If you can’t figure out who the Yoko Ono in your group is, you’re the Yoko Ono.

This post was written on Monday, April 20, 2015.

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Here’s Todd looking at the Grand Canyon a few weeks ago.

This morning when I woke up, I told my boyfriend (his name is Todd, by the way, something I’ve never actually mentioned on here): “I think I’m your Yoko Ono.”

He laughed and, because he’s not familiar with nor does he give a shit about pop culture, said, “I sort of get that reference.”

So if you, too, are a pop culture novice or abstainer, know that many fans repeatedly blamed Yoko Ono for breaking up the Beatles and negatively influencing John Lennon’s music and career. Some people, even decades after the Beatles’ dissolving and John Lennon’s death, hate her guts, and celebrities from Courtney Love to Taylor Swift have been labeled Yoko Onos after having allegedly sabotaged or muddled the careers of their former significant others.

When I don’t feel great about myself, I don’t write, and if I do, it’s slop. So, judging from the lack of posts over the last several months, things haven’t been too shiny for me in this glitzy city. When Todd was abroad working for five weeks, I squandered away an opportunity to go out, make friends and join social groups or clubs, finish my fucking book, and decrease my dependency on him, instead opting to cuddle up under my comforter like a hermit, copyediting and, only occasionally, writing some slop.

Most of my friends know what Todd does for a living. Or, more accurately, they have a fuzzy idea of what he does. I told him this morning that I can’t remember who I’ve told which snippets about our relationship and life together, because I decide what information to divulge based on my determination of how accepting—or not accepting—each person might be.

My boyfriend teaches and practices pickup, or game. The art of seduction is his passion and area of expertise, and he teaches men how to be more engaging and interesting, more sexual, more aggressive (in a non-creepy, non-molesting way), and more alpha, in order to free them from clinging to the first girl who eye-fucks them and obsessing about what to text a girl and when and how much and Wah, why doesn’t she like me? He and his coworkers see sex as necessary and nothing to be ashamed of for either sex; one-night-stands as something men and women want; and sleeping with hundreds of girls as good practice, the ultimate way to find out what you want and don’t want, and also, as pretty fun.

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Hakkasan last Saturday night.

Our relationship, it would make sense, is open. This is okay by me, because I don’t have a preference about gender, and our arrangement allows me to explore that side of myself solo or sometimes with him, without that sedimentary guilt sitting in my gut as a result. If you’ve ever cheated on someone, you know what I’m talking about.

But, of course, because he does this for a living, it’s out there. And I mean, way, way out there. Not just on his social media and his company’s website, but on his YouTube channel, which boasts videos laced with pickup concepts, theory, and in-field footage, video of my boyfriend talking to, picking up, kissing, touching, and sometimes bringing home women. One video exists in which he very clearly has sex with Not-Me in a club.

It would take a pretty secure woman to be cool with all that, right?

While my confidence has never been described as sky high, it has been pretty good since I’ve been with Todd. When you date a guy who can have a Playboy model (because he has) and yet he picks you, you do kind of feel like you’re the shit. That doesn’t mean, though, that the visceral response I get to seeing him kiss another girl—or more—ever goes away.

My version of Yokoness comes out here. My insecurities, my jealousy, my Where were you last night? or Did you fuck some girl? questions don’t really help a pickup artist want to keep doing or teaching pickup. It makes him afraid of hurting his girlfriend at every turn, and it makes him dilute what he does both when she is and is not around. If our relationship were monogamous, the red flags would be obvious.

But it’s not. And Todd has been under the impression that I’ve known for nearly two years now what he does for a job and that I accept it, and he is right to have assumed both. For a while now, though, I’ve let my evaporating self-esteem, my dependence on him, and my inability to truly be open with the people in my life about my life . . . break up the band, so to speak.

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Synonyms make me happy (the bathroom at Little City Grill, Boulder City, Nevada).

Todd also said to me this morning, “Kaitlin, one of the reasons why I’m a pretty happy guy is because I don’t have any secrets. I’ve put myself and what I do out there for everyone to see, and I couldn’t erase it now if I tried. And I don’t want to.”

A long time ago, when I cheated on someone (this blog is the honesty blog, in case you haven’t noticed), I stopped my online writing. I didn’t tell my friends what had happened, and so I stopped making an effort to hang out with them, because I felt like what I had done had been splashed across my face. That it was oozing off me. That no matter what I did or said, I was a fraud because a small part of me was hiding.

So what Todd said made me think about my life, his job, and our life, and how my tolerance—or, I guess, intolerance—impacts me. When he first told me what his job was, I confided in my mom only a few days later. I didn’t tell my dad for more than a month and a half. With other friends, I wrote e-mails instead of telling them in person. That way, I could huddle behind a virtual firewall when they told me I was crazy. When I meet new people, I usually tell them Todd is a dating coach/motivational speaker (which is, on a very basic level, true). And when they say, “Like Hitch?” I just nod and say, “Yup. You got it. Just like Hitch.”

It definitely makes things easier.

If you ask my grandmother what Todd does for a living, she’d probably just say that she still can’t believe he wore sweat pants the first time he met her. We’re going to strike her opinion from this blog.

A friend once said to me, “If you intend to write as truthfully as you can, your days as a member of polite society are numbered anyway.”

I’ve thought about what some of my friends, acquaintances from high school or college, or my parents’ friends might think. My aunt in her seventies. My cousins. Anyone, really. But the thing is, if I can’t tell people what my life is like without sugarcoating it or smothering the little dirty parts, I have no business living my life, and in many ways, I haven’t been.

Maybe now I can start.

“love does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.”*

my friend’s polish grandmother, as relayed to us, my group of college buddies, once famously said in her eastern european drawl: “monogamy: it’s not for everybody.”

and then, of course, there’s vince vaughan’s best man character in old school who shakes his head and mutters to the groom, will ferrell, on the altar: “you get one vagina for the rest of your life. real smart, frank. way to work it through.”

oh, boy. so i’m about to talk about monogamy or, more specifically, nonmonogamy (my dad suggested coining a whole new word, nonogamy, but i find this annoying to pronounce and therefore i vetoed it). if i thought my post on telling women to bring porn on first dates was bad, this might be worse. or maybe not.

i’ve been avoiding talking about this topic—even though i’ve been interested and intrigued by it for some time—not so much because i have a very definite opinion and i wish to share it and i’m worried about the backlash, but because i’m not even really sure which way i swing. cue the sexual orientation jokes.

today i was jumping rope on my deck. pre-jumping, i had cued up a handful of songs to last through about twenty minutes of exercise, songs that included such classics as “back that ass up” and “put your ass into it,” mostly for the gluteal motivation. i did add a few recently downloaded tunes (“timber” being one of them, which i’m ashamed to admit to having downloaded at all but am admitting to because i think it’s okay to listen to shitty music if it makes you go faster at whatever you’re doing). cue the sex jokes.

so “back that ass up” had me going at a decent pace, but the newer songs pumped me up more if only for the reason that they’re new. i’m not as familiar with what’s coming next. plus our bodies like new stuff. if you do the same strength-training exercises every week for a year, eventually your muscles say, “this again?” and yawn, stop responding, and stop growing. new clothes are fun too. but wash a shirt once and it’s officially yours, no longer has the department-store-fresh scent, and is bor-ing. new, fun. old, blah. me, tarzan. you, jane.

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a disgustingly rich mutt and his harem of hb’s

i once saw a commercial in which a dog wins the lottery (i know, right? they let dogs play the lottery? i was thinking the same thing), and at the end of the advertisement, the canine, some mutt, is sitting on the backseat of a limo, surrounded by three little white poodles with pink and purple bows in their fluff. you can watch it here if you like. they’re dogs, i know this, but those poodles look happy. they’re with some rich mongrel in the back of a limousine and each one is fine with not being his one and only. and of course the lottery-winning dog is thrilled; he has three bitches to pleasure him. despite my belief that monogamy isn’t the most natural thing, is there really a need to rub it in everyone’s face that men like sex and like it with multiple women and that, if able to buy sex or partners (not directly, but indirectly), they would? we figured that one out ages ago. and, by the way, that dog, on a human attractiveness scale of one to ten, would rate about a four. and previous to his winnings, he was jobless and living in a shack in the backyard, paying some fat dude rent. yet there he is, the object of affection of three hb’s (hot bitches) because now he has, and can offer, a “lifestyle.”

i stole (meaning i asked nicely if i could borrow and then horde for months) a book of my friend’s entitled the myth of monogamy. this was back in late summer, and i’m just now tackling this subject. (side note: my friend also recommended this book, sex at dawn.) anyway, myth was written by a doctor of psychology and a psychiatrist who, ironically enough, are married. there’s a really cute photo of the two of them snuggling on the back cover. kind of makes ya sick, it’s so sweet. anyway, “when it comes to mammals,” they write, “monogamy has long been known as a rarity. out of 4,000 mammal species, no more than a few dozen form reliable pair-bonds.”

then there’s talk of a few things of which i’ve already heard and one that made my brain explode:

  • “males in general—have a lower threshold for sexual excitation and a greater fondness for sexual variety, or, to look at it more negatively, a penchant for equating monogamy with monotony.” so y’all get bored easily, is that correct?
  • “if a female mammal makes a bad choice and is inseminated by an inferior male . . . she pays a substantial toll in risk as well as in lost time and energy. . . . a male mammal who makes himself available for one of many sexual dalliances has invested comparatively little.” typical.
  • there is such a thing as “sperm competition.” apparently, sperm from multiple men can compete for one egg. um. this one, i’ll admit, i didn’t know was even possible. female mammals can, essentially, load up on the sperm of multiple males if they were to engage in coitus a number of instances in a short time span. women can hope that they acquire the sperm containing the best genes. may the strongest swimmer win?
  • “what limits the reproductive success of any given male would appear to be his access to females, rather than inherent limitations of his reproductive anatomy.” in nine months of pregnancy, women can’t get more pregnant. men, on the other hand, can still, uh, go a-sperming.
  • “the potential reproductive benefit of having one or more additional sexual partners is high (if any of these ‘girlfriends’ get pregnant). . . .” so the more partners for a male, the more potential for offspring, the passing along of traits, and continuing the lineage.

okay, that’s enough biology. there are so many variations on relationships (and i mean all relationships here: heterosexual, homosexual, or otherwise). an alpha female who shares her partner with other females who purely satisfy sexual desires. or vice versa. men or women who are bisexual and have an agreement with their partners that they can either go outside the relationship solo with a same-sex partner or they can share the experience (aka a threesome. or some-other-number-some). then there are swingers. or the couples who give their partners hall passes to sleep with celebrities or some pre-agreed-upon dream screw. couples who engage in activities even my gutter brain can’t think up. then the people who just cheat/have affairs, the partner none the wiser, remaining monogamous. and finally couples who, for a lifetime, both remain monogamous.

some folks have notions about how things were “back in the day,” when chivalry ruled and the family unit was very clear. you married young, you had kids early, you lived in a house in the ’burbs, and everything was tidy. this was, though, a façade in many ways. infidelity still occurred, of course. i know for a fact that it occurred in my family long, long ago, and no, i’m not willing to say any more than that. i think it’s silly, however, to look back and think of “long, long ago” as a more simple time, and therefore simplify the relationships that existed within it. human nature isn’t so easily changed.

i will say, though, that is much harder now. we look hotter, longer. i’m not trying to be egotistical. . . . okay, yes i am, but i don’t think that i look like i’m thirty. compared to women sixty years ago, i exercise more, i have a better diet, i am more easily able to support myself financially, i haven’t popped out two or more children—let alone one—and i continue to surround myself with a lot of single, successful, smart, attractive people (that’s the reason i’m friends with you all) in an urban, vibrant environment. everywhere i look there’s stimulation. it’s a far cry from being in a house away from the city, couples and families everywhere you look, encouraging a different sort of lifestyle. neither lifestyle is wrong. but it’s a lot harder to stay loyal when temptation is perpetually in your face.

i once beat myself up for months or, let’s be honest, years, for having cheated on someone. like most of my friends, i grew up in a social environment in which a family consisted of a mother, father, and children. or in my case, child. you mated for life. it wasn’t until i went to college, and even more so in recent years, that i have seen the entire gamut of relationships, and i’ve realized just how many of the relationships i thought were solid were littered, or are still littered, with problems. i continue to feel bad about having cheated years and years ago. then, however, i was the under the impression that i was weird for having done it. that i was unusual for not liking only the person i was with at the time. that there was something wrong with me for not being able to cull sexual thoughts about anyone else. for wanting to see what it was like even just to hold hands with or kiss another person or more. should i have acted on those thoughts? maybe not. but was i wrong to have them at all? i don’t believe so.

in summation, i’m really just looking for the best sperm out there. this post was my way of holding auditions. if you find me abhorrent, your seed is not welcome here. if all this makes me cuddly and adorable, you can print your name on the next available line. the sign-up sheet will be hanging above the mailbox adjacent to my front door. i suggest coming between ten and two. high-traffic time is during a.m. and p.m. rush hour. please bring your own pen. and a one-page cv. and a clif bar.

i’m laughing. i don’t know about anyone else.

one of my friends said recently, about the no-strings thing he has going on:

“right now i’m enjoying having a relationship with someone who doesn’t expect monogamy and neither do i. the hard part is i find it . . . lacking. i miss the monogamy.”

would he miss the no-strings aspect if he were in a monogamous relationship? probably. but i’m assuming that lottery dog has a favorite poodle (i’m betting on the one with the purple bows—the other two have pink bows and are clearly inferior). we may all seek variety, excitement, newness. there is a wonderful and special something, though, about building a life with one person, a person whose food order you know by heart, a person who sets you up for the perfect “that’s what she said,” and a person whose vision of what life should be looks a lot like yours. all this as you gaze ahead at this life instead of at each other, as the famous literary headline of this post suggests. and i think you can have this whether you are monogamous or nonogamous (i’ve decided to give this term a whirl). it’s about what works for you both—what makes you both happy, the definition of which is different—well, fancy that!—for each couple.

barash and lipton write:

“to be sure, human beings can be monogamous . . . but make no mistake: it is unusual—and difficult.”

*antoine de saint-exupéry

“i don’t want ever to be a man,” he said with passion. “i want always to be a little boy and to have fun.”*

proof that society wants us to act like kids even when we're gray.

proof that society wants us to act like kids even when we’re gray.

to the left is a photo of the cube at astor place, in case you don’t know it. also, today is pearl harbor day. take off your hat, put your hand over your heart, and think about how good you have it, if for only a minute. i just did.

so my idea is still brewing and i’ve already taken a step, though small, toward turning it into a reality. but more to tk on that. (tk, in case you were wondering, is a term we use in publishing that means “to come.” i just looked it up to see if, in fact, it’s used only in publishing, and that’s pretty much accurate—see link. it’s actually somewhat interesting, or maybe it is to just me.)

my friend and i were talking on facebook chat the other day (during work hours? never), and i mentioned to her that a friend of hers, who i met only once but of course immediately friended—that word should really be recognized by microsoft word at this point—popped up in the “people you may know” section on my homepage. i therefore concluded that i was annoying enough to defriend, which is, unfortunately, not shocking to me. my friend then told me that this friend had actually made a second account in an attempt to connect on facebook with only her real friends. i like to think this strategy is similar to when you have to get a new phone because you dropped your old one in a toilet and instead of adding all those random people with just misspelled first names or nicknames (like “the bartender”), you let your “real” friends text or call you and then do the whole “who is this?” shtick before you add their numbers. gotta weed out those weirdos, hey? (“hey” is a substitute for “right?” or “no?” and is something my aussie friend says and I quite like it.)

so here was our conversation, for the most part:

anonymous friend: and i was like just delete people from your original fb

me: true, but then i feel like you make excuses to keep people haha. “hm. their life is kind of a train wreck and fun to watch. but i haven’t talked to them in five years. hm.”

anonymous friend: right. i think a good way is to delete people you don’t feel like writing happy birthday to

me: yes. i always think that

anonymous friend: i have never gotten the balls to do it but that’s prob the system i would use

me: not a bad system

shortly after this highly sophisticated and intelligent conversation took place, another friend sent me a link to this new york times article: what is it about 20-somethings?

beware: this is a long article. it’s good, but it’s long. despite my ability to read young adult manuscripts for hours on end, after about five minutes, i was ready to fall asleep, especially when the author threw a bunch of sociological mud in my face.

anyway, i can’t relate to a lot of the article (i haven’t been financially dependent on my parents for at least a decade and i’ve never moved back home), but the heart of it, the idea that my generation doesn’t seem to want to grow up, applies directly to me and to many of my friends. not all, by any means. i have a number of friends who are not only married, but who have children or even own property, as in a real house with walls. this realization often makes my brain want to explode, especially when these dwellings are owned by people who knew me when i wore a retainer or when i could have wet my pants in public and have had it still be acceptable.

this idea, though, that sociologists are thinking about giving us peter pan folk our own name (as they did way back when they dubbed the younger set the “adolescent” age group) makes me feel like less of a freak and maybe just someone who wants to ensure she really knows what she wants and who she is before she makes any life-altering decisions. that’s not to say that my friends who have made these decisions didn’t think long and hard about them first or that they don’t know what they want/who they are. i wholeheartedly trust that many of them do. but it does scare me that several friends who have been married for a few years or who have been in long-term, serious, monogamous relationships have told me over the last nine months that they aren’t happy and may have made a mistake. i wonder sometimes if they find it easier to talk to me now, because i ended a long-term relationship over the past year, than when i was in one. either way, i’m happy that they feel as though they can confide in me (and here i am airing out their quandaries on the internet, but, hey, i’m not naming names), yet i wonder if they would have shared this information if i were in a different place. no one wants to bring you down when you’re up. at least, i guess, no one who likes you. anyway, mostly, I’m just worried about them. and i feel helpless.

my point, again, is not a very profound one, but it is that the article caused me to feel less abnormal and perhaps even like a responsible almost-adult. i pay my own bills and rent and student loans, feed and dress myself, get my ass out of bed and to work on time, and make (and deal with the repercussions of) my mistakes. and just recently i realized that i’ve had the same jar of peanut butter for two weeks. the same jar. i usually go through one over a five-day time period. i think that showing self-control is a pretty adult quality. moving on . . . until recently, and most likely due to that european adventure i took not long ago—and, no, i haven’t written about it at all yet, so back off!—i never had any debt (save student loans), and while it gives me plenty of anxiety, i’m sort of proud in a sick and twisted way to take ownership of that debt. i also can’t wait to add to it (asia 2013, anyone?). i have the rest of my life to sit behind a desk and pay it back. that being said, i guess my peanut butter feat was short-lived. back to being irrational and irresponsible i go.

bottom line: if sociologists say it’s okay, i’m going to put off classic adulthood for as long as i can and support my grown-up friends however they need me to. onward.

*from peter pan by j. m. barrie