What happens when you're away

While I was navigating the wonders of taking the tube to Heathrow, I got name checked by Gawker. Funnily enough, the one-year anniversary of my firing (January 10th) is fast approaching. I've tried to feel calm or grateful or any number of "above it all" things, but I still think it was pretty fucked up, especially that I didn't get to write a farewell column. That and the whole S. fiasco will probably both always make me feel like failures on some level, and while I know that's not totally accurate, in someone's eyes, I did fail, as a columnist, as a girlfriend, and I have tried my best in the last year or so to see where I went wrong, what I could have done differently, how I can both live my life the way I want to live it and not be so overly headstrong that I alienate people. I haven't totally sorted that one out, but I'm working on it.

I also thought that on the personal front, not being a sex columnist would free me from some of the judgment that comes along with that, which didn't really happen. But good things are in the air, and while I don't have another column, I have plenty of freelance work in addition to my full-time job to keep me busy. No, it's not the same, but I also have realized that there are umpteen sex bloggers out there who can and do chronicle the moment-by-moment minutiae of their sex lives better than I ever could if I even wanted to. But that's not what I'm interested in and why I am, in a sense, grateful not to have to write about my own life unless I want to. It's something that I can often only sort out in retrospect.

I certainly plan to write about my London adventures, but I think in a way that allows for a little more poetic license, because, for me, anyway, it wasn't all fun and games. I tried hard to simply go with the flow and what felt right, to not think beyond the moment, because the moment I did, I stumbled, withdrew. It was a mix of instant intimacy and true tenderness against a backdrop of BDSM that went places neither of us had expected. I don't regret a thing but I also don't know what will happen with that in the future, wonder if I'm selling myself short to continue to choose partners who are not fully available in the ways I'd like them to be. I often tell myself that's the best I'll ever get. I fell asleep with tears in my eyes last night, due to some extended mix of PMS, exhaustion, stress, sadness and jealousy. That's infinitely more fascinating to me as a topic of discussion than caning or cocksucking. Okay, maybe it's all interesting, but I guess I feel like I've reached a point where I want my sexual relationships to be building toward something, not just an end goal amongst themselves.

Sorry if this is a little incoherent, I blame jet lag and not having fully sorted out my thoughts yet. Just wanted to somehow address this. Not really sure what to say about Kreth. I think the whole fucking Eric Schaeffer thing speaks for itself. I'd had her on my list of people to invite to read at May's True Sex Confessions at In The Flesh, which I'm booking now, so may still extend that invite.