The Fuckbuddy Protocols, Part I

OVERVIEW

This document has been created as a policy guide. It is hoped that by explicitly laying out and the rules of engagement, participants may identify and avoid many of the potential pitfalls inherent in fuckbuddery (also referred to a “having an arrangement”; “forming a carnal association”; the “anti-Relationship”; or acting as each other's “bootycall”).

While deceptively easy to begin a course of carnal association, it is common for many participants to quickly become confused as to the nature of the relationship. It is hoped that the clear and stringent guidelines lain out here will ultimately serve to enhance the joy inherent in properly executed fuckbuddery.

POLICY 1: ON DATING EACH OTHER

This arrangement does not preclude going on dates with one another, but it is not required nor even necessarily conducive to true fuckbuddery. Neither party is obligated to provide meals, concert tickets or any other date-like accoutrements to the other; nor invite them to events normally attended by dates. This is left wholly at the discretion of each party, and exclusion is to be borne without rancour by the other.

Of course, if either party feels that their attendance at an event would be genuinely enhanced by the presence of the other, then by all means an invitation should be issued. If said invitation is not accepted, however, it is not to be borne with any rancour by the other, nor is an explanation to be demanded.

Telecommunication should take the form of flirtation (i.e. sexting) or making plans to see one another (i.e. setting up the bootycall). Just “checking in” on a daily basis is standard practice between boyfriends and girlfriends; thus, fuckbuddies should practise restraint in this matter by limiting their daily communication to texting in the vein of affectionate, horny joking.

A special note here on common pitfalls: invitations to weddings, dinner parties or family/seasonal functions. If either fuckbuddy feels impelled to invite the other to these types of events, it is likely the fuckbuddery in its true form is now over and confusion has set in. The same can be said of public displays of affection, beyond what could reasonably be expected between good friends.

POLICY 2: SLEEP-OVER PROTOCOL

In this author's opinion, sleep-overs are a sweet, natural consequence of a satisfying bootycall. However, if either party feels for whatever reason they do not wish to spend the night, this is to be accepted by the other as nothing personal or none of their damn business. At no time shall either party use guilt to confine the other party to the bedroom (although light bondage and sexual blackmail are to be encouraged).

In the morning, after some sex, it is common courtesy to offer coffee if it is a work-day, and coffee and breakfast if it is a non-work day. It is also common courtesy not to press the offer. The same applies for the offer of a shower.

POLICY 3: ASSOCIATING WITH OTHERS

This is a point of some controversy in fuckbuddy academia. It is the opinion of the author that what fuckbuddies choose to do outside the arrangement is their own business. This includes consorting with others, flirting, dating, etc. It is unacceptable for either party to become jealous or pry into the affairs of the other, with regard to current or past dates, friends, lovers or exes.

This may seem like a severe pronouncement, but emotional or sexual possessiveness has no place in this arrangement. Fuckbuddery is a temporary sexual accord between two parties, entered into with the horniest of intentions. Innately, it is not exclusive nor permanent.

It may be decided by mutual assent, however, to communicate if either party a) dates others or b) sleeps with others. This may be done in advance, for reasons of courtesy and sexual health, or after the fact. Or not at all, depending on the agreement reached.

Part II to follow...

Ch-ch-ch-changes!

Preamble: I was writing this last Wednesday night when I was happily interrupted with a booty call. I am including it now as a lead-up to the next two posts.

It never ceases to amaze me how much a few days can change one's perspective.

I figured I may as well tap out my wisdom here late on a Wednesday night, as for some reason I decided to drink an entire pot of wild raspberry decaffeinated tea following a swim and sauna. Now I know I shall be held hostage to my bladder so there's no point going to sleep, and besides, this topic has been on my mind the last 48 hours or so.

Ok, a summary is in order first. In (somewhat) brief, here's a recent chronology since my last post on Friday.

Saturday, stayed home and drank a few glasses of wine and baked and cooked and danced around the kitchen to the mainly classic rock tunes (G&R 4ever!!!) playing on my SpaceSaver kitchen radio. And engaged in a several hours' long textathon with my new "friend". I've been trying to be virtuous and keep him in the realm of just-a-cool-guy, and even inviting him out in a group to meet my single galpals, but deep down I've been attracted to him from the start, as came out after just a few sexty messages.

Anyway, it did not result in a late night visit, so I went to bed with my virtue intact, as you see, I had not yet had the official Conversation with the nice man I've been dating, aka Honey, aka my Boyfriend. Blast these titles!

Sunday, scheduled a dinner with Honey in a nearby town where he visits his daughter. After a quiet dinner, I suggest a walk through the surrounding suburbia. Scampering trick-or-treaters abound, we walk. After several minutes of me being uncharacteristically silent, I volunteer being weirded out. Weirded out by the X re-visit, for one thing, and feeling like we're coasting, and getting tired of the distance and wondering what it's all for anyway.

To my relief, he's also weirded out by my X situation, though he is sympathetic. It is a uniquely weird situation. Plus he's burned out juggling his house-build and business and child and his own X management, which is a minefield. He does, however, still want to see me on occasion, whatever that means. Anyway, it's a lovely, mature parting of ways As We Were, and I get in my car to drive home much gratified that I've had the chance to be with such a kind, mature man.

Fast forward three hours, and my new friend is sitting in my kitchen having a late night bourbon with me. We yuk it up till 1am, and after some opaque shyness back and forth he decides to stay. He does, however, preface clothes removal with a) you are very sexy and funny as hell but b) I'm really not looking for a relationship. To which I reply c) Awesome! And it was, and the next night was even more epic, and we're quite enjoying this mutual fuckbuddery.

However, I remember in past posts I had claimed to be an insincere fuck-buddy, and that I couldn't do vacation-sex at home, etc. Ahem. I am revising this opinion now. I think I've just needed to establish some rules right from the start. This way, both parties can agree and more importantly, abide by the agreement. Hence, my Fuckbuddy Protocol.

Note: The Fuckbuddy Protocol document has grown sizable over the last week I've been noodling on it. It follows in two parts/posts.

Distraction

Hiya, goblins and gremlins and ghoulies. Happy (almost) Halloween!

Usually I dote on Halloween like a fat, unhappily married auntie might dote on a favoured nephew. Oh All Hallow's Eve, you are such a clever imp! And so handsome too, in your various face paints and bad wigs and costumes!

I was looking forward to the doting this year. Things seem tricked out in an especially macabre humour, and it is a joy to behold. I was contemplating the purchase of a hopefully red, shoulder-padded power suit and ruffled blouse from the Sally Anne, in which to play 80s Zombie Working Mother/Municipal Politician. Or some such thing. Right now, though, I'm curled in classic protective stance in bed drinking wine and taptaptapping my thoughts onto my absurdly small netbook in the hope of reaching a Conclusion. Then, I sally forth with lease on life #327. Look out, world!

Okay, so this is how it goes. Last few weeks I've been increasingly skeptical as to my participation in a current "relationship". Reluctantly, I conclude I cannot bring myself to call him my Boyfriend. I wasn't seeking a boyfriend when I met him, when I had one foot here and one in my supposed new city of Toronto. Howdy sailor, and how d'you do? I'm booking out soon myself, but let's have a nice time of it in the meantime, shall we?

Agreed. Except as you all know if you've been paying even a bare minimum of attention the last several months, my plans were curtailed drastically and I have not moved to the Big City to pursue a pseudo-intellecsexual way of being. No, I am (quite contentedly) here still, with my huge property and pleasant house and feral pets. The default he chose at the point of my announcing I was staying was well, alrighty then, you are my Girlfriend and hasn't this worked out nicely?

At first, I tried to embrace this. Game face on. He is a lovely man, both physically and in character. I have never been with someone so considerate, easy-going and mature. Would it be so wrong to go with the flow in this case?

Yes.

I can't anymore. I have to face that while I like him (he is eminently likable), I do not love him in the slightest. It's clicked past that 6-month marker where one has to face such truths. I chafe at being Girlfriended, I am tired of the road-trips (he lives two hours' drive away), the regular sex is becoming, well, regular, and worst of all, I'm completely aware of being politely interested in what he has to say.

I know! He's a total fuckin' sweetheart! He's a great dad, a good friend, a dutiful son, etc. Goddamn it, he's boring me to tears, in some respects. No, he's lovely, but I've never been good at coasting. Now I have to figure out how to break up with him. With the ex, I had lots of practise and ample reason at the end, but this one calls for sensitivity and courtesy, and how one does that without sliding into cliche and wounded feelings is a mystery.

Anyway. It's come to this now as I find myself attracted to others. It's come to this as I find myself conscious of the arrogance of indifference. Deep down, I'm terrified of hurting anyone (other than assholes and sparring partners).

It's also come to this as my X has reappeared in the scene, like some warped deus ex machina dropping from the heavens. Suicidal, recently in a car accident that wasn't his fault, indulging in all manner of drugs and alcohol and uncharacteristic aggression, perhaps pushing a big red button I can't see on my back. At any rate, it scared the shit out of me. I convinced him to come here, hid the booze, and talked to him. He's finally gotten to the place where he's scared himself and is ready to do what it takes to survive.

This is weird. Looking at it from the outside, I would conclude there still are Feelings here, there is manipulation occuring, there is sufficient weirdness in the swirl of emotions to call my rationale, if not integrity, into question. To which I shrug, and say (in the words of the immortal Billy Joel): you may be right but you may be wrong.

My X is (still) dear to me. He is isolated and in trouble and wanting to change the trajectory of his life. I feel nothing for him in the romantic sense, but am determined to help him get through a hard time. I would like nothing more than for him to be sober, healthy, with good work and a cool woman. Then I could let him go and be reassured he'll be okay. I've known him a long time and love him to bits, even while feeling dead to him beyond friendship.

In the meantime, I fret and try to help him. I may be royally misguided on this one, but oh well, that's my own damage I need to work through. It does punctuate, however, how indifferent I've become to the Guy I've Been Seeing.

Jeepers. May you live in interesting times, said the fortune cookie. It is interesting. Pulled in all directions. Am I loyal friend? Enabler? Cold-hearted bitch or honest Injun? Wannabe slut, as I eye yet another? Lordy, who knows. I have to pee.

Happy halloween!
Zombie out...

Dear Prudence

Prudence is an old-fashioned word, is it not? Meaning discretion, economy, circumspection. Care with regard to one's own interest and providence. A reflective pause. A charmingly quaint notion perhaps, in these days of snap judgements and gut reactions and rampant feeling.

No one has accused me of an excess of prudence. Exactly the opposite, in fact. In recent times, it has been alluded or flatly stated that indeed, I practise what is euphemistically referred to as radical honesty. In more words: blunt, harsh, unthinking. Self-centred and superior. Someone who doesn't trust people, who uses honesty as a means of testing the mettle of her friends and lovers. Hmmm.

This analysis has come unsolicited, angrily and suddenly from two people whom I considered close friends. (So perhaps a distrust of people is not so misplaced.) What has startled me most about these critiques has been the mysterious circumstances which provoked them.

Says the one: It's nothing you've said or done. I think you're an amazing person. I just haven't wanted to hang out with you, or even talk to you, and I don't know why!

Implicit in this is she suspects I'm an asshole, and would like me to join her in speculating on the evidence which may confirm it.

Says the second: You have been offensive to someone I love, and even though that person is not at all offended I've chosen to be hurt on their behalf. I have not told you this for two weeks because I am such a good, sensitive person that I'd rather allude to your defects in pretend conversations about other people or events. I choose to get livid when you say it's illogical to take offense on someone else's behalf who is not offended. I then categorize your exact defects in short order, but don't worry, I really am a wonderful person looking out for you, as evidenced by tearfully repeating how much I really do love you (in spite of you being so unloveable) as a way to end the conversation.

Explicit in this is the accusation that I'm an asshole, and she would like me to join in on the condemnation and of course, seek atonement.

Um. No. I don't think so.

Here, I return (at last) to the notion of prudence. One could say I was prudent by not, for example, telling either of these women to fuck right off with their misguided analyses. Or to respond by cheerfully telling them not to worry, I understood it was likely not me at all but rather some trying, as-yet unidentified circumstance within their own lives that was causing them to act like irrational cunts. Yes, this could be called prudence or tolerance, or perhaps it is just yet another maddening instance of me acting superior.

What I do not call prudent is allowing ethereal feeling to take firm hold of one's reason, and get carried away to the point of making asinine phone calls to an unsuspecting friend, and unloading with either no explanation or else a completely nonsensical one (offended on behalf of another adult who's not offended? Really.) Of course, this imprudence would be totally forgivable, perhaps even endearing, were either party to eventually call back and explain themselves and maybe even apologize for their rash actions.

Oh, but no. You see, this is how they feel. Previously I had been unaware, you see, that by mere dint of feeling something you create a perfect truth. One so immoveable that it's impertinent to speculate it may not be fixed to the ground of reality, and so solid in appearance that to suggest it is hollow is blasphemy.

As Guyfriend succinctly puts it: Just because They are feeling cold does not mean I have to put on a sweater. Or as I even more succinctly put it: Bullshit.

I have felt all manner of inner storms and deluges and volcanic eruptions this past year. This does not mean I was right or wrong to feel these things. Where "right" and "wrong" enter the picture is how I chose to act on these feelings, and in turn chose to react to the consequences of doing so.

And this, if I may, is where I do think I am prudent. Inevitably, my choice in discussing feelings with the person who excited them has led to self-examination as to where this maelstorm may be coming from. Ultimately, it has made me grateful to said person for helping me one step further along the path of self-discovery.

I use the word choice in this context deliberately. You see, I do not think it prudent to lash out with one's feelings at will. Much like I find it distasteful when someone lets go of a long, sibilant fart in my presence because they just did not feel like holding it in or going to the bathroom. I find it misguided to smash someone in the face when I feel they are being unreasonable, or hit them with my vehicle because I feel they really aren't paying attention to where they are going.

These are all choices, and to have a couple of people play "but that's how I feel!" like it's some almighty, inarguable trump card stinks of self-importance. They feel entitled to take a few unprovoked swings in my direction because of a vague feeling that somehow--just don't ask how--I deserve it.

As you may tell, I'm not sorry for these a) mysterious or b) just plain silly intimations of my own impropriety.

I'm affronted, and think both these gals owe me a sincere apology, if not a coherent explanation.

I would advise them that in the future, they may want to consider both the origin and the consequence of feeling before they give into impulse and alienate someone, who in their own past descriptions, was deemed one of their most loyal and generous friends.

I do not appreciate being shat upon, and then being told it is not shit but truth, and I should thank them for their own courageous display of honesty while learning to be more sensitive and positive (aka fake) so we can all get along nicely.

No, thank you. You should learn some control, how to reflect, how to articulate and examine your feelings, and barring all that, you should learn how to be gracious in spite of suspecting you've just made a complete, self-important ass of yourself and learn how to apologize. It would, in my estimation, be prudent to do so.

Economically yours,
Gretchen

New Favourite Artist (and Best Name Ever)

www.royalwood.ca/music-TheWaiting.php

Last Friday, I took Honey to a show. In my smallish town, we are blessed with a great old bar/venue whose musical programmer brings in acts usually reserved for large urban areas. In the last several months, we've had shows by tremendous emerging artists in almost every contemporary genre. For the price of a few shekels, I've been uplifted and energized and awed by the creativity and beauty of music, right in my own little corner of the world.

Case in point: Ontario-based Royal Wood, accompanying Hannah Georgas on her recent tour. Alas, I could not stay for Ms. Hannah, as I was to be up at dawn the next day to put in a full day of public speaking on behalf of work and it was growing late. Plus I needed to have sex before sleepytime, and didn't want to leave it too late.

However, I caught opening act Mr. Wood, a dapper, well-spoken gentleman of such poise and good looks that every straight woman present was swooning on the inside. Oh, and he's a damn fine singer and musician, with lovely and well-crafted songs. Seeing an artist of such confidence and purpose made me very, very happy to go out and in tiny part, support the wonderful Canadian and independent music that is out there. For this, I am thankful.

I Love the Sound of Smattering Miscellany on my Roof at Night

Hello munchkins. I have no idea what to write today, only knowing vaguely that I should write, but not knowing what on.

Let's see what's been going on lately.

a) I missed my favourite aesthetician last week while she was on vacation, and had to have my pubes pulled by a brisk, humorless gal who gave my beav a slightly crooked cast. I left feeling mildly chastised.

b) After a summer of health, I've caught a cold and am now stuffy and shnorty. Got movies. Am going to revel in 'Step Up' tonight as I have an illicit crush on a young man with the improbable name of Channing Tatum. He is ever so fine. I swear I've seen 'She's All That' about four times, partly for the zany Ms. Bynes but more for the pervy pleasures of the Channing sightings. Sigh and Ha!

c) I went and checked out the BodyWorlds exhibit with my ma, and was like, oh, these old things, I've seen them before, though I liked learning that the human brain takes 20% of our blood flow while only taking up 2% of our body mass. My mum had two glasses of white wine and got all old-school Communist in the line-up, refusing to accept that we were the 7:45pm showing and it was 7:15pm. I abandoned her temporarily and cruised for appetizers.

d) I had an extended conversation with my best friend and her girlfriend about art criticism and its impact on the artistic psyche. It was more fun than it sounds, as it was a Sunday afternoon and we had a bit o'beer and were discussing bad paintings they had executed while stoned. In the end, my girlfriend conceded she was PMSing and made me take one of the more interestingly ugly of the paintings. It goes nice in my house with the colours and all.

e) I saw a singer-songwriter in my town last Thursday and it was unexpectedly magical. Great tunes and performance. Another crush developed, this one a bit shy on both sides. I've told him that he's my new penpal. After many unexpected obstacles to facebooking (I could not for the life of me find the damn befriending button) we are Now Friends. I plot our paths once again crossing even as I chastise myself for being (at least) emotionally slutty.

You like your current beau, I tell myself silently. So why are you looking at other men--and not just looking, no, but imagining romantic walks in the rain and first kisses and hot sex in hotel rooms. You already have hot sex and great kisses and a man who flat-out adores you. You a mad bitch!

To which I reply: And still.

(reflective pause)

Still, there is something missing. As much as I enjoy this man and our time together, as much as I appreciate the ease with which we show affection to one another and the fun we have drinking rye and shooting pool together, as much as I am cognizant of this, I'm also the teeniest, tiniest bit bored. And what a terrible thing to think, but. Still.

Hence, the attraction to the wordsmithy musician and his snappy wit and charisma. The illusion of a happy challenge is an attractive one, no? Or maybe my attraction to men is proportionate to their distance from me (in this case it's the other side of this damn big country; then again Toronto has been good to me in the past).

Ah, Toronto the good. It was one year ago I was conniving with Guyfriend to have our fuckfest extravaganza in that city, booking fancy hotel rooms and not knowing what was going to happen, but hoping for some memorable times. And oh boy. I do feel a little wistful coming up to the anniversary of that time, as it shall not be repeated.

We have a relationship where sex gets in the way of closeness. Now that we are back to regular correspondents, there's nothing I can't tell him and vice versa. His current flame has told him directly she expects to propose to him in December, to which he thinks, Yes, you probably will. It is interesting to have a twin. We've both had/have our share of lovers (well, him especially) but I do believe that we are closest in a way that can't really be quantified, or compared directly to love interests, or even tolerated amiably in person for long periods of time. Twins. Weird but lovely, we've decided.

Anyway, that is all.

Oh, and f) I saw 'Inception' and thought it was a bloody good movie.

T'is all for now,
G-R

Autumn, What the Fuck?!

This is what my cat just exclaimed. It seems like scant weeks ago we were brushing out his underfur so that he could better endure the 14 hours of sunning he was doing on the back deck. Now, I have my woodstove blazing and he's alternately dopey on the couch, comatose on the floor. Now and then he raises his fine, half-breed Siamese head and rustily belts out a "What the fuck happened to summer?" before collapsing once again into drowsy.

I don't know. I like summer, especially when it's blazing hot and I find myself working in my bikini a lot and dropping ten pounds easily just from drinking so much water. This summer I managed to pack on ten pounds easily and did not work much in my bikini; nay, not even once, if memory serves. Sigh. Last summer was an inferno, and I was celibate and going for long long runs and dreaming of Guyfriend. This summer has been cool, I'm getting more regularly serviced than a Volvo and I'm not really dreaming of men, more focused on bizness and such.

Though...well, let's just say I canny help the horny green eye from roving now and then. I only get laid on the weekends, and I'd like more, and see, I work out at a gym with boxers and kickboxers and MMA guys and some of them are, admittedly, hunky as all heck. There's something about a sturdy, pleasantly vapid man wrestling another to the mat or whaling away on some focus mitts which does make me a trifle weak at the knees. A couple of nice mid/later single thirtysomethings that definitely are easy on the eyes...but then I do have a few cardinal rules governing This Life, and one of them is Thou Shalt Not Shit Where Thee Eats. I love my gym fiercely, and would never do anything to jeopardize my enjoyment of it. Once you start shagging the boys in a place, it's never the same.

I have never slept with anyone I work with, except when I was a teenager in a restaurant (and there it's part of the job description, restaurants being a "glamour" industry as I've been told). I know once you get intimate with someone in a circle, you disrupt the natural order. I don't particularly want the guys I train with knowing how I like to take it, or my extraordinary prowess at blowjobbery, or what my cooter smells like (delicious, I'm assured).

No, I'd rather retain an aura of mystery and seriousness that becomes very hard to maintain once you have sex within that arena. 'Cuz men, they can't keep their mouth shut about getting laid. To anyone. They can't help themselves. I mean, I might celebrate the fact I've gotten royally laid to my friends, but don't get into the gory details. And I don't consider the nice lady I get my occasional coffee from, or the woman I might spar with that I know as a first-name only as "friends". And I consider an anonymous blog a fair forum for the hilarity of dating/sex.

But lordy the boys, don't they love to blab in detail, give a blow by blow account of things, like to parade that shit all over the place, live? Yes they do. It would irk me. So the strapping men are safe from me, at this point. I'll just continue to sneak glances and cart around my pleasant salacious thoughts in secret.

Things are good. Two-thirds of this year has now raced by. I'm not where I thought I'd be, not doing what I thought I'd be doing, not with someone I thought I'd be with. This is all fine. Today I went to the swimming pool with my Honey, his mum, the kid and Kid 2, a vaguely related child of six or so who amuses the lesser kid.

We entered as a Family, though I was grasping my single pass with one . I was discomfited at the idea of paying as a Family. I cling to my cherished ideals about myself as Cool, and hustling into the pool as some shamily unit did not fit that ideal. However, there's a time to be gracious and this was such a time. ''Thank you, husband.'' I said, in my best demure voice.

The pool was loaded with kiddies and parents. I steeled myself...and had a great time. Kid 2 took me on the waterslides. I hadn't been on a waterslide in at least 25 years. I remember them being semi-transparent deals, so you could dimly see where you were going. These were pitch black. I built up what felt to me to be a tremendous amount of speed, hurtling in the dark, screaming ''Holy shit!'' in primitive fear before popping out the end with only a Speedo wedgie and accelerated heartrate as damage. Fun!

Kid 2 was a good sport. She was not embarrassed by the fact that I was wearing water wings. With giant inflated goldfish on them. I thought they were cute, and it so happened they fit me and not the kid they were intended for.

''I'm fashion-forward,'' I tried to explain to the sceptical nine-year old who eyed me askance and asked me why I was wearing those things. ''Like Lady Gaga. You'll see, in a few months everyone else will be wearing these. I'm a fashion pioneer. Do you know what a pioneer is?''

She gave me a repulsed look and turned back to her friend, and together they struck their best whatever Paris Hilton poses. I could tell they were thinking about it, though. Maybe water wings are the next big thing...

Ha! I love fucking with kids' minds. I can tell they don't know quite what to make of me. They know I'm too old to be a teen or someone cool, but I don't act like I'm a mum. I laugh when they get bonked in the head by an inflatable ball, or fall down while running (once it's established there's no injury), and mock them ceaselessly with a straight face. In a word, I'm an uncle.

Anyway, somehow my weekend has passed with a minimum of Tasks. Feels good, two days of sleeping in to 9am and not fussing too much about plans or obligations. This afternoon, for example, I convinced myself a good use of time was watching several Lady Gaga videos on my new netbook, as I'd referenced her earlier. I do believe she's a genius. The lovechild of Elton John and Madonna circa 1979, and with RuPaul as a nanny. And she can sing, and play piano, and dance in stilletos. Absolutely a genius.

Now I hang out on my bum-deadening futon couch (probably older than the Gaga) with my dogs as the fire snaps and crackles and the chat lies like a dead thing in front of it, and I drink the rest of a very nice Spanish grenacha. I'm likely in a small state of recovery.

My X stayed with me last week, for several days. He rode dirtbikes and played with the dogs and drank and rolled us both Drum cigarettes, and a good time was had by all. He's a very good person. However, he phoned me weeping the next day, missing us all terribly.

Lest you think there's something still between us, he agreed he'd be happy to become my adopted son if he just got to hang out at the country estate with the hounds and tinker on his goldurn motorbikes all day. The only thing between us is the memory of a co-dependency that was great for him, an exercise in masochism for me. And so it goes.

It does startle me, however, to remember that once upon a time, I would have done anything for this person. Now, I am wary of getting into the aquatic centre on a family pass lest it speak to a commitment I'm not ready for. It feels natural to be in a state of unknowing, to withhold myself from another person. Not ready to sink into another and trust they'll catch me instead of dragging me down. Anyway, now I go watch movie and veg out in weekend vegematic splendour. Happy autumnal fall!

--Gretchie ''Grey is my favourite colour, so bring autumn on, bitches!'' Rutte