The Problem with Dreams

Many years ago I realized and took to heart the practical advice that you can never count on someone else to make your dreams come true. It will simply never happen. First off, that’s way too much of a burden to put on someone. Not to mention, nobody cares that much. They’re too busy with their own dreams. The sad truth is that some of us—most of us—were born into situations where personal failure is ultimately inevitable. Some opportunities will never be afforded to us. My only goal in life is to be a socialite in the rock and roll scene, but that can never happen due to three main circumstances.

1) I don’t live in New York City, and I’m unwilling to sacrifice my comfort as is necessary to endure the higher cost of living.
2) Being a socialite requires socializing, which is something I loathe, fear, and am generally incapable of.
3) There is no more rock and roll scene.

People have criticized my lack of effort toward realizing my dream, despite the above obstacles, but the truth is that I’m a very ambitious person. What I lack is creativity and an ability to problem-solve. Had I a brilliant idea for accomplishing my dream, I would pursue it relentlessly. But, in the ten years that achieving “rock and roll socialite” status has been my only real ambition, I’ve never had a good enough idea to pursue long-term. The Blue Jean Babies was the best I came up with, and we had a few good years. We were definitely recognized as #3, after the Plastics and the BBA’s. We had magazine interviews, and we would have been featured on E! had we lived in closer proximity to one another. But somehow, the momentum died. We were heading up, up, up in establishing our presence, and then we disappeared. So, that didn’t work out either.

I’m starting to think I need to reevaluate my situation and find another way to be noteworthy. I’ve always denounced anywhere other than Chicago, New York, or L.A. as places people go to die inside, but maybe I don’t need a big city since I’ll never be part of a big social scene. Maybe what I need is to have adventures—constantly experiencing new and different things that people might find to be of interest. Would anyone read a book about my life, even if I never achieved any level of fame or status, but had some cool stories to tell?

My only other idea is going to Exit every single night for the rest of my life until they recognize me.

Let's talk about parents of young children and how they're some of the most self-absorbed assholes on the planet. If you've ever read the blog www.stfuparentsblog.com, you definitely know what I'm talking about, although even those of you unfamiliar with the blog have probably experienced similar agitation in situations where parents talk about their kids like they're the most important people in the world. There is an unmistakable tendency among parents to assume that all of society should be immensely concerned about their children at all times. Just look at the popularity of those enraging "Baby On Board" signs. Tell me I'm not the only one who wants to run those minivans off the road whenever I see those signs. Where does a parent get the nerve to announce to everyone else that their car is special and deserves extra protection because there's a miniature version of a person inside it? How could anyone be so arrogant as to think that all the rest of us give a damn? The other day I was at a craft fair downtown, and from behind me, I heard this angry mother snap, "You're pushing my son, lady!" I so badly wished I had known if she was directing her bitchy comment at me, because I would have whipped right around and yelled, "Is there a problem, you stupid fucking cunt?" Why this emphasis, as if her son was so much more important than everyone else in the massive crowd of people? Newsflash, I don't give a shit about your kid. Your kid means no more to me than anyone else on the face of this earth. At the grocery store the other day, a mom was digging through a sale bin outside while her toddler was inside, leaning against the automatic door and looking out. I was heading inside, so I slowly, slowly, slowly approached the door, waiting for the kid to move or for the mom to notice, but I guess I inched too close, and the door opened anyway. The kid didn't get hurt, but he did get pushed backwards and looked pretty stunned. I felt bad because the kid was obviously too young to understand automatic doors, but this oblivious mom who wasn't paying any attention to her little troublemaker had the nerve to give me a dirty look! Oh, yeah, I forgot, it's totally my fucking fault for not going out of my way to cater to your moronic child's needs. I should have just waited another 15 minutes for him to stop drooling on the door before I decided to go inside to shop. Seriously, I don't get it. I can't understand this mentality of parents thinking they and their kids are more important than everyone else and should get special treatment. So let me put it in really simple terms here: Parents, I don't give a flying fuck about your stupid, worthless children.

The question in the blog entry below was also posted to Yahoo Answers (amazingly, I haven’t gotten any preachy responses about how I’m a druggie yet!), and after posting it, I started browsing other questions and offering answers to issues regarding women’s health and sexuality. One woman asked for opinions as to why pornography was often viewed as degrading, and it got me thinking about how some women seem to have issues reconciling their fantasies with feminist sensibilities.

In my opinion, there’s basically nothing that can be done in the bedroom between two loving, consenting adults that indicates a lack of respect in regular life. Playing with power dynamics can be a healthy part of a happy, well-developed sex life, and I see nothing wrong with a woman enjoying assuming a submissive role during sex. As long as her partner respects her and does not try to dominate her outside the bedroom, then I think it’s normal and healthy.

It’s true that pornography doesn’t often portray sex realistically, but another complaint I often hear from women is that it encourages degrading behavior (for example, facial cumshots). My opinion is that a sexual activity is only degrading if you interpret it as such. Facials show male dominance over the female, but if they’re just a part of sex play and don’t reflect the man’s true feelings, I fail to see why they should be interpreted as degrading. Honestly, I think facials are pretty much the hottest thing ever, because it’s fun to take on a playfully submissive role during sexual activity, before resuming a normal, egalitarian lifestyle outside the bedroom. Interpreting them as degrading would mean that you thought your partner’s desire to engage in that activity reflected feelings of superiority over you. In a healthy relationship, he wouldn’t view you as inferior, even if he were aroused by you taking on a submissive role during sex.

Trust is key to a good sex life, and it requires a lot of trust to allow someone to dominate you sexually. You have to be certain that they know your limits, as well as being sure that the way they’re treating you during sex is only a part of sex play. A trusting couple can experiment with power dynamics in the bedroom without causing any emotional or physical harm. Allowing someone to call you offensive terms or exhibit violent behavior indicates a very deep level of mutual trust and understanding. Otherwise, it would be insulting and could even be dangerous. Personally, I like to be slapped and choked, but if anyone did that to me other than during sex, it would be horrifying. Part of the fun of being submissive is the knowledge that your partner knows your limits and will only be as dominant as you like for him to be. With that type of trust, you can play with power dynamics in a way that’s fun and exciting, and then revert to a realistic mindset after sex is over.

Anyway, back to helping young girls understand puberty on Yahoo.

I'm interested in getting a piercing but I hate needles! When I had surgery a few years ago, I was on morphine and I got blood drawn without feeling a thing. So, I'm wondering if maybe morphine or a similar strong painkiller could numb me enough that the piercing wouldn't hurt much. Anyone have any ideas about this?

1. I know piercers won't pierce someone who is obviously under the influence of drugs.

2. I know morphine is a prescription medication.

3. I know I should quit being a wuss and just take the pain.

Disregarding the three facts stated above, does anybody know if morphine would work to numb me sufficiently? Or does it not work that way?

My Hollywood Diaries

Upon reflection, most of what I wrote while in California for four days seems pretty negative. On the contrary, I had a very nice time and I like California a lot. I had a lot of fun visiting my friends. My diary nearly always reflects bad times, and I know that pretty much everything I wrote will upset someone somehow. However, nothing is meant to be offensive or accusatory, especially my critique that people in Hollywood are stuck in the '80s. That doesn't apply to anyone I know, because my friends are smarter than that.


10/21/11 Friday

We arrived at the Whisky too early and were sitting at a booth when Michael Monroe walked by casually with his wife and an entourage. I waved, he waved back, and then we spoke but I don't know who said what.

"Hi."

"Hi. How are you?"

"Good. How are you?"

"Good."

"Good."

My face was red as a cherry. The man who "filled my thoughts and my diary" when I was 17 was talking to me. But all I felt was shy, awkward. Nothing residual. Loving Keith has made all former interests obsolete.

Security kicked us out for being too early, so we went to the Rainbow--tuesday, Jaimo, Lexa, and me--where we had appetizers with Patti and her friend Abigail.

Sadly, by the time we got back to the Whisky, I only got second row. The show was spectacular, though, full of leaps and kicks and splits, strutting and even a stage dive. The man is 49 years old and he performs with more energy and enthusiasm than kids less than half his age. Sebastian Bach came out during the encore for "Taxi Driver." He was clearly stoked to be onstage doing a Hanoi song, since pretty much every hair band singer worships Michael.

The club closed early, but Lexa and I stood on the sidewalk until Michael and Bas came out. It was obvious that Michael wanted to leave in a hurry, but he was being mobbed for pictures. I wasn't going to bug him, but he was being very gracious so I figured, fuck it, I might never see him again and I want a picture. I put my arm around him and told him, "Thank you, you're a sweetheart." He hastily responded something like, "You too," I complimented him on the show, and that was it.

We ended up all walking the same way on the sidewalk, Michael and crew behind us and Bas a few paces ahead. I called out, "I'm glad you came, Sebastian. It was great to see you." He gave no indication that he heard me for about 30 seconds, but then he stopped, put his arm around me, said, "Hey," and patted me on the back before climbing into a Rolls with Michael and Johanna.

Lexa had heard him mention the address of the after party, but we drove by the building and didn't see anyone. I went home with her and fell asleep on the couch, finally, after a 25-hour day.


10/22/11 Saturday

This time I'm seeing a different side of L.A., a much less flattering side. Everyone is here to be a star, which is fine, but they're hanging onto the '80s in a way that's really pathetic. Clubs play Great White not because the crowd is nostalgic rock fans but because none of them have ever moved on. Nothing evolved. They're all in denial. Everywhere I look there are long-haired pretty boys in tight leather pants, and I can't help seeing them as pretty pitiful. In Chicago, someone like that would be cool for expressing his individuality. But here, everyone is the same, clinging onto the old hair metal scene in a way that shows just how delusional these people really are.

Besides being with my friends, and enjoying the beautiful climate and landscape, the only reason I'd want to move here is to be a hanger-on. I suppose that doesn't necessitate relocation.

We got invited to a Halloween party at GWAR's house, but I was too Hollywooded out, so tuesday and I went to the beach and then played dress up and did a photo shoot together.


10/24/11 Monday

My body is still on edge, more anxious than usual but also exhausted. I feel totally drained and sorry for myself, wishing I could undo most of last night's experiences. I had some reservations, doubting that acid was a good idea when I was feeling so sad and homesick, missing Keith and resenting all the circumstances that were keeping us apart.

But still, I was excited, my first time doing acid, the paper tab on my tongue, waiting and wondering what effects would take hold and when. It kicked in while I was alone, petting Cruiser, feeling lonely for Keith and missing the security of my apartment. When tuesday and Jaimo got home, she was happy and it lifted my mood right up. We walked to the carry-out Mexican place on the corner for tacos and chips, but while we were filling our containers at the salsa bar, a man appeared behind us, being sneaky and shifty and grinning. We had taken a long time getting the salsa, so we moved out of the way for him, but after that, it seemed like everywhere we turned, he was right there in the way.

Back at the house, I finished my tacos in about five seconds and started devouring the chips. I ate too many and there weren't enough for tuesday, so I decided we'd go back and buy a giant bag with my credit card (since I'd overdrawn my checking account earlier buying vintage clothes). While Jaimo and I waited for tuesday to decided if she could handle going back, I remember calling Keith and laughing so hysterically about the shifty man that I couldn't even talk.

I couldn't read the sign back at the taco place either, so Jaimo had to order, explaining that we simply wanted a gigantic bag full of chips. He said we'd pay $7 for it, which I charged, and as I signed the receipt, my pen melted into the paper and I drew squishy squiggles, laughing as I was writing.

It wasn't until we got back home that I realized we had way too many chips--a whole grocery bag stuffed full. Jaimo was sober so he left for work, leaving the two of us with our chip mountain in a bag and endless supply of salsa containers, both green and red. I ate so many chips I started feeling sick, so to distract myself from the excitement of food, I decided to color a handprint turkey. I chose the colored pencils that I liked best and started working, drawing whatever I felt the turkey wanted, like multicolored spikes and a scraggly tree on his side. The next thought that popped into my head was, "It needs more propellors," which I knew was not the same thought at the end that it had been at the start. I had been questioning what the turkey needed, but my thought changed mid-sentence, so my thought process went, "It needs..." and my answer was, "more propellors." I disguised them as flowers by connecting them to two lines I had drawn in the sky, but then I worried they were too abstract and ambiguous, so I drew a manatee under them, since I associate propellors with manatees.

Tuesday wanted to show me what it was like laying under the desk between the speakers with Black Sabbath playing. For some reason I can't listen to music well when I'm tripping, but I tried, and I mostly enjoyed looking up and watching the ceiling squirm around.

By this time I was starting to feel bummed though, just really uncomfortable because I was so far from home and Keith wasn't there. We decided to play with her Mayan tarot cards, which cheered me up a bit because the pictures were really cool. I've always liked Mayan art, the shapes, patterns, and colors. My cards of choice were Venus and the moon. Those cards had lots of circles on them in green and blue.

After that, it turned into a straight-up bad trip. I won't go into incredible detail because I don't want to relive those awful feelings. Once it got bad, it seemed so never-ending, like I was stuck in this terrible mindset of perpetual, expanding negativity. When we finished with the tarot cards, I desperately wanted to wrap up in a blanket and sleep away the sadness, but I knew tuesday really wanted to go to the beach. I was terrified of being out in a strange neighborhood at night, but I thought I could bear it for a short walk.

Unfortunately, the beach was miles away, across the whole city, and we walked for hours through the scary haunted darkness. A group of people emerged from a house in front of us, including a fat lady and a midget with Down's syndrome who was staggering drunk and clinging to her arm. I was starting at his freaky, distorted face because I couldn't figure him out. After we passed, tuesday told me he was just a tired little boy holding onto his mom.

My stomach ached, bad, and I couldn't wait to get back to the house and sleep all this away--the fear and overwhelming sadness--but the beach was still far away. We walked through a park and I climbed on the giant roots of a tree, brown and crumpled and bumpy like the backs of toads. I stepped all over the toads and balanced along the back of a dragon.

The park ended in a steep sand cliff, which led down to the beach and harbor. I didn't want to go down there because sand is so annoying, but tuesday was worried about us getting separated, so we took a long, winding road that sloped down to the beach. At that point the sand was unavoidable. I tried so hard to keep my little leopard shoes clean, but that terrible sand kept swallowing them, covering my feet and dirtying my socks--the striped ones Keith gave me for Christmas. No matter how softly I tried to walk, I just couldn't keep the sand from my shoes. They felt filthy.

By this time my stomach was full of gnomes wielding spears of fire, and I hunched over gripping my midsection as we walked along the shore through that fucking evil sand. The ocean was black and wet and slimy and bad bad bad, like a big goopy monster lapping up at me, and I was so far from my home, and Keith, and safety. We kept passing stairs that led back up to the street, appearing up ahead like pure salvation--a way out!--but they were all under construction and it took an eternity to find a staircase that wasn't broken or barricaded.

At the top of the stairs I could barely walk from the pain in my stomach, but I knew tuesday didn't want to leave the beach, so I sat on a bench half-hoping the pain would subside, even though I knew it wouldn't. Not until I could be back inside and lying down, relaxing and texting Keith.

As we headed back across the busy streets I was crying, wiping the tears away with napkins and the back of my hand and trying to get them to stop, but they wouldn't, springing from my eyeballs like the sprinklers that were all over the grass. I was relieved to be heading back toward tuesday's house, away from the overwhelming danger of the unknown, but it was still so far, a world away, and we had miles of darkness to walk through before I could finally stop panicking, stop crying, breathe and calm my wretched psyche so maybe my fiery stomach could cool.

We walked forever, forever and ever through the quiet and eerie, almost supernatural, world of mystery and abandonment and never-ending lurking danger until I finally spotted the taco restaurant up ahead. We were close! Immediately my stomach loosened and I felt some emotional relief. Soon I would be snuggled up on the couch, indoors with the doors locked, in a house that I was familiar with. Once there, I laid down and didn't get back up again, just texting Keith about the trauma and trying to derive comfort from reading his nice words. I thought about the bed at home in Chicago, which felt like mine for the first time ever, and how comforting it would be to snuggle up with the maple-smelling blue blanket.

But I was safe. I was out of the danger zone. My stomachache was nearly gone, and Keith was talking about hugs and fish and tofu. I turned off the light behind me but couldn't sleep at first, so I watched the flashing silver lights out of the corners of my eyes.

Then I woke up, it was 8 AM, and it was over.

Casting call: female models for softcore shoots

I’m seeking female models to collaborate on future projects with a sexy theme. I’m not looking to shoot pornography or erotica. Just fun, playful, sexy shots with another girl. Best friends getting caught up in a sexually charged moment, maybe having a few drinks and getting a little wild. No explicit sexual activity, but maybe a little kissing or above-the-waist touching. Nudity is entirely optional. Personally, I’ll only go so far as doing implied. Your choice of anything from lingerie to full nudity is fine with me. Even though it will obviously be “adult themed,” I want it to retain an innocent quality. Just a couple young girls having fun.

No bondage or odd fetish stuff. More like an American Apparel ad or something.

Here are some examples of photos I like.









The best way to contact me is at onewaystreet73@yahoo.com or on Facebook. Once I find a model interested in this, we can work together to find photographers and stylists. If you respond to this and don’t hear back from me, don’t take it personally. I’m probably just intimidated by your boobs.

Lately I’ve been curious about the G-shot. Initially I had negative feelings about it, viewing it as one more way that women are made to feel sexually inadequate in this patriarchal society. After all, if you’re not having orgasms strictly from The Penis, there must be something wrong with you! Any woman worth sleeping with doesn’t need a man to cater to her by orally stimulating her clitoris or other such nonsense. The Penis provides vaginal orgasms during intercourse, and if it doesn’t, you’re an inferior woman. At least, that’s the message that women are so often sent--despite the fact that most vaginas are minimally sensitive inside--and I worried that the G-shot was reinforcing this idea. As I ponder it, though, my viewpoint is changing and I’ve been curious about getting the shot myself. What I originally saw as a “solution” to a “problem” regarding female orgasms, I now see as sort of an added bonus to sex. Granted, some women may still pursue it as a quick fix for what they perceive to be sexual inadequacy, and for their sake, I hope that doctors discuss the mechanics of female orgasm with them. But for someone like me who simply has a stubborn G-spot that doesn’t seem to want to come out to play too often, the shot would force it to be ready and willing whenever I want it to be. No more pre-sex prepping, wondering, “Is it going to respond to stimulation today?” while futilely poking my fingers around. I could take control! I know that G-spot orgasms during sex are the exception and not the rule, but it would be pretty convenient to increase the odds. What woman doesn’t want her orgasms to be more frequent and easily attainable? Sign me up.

Unfortunately, the G-shot costs something like $1500 and only lasts four months, so it’s not something I’ll be trying anytime soon.

What I may be trying soon, though, is the Greenbush breast enhancement program. Actually, I tried it once before, and you’re not going to believe this so brace yourself…it was working. Yes, my breasts were getting bigger during the three-month period that I used Greenbush’s herbs. Mind you, I didn’t see the outrageous two-cup-size-increase that you read about in the testimonials, but the slight size discrepancy between them (the right one was a little bigger) evened out perfectly. Once I realized that, though, I stopped using the herbs because I freaked out assuming that I had breast cancer. There are mixed reports as to the safety of these herbs in terms of cancer. At least one study has shown that fenugreek (the main ingredient) led to an increase in cancer cells in lab animals that already had breast cancer. On the other hand, naturalists claim that the plant estrogens the herbs contain slow the body’s production of human estrogen, and according to them, an increased amount of plant estrogen is much safer than a normal amount of human estrogen. Nobody has studied this formally, so I can’t attest to its safety or danger. All I know is that it’s only $20 for the bottle of nasty smelling shit that you rub on your boobs every day, so I think I’m going to give it another whirl.

Recently I attended SlutWalk Chicago, a protest against victim-blaming and sexual harassment. The protest started in response to a Toronto police officer advising women to avoid rape by not dressing like sluts. This is a prime example of victim-blaming and so shockingly backwards that it’s disheartening to hear that some people honestly foster this mindset. Forward-thinking people with any discernible amount of respect for women would argue that women should be able to wear whatever they want without putting themselves in danger. Men who rape are the problem, not women who are victims of rape. That’s what the protest is about. True, I don’t advocate for women to go out alone at night. The unfortunate reality is that women do have to take measures to protect themselves. But that’s a coping mechanism, not a solution. Controlling how women dress should not be society’s response to the rape problem.

There was also an element of slut pride, in the sense that female sexual agency was encouraged and celebrated. My favorite chant of the day was, “No means no, yes means yes, wherever I go or however I dress.” The idea is that women can act however they please, and that a refusal to have sex should be met with respect rather than rape, and an agreement to have sex should be free from societal judgment. I’ve always supported the option of sexual promiscuity as long as it’s for the right reasons. There’s nothing wrong with a woman choosing multiple sex partners or casual sex partners if she’s making the choice in accordance with her own interests and desires. (Growing up, these women weren’t sluts in my eyes, because I didn’t see promiscuity as negative. Sluts, to me, were girls who used sex for attention or validation. Instead of shaming these girls, though, it would be a lot more productive and beneficial to offer them positive reinforcement.) Even if these empowered promiscuous women are referred to as sluts, I don’t think their behavior has to be viewed with poor favor. A lesser mission of SlutWalk was to reclaim the word “slut” and shed a more positive light on it, simply applying it to any women who is in control of her sexuality and has a healthy, exciting sex life.

I think that any woman (or, at least, any woman who shares a lifestyle and the inherent privileges similar to mine) can be a slut, in the best possible way. We can make smart sexual choices and assert our sexuality in a way that addresses our independence and power. We can have great sex lives with one or a hundred partners, engaging in any activities we enjoy, and experience sexual fulfillment on our own terms, with the support and assistance of the men or women we choose to share our sex with. To me, that’s a form of empowerment, and if “slut” is a label for a woman with a positive sex life, then call me a slut. It’s a subjective term, and now I’m making the conscious choice to see it in a good way. My healthy sexual relationship and attitude toward sex make me a slut. I’m my boyfriend’s slut, and even more than that, I’m my own slut.

Arguing Semantics: The truth behind the G-word

Ever since the Blue Jean Babies informally disbanded and stopped using the infamous G-word to avoid confrontation in romantic relationships, I can’t help but feeling that we caved to societal pressure. We did it to save face, but in doing so, we also gave up on the reformation we wanted so badly.

A Google search of “groupie definition” returned few fully adequate descriptions (except the one on Urban Dictionary posted by one of the BBA’s), and a lot of them were quite negative. Still, there does seem to be a general trend toward recognizing the positive and loving relationship between a groupie and her band(s), so I have hope that the reclamation of the word might be taking hold. Hard work pays off.

Let’s see some definitions that are floating around.

TRUE: a fan of a rock group who usually follows the group around on concert tours
TRUE: an enthusiastic young fan (especially a young woman who follows rock groups around) - an ardent follower and admirer
FALSE: an enthusiastic fan of a pop group, especially a female teenager seeking a sexual relationship with the object of her adulation
FALSE: a young woman, often under age, who seeks to achieve status by having sex with rock musicians, roadies, security, and other band-related guys

Groupies are generally perceived as girls who perform sexual favors for bands, but I would broaden that definition to include girls (or sometimes guys) who perform any type of favors for bands. In a way, they’re sort of like extra band members, who sell merchandise and write reviews and make T-shirts, rather than playing an instrument.

It’s distressing to hear the word “slut” used interchangeably with “groupie” so often. In the ’60s and ’70s, groupies were essentially rock music’s most glamorous female fans. They were sophisticated, intelligent, stylish women who also loved rock and roll and were able to become a part of the rock scene. Of course they were sexy, but they weren’t sleazy. They conducted themselves with class and poise, and the only reason they’re occasionally looked on unfavorably now is because of their high-profile relationships. While I always defend sexual promiscuity, these groupies were no more promiscuous than any average girl. Suggesting that they were sluts is a false and baseless claim.

One of the myths about groupies is that they’re leeching off of famous people to try to attain fame for themselves. Totally absurd. Back in the day, groupies were fortunate in that rock and roll was popular. They got special perks because the music scene they were a part of was mainstream. And good for them. I bet it was really fun. Nowadays though, almost all of the good music is strictly underground, so the fame aspect is completely removed from the equation. Sucks for the bands, but in a way, maybe it’s even better for the groupies because it creates a stronger sense of unity and sisterhood among them. Instead of competing to stay relevant to pop culture, they’re able to support and nurture each other, while working for the bands on a considerably more manageable level.

I never would have heard of the Handcuffs or the Crash Street Kids or RTX or Sexual Harassment or Stonehand if not for the groupie network.

Another thing that bothers me is the misuse of the word. Sure, it’s misused in the sense that sexual promiscuity is implied, but even if you can’t divorce the word “groupie” from “slut,” at least give groupies the elite position of being rock and roll sluts. Groupies follow rock bands. There are no sports groupies or political groupies or theater groupies. They simply cannot exist, because the words don’t correlate. “Groupie” is not a generic term for hot, enthusiastic, female fan. A groupie is a rock fan, specifically.

Alas, in the same sense that hair metal committed suicide rather than being killed by grunge, groupies destroyed themselves by acting like sloppy, immature whores. By the late 1970s, they had completely tainted their own good name. Somehow in the process of trying to be as cool as Miss Pamela, girls started blowing roadies and squatting on beer bottles. They ruined the image and the word, and that was why modern groupie groups formed to reclaim it.

The world at large may be mostly unaware, but I believe that on a small scale, people are starting to listen.

When you feel like blogging but don’t know what to blog about, “your problems” is always a good topic to fall back on. Right now my problems are cramps and jealousy, and I’m guessing that jealousy will be a more interesting/tolerable subject to read about. I’m actually not feeling intensely jealous right now, but it’s a recurring problem and I know my craziness will cause it to flare up again.

I have obsessive-compulsive disorder, heavy on the obsessive part, and one of the manifestations of my disorder is obsessive retroactive jealousy, or jealousy of a partner’s romantic and sexual past. Apparently it’s pretty common for retroactive jealousy to be associated with OCD, although I haven’t discussed this with my shrink yet.

This jealousy is completely irrational and not based on any logical fears or concerns. I’m not afraid that my partner will leave me. I’m not afraid that I’m unattractive (usually). I’m not really afraid of anything. I’m just jealous of every girl he’s ever had any sort of intimate relationship with. For no real reason.

Of course, I make it worse by actively seeking out information. One of my favorite hobbies is looking at pictures of him on exes' Facebook or MySpace pages. That’s pretty sick and masochistic. I get a huge adrenaline rush from seeing photos of him wrapping another woman lovingly in his arms or rereading the exchange of dirty e-mails that somehow ended up on my computer. My heart races, my face flushes, I sweat and shiver. I get so worked up to a point that I feel feverish, and then I crash into a horrible depression. Sometimes I cry in bed by myself. Other times I start fights with him. It’s a vicious, fucked-up cycle, and no matter how much reassurance he gives me, I can’t stop obsessing and suffering the resultant depression because it’s part of a psychological disorder.

Honestly, I think it’s extremely rude and disrespectful for me to treat him this way. It’s not fair to pry into his past—which is over—and then to have bad reactions that negatively impact our relationship and make him feel guilty. Totally, totally not okay. I worry I’m going to lose him if I keep this up.

I've always had this problem, but it's so much worse with him because I really love him.

If anyone reading this has had success treating retroactive jealousy through therapy, medication, or other means, please share your story.

A quick addition to the post below:

Here is a link to a website that has some sad but encouraging testimonials, as well as many mentions of Dr. Andrew Goldstein, who apparently knows his stuff. Read through the 8 pages of comments.

http://www.empowher.com/community/share/my-experience-and-treatment-vulvodynia-and-vestibulodynia

According to Dr. Goldstein, birth control pills permanently alter a woman's hormones, causing vaginal problems. The only way to correct the change is to stop the pill and begin hormone treatment. I'd never heard of this before today, but it's an interesting possibility. He has offices in NYC, Annapolis, and Washington, D.C., and patients fly from all over the country to see him. Unfortunately, he doesn't accept insurance, and his service is costly. Nevertheless, this could be something worth saving up money for.

This post is about my vagina. I'm not writing this to be shocking or outrageous or to elicit a response. I'm writing this because maybe somebody will read it and learn from it, or at least see a glimmer of hope. I'm writing this because when I'm at my wits end, fighting back tears and pulling out my hair, I sometimes find new ideas and success stories in women's personal blogs. Corny as it is, if this blog makes a difference in one woman's life, then I'm happy that I posted it. I hope that someone with the same problem that I have will read this and be inspired to keep trying for a cure.

The problem itself is vague, and doctors have never given me a definitive term to describe it. Words like "dyspareunia," "vaginismus," and "vestibulodynia" are most commonly used, and all of those, plus others, are applicable to the problem I have. What I've come to realize over the years is that the problem is really a combination of issues, which is what makes it so difficult to treat. I see doctors so frequently that spreading my legs for a pelvic exam feels as casual as a handshake for me, but none of them have been able to help me because they haven't worked comprehensively to treat all my conditions.

I've been using oral and topical medications for years, and though they stopped the problem from getting worse, they failed to make it better. I believe that these medications are important and that I need to take them, but I also believe that I won't get better with medication alone. Recently I discovered pelvic floor physical therapy (through my own research, not at the suggestion of a gynecologist, of course) and I've started seeing a physical therapist in Chicago. So far I've only attended two sessions, so I can't attest to whether or not it's working. But, I want to bring attention to the very fact that this type of physical therapy exists. Few women know that, and women with problems similar to mine should definitely give it a try. If medicine isn't making you better, it's time for something new. I also suggest seeing someone who can assess your dietary needs. A poor diet and certain food allergies can make a vagina very unhappy.

I know some people will view this blog post as just another instance of Crystal giving TMI, but I truly want to help people who identify with my problem. I know how frustrating it is to be a young woman completely denied the opportunity to have a normal sex life. It's heartbreaking to have a sexual dysfunction that will seemingly never be cured.

Aside from the ideas I find in other women's blogs, it's simply helpful to know that I'm not the only one suffering from these problems. It saddens me when I hear that some women have suffered not just for a few years as I have, but for multiple decades in the cases of some older women. What that tells me, though, is that women have gone on to live perfectly happy lives despite the problem.

It's important to have a support system, consisting not just of these other women, but also including doctors, family and friends. Just because this problem involves a "private" area doesn't mean you have to suffer alone. From the start I've known that something was wrong with me, and I've never had reservations about expressing my feelings. The fact that my friends are there to help lift my spirits is very encouraging. I'm also very fortunate to have a partner who is caring and understanding (even if he thinks I'm a bit wacky for exercising for 15 minutes a day with a dildo, therapist's orders), and who never pressures me in the least or makes me feel inadequate.

My support system and determination to cure this problem will, eventually, lead me to be successful in doing so. I try to keep an overall positive attitude and believe that someday I'll experience sexuality the way I deserve to. In the mean time, I'll keep searching for new ideas and sharing my ideas with others.

For starters, you could try physical therapy. Who knows, it may help.