I WISH I COULD SLAP MYSELF BETTER
Wouldn’t it be nice
It’s been a few weeks and some change since I got a letter out to y’all, and I am doing my best to both hold fast to this project I am excited about, as well figuring out how to carve time for it out of what feels like a perpetually busy life. But we’re doing it! This makes for newsletter motherfucking TEN!
Now that it is getting dark at 4:35, the nights are colder and crawling out of the blankets each morning feels exponentially daunting (until those beautiful mid-morning sun rays bless the city of Portland). I tried writing this newsletter three different instances these last couple weeks, overwhelmed by the looming of the colonial holiday I haven’t spent with my ‘nuclear’ family in now four years. And then not to mention, thousands upon thousands are pleading for ceasefire across the world in Palestine, Portland teacher’s spent weeks upon weeks on strike, the SAG-AFTRA is finally ending (after it started in July), and so many people I know and love are trans and this month is Transgender Awareness month, carrying its own grief. That’s the thing with this life, ain’t it? It just keeps going. The whip flash can be exhausting.
I feel like there is an internal struggle, speaking for myself on any given day, between how to proceed and also fear of falling into ‘life/business as usual’ mentality. And it isn’t just the last month. I remember almost 11 years ago, after Sandy Hook, talking to a friend about how it is we “move forward” while tragedies unfold all around us.
As I go to the grocery store, another bomb falls on Gaza. As I walk my dog, a child loses their parents. As I whine to myself about traffic, there is insurmountable loss. I maintain the belief that “joy is an act of resistance” (Toi Derricotte), as I’ve seen that in the queer community time and time again, and the tenants that flow from that generally fall into — finding ways to tie together acts of joy to your political beliefs, is the one of the most sustainable ways to maintain a sense of activism. Rage, yes, of course, and also joy. For those protesting, here is a link to specific legal resources for those protesting the genocide of Palestinians and the war on Gaza.
All of that to say, continue on. Forge forth. Don’t look away. This NYT article describes how much of this war is being told via social media, when “at least 33 Palestinian media workers have been killed inside Gaza, according to the Committee to Protect Journalists,” it is has come down to folks using streaming platforms to depict what’s happening from food rationing to air strikes. I don’t know how to write this newsletter without acknowledging this. I don’t have prolific things to contribute. I write to you as much as I write to remind myself.
And the only advice I have that has worked for myself is try to stay present in life. To do this life one day at a time. I’ve been in recovery for alcoholism since 2017, and as of November 11th celebrated four years sober. So much of why I was capable of putting together year after year of sobriety is that I accepted that I was an alcoholic and once I did I simply tried to handle my life one day at a time. If I think about what I can do in twenty four hours to be a person present in my life and in the world it looks like staying sober, providing help to someone else in my life, offering care or support to someone in my community, and those acts matter whether it be something as trivial as a phone call to a friend or an act of service like folding my friend’s laundry. Acts of service give my life so much value and purpose. Acts of kindness have a trickle down effect. We give ourselves away, not to receive something back, but so that person is then able to turn to someone else and do the same.
There are a myriad of lessons from my recovery journey that I can and will impart y’all with, but I won’t attempt to do it all today.
Just know that the empathy, generosity, and resilience I possess today are all in part because of my community amongst other alcoholics.
Now let’s get to the good stuff.
HUNGRY
The celebration meal for my fourth year of sobriety came in two parts (actually several, but as far as meals go) I had ramen for lunch (in a formerly mentioned in a prior newsletter, Baka Umai, here in Portland) with my dear friend Baby and then for dinner my partner M and I went to dinner. Initially, we’d talked about an Italian spot I’d never tried, but then we landed on Clyde’s.
Clyde’s is a prime rib spot here in Portland that opened in 1955, and in so many ways, the red carpeted floor, the large fireplace and suit of armor in the foyer, the low and wide leather chairs and red vinyl booths in the lounge, and a vast brightly lit dining room with black and white photos on the walls — it looks like it hasn’t changed much. It last changed owners in 2016, and it seems via online reviews that folks consistently love the atmosphere. On a Saturday night without reservations we were able to wait a few minutes for a table in the lounge, and throughout our dinner a band was doing their sound check as the lounge offers live music several nights a week. (We didn’t get to see the band play, but next time!)
I’ve had Clyde’s a few times before Saturday. First, in January 2021, on the one year anniversary of my late husband’s death. A dear friend asked if they could buy me take out that night, and spoiled me with an incredible dinner that I plated and ate in a scorching hot bath tub. (Truly one of my favorite places to eat a solo celebratory meal. It’s probably gross to someone, but I don’t care!) And I did that once more in 2022, on the anniversary of his passing. Or maybe I did it this year? Memory is fickle. Either way! Not quite the most..joyous of occasions. (Though, I thoroughly believe he’d love that I had celebrated his indulgent and raucous life with lobster mac n’ cheese and 16 oz of prime rib.)
But this celebration felt different. Four years of sobriety feels different. My relationship to food these days is semi-complicated, amongst a year of health issues I’ve spent about the last two months with a hit or miss appetite and frequent and intense bouts of nausea. In fact, I write to you today, sick as a dog on the couch. I spent the last twenty hours and some change in an ugly cycle of mucus, phlegm, coughing, and vomiting. I ate a cup of applesauce an hour ago and it’s the first solid food I’ve kept down since Monday evening. It’s been rough. Having my body in a state of protest, an internal riot, has been so hard on me mentally. I’ve had a hard time naming that. I feel sensitive a lot lately, though any of my loved ones I might argue that’s not a lately, but to have my love of food, which often feels like the corner store of comfort, be under almost constant conditions of duress has been really destabilizing. How do I treat myself if my favorite foods don’t sound appealing? How do I go to eat sushi with my partner when I’m nauseous after the first few bites? How do I show up to the cozy warm winter potlucks knowing I won’t be able to finish a plate of food?
To assuage the worry of my dear friends reading, I am finally at the point where I’m probably going to seek yet another medical specialist in attempts to get any sort of questions answered. I haven’t named this experience fully because I’ve been sitting with the shame, and to be honest, it became easy to avoid this newsletter after I missed a week because I kept thinking … am I really even excited about food right now?
And in so many ways I am. I could tell you all about that celebratory prime rib at Clyde’s. I could tell you the one that M made on Thanksgiving was a thousand times better, if only because I got to listen to his elated mother chat with my family friends about garlic confit the next day. I could tell you that now that I’ve had prime rib chicken fried steak, I’m not sure there’s reason to eat any other kind of chicken fried steak. I gotta say this — my four years sober dinner of prime rib, creamed spinach, broccoli, and a fully loaded baked potato — it was perfect. And the potatoes au gratin I ate a cabin last week? Just as perfect. And that first bite of applesauce earlier today? Heavenly.
I know that this current ‘episode’ has an ending. Or perhaps, something else. I’ve experienced versions of this before. I had stomach ulcer when I was 9. When I was 19, I lost a friend to suicide and for weeks after he died I regularly couldn’t hold down my meals after eating. When I was hospitalized after my suicide attempt, 24, I had gotten vomit in my lungs, and yet one of my first requests in the hospital was for a taste of my mom’s french fries. I use these examples in this moment to remind myself of the times my mind and my stomach disagreed. Like the thousands of hungover mornings, clinging to a toilet, (I wish this was an exaggeration but in my 12+ years of drinking it likely is not) lamenting not “eating enough” or on occasion “eating the two am chili fries.” The battle to no longer spend my days befriending porcelain is unfortunately not over, despite the four years of sobriety that beg to differ.
I know all of this is a bummer to read. Believe me, it’s something that kept me from writing for weeks. But hey, if I’m gonna do this, I’m gonna do it honest. I am struggling with my relationship to hunger. I am desperate for that change. Here’s hoping that’s on the horizon.
HORNY
In other ways, my body is truly a thing of glory. Desire is alight in my life in unusual ways. I got horny watching Big Mouth recently. Realistically that night I was far too emotionally charged to be horny, and yet, classically, I was. And then all of the sudden Coach Steve is having sex and I’m WILDLY turned on??? Thick in the warm! Thick in the warm!
I know. I know what this says about me. I’m fine with that. I would say in general this show is hilarious, horny, endearing, and something that I wish I could’ve had while younger — while knowing it is very much quintessentially a show that could not have existed then. John Mulaney is one of my all-time favorite comics and Nick Kroll isn’t far behind (he voices about half this show I swear to god). The rest of the cast are also outstanding talents, and some of the guest voices have sent me reeling.
The show itself is silly, occasionally absolute cringey nonsense, simultaneously gross and low brow, with enough genuine moments of earnestness peppered in for balance. I watched the first season a few years ago and am picking it up back up now. Are you fan of it? Any character whose narrative always hits home for you? (Andrew, but also Jay. Have I fucked a pillow? No! Would I….well.) I think the excitement that the show brings up is mostly that of same? Nostalgia of my early and messy sexual thoughts and feelings. Honestly, I think there’s so much from Big Mouth that feels like the other side of the coin of PEN15 (a show that was cancelled far before it deserved to be!) perhaps though due to the animation factor Big Mouth gets away with far more than you’d think.
Beyond being horny for cartoons, I also have a new found love for slapping. Okay, it isn’t new. Wanted starring James McAvoy and Angelina Jolie came out my senior year of high school and probably since then I’ve loved the idea of a jaw rearranging slap.
Then you’ve got Cher in Moonstruck with a strangely hot BABY Nic Cage. (This movie is so unhinged and I cannot recommend it enough for that quality alone.)
And okay, slapping is definitely not for everyone. Big big big disclaimer there. And to be fair, I only have experienced consensual slaps, so my experience is fairly specific, devoid of other experiences and connotations. But I’m a big fan. I attended a slapping workshop this spring even! Wish I could show y’all what I learned, but not sure substack is the avenue for that. I love a little slap on the cheek, or across the ass of course. (A spank, if you will.) I love the sound! The sting! The anticipation! But recently I got uh, slapped. Somewhere new! (One guess.) At my third orgy of the year. (I know.) And boy was it wild. Palm slaps on the thighs quickly led to a slap on the good ole hole. Then I got slapped with this. (I call this “Best Friend.” It’s the best. An amazing introduction to a loud and thwappy impact toy but without the intensity of some other toys! I’ve seen folks get WAILED with this and be surprised by the lack of correlating pain to noise ratio!)
So thank god for palms, for cupped finger tips, for tighty-whities at Homecoming. Use your hands! They’re the best implement you have, I swear.
I’ve got a slew of horny music recommendations, that are a little all over the place but add these to the make out or jerk off playlists and you’ll be doing just fine.
Arlo Parks was on like 9 of my friends Spotify Wrapped and TBH I wasn’t aware!!! Now I am aware!!! Why did no one tell me soooooner.
It’s in the title. Have sex in the morning. Cannot recommend enough. Neither of you are exhausted. Sure, there’s morning breath and bed head, but some that’s sexy.
Less of the lyrics, but more of the vibe. A little bit of a bass and a whimsical male vocalist and I’m horny.
Literally almost no lyrics, all vibe. Sometimes that’s all you need.
ALRIGHT, so this book. Everyone, fucking everyone, was telling me to read this. So now I am doing my due diligence and I am telling you. It is sad. It is devastating. It is horny. If you, like myself, were obsessed with Greek mythology and history as a teenager, you’re in for a god damn treat. If you’ve seen the 2004 movie Troy (starring Brad Pitt, Orlando Bloom, Eric Bana, and a thousand other attractive white people) it is a classic sweaty action movie delight, and also will have you more or less prepared for the second half of this book. If you haven’t and aren’t familiar with the story — you’re in for a DOOZY. Buckle in, boys. This is horny, yes, but it is a heart wrenching love story. You’re gonna need a minute to recover. I know I will. (I finished it in a cough syrup haze late last night, with my partner snoozing next to me, and I’m so glad he was asleep because I was quietly crying because the ending of this book is just like stab, stab, stab, slice, stab, stab in the heart.)
It took me awhile to write this newsletter. Hopefully now getting this out sort of rekindles my relationship to this newsletter. I promise, I’m learning balance. For paid subscribers, your smut will ideally be sent out this weekend, but Monday at the latest!
Thanks for sticking around. Y’all make it worth it.
