would be opening the door to finding my poor dear visage in basement-dweller fetish galleries for years to come, (to the ladies in the audience, if you've been unlucky or high enough to be photographed sneezing, my earnest advice to you is to destroy the evidence before it has a chance to make its way to the godforsaken wasteland that is This, Our Internet!,) I am disposed to satisfy this complete stranger's wish to see me with my hand in the nerdiest of all configurations; nevertheless I am also troubled by the fact that this would constitute an act of amiability contrary to my curmudgeonly nature.

As with all other life-impacting decisions, the body most qualified to resolve such a grave conflict is, of course, the unwashed (metaphorically, for the most part) public of This, Our Internet.

Vulcan hand-sign photo or no?

Key points to ponder:

1. I have not been able to bring myself to Google for the existence of Vulcan hand-sign fetish groups, although several weeks ago I was sorely disappointed to find "celebrity dicknipple" a nonentity in the internet fetish world, let alone "celebrity dicknipple photoshop," my original shining hope.

2. This complete stranger spelled, grammaticised and punctuated everything correctly and was moreover very cheeky and not in the slightest yuck.

3. If said Vulcan hand-sign fetish groups do exist, a slim chance, the chances of my photo landing up there are even slimmer, and the chances of my ever actually looking at them are slim to none and therefore I would possibly remain untroubled by and in fact unaware of my damp little following.

4. But you never know.

5. Due to the fact that I am an absentminded moron who cannot keep track of her own belongings when moving house, I'll have to borrow a camera, or send a very low-quality cell phone picture, the disappointment of which might well dampen the spirit of the whole affair.

Approximately every three months during my nightly shower the thought occurs to me, "You know, it really can't feel all that terrible to shave my pubes. And I do like the way it looks. I was just being a baby about it last time. Heigh ho."

Tonight was that night, and to my immense regret, it really can feel that terrible. Well done me.

My profile states that I am less sexual and less artistic than others my own age. This is true, to a certain degree of true. I ended up filling out a large chunk of the personality questions one night during two months of deep winter blahs, during which time period I had sex with my partner all of about twice, did not paint, write, embroider, or craft a single thing, and in general hated all of life and in particular the evolutionary element of it which disallowed me to hibernate bear-style through this utterly disgusting period of time.

I am now roused from my spiteful little nest of filth, as happens, and this month alone have:
-called and accosted for a cumulative 9 hours two friends who had not heard from me in weeks and probably thought I was dead of ennui or producing videos for the SLA;
-painted two watercolors;
-drawn up and begun to assemble a stuffed blue flannel elephant;
-drawn up and assembled with decorative stitching two pairs of tiny baby booties for my knocked-up friend who also possibly believed me deceased;
-hand-dyed a small roving of wool orange with henna and then felted it into big round beads for a bracelet; and
-last and most embarrassingly designed a flattering non-canon female Jedi costume (and hairstyle) to be assembled as materials become available.
And on top of that I'm ready to fuck anything that smells right and am screaming to replace the two vibrators I have killed (the waterproof one is most missed, sniff, sniff) although of course the lavender silicone phallus, better known as the Grape Ape, is nigh indestructible and still very useful in its place. Welcome to my mood cycles, and don't take those little icons on the profile for gospel.