I Got Information

“If you love me fuck me like you hate me” Anonymous
Because I’ve lived a greater portion of my life off the rails, I use Facebook as a barometer of
normalcy as in, “Oh yes, this is how normal people see the world.” Like an archeologist
discovering a great treasure, I am delighted to uncover this little gem from a Facebook friend:
I've encountered my share of "off" OKC messages. But this… is the best yet! His profile
opens: "I used to deal drugs but it finally got boring." (There are pictures of him with
expensive cars). His invite to me: Dinner at French Laundry or Sierra Mar. His treat. He'll
pick me up.
Yeah… like I'm going to get in a car with a *stranger* and go all the way to NAPA or BIG
SUR. I don't think so!! I don't care if it is the finest of fine dining.
Whereas my response would have been something like, “Oh bummer, *used to* deal drugs.
What a snore; I bet he wears loafers now.” I was surprised to discover that all of the
respondents (and there were many) seemed to concur with the poster on her right minded no
nonsense approach.
Okay that one definitely goes in the files.
I guess that they would not be so enamored with Birdman Loc, the profile I stalked for nearly six
months. A hot picture of a big man in prison garb, the brilliant poetic profile written in rap
pentameter, “Get ready bitch, you gonna ride the dick if not you’ll be sick when I go pop pop
click click”. I mean really what was this guy doing on a silly dating site? But alas, it was all a cruel
joke. It seems Birdman Loc was a heartbreaker of the most sadistic kind
“I'm 33, live in California, and am physically somewhat close to the opposite of the guy in my
profile pictures.”
It was like discovering that there is no Santa, or, even more disturbing in my case, no real
demons.
It’s hard to convey exactly why I’m drawn toward the more shadowy corners of personal
relating — unless you listen to my mom, who worries that I may have a death wish. Or Steven
Kotler, who writes about a state called “Flow” that drives high performance athletes to perform
unthinkable feats in a quest for that ever-elusive state. An absolute and complete absorption,
not a single cranky self conscious peep from the mental mind chatter, timelessness and near
perfect decision making. I stress “near perfect” because as several now deceased extreme
sports athletes would attest (were they not, you know, dead) the life or death aspect of the act
was precisely one of the elements that had that state kick in.

It’s beyond intoxicating. It’s downright sobering. It’s the rare moment of becoming one with
your own life and the environment surrounding it; the painter and the canvas, the snowboarder
and the mountain, the nun and the love of Jesus. All willing to forego “life” as most people
know it, drawn by and utterly magnetized to what lies behind that door.
It just so happens that my particular door is sex and that the fetters most view as the
reward, feel like so many obstacles to that one thing I yearn for: a perfect union not simply with
my partner, but with what is accessed through him. It drives me to what some might consider…
extremes
And in an odd sense, it does keep me safe in that near perfect decision-making way.
Because stalkers and all people unsavory seem to have a certain disdain for willing participants.
It’s kind of a buzz kill. Which is much to my dismay as unsavory is precisely what I look for in an
opponent. Oops, I mean lover. Like Ivan.
Case study:
Ivan, a 38 year old man riding a BMX bicycle on the Venice boardwalk. I emphasize 38 and BMX
because this combination is not one most women seek out. It reeks of his need to scavenge for
love. The kind of guy exiled from the more conventional dating channels due to impropriety.
The kind of guy who keeps repeating your name in conversation to disarm you, stands just a
little too close for comfort, kisses your hand like an old Southern gentleman and then won’t let
go. The kind of guy I pick up on one of my walks.
“So Nicole what do you do?” he says in the authoritative voice reserved for potential hapless
victims
“I teach about orgasm,” I respond in a perfectly matched tone. Long silence, he nearly tips his
bmx.
“Nicole, Nicole, Nicole. How did I ever get so lucky as to meet a girl like you?”
“Mmmm, I dunno. You stopped your bike in my path?”
And thus, a romance in my world is conceived. Which just as swiftly miscarried as I advanced
with his every advance. When we came to the crossroads, the time to make a move and he
asked for a hug, I gave him a hug. A slide-down-your-body, oh-yes-your-cock-feels-good-on-my-
thigh kind of hug. Exactly the type of hug he was overtly demanding and would surely have
taken, had I not offered it.

But that offering is what separates the true players from the mere perpetrators. It’s not that I
have anything against perpetrators per se, they are just so damned predictable, and in the long
run they altogether lack ingenuity.
Of course he made his promises. His “I can’t wait to get with you’s”. But ultimately he left
looking deflated. When the customer walks in and plunks down the cash without so much as a
‘by your leave’, a consummate salesman is bound to skulk away feeling deflated.
And I guess at a certain point you simply become a black diamond dater. In the beginning, that
“you’re so beautiful” can make your knees buckle. But you habituate. Then there’s the next
level: “I want to marry you”. Especially when delivered from someone otherwise considered a
player. You stay on that slope for a long time. Beyond that are the men who are just plain
fucked up. The most enticing are the sociopaths, the charmers with locked doors. You thrill at
being the one to pick the locks and be the first inside. Until you get in there and realize that the
reason it’s locked is because no one, including him, has ever been in there. This house has been
long ago abandoned. Maybe there’s a squatter inside, just a little guy who wants to tell you
stories of when his dog died.
And suddenly your only option really is to play. Play for play’s sake. And I mean play in the Alan
Watts sense, that this life is far too grave to take seriously. Or play as a higher faculty of
existence. And then, as Maya Angelou says about writing, everything becomes interesting.
Now you have this goal. The goal is to find that point of connection through the dross that is
personality, past his lethal levels of sexism, or fears that he won’t get a hard on. Past his
paranoia that you’ve got a diamond ring up there that is going to slip on his dick if he fucks you.
Couple that with your own weird brands of fear; do I smell okay down there? What if he says
something too dumb to bypass? Oh god, what if he says something ming-blowingly brilliant?
(The last one you don’t worry about so much, if only because mind-blowing brilliance is hardly
ever verbal.) But on you continue.
The same way a skateboarder is willing to continue skating after seeing the MRI that clearly
states in no uncertain X-ray terms, one more fall and you are toast.
Because now you have access to connection in the undiluted form. And that – well that – that
will make you endure a lot of personality in order to access it.
Like the “spirit guy”. We are lying there and I am in the pre jump position that every
experienced athlete touches if only for a second; the “maybe this time I can’t do it”. I am pre-
navigating the conditions of his personality and let us just say that it is rocky terrain.
Somewhere he got dating confused with therapy.
So he’s talking. And talking. And talking. And rubbing my leg as he does. And I’m listening and –
in a very therapeutic way, of course – I am guiding his hand upwards. He’s melting a bit with all
this talking until he becomes liquid enough for me to take over. I switch on. I feel the pulse

move from my pussy to his cock. I see that drive in him activate. I pull him on top of me.
Because I know experientially what few people I meet seem to know: with proper activation
everyone is breathtakingly beautiful.
But he’s a man and somewhere in that mind of his there is a “have to earn it” syndrome that
we first need to navigate before we get to the pure stuff. Like making it through the breakers.
He still operates by a commerce model. So he slides down and begins to fresh juicy peach suck
my pussy. The good news is that his cock now has a trajectory and the automatic pilot can kick
on, the part where no filters exist. His face shifts from monk to beast.
The last vestige of programming, the one that says I am fragile, or that he could hurt me, gets
drowned out by his hunger. He grunts and I whisper, “That is the one I’ve been waiting for”
which kicks him up to the next level. He grinds his cock against the bed and I slide my feet down
and he slips his cock in between. It doesn’t matter. Foot, mouth, hand, pussy, body heat alone
is enough for him at this point. The heat dissolves his skin and with that, the one who sneaks,
maybe the one who watches porn alone or the one who wants to fuck his much younger co-
worker or the one who has imagined strangling a woman, the one who is constrained and
confined by propriety is liberated. And glancing up, he suddenly realizes that he is welcome
here. Fully and entirely, and that he does not have to fear hurting me. Because here, in this
exact moment, we meet a hairpin turn where we become liquid and can absorb anything. In
that moment he can discover who or what has been locked in his basement all this time.
He can meet himself at the level of pure drive.
And there, I can release into him. Crawl into his mouth and guts until he is quite literally
crawling upon and into me. And there, with the tiny star pixels in the black light, I can take him
all the way inside. Until that involuntary thrusting of him begins, like an animal after an attack
that convulses to shake it off. His body moving beyond his mind, his mind pulled deep, down
into the dark ocean. The sober-blackout state.
And he is coming and grunt-screaming, but the two of us are deep in the quiet stillness of the
black pool. His body bounces above mine until the bouncing slows to shivers, then quiet little
quakes, and then slows to tiny tremors. I match belly to belly, heart to heart, foot to foot, and
return him.
“What happened?” he asks.
And I say, “We found the doorway.”